The streets of old Delhi were already awake.
Vendors rolled up their shutters with metallic clangs. Tea stalls hissed as boiling milk rose in dented steel pots. Auto-rickshaws honked impatiently, weaving through the morning rush like insects in a swarm.
Rudra walked slowly.
His school bag hung from one shoulder.
His uniform was old but neatly pressed.
To the world, he looked like any other ten-year-old heading to school.
But the moment his feet touched the narrow lane beside the market, his steps slowed.
This lane.
His eyes darkened.
The cracked pavement.
The broken drain cover.
The wall with faded political posters peeling in the corners.
A memory surfaced so vividly that for a moment, the present blurred.
He was six again.
Barefoot.
Shivering.
Rainwater drips from his tangled hair.
The same lane stretched before him, but in that memory it looked larger, crueller, and endless.
Young Rudra had crouched beneath the shade of a closed paan shop, hugging his knees to his chest.
His stomach had screamed in hunger.
Three days.
Three days since he had eaten properly.
He could still feel it.
The twisting ache.
The dizziness.
The humiliation.
Back then, the city had not looked alive.
It had looked like a jungle.
Every corner hid danger.
Every smile carried mockery.
Every hand wanted something.
A sharp voice cut through the memory.
"Move, boy!"
A vegetable cart rolled past, snapping Rudra back to the present.
He stepped aside automatically.
His gaze lingered on the tea stall across the street.
Mr Iqbal's tea stall.
Still there.
Still standing.
The old green paint was chipped, and the signboard hung crooked, but he recognised it instantly.
A lump formed in his throat.
Mr Iqbal had been the first person to show him kindness.
Not out of pity.
Out of simple humanity.
Rudra crossed the road.
The old man behind the counter looked exactly as he remembered.
Grey beard.
Tired eyes.
Strong hands stained with tea leaves and sugar.
He was younger now than in Rudra's memories.
Maybe in his late forties.
He glanced up as Rudra approached.
"School started giving uniforms to rich kids too?" the old man joked with a tired smile.
Rudra almost smiled back.
In his first life, this man had once given him leftover bread and tea on a stormy night.
That single meal had kept him alive.
Without it—
Perhaps the future would have been very different.
Rudra looked at him for a long moment.
Then quietly said, "How much for one tea and two buns?"
The old man raised an eyebrow.
"You have money?"
Rudra reached into his pocket and placed a few coins on the counter.
Enough.
Mr Iqbal nodded and prepared the tea.
The familiar aroma filled the air.
For a moment, Rudra's chest tightened.
Memory after memory resurfaced.
Nights spent sleeping behind this very stall.
Winters endured under torn cardboard.
Days spent watching schoolchildren pass by while wondering what it felt like to belong somewhere.
He had once sworn in this very street that he would never be powerless again.
And he had kept that promise.
Mr Iqbal handed him the tea and buns.
Rudra took them.
Instead of eating, he looked toward the narrow alley beside the stall.
A shadow moved.
His expression changed.
A small boy.
Seven years old at most.
Thin.
Dirty clothes.
Barefoot.
The boy stared hungrily at the buns in Rudra's hand.
Rudra froze.
It was like looking at his own reflection from the past.
A forgotten version of himself.
Broken.
Hungry.
Invisible.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Rudra stepped toward him.
The boy immediately flinched and tried to back away.
Fear.
Pure instinctive fear.
Rudra understood it too well.
He crouched down.
His voice softened.
"Take it."
The boy stared.
Rudra held out one bun.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The child hesitated before snatching it and retreating to the alley.
He began eating desperately.
Rudra watched in silence.
His eyes were unreadable.
Then he took out the second bun and placed it beside the alley entrance.
"For later."
The boy looked up.
Their eyes met.
Something strange passed through Rudra's chest.
Not pity.
Recognition.
He stood.
Mr Iqbal watched the entire scene quietly.
Then the old man spoke.
"You know hunger."
Rudra looked at him.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Yes."
The old man studied him for a second longer.
Then nodded.
As if he understood something deeper.
Rudra took a sip of tea.
Warmth spread through him.
Not from the drink.
From the memory.
From the reminder of where he had come from.
He turned and resumed walking toward school.
But now his mind was sharper.
Clearer.
The street had given him more than suffering.
It had given him resolve.
It had made him ruthless.
And it had taught him the value of every hand that had once reached out to him.
This time, he would never forget.
The street boy in the alley.
Mr Iqbal.
Mrs Mehta.
Every small thread mattered.
Because fate was built from threads.
And this time—
Rudra intended to weave them himself.
As he turned the corner toward the school gate, his eyes landed on a black car parked across the road.
Luxury.
Tinted windows.
A silver emblem.
His steps slowed.
He recognised it.
The Desai Group crest.
His heartbeat quickened.
Someone from the Desai family was here.
And for the first time—
Fate had come looking for him.