The Kid Who Keeps Asking for Directions

You take the bus earlier than you need to, because the local court doesn’t start until 10:30 but the anxiety won’t let you sit still. You get off three stops early, at the old market circle. The air smells of frying samosa and diesel. A boy, maybe fourteen, approaches you. He holds a battered Nokia phone. “Bhaiya, Majestic Cinema ka rasta?” You’ve lived here five years. You know the way. You point him down the lane behind the post office. He nods, thanks you, doesn’t leave. “Aur bhaiya… APMC building?” You trace the route on his screen with your finger. He watches intently. You ask if he’s new here. He says his father got a transfer. He asks four more questions: the municipal library, the best photocopy shop, where to buy second-hand engineering textbooks, a cheap lunch place. You answer each one. You’re still early. You walk him to the photocopy shop yourself. Its sign is a faded blue with a peeling ‘X’. The owner charges two rupees per page.

You do this every Thursday for six months, your mandatory court appearance day. The boy is always there, always with a new question. You learn his name is Vikram. He learns you are between things. He never asks about the fight or the job. You tell him about the coding you’re practicing at night on your old laptop. He shows you the calculus problems he’s struggling with. You help him solve one, on a scrap of paper from the photocopy shop. You buy him a chai once. He refuses the second time, saying his father would not approve.

Your case concludes. No conviction, but a fine that eats your savings. You stop going to the market circle. You get a contract role at a logistics startup, tracking shipment data. It’s not software engineering. The office is in a refurbished warehouse near the APMC building he asked about that first day.

One afternoon, you’re walking back from a lunch break. You see him. He’s not alone. He’s with two older men, unloading crates from a truck. He sees you. He gives a small, sharp nod—not the hesitant wave of before. You keep walking. You realize you never asked him where his father worked.

You still use the photocopy shop. The owner now charges three rupees per page.