By the time Aryan reached home that evening, the sun had already slipped behind the row of buildings, leaving the lane in that strange half-light where everything looked tired.
He pushed open the door.
The house was the same as always.
Small.
Orderly.
He dropped his bag, sat cross-legged on the floor, and pulled out the file.
He didn't open it to look at Aditi's layout.
He opened a fresh page in his rough notebook instead.
On top, in small, neat letters, he wrote:
GATE – DAY 1 (FAILED)
And under that, line by line, he began to write what they had said.
Exact words, as close as his memory would allow.
"Our life is not your assignment." — Murthy uncle
"We get nothing. Go, kid."
"Five years I've sold here. I know danger. Now you show me map and tell me 'better'?" — Parvathi aunty
"Officer comes, promises big things, then disappears. We lose space, lose money, lose peace." — Salman
He paused after each line, hearing their voices again in his head, the tiredness under the irritation.
His pencil hovered above the page.
Next to each sentence, in even smaller letters, he added:
(history, not anger)
(scared of being pushed)
(trust broken before)
(afraid of 'inside' = rent, rules, loss)
His mind could find patterns in traffic and layouts.
This was different.
This was pattern in fear.
He breathed out slowly and wrote one more line at the bottom:
'Problem is not space. Problem is trust.'
The word trust felt heavier than it looked.
He shut the notebook and stared at the ceiling.
The familiar brown water mark stared back.
If I walk in as 'school', he thought, they will never listen.
Because the school is the one that pushed them, fined them, shouted at them.
I can't stand on that side and ask them to believe me.
The door creaked again.
Sarala stepped in, more dragged than walked, her factory bag slumping against her shoulder.
She tried to smile.
"Officer," she said, dropping the bag with a soft thud. "You came early today."
"Half-day for project discussion," Aryan said.
"Ah." She rubbed her neck. "New headache for them also."
He poured water into a steel tumbler and gave it to her.
She drank in slow gulps.
As she sat down, she glanced at the open file.
"School project?" she asked.
Aryan hesitated.
"…Gate vendors," he said. "DHARA pitch. If it goes well, they might… change the system."
Sarala's face did something strange for a second—pride and worry crossing each other halfway.
"You're already changing systems, ah?" she tried to joke.
He didn't smile.
He told her the story.
Not every detail.
Just enough.
Murthy uncle's "our life is not your assignment."
Parvathi aunty's "I know this gate better than your teachers."
Salman's "don't play with lives unless you can promise stability."
Sarala listened quietly.
No interruptions.
No advice halfway.
When he finished, she sighed through her nose.
"Hmm."
"Hmm" from her could mean anything.
"Those vendors will not trust you easily," she said finally.
"I know," Aryan muttered. "But if they don't talk, I can't make a proper pitch. If I can't make proper pitch, I can't—"
He didn't complete the sentence.
He didn't have to.
She knew what he meant.
Roof.
Scholarship.
Future.
Sarala leaned back against the wall, eyes on the old water stain.
"You know, near my old factory," she said slowly, "there was one lane like that. Full of idli carts, tea stalls, small shops."
Aryan looked up.
"Then one day," she continued, "company brought new security. New officer. Said, 'This gate must be clear. Customers don't like crowd.' They pushed everyone away. Told them, 'Go little far only. Same people will come there also.'"
"Did they?" Aryan asked.
She shook her head.
"Half didn't recover. Some went back to village. One anna who made the best tea… he sold his cart. His son stopped school that year."
The room felt smaller.
"…Oh," Aryan said.
Sarala looked at him properly.
"I'm not saying don't do project," she said softly. "I'm saying… if you touch people's food place, think twice. Think ten times. Don't become like those officers."
"I'm not them," Aryan said quickly.
"I know." Her voice was gentle, not accusing. "That's why it will hurt more if you make mistake."
He went quiet.
She reached out and ruffled his hair, fingers still rough from chemical stains.
"You are good at seeing what is broken," she said. "Use that to protect. Not to show power."
He swallowed.
"Hmm."
She stood with a soft groan of tired joints.
"Come, help me cut onions. We will both cry for free instead of from life."
He huffed a tiny breath that almost counted as a laugh.
As they cooked, the project sat between them like a third person.
Not talked about.
Very much there.
That night, when he lay on his mattress, listening to a small drip-drip from the roof in the corner, he whispered to himself in the dark:
"Tomorrow… no maps. Only listening."
Sleep didn't come easy.
But when it did, it came without dreams.
For once, the monster inside his head stayed quiet.
---
The Next Day — Back to the Gate
Classes moved in their usual blur.
Attendance.
Notes.
Ms. Devi's slow voice.
Raghavan sir's umbrella story stretching into another period.
Riya scribbling something complicated in a separate notebook.
Sagar yawning theatrically during History and getting a chalk piece thrown near his foot.
Aryan did the work.
Wrote the answers.
Nodded at the right places.
But behind every lesson, there was a number ticking down in his mind.
3 weeks → 16 days → fewer.
By final bell, his decision was already made.
He closed his notebook.
Didn't bother to copy the last question.
Sagar swung his bag onto his shoulder. "Round two?"
"Round two," Aryan said.
Riya shoved her books into her bag with more force than necessary.
"Wait for me also."
"You don't have to come," he said.
"I know," she replied. "I'm not coming for you."
He raised an eyebrow.
She looked away. "Market research."
Sagar coughed to hide a laugh.
They slipped out with the stream of students.
Past the assembly ground.
Past the cycle stand.
Past the group of juniors arguing about who stole whose Pokémon card.
The noise thinned near the gate.
The vendors were in full swing.
Oil hissed in Murthy uncle's kadai.
Parvathi aunty's pani puris clinked softly as she arranged them.
Salman's blender whirred, spraying a bit of juice onto his already-stained shirt.
The same ecosystem as yesterday.
But today, Aryan didn't head straight to any cart.
He stopped a little distance away, near the compound wall.
"Plan?" Sagar asked.
"Watch first," Aryan said.
They stood there for a full five minutes.
Just watching.
Kids buying.
Parents complaining.
A teacher buying bajji secretly, glancing around to see if any other staff were watching.
Scooters cutting too close.
Cars honking.
Three younger kids trying to steal extra sev from pani puri aunty and getting smacked lightly on the wrist for it.
Aryan's eyes traced each flow.
Where people stopped.
Where they bumped.
Where voices rose.
The map in his mind shifted.
Less boxes.
More faces.
He exhaled.
"Okay," he said. "Come."
This time, he walked up to Murthy uncle's cart without the file in his hand.
"Two bajjis, uncle," he said.
Murthy glanced up, surprised.
"You came again, ah?"
Aryan nodded.
Murthy served the bajji on newspaper, sprinkling extra chilli powder on Sagar's without asking — he remembered.
As Aryan paid, he spoke carefully.
"Yesterday… I came wrong, uncle."
Murthy snorted. "That we know."
Aryan didn't defend himself.
"I spoke as if I was school," he said. "Today I just want to… understand. If it's okay, I'll stand aside and watch your stall. Not for assignment. For me."
Murthy's eyes narrowed.
"What is difference?"
"Yesterday I was trying to fit you inside my idea," Aryan said quietly. "Today I'm trying to fit my idea around your life."
The line wasn't smooth.
It wasn't prepared.
It was just… true.
Murthy looked at him for a long moment.
"Stand there," he said finally, jerking his chin to one side. "Don't block customers. And if someone thinks you are in line, you pay for them also."
Sagar grinned.
Aryan almost smiled.
"Okay, uncle."
For the next ten minutes, he watched.
How Murthy moved, how his hand knew exactly where each plate was, how he turned the flame lower whenever the crowd thinned to save gas.
How customers came in clusters — never one by one.
He scribbled small things in his notebook.
>peak time = after tuition, after 5:30
main crowd = our school + nearby PU college
Murthy uncle watches road more than kadai
he stands ready to move cart little if traffic jams
He didn't mention layout.
Didn't mention "Vendor Support Area."
Only when there was a small gap, he asked:
"Uncle… yesterday you said many people promised 'better' and you got nothing. What did they promise?"
Murthy flipped a bajji, eyes on the oil.
"One officer said he will make ID cards for all," he said. "Said then police can't push us. He took photo. Took fees. Then went. No card."
Aryan wrote:
> fake ID scam → paid, no result
"Someone else wanted to put big stalls," Murthy continued. "Like food court. Said we can join. Then they built one near bus stand. Rent was more than my profit. Waste."
Aryan wrote:
> big stalls = high rent → old vendors cannot pay
"Last year some students also came," Murthy said. "Made project. Took photos. Told 'we will help you talk to principal.' Then nothing. So I don't like 'project' people."
He glanced at Aryan.
Aryan met his eyes.
"I understand," he said.
"Do you?" Murthy asked. "For you, this is mark. For us, this is night food."
Aryan's throat tightened.
"My marks will go," he said simply. "If this goes wrong. But if I make wrong thing… your food goes. That is worse."
Murthy's hand slowed for a second.
Then he snorted again.
"Talk like that nicely every time," he said. "Maybe we will think."
It wasn't trust.
Not yet.
But something had shifted.