That night, Amit didn't bring up the idea immediately.
His father was tired when he returned from work, shoes dusty, collar loose, the day still clinging to him like heat. Dinner was quiet. News murmured from the television.
Only when his father leaned back on the charpai, rubbing his temples, did Amit speak.
"Abu," he said carefully, "your office computer… the one that keeps restarting?"
His father looked at him sideways. "What about it?"
"Sir said," Amit continued, choosing his words slowly, "that we can check it in college. Just diagnose. No guarantee unless we find the problem."
His father snorted. "Your college?"
"Yes," Amit said quickly. "Sir will be there. He worked in Dubai. He said if parts are needed, we pay. Otherwise, just diagnosis."
Silence.
"You know the office tech couldn't fix it," Amit added. "He said motherboard problem. Wants to replace."
His father sighed. "Tomorrow I need that system."
"Sir said bring it early morning," Amit said. "If it doesn't work, we bring it back."
His father studied him for a long moment.
Then he stood up.
"Come," he said. "We'll pick it up now."
The Office
The office was small—two rooms above a closed shop. A single tube light buzzed. The office technician was still there, sitting on a stool, scrolling his phone.
"Still restarting," the tech said dismissively. "Processor heating. Better replace."
His father nodded, unsatisfied.
They unplugged the CPU and carried it downstairs together. It was heavier than Amit expected.
His father didn't say anything on the way home.
But he didn't say no either.
Morning: The Arrival
The CPU arrived in the lab before the bell rang.
Students crowded around it like it was a strange animal.
"Office system," someone whispered.
"Guinea pig," another joked.
Amit stood slightly apart, nervous.
"What if it fails?" he thought."What if Sir can't fix it?"
Varun arrived a few minutes later.
He didn't smile.
He rolled up his sleeves.
"Bring it here," he said.
He placed the CPU on the table and removed the side panel.
A cloud of dust burst out like a greeting.
Students coughed and laughed.
"No blower?" Varun muttered.
He looked around.
Nothing.
No brush. No cloth.
He sighed—then reached into his bag.
Today, he had brought his own toolkit.
The students went silent.
Screwdrivers in different sizes.Thermal paste tube.Brush.Alcohol wipes.Static wrist band.
They stared at it like villagers seeing a surgeon's kit.
Varun grounded himself and clipped the wrist band.
"First lesson," he said. "Respect electricity."
He powered the system on.
The fan spun.The system booted.Then restarted.
"Heat," Varun said.
He opened the hardware monitor.
"Processor temperature?" he asked.
"Climbing fast," a student said.
"Fan RPM?" Varun asked.
"Normal."
Varun nodded.
"Fan isn't the problem," he said. "Heat transfer is."
He removed the heatsink.
The thermal paste underneath was dry and cracked, like old cement.
"There," Varun said. "This is the problem."
He cleaned the surface carefully and applied fresh paste—just enough.
"Too much paste is also bad," he explained. "It traps heat."
They reassembled the system.
Power on.
The system booted.
Stayed on.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
A student grinned. "Sir… it's working."
"Not yet," Varun said. "Now we stress test."
Someone quickly installed a game.
"Testing under load," Varun said calmly.
The game ran.
The system stayed stable.
Temperatures normal.
Amit exhaled for the first time.
The Payment
By the time Amit's father arrived, the game was gone. The system was clean.
Varun explained everything—calmly, technically.
"Thermal paste dried," he said. "No part replaced. Just maintenance."
His father nodded slowly.
"How much?" he asked.
Varun didn't answer immediately.
"How much would you pay a technician?" Varun asked instead.
"Two thousand," his father said. "Minimum."
"Pay half," Varun said. "One thousand."
His father didn't hesitate.
He handed over the money, smiling for the first time in days.
"Thank you," he said. "You saved time."
He lifted the CPU and left.
Redistribution
Varun turned to the class.
He handed the ₹1000 to the students.
"This is not my money," he said. "This is yours."
The room froze.
"Buy yourselves," Varun continued, "a screwdriver set. Each group."
"And buy an RJ-45 crimping tool."
"And static wrist bands."
He paused.
"Design pamphlets," he added. "Simple ones."
He wrote on the board:
HOME COMPUTER REPAIRDiagnosis • Cleaning • OS InstallLocal Service
"You go to customer," Varun said."If you can't fix it, you bring it here.""You keep the money."
He held up his toolkit.
"Build yours like this."
The HUD shimmered softly.
[FINANCIAL UPLIFT: INITIATED]
Students looked at the money.At the tools.At Varun.
This wasn't charity.
This was a path.
Outside, the system still slept.
Inside, something real had started working.