[Present Day]
Inside the workshop, the air conditioning—which Varun had repaired himself three months ago—hummed softly.
Varun looked at the open box of Bikanervala sweets on his desk. The silver foil on the Kaju Katli glistened under the LED lights.
"Sir?" the student asked, still touching Varun's feet. "Are you okay?"
Varun picked up a piece of the sweet. He took a bite. The sugar melted on his tongue, rich and creamy. It tasted like success. It tasted like gratitude.
But as he swallowed, the taste changed.
The sweetness faded, replaced by a phantom memory. The hum of the air conditioner dissolved into the stench of damp walls and stale beedis. The bright LED lights dimmed in his mind, replaced by a single, flickering bulb strangled by cobwebs.
Varun lowered the sweet slowly.
He looked at the students gathered near his desk
"Take them," he said, nudging the open box forward. "Share it among yourselves."
The students hesitated.
"Eat together," Varun added. "The taste is better when you enjoy it with your friend."
A few hands reached out, awkward at first. Someone broke a piece in half. Another passed it along. A quiet murmur filled the workshop—small smiles, stolen glances, sugar melting on tongues that were more used to bitterness than reward.
Varun leaned back in his chair.
The workshop vanished. He was back there. Day One.
[12 Months Ago]
"This is it," Mishra the Peon grunted, jangling a heavy bunch of rusty keys.
He shoved the key into the padlock of Room 104—The Computer Hardware Lab. The lock was so stiff it required two hands to turn. It groaned, a screech of metal on metal that echoed down the empty, peeling corridor.
Varun stood behind him, wiping sweat from his forehead. He had just returned from Dubai after eight years. He was used to automatic glass doors, sterile labs, and silence. Here, the heat was a physical weight, and the noise of Delhi traffic outside was deafening.
"The Principal said this room is fully equipped," Varun said, adjusting his bag. "He said classes start today."
Mishra smirked. It was a nasty, knowing smirk. "Fully equipped. Yes, yes. Very equipped."
Mishra kicked the door open.
Dust billowed out like a fog. Varun waved his hand, coughing, and stepped inside. He froze.
There were computers, yes. But they were piled in the corner like a mountain of beige plastic trash—monitors with cracked screens, CPUs with their guts hanging out, keyboards missing half their keys.
But that wasn't the centerpiece of the room.
In the middle of the 'Lab,' where the instructor's table should have been, was a charpai (woven cot).
And on the charpai lay a man. He was wearing a dirty, yellowing vest and a dhoti. One leg was thrown over the side, twitching rhythmically. He was fast asleep, snoring so loudly the windows rattled.
"What is this?" Varun whispered, too shocked to shout.
"That is Ramu," Mishra said casually, leaning against the doorframe. "He is the night watchman's brother-in-law. He had nowhere to stay, so... spare room."
Before Varun could process the insanity of a squatter living in a government classroom, a commotion erupted in the corridor behind them.
"Move! walk faster, you donkey!"
A heavy hand shoved a skinny boy through the doorway, almost knocking Varun over.
It was a father and son. The father looked like a man who had worked hard labor all his life—weather-beaten skin, angry eyes, and hands that looked like hammers. The son, Amit, was small, with shoulders hunched so low they almost touched his chest.
"Is this the class?" the father barked, ignoring the sleeping man for a moment. He looked around at the broken monitors, the cobwebs, and the dust.
Amit, the son, looked around too. His eyes went wide. He looked at the mountain of electronic trash. Then, his eyes landed on Ramu, the man in the dhoti, who scratched his belly in his sleep and rolled over, letting out a long, rumbling fart.
Amit looked at his father, terrified. "Papa... this is worse than the brochure. It's worse than the waiting room. Look at that man."
The father's face turned purple. He didn't look at the room. He turned on his son.
THWACK.
The sound of the slap echoed sharper than the rusty lock. Amit stumbled back, holding his cheek.
"Did I ask for your opinion?" the father shouted, his voice shaking with frustration. "You failed 10th grade! You failed 12th! You are useless! A burden on my chest!"
The father grabbed Amit by the collar and shook him. "I spent my savings to pay the fee here! You think you are too good for this? Look at that man sleeping there!"
The father pointed a trembling finger at the snoring squatter.
"That man is sleeping peacefully because he has a roof over his head! If you don't learn a skill, you won't even have a charpai! You will sleep on the footpath!"
Amit didn't cry. He just stared at the man in the dhoti.
Varun watched the boy's eyes. He saw the light die in them.
He thinks this is his future, Varun realized. The boy thinks he is destined to be just like that—a piece of unwanted furniture in a broken room, sleeping away a useless life.
The father pushed Amit toward a broken bench. "Sit down. Study. If you get kicked out of here, don't come home."
The father stormed out. Mishra the Peon chuckled, watching the drama like it was a movie.
"Welcome to the institute, Mr. Dubai Return," Mishra laughed, picking his teeth. "Your salary is 300 rupees per lecture. Payment comes whenever the government releases funds. Maybe three months, maybe six. Good luck."
Mishra left.
Varun stood alone in the dust. The man on the cot snored. The boy, Amit, sat on the broken bench, staring at his shoes, waiting for the ceiling to collapse on him.
Varun looked at his own hands. Hands that had maintained million-dollar servers in the Burj Khalifa. Now, they were shaking.
What have I done? he thought. Why did I come back?