Chapter 8: Scrap and Secrets

The next day, I went back to the old neighbourhood again.

I wandered around and finally stopped at a scrap shop. The shutters were half-open, and the familiar clang of metal greeted me.

I remembered this place—it had been here for over ten years. As a child, I’d sold my old schoolbooks for a few rupees here, and Ananya once bought a broken toy car from the pile.

The owner, Aunty Rekha, looked even older now. Her hair was white, tied in a rough bun, her hands cracked from years of work.

Surprisingly, she still recognised me.

"Arre, Rohan beta? Itne saal baad aaye ho... Pehchana nahi main tumhe!"

She was very warm when she saw me. Her eyes softened, and she patted my shoulder gently, the way only old aunties do. She brushed dust off a stool and offered me chai in a chipped steel cup—her hospitality as familiar as the clang of her shop’s shutters.

Rohan handed me a steel tumbler of chai, the rim still warm, the smell of ginger hitting my nose.

I wanted to find that homeless man—she must know more about the area than I do. If anyone kept track of the colony’s hidden stories, it was her.

So I went over and greeted her,

"Aunty Rekha, kitne din ho gaye... Aapka dhandha toh mast chal raha hai! Abhi bhi sabziwala se bhaav-taav karti ho kya?"

After some small talk, I steered the conversation to ask about that strange kabadiwala.

Her expression instantly became awkward. She hesitated for a while, then finally said,

"Woh aadmi... woh mera pati hai."

I was stunned and quickly asked what had happened.

Aunty Rekha sighed,

"Dimaag theek nahi hai uska, bahut saal ho gaye. Doctor ko dikhana nahi chahta... Kabhi-kabhi dinon tak gayab ho jaata hai. Log baatein karte hain, lekin main kya karun? Bas bachchon ke baare mein kuch-kuch bolta rehta hai, purani baaton ka zikr karta hai."

I was considering whether to ask about the reason, and about what her husband had said about ‘children going missing.’

But then I suddenly noticed—

Aunty Rekha’s scrap shop was huge. Besides the front yard and the small house, there was a large fenced area in the back, piled high with recyclables. It was enormous, and some things were stacked... Old tricycles, broken school desks, rusted utensils, and sacks tied with rope, spilling secrets that only the colony’s walls had heard.

As I lingered at the threshold of the fence, I heard the faint clink of metal, as if something—or someone—was moving behind the stacks.