The morning sun spilled over Suryan College's front gate, its golden glow pooling between the weathered stone pillars. Students surged through in a chaotic tide—shouting to friends, dodging rickshaws to beat the bell—but one figure stood apart, untouched by the rush.
Arjun sat on the edge of the left pillar, his worn schoolbag slumped at his feet. His dark eyes traced the pavement's cracks, his hands still in his lap, fingers curled as if cradling something delicate. He was always early, always slipping inside without a word, but today he lingered, a silent silhouette against the bustle. The air seemed to soften around him, though no one else noticed.
The college guard, slouched in a creaking plastic chair, peered over his newspaper. "Planning to attend college, kid?" he called, his gruff voice tinged with curiosity. Arjun's stillness was new, unsettling.
Arjun's gaze didn't shift. "There's time," he said softly, the words falling like leaves to the ground.
The guard scratched his stubble, frowning. "Time, huh? So why sit out here? Classroom's better than moping."
Arjun's lips parted, but all that came was a quiet, "Nothing."
A warm breeze rustled the neem leaves overhead, scattering flecks of light across his faded sneakers. The guard shifted, uneasy, but let it go. The crowd thinned, the gate's clamor fading to a hum.
Then, a sharp jingle sliced through the morning—a bicycle tearing down the street. "Sorry! Outta my way!" Tanvi burst through the gate, her long black hair streaming like ink spilled in the wind. She weaved past a knot of students, her front wheel grazing the guard's chair.
"Every damn day," the guard muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Tanvi's eyes flicked sideways, catching Arjun's still form. For a split second, their gazes met—his shadowed, hers sharp with curiosity. Why's he just sitting there? she wondered, her hands tightening on the handlebars. The thought lingered, strange and unplaceable, but she shook it off, pedaling harder. "I'm sorry!" she shouted, her voice echoing as she vanished into the courtyard.
As Tanvi sped by, a younger student—a first-year, her arms full of books—stumbled near the gate, her notebook slipping to the ground. Arjun's eyes flicked up. Without a word, he slid off the pillar, knelt, and retrieved the notebook, dusting it off. The girl flushed, mumbling a shy "Thanks," but Arjun only nodded, his face unreadable, and returned to his perch. Tanvi, glancing back, caught the moment, her brow furrowing. He didn't even wait for her to say more, she thought, pedaling on.
The guard folded his newspaper with a sigh. "She's here, so what's your excuse, kid?"
Arjun rose slowly, his fingers curling around his bag's frayed strap. "I'm going," he said, voice barely above a whisper. His steps were measured, heavy, as if each carried a weight no one could see. The guard watched him slip through the gate, muttering, "Something's off with that boy today…"
The classroom hummed with restless energy as students shuffled papers and traded whispers. Arjun slipped in after the bell, his hair slightly mussed, his shoulders hunched like a shield. Mrs. Rao, the math teacher, paused, her chalk hovering over an equation. "Arjun, late again? Twice this week."
He kept his eyes on the floor, clutching his bag. "Missed the bus, ma'am. Sorry." The excuse was thin, his voice thinner, but his grades—always perfect, always earned through late nights and dog-eared textbooks—softened her scowl.
"Don't make it a habit," she said, waving him off. "Sit."
Arjun nodded, threading through the maze of desks to his usual spot in the back corner, where the window's light barely reached. Tanvi, seated in the middle row, glanced at him, her pen tapping a restless rhythm. Late again, she thought. Yesterday he was at the entrance, frozen like a ghost. Today he's at the gate, helping some kid. What's his deal? The question itched, but the lecture started, and she forced her focus to the board, scratching notes as numbers filled the chalkboard.
Midway through class, a classmate—Vikram, a lanky boy struggling with the day's equations—dropped his pencil, muttering under his breath. Arjun, unnoticed, slid his spare pencil across the desk, his movements quick, almost invisible. Vikram blinked, surprised, but Arjun's eyes were already back on the board, his face blank. Tanvi caught the gesture from the corner of her eye, her pen pausing. He's so quiet, but he's always… doing things like that, she thought, frowning.
The day dragged through a blur of classes—physics, chemistry, history—each hour a grind of scratched desks and droning voices. Arjun sat still, his eyes on the teacher but his hands empty, no pencil moving. He's not even writing, Tanvi thought, her curiosity sharpening. His silence was loud in its own way, a puzzle she couldn't ignore.
When the final bell rang, Arjun moved with quiet urgency, zipping his bag before the room had emptied. He slipped through the crowded halls, head down, steps quick, aiming for Ms. Isha Kapoor's office—a sanctuary from the shadows that hunted him.
The literature teacher's office was a warm chaos of books and papers, shelves sagging under novels and yellowed journals. Ms. Kapoor looked up from a battered copy of Gitanjali, her tired eyes softening. "You're here," she said, a smile breaking through. "Let's go."
She tucked the book away, grabbed her bag, and led the way out. Arjun followed, his gaze fixed on the floor, his bag slung over one shoulder like a shield.
As they stepped into the corridor, a voice cut through like a shard of glass. "Oyy, Arjun! What're you doing with the teacher? Too good for your friends now?"
Arjun froze, his breath hitching. Raghav leaned against the wall by the water cooler, his broad frame casting a predatory shadow. Naveen and Sohail flanked him, their smirks sharp as blades. Raghav's black hair fell over his eyes, but his gaze—cold, calculating—pinned Arjun like a moth to a board.
Ms. Kapoor stepped forward, her voice steel. "He's going home with me, Raghav. Move along."
Raghav's smile was all teeth, never reaching his eyes. "No offense, ma'am. Just sad we won't get to hang with our buddy." He pushed off the wall, sauntering away with his lackeys. At the corridor's end, he glanced back, his stare a promise of trouble to come. Ms. Kapoor's eyes lingered on Arjun, catching the faint tremor in his hands, but she said nothing.
They walked in silence to the bus stop, the evening air thick with jasmine and exhaust. On the bus, an elderly woman struggled to stand as the vehicle lurched. Arjun, seated near the aisle, rose without hesitation, offering his seat with a quiet gesture. The woman smiled, patting his arm, but Arjun only nodded, moving to the back to stand, his face unreadable. Ms. Kapoor watched, her expression softening, a thoughtful pause in her gaze.
When Arjun's stop came, he murmured, "Bye, ma'am," and stepped off into the fading light. Ms. Kapoor's eyes followed him, her mind turning over the boy who trembled under Raghav's shadow yet gave his seat to a stranger.
The alley to his home was narrow, lined with cracked walls and flickering streetlights. Two small cats—one tabby, one black with a notched ear—waited by a crumbling stair, their eyes glinting like coins. Arjun knelt, a faint smile breaking through his guarded mask. He opened his bag, pulling out a packet of biscuits. The cats purred, nuzzling his hand as they nibbled, their warmth a quiet balm against the ache in his chest. "You're safe," he whispered, stroking the tabby's matted fur. It was a daily ritual, a flicker of light in a world that offered him little.
He stood, brushing crumbs from his hands, and trudged to his house. The key was under the mat, as always. The door creaked open to a silent home, the air heavy with absence. Arjun dropped his bag on a worn bench, sat at a small desk, and opened his books. For hours, he studied, the scratch of his pen a steady rhythm, his focus a wall against the day's bruises.
At eight, the door opened, and his mother stepped in, her face etched with the weight of a double shift. They ate dinner—dal and rice, steam curling from chipped plates—on a small table by the kitchen. Their talk was brief, careful, skimming the surface of their lives.
"How was college?" she asked, her voice soft but tired.
"Fine," Arjun said, eyes on his plate. "Just… normal."
She nodded, her smile faint, not pressing further. When they finished, Arjun gathered the leftovers, stepped outside, and whistled softly. Two stray dogs—a wiry brown mutt and a limping black one—bounded from the shadows, tails wagging. He crouched, offering the scraps, their eager nudges coaxing a rare, genuine smile. "Good boys," he murmured, ruffling their ears.
Back inside, he returned to his books, the night stretching on. Moonlight spilled through his window, silvering the pages, but his mind drifted to the cats, the dogs, the alley's quiet safety. They were his to protect, even if he couldn't protect himself.
[END Chapter 9]