Desperation births two kinds of people—those who break, and those who build.
And Aarav Malik was done breaking.
In the days that followed his father's funeral, the house echoed with quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like failure left the windows open. But Aarav—he didn't sleep anymore. He barely blinked. Something inside him had snapped… or maybe, finally ignited.
He counted every saved rupee. Dug through every rusted drawer. Collected coins from old envelopes, forgotten by everyone but fate.
Twelve thousand seven hundred and sixty-three rupees. That was all.
Not enough to change the world. But maybe—just maybe—enough to start his own.
With a cracked diary and a head full of greasy dreams, Aarav made the riskiest decision of his life.
He would open his own garage.
No boss.
No slap.
No gatekeepers.
Just skill, sweat, and stubbornness.
He rented a tiny corner plot beside the old railway track—nothing fancy, just a tin roof, a second-hand toolbox, and one borrowed jack. But it was his.
Malik Auto Works, the board read, painted by a drunk uncle in exchange for chai and a plate of samosas.
It wasn't perfect. But it was real.
And Aarav?
He was a machine.
He worked like his life depended on it—because it did.
He repaired bikes with fingers that bled.
Tuned engines till midnight.
Slept under cars.
Woke before the sun.
Smiled at every customer like they were a blessing from God.
And the thugs?
He fed them chai and "bhaisahab" flattery laced with calm eyes and quiet warnings. He gave them no reason to hate him, no opening to destroy him. They took the tea, smirked, and left. And slowly… stopped coming at all.
One by one, the word spread—
"That Malik lad is brilliant."
"Fair rates."
"Fast hands."
"Clean work."
The line outside Malik Auto Works grew longer.
And Aarav—he grew too.
He hired boys from the neighborhood. Kids who'd dropped out. Boys who were tired of begging for coins at signals. He trained them. Paid them. Gave them purpose and pocket money.
And one rainy day, he walked up to the broken door of Iqbal Bhai's old apartment.
The old man opened the door, grumbled something about blood pressure and politics—
And Aarav just smiled and said,
"Ustaad, Malik Auto Works needs a senior technician."
Iqbal grunted. "You offering me a job?"
"No," Aarav said. "I'm offering us a second chance."
And Iqbal came.
Not as a boss.
But as a mentor.
The garage roared with life again.
Engines purred. Tools clanked. Laughter returned to the air.
But as the shop grew… so did the hunger.
Medicine was still expensive.
Zoya's wedding was still pending.
Debt collectors still called.
And dreams… well, dreams cost more than wrenches.
He stood one night outside his garage, watching the moonlight dance on the oily floor, and whispered to himself,
"This is good… but it's not enough."
Because Aarav didn't just want to fix engines anymore.
He wanted to rebuild his entire life.
And for that… he needed more than tools.
He needed vision.