A man rose from bed in silence—no breakfast, just a quick bath. Slinging a heavy backpack over his shoulder, he stepped outside. His old, worn-out bike leaned against the wall. He checked the fuel gauge. His brow furrowed.
Waving a quiet goodbye to his wife, he kicked the bike to life and merged into the chaos of morning traffic.
At the petrol pump, he asked for a full tank, paid in cash, and got back on the road. While riding, he called his wife. Their voices were hushed, laced with concern. The school fees were still pending. She sounded tense. He reassured her.
Suddenly, a car blared its horn and zipped past—too close. He lost balance, skidded, and fell. The car never stopped. Scraped and bruised, he stood, dusted himself off, checked his bag. Everything was still inside. His phone screen had cracked, but he called his wife again—this time, he didn't tell her about the fall.
Soon, he stopped in front of a small roadside shop. The owner greeted him warmly. The man unzipped his bag, revealing a modest collection of electronic gadgets—chargers, adapters, cables.
They sat and sipped tea as they spoke. The shopkeeper examined the devices, nodded, and handed over some money. The man carefully counted each note, folded them, and tucked them into his pocket.
He mounted his bike again, and with quiet determination, moved from one shop to the next—visiting every store he could in that little town.