In a bustling corner of Mumbai, where narrow alleys crisscrossed like tangled threads, lived a little boy named Arjun. He was ten years old, his eyes wide with curiosity and dreams far too big for the slums that surrounded him. The world he knew was made of tin-roofed shanties, crowded streets, and the constant hum of life—where the air smelled of spices, exhaust, and the salty sea breeze that drifted from the distant shore.
Arjun lived in a small, one-room home with his mother, Meera, and his father, Raghav. His mother worked tirelessly, washing clothes and cleaning homes in the wealthier parts of the city, while his father, once a strong and proud man, lay weak on the thin cot in the corner. Raghav had fallen ill months ago, his body slowly succumbing to a sickness they could not name but that drained the life out of him day by day.
Arjun missed the days when his father was well. Back then, Raghav used to carry him on his shoulders through the crowded streets, laughing as they navigated the hustle and bustle of Mumbai. But now, those days seemed like distant memories. The room was quieter now, with only the sound of his father's labored breathing and the clatter of his mother's work filling the space.
Every morning, Meera would leave early, placing a gentle kiss on Arjun's forehead, her fingers lingering for a moment as if she wanted to hold him a little longer but couldn't afford the time. Arjun would stay behind to care for his father. He would bring him water, help him sit up when he could, and sometimes, when his father had the strength, they would talk. Raghav would tell him stories of his childhood, of the small village where he grew up, far from the chaos of the city.
"We will leave this place one day," his father whispered one evening, his voice raspy but filled with hope. "I will get better, and we'll find a home in the village, near the river where the air is clean."
Arjun nodded, clinging to that dream even though he could see his father's body growing weaker. He wanted to believe it too, even though the doctors they had seen in the overcrowded government hospital offered little hope.
The streets outside their home were alive with noise. Children played cricket in the alleys with makeshift bats and rubber balls, while vendors called out to passersby, selling fruits and vegetables. Arjun would sometimes sneak out to watch, his heart aching to join them, but he always returned quickly, fearing his father might need him.
One afternoon, as the sun began to dip behind the hazy skyline of Mumbai, Arjun sat beside his father, peeling a small orange. His father reached out a trembling hand, placing it on Arjun's. "You're a good boy," he said softly. "Take care of your mother."
"I will, Papa," Arjun replied, blinking back tears that he didn't want his father to see.
Meera returned home that evening, her face tired but her eyes determined. She carried with her a small bag of medicine, bought with the little money she had earned that day. She smiled at Arjun, though it didn't quite reach her eyes, and then moved to Raghav's side, helping him drink the medicine.
As night fell, the city outside grew quiet, and the only sound in the room was the soft, rhythmic breathing of Arjun's parents. He lay beside them on the floor, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Despite everything, he felt a flicker of hope deep inside him, a stubborn flame that refused to go out.
Arjun knew life in the slums was hard, that every day was a fight for survival, but he also knew he had something precious—his family. No matter what happened, as long as they were together, they would find a way through. One day, he told himself, they would leave this place.
Until then, Arjun would keep dreaming, and he would keep fighting for the day when his father's stories became their reality.
( It is set in alternate world of earth
You can think of parallel universe)