Chapter 3: Forged in Marble, Bound by Memory

In Surat, Amit’s new life began in a shabby, damp hostel, sharing rooms with other apprentices from across India. Nights, he wrote in his diary and drew, tracing train lines on an old atlas, desperate to find a way back to his lost home.

He had no skills, no money—survival was a daily battle. Every day from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m., he trained in marble carving, hands blistered and raw, hunger gnawing at his belly. Sometimes, he survived on nothing but tap water.

Amit kept three lists in his diary: the names of traffickers, memories of his village, and ways to get stronger. Every night, he reread them, like holy mantras.

As an apprentice, he earned nothing. Shyamal Das sent no money, so Amit learned to stretch every rupee, sometimes trading sketches for coins.

A year later, his skill caught the master carver’s eye. “Accha kaam karta hai yeh ladka. Hath mein dum hai.” Soon, customers asked for his pieces by name.

He sent part of his wages to Shyamal Das in Kolkata, afraid to cut ties completely. But gradually, he stopped. Letters went unanswered. Amit finally allowed himself to believe he was no longer a Das—he was Amit again, forging a new destiny, one chisel stroke at a time.

But every night, as he closed his eyes, the echo of his brother’s voice haunted him—reminding him that some journeys are never truly over.