Chapter 4: The School of Streets and The Guitar's First Melody
Time is not a straight line; it is a wheel. And Arin had now learned to spin that wheel fast.
Seventeen years. This is the age when your voice becomes a little deeper and the noise of the world a little quieter. Arin had grown taller now; his T-shirt sleeves were beginning to tighten around his biceps. His old bicycle—which once looked like scrap—had now become his 'Customized Chariot'. Three baskets in the front, and a padded seat at the back—the VIP Section, strictly for Nainu.
The bicycle chain was rusted, but Arin's speed was not.
(Narrator)
"Childhood is like a clean slate,
But youth... youth is a rough copy.
Upon which we scratch and scribble our identity,
Sometimes with a pen, sometimes with blood."
While setting the bicycle stand outside the shop, Arin pressed the tire with his foot to check it.
"Look bro," he said to Nainu, who was yawning in the back seat. "The tires are going bald, but the grip is still solid. Just like us."
Nainu sneezed once—his way of saying, 'Talk less, work more'.
"Arin!" The shopkeeper's voice came from inside. "What's the scheme today?"
Arin went to the counter. The air smelled of cardamom and old banknotes. He rested his elbow on the counter, flicked his hair back with a jerk, and threw a smile—sharp and edgy.
"Fill the bag as much as you have space in your heart, Uncle," Arin's voice had a rhythm.
"My bicycle is still empty today, just like the circle of my talent."
The shopkeeper laughed, his belly shaking. "You've become quite a poet! Tell me, what storm will you bring with this month's salary?"
Arin winked. A faint glint flashed in his eyes.
"Just something to put that inner 'silence' on... 'Mute' for a while."
When 8000 rupees came into his hand, he didn't count them. He clenched the wad of notes in his palm. It wasn't just paper; it was a 'Power-Up'. It was the key to the next level.
Arin went straight to the music shop. Guitars hung on the wall there, but his gaze stuck to only one.
Deep red. Shiny. A color that screamed—'Look at me'.
He didn't buy it; he had 'earned' it. Along with a small pair of red sunglasses for Nainu.
On the street, he put the glasses on Nainu.
"Look, Nainu..." he said, tightening the guitar on his back, "Earning money is survival. But this guitar... this is the peace that the world cannot 'Delete'. Now you are the Brand Ambassador of this alley."
While cycling, some 'cool' boys of the neighborhood—who wasted time standing by the roadside—laughed seeing him.
"Oy Arin! What circus is this, man? A dog and a guitar? Are you going to Indian Idol?"
The bicycle brakes screeched. Cheeee!
Arin put his foot on the ground. He slid his sunglasses slightly down his nose and looked into their eyes. Silence fell.
"Brother," Arin said very lovingly, as if explaining to a child.
"That smell of cow dung in your words... it's coming straight from the 'emptiness' of your brain."
The boy's mouth hung open.
"You are so cute," Arin said with a cold smile, "That seeing you, even Yamraj (God of Death) would say—'Brother, you stay on Earth, don't lower the standard of Hell.'"
He put his foot on the pedal.
"Now give way, or I'll 'Update' your appearance."
He moved ahead, leaving behind only dust and their silence.
In the evening, the crowd outside the railway station was thin. Arin was lost in his tune, when suddenly his path was blocked.
Four or five boys. Expensive clothes, expensive shoes, and cheap mentality.
"Hey Oy! Move this scrap from here," one kicked Arin's bicycle. "Does the road belong to your father?"
Arin took a deep breath. His meter was going into the 'Red Zone', but he controlled himself.
"The road doesn't belong to anyone's father, brother," Arin tried to remain calm, "It's about 'Affording' the road. And right now, you are 'Consuming' my precious time. Move aside."
"Tongue runs too much?" One boy grabbed Arin's collar.
Before Arin could react, a heavy punch landed on his nose. Crack!
Darkness clouded his vision. Another punch to the stomach. Arin fell to the ground. The taste of dust and the salty taste of blood dissolved in his mouth together.
He was more surprised than in pain.
(Arin's Mind)
"Huh? Why didn't my 'Chill Mode' work?
I said the right dialogue.
Doesn't this world listen to words?"
The boys were about to beat him when—"Grrrr... Woof!"
Nainu jumped from the basket. He didn't look like a pet dog now, but a wild wolf. He grabbed one boy's jeans with his teeth and pulled.
"Hey, get this mad dog off!" They got scared. Rich brats, afraid of dirt and madness. They ran away.
Arin lay there in the dust. Blood flowed from his nose to his lips. He looked at the sky, which was now turning purple.
He spat out blood.
"There is a big 'Error' in the system, Arin," he said to himself, his voice trembling.
"Just staying 'Chill' won't work. The world doesn't check the vibe, it checks for weakness. Now I'll have to make the 'Firewall' a bit stronger."
The next morning. Martial Arts Academy.
The air smelled of sweat and Iodex. Mats were laid on the floor and students were kicking with shouts of 'Hiyaaa!'.
The coach, a tough man whose body was taut like iron, saw Arin's swollen nose.
"Why do you want to learn? To take revenge on the one who hit you yesterday?"
Arin ran his hand over his injury.
"No Sir. Revenge is too 'Mainstream'. It's cliché."
There was no anger in his eyes, but a stillness—the stillness before a storm.
"I just want to learn enough so that the next time someone enters my life 'uninvited', I don't have to show them the way out... they run away themselves."
The coach looked into Arin's eyes. He saw resolve there, not fear.
"It will cost 3000 a month."
Arin calculated in his mind. This was a large chunk of his earnings.
"It's done," he said.
(Arin's Mind)
"Better than useless expenses,
Is to invest in the 'Best Version' of oneself.
Because when I stand up, no one should dare to knock me down."
Evening was setting in. In the park, Arin sat on a bench strumming the strings of his new guitar. Ting... Ting...
The tunes weren't clean yet, but the feeling was whole.
Some children, who were playing nearby, came to him.
"Arin bhai," one child asked, "What will you become when you grow up? A millionaire? Or a big businessman?"
Arin stopped playing the guitar. The resonance of the guitar floated in the air. He scratched Nainu's ears and smiled.
"I just want to be 'Happy', kiddo."
He pointed towards the sky.
"That is the job where there is no retirement, and the salary... the salary is paid in your smile."
The child got confused. "Which job is this, brother?"
Arin gave him a weird, funny look.
"This is that job, my brother, for which you first have to burn your degree of 'Jealousy'. Now go, watch Pogo. Grown-up talks won't fit in your data pack."
The child ran away laughing.
At night, in his hut, Arin placed the guitar in the corner and lay down. His body ached, but his mind was light. He looked at the moon visible through the crack in the roof.
(Arin's Mind)
"Life is not a race,
It is a 'Playlist'.
Some songs will be sad, some fast.
Just keep skipping the 'Negativity' and keep your volume high."
He clenched his fist. It hurt, but it felt good.
"Tomorrow is the first day of training. Sleep now, Arin... tomorrow the system will reboot."