The city of Mumbai hummed with the relentless rhythm of a thousand lives intertwining, each one a story, a struggle, a dream. Among them was Indra Sharma, a man whose life was as unremarkable as the countless others who moved like shadows through the city's crowded streets. At twenty-nine, Indra was a clerk at one of Mumbai's many banks, a job that paid just enough to keep the lights on in his modest apartment and to support his aging parents in their suburban home.
Indra was the kind of man who blended into a crowd, his appearance as ordinary as his life. With a neatly combed head of black hair, a wiry frame, and a pair of glasses perched on his nose, he was the quintessential middle-class Mumbaikar. He wore the same beige shirt and gray trousers most days, his attire as practical as his approach to life.
Yet, beneath this veneer of ordinariness lay a mind sharper than most. Numbers danced effortlessly in his head, equations resolved themselves with almost magical precision, and calculations came to him as naturally as breathing. As a student, his mathematical prowess had been the stuff of legend, baffling even the strictest teachers who tried in vain to trip him up. But like raw iron left to rust, his brilliance had dulled over the years. The demands of a middle-class life—the relentless grind of work, the duty to family, and the quiet resignation to mediocrity—had left little room for anything else.
The bank where Indra worked was a small branch tucked into a corner of a bustling market street. His days were a monotony of counting money, processing forms, and answering the same questions from the same kinds of customers. It wasn't that he disliked his job; it was steady, respectable work. The pay was decent, and his colleagues were amiable enough. He even felt a quiet pride in shouldering his family's financial burdens.
But deep down, a part of him yearned for something more, something undefined. It wasn't ambition, exactly—Indra had no grand dreams of wealth or fame that had been snatched away by circumstance. No, it was a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction, a faint whisper in the back of his mind that asked, *Is this it?
When the thought surfaced, he would shake his head and bury it beneath the weight of his daily responsibilities. He told himself he was being ungrateful. After all, he had a stable job, a loving family, and a roof over his head. What more could a middle-class man ask for?
That evening, the bank had closed later than usual. The year-end rush had brought a deluge of paperwork, and Indra's supervisor had insisted they stay late to finish processing it. By the time he stepped out into the night, the streets were quieter than usual. The market vendors had packed up their wares, and the only sounds were the occasional honk of a car and the distant chatter of pedestrians.
Indra adjusted his bag on his shoulder and began the walk to the train station. The air was cool, a rare reprieve from Mumbai's usual humidity. He let out a tired sigh and looked up at the sky, where the city's lights drowned out all but the brightest stars.
As he walked, his thoughts drifted. He remembered his school days, the exhilaration of solving a complex mathematical problem, the praise of his teachers, the envy of his peers. He'd once dreamed of becoming a mathematician, of making discoveries that would etch his name into history. But practicality had intervened. A middle-class boy had no business chasing dreams; he had responsibilities to fulfill, a family to support.
His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of screeching tires. He turned his head just in time to see the headlights of a truck bearing down on him. There was no time to react, no time to move. The world seemed to slow, and in that frozen moment, a curious calm washed over him.
So this is how it ends, he thought. Surprisingly, he felt no fear, no regret. Instead, there was a strange sense of relief, as though a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying had been lifted. The endless cycle of responsibilities, the quiet dissatisfaction, the unfulfilled potential—all of it faded away.
The impact was swift, and then there was darkness.