Chapter 4: Safe Carried and Saved

The road that day was especially difficult. The dust seemed thicker, the stones sharper. For the first time, you lay on the big fellow’s back. His gamcha smelled of sweat and Dettol, rough against your cheek, but it was the safest place in the world. After twenty-seven days of marching, every bit of strength had drained from his body. His back was a furnace, his breath ragged. Lying there, your bones pressed and rubbed together through two layers of skin, and all you wanted was to cry. But you swallowed your tears, not wanting to make things harder for him.

That day, you finally reached a small town. When the big fellow set you down, you dropped to your knees in front of him with a heavy thud, but before you could bow your head in thanks, you fainted. The world spun, the earth slipping away. For a brief moment, you thought you heard your mother’s voice, soothing and soft, calling you home.

The officer glanced at you both, cursed, but turned around and called for a doctor. "Doctor lao, jaldi! Nahi toh yeh mar jayega," he barked at the startled townsfolk. A paan-chewing shopkeeper shouted for his son to fetch the doctor, while a stray cow nosed at your feet. Someone ran off, and soon you were being carried again, but this time towards hope.