30-01-2026, 11:48 AM
Chapter 5: Chennai Streets & First Lifeline
The bus from the village rattled into Chennai at dawn, spilling Vikram onto the platform at Koyambedu like discarded luggage. His body ached from the overnight journey—back stiff, legs numb, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. He stepped down carrying everything he owned: a crumpled degree certificate rolled inside a plastic cover, the gold ring tucked deep in his pocket, and the few hundred-rupee notes Malar had pressed into his hand before she walked away with Vicky.
The city hit him like a wall of noise and heat. Horns blared, autorickshaws weaved through crowds, vendors shouted over each other. He stood still for a long minute, letting the chaos wash over him. Then the irony sank in, bitter and sharp: the money in his pocket came from her—the woman who had just broken him. He walked to the nearest roadside stall, ordered tea and a bun, paid with one of her notes. The tea burned his tongue; the bun tasted like cardboard. He ate slowly, staring at the ring in his palm. “Keep it,” his mind whispered. “Earn enough. Return it with interest. Cut every link.”
But honor wouldn’t let him sleep on the street. He asked around, found directions to cheap lodges near the bus stand. He searched for long, feet aching from the concrete, asking at five or six places. Most were grimy holes with 1200+ rent, way beyond his reach. Then he found Mohan's mansion—a rundown building with "Men's Hostel" painted on the wall, rooms for laborers and students. Rent: 700 per month, 5000 advance.
Vikram explained his situation—he just came to Chennai to earn and he has less money. He can afford the rent upfront now but the advance he'd pay soon. Mohan, the manager—a wiry man in his fifties with a mustache and sharp eyes—shook his head. "No advance, no room. I've heard this story a hundred times. Go elsewhere."
Vikram searched further, walking kilometers through crowded streets, but nothing was affordable. By evening, exhausted and defeated, he came back to Mohan's mansion one last time. He ate two idlis with Malar's money at a pushcart stall, the spicy chutney burning his empty stomach, then approached Mohan again. "Just four days, anna. Once I get a job, I'll give the full amount. Please."
Mohan sighed, eyeing him up and down. He'd seen so many people—liars, cheats, but also genuine ones who needed a hand. Something in Vikram's eyes—the raw truth, the desperation without begging—softened him. "I know you have no place now. So just one day. Tonight only. Get out in the morning."
Vikram nodded gratefully. "Which room?"
"Stay with me in the ground floor hall. Sleep here, use my restroom, and be gone by morning."
The sleep time came. Mohan spread a mat on the hall floor, the fan whirring lazily overhead. As they lay down, Mohan started the conversation casually. "What's your father and mother doing?"
Vikram hesitated, then the story poured out—father's death, mother's early passing, uncle's house, aunt's cruelty, the betrayal with Malar and Vicky. The words came slowly at first, then rushed like a dam breaking. Two hours the conversation went… Mohan heard every word, face softening in the dim light.
By the end, Mohan sat up. "Get up, 222—it's yours. Go to the room now and sleep."
Vikram said, "Anna, advance?"
Mohan: "I've seen hard lives, boy. Yours is one. But never this intense—you are surrounded by wolves. Alright—two months you can stay here with that 700 upfront. Get a job soon. I believe you can give me double the advance."
He patted Vikram on the shoulder and handed over the key.
Vikram was happy, relief washing over him like rain. He thanked Mohan again and again, and got into his single room. He hid the ring inside his small trunk box, wrapped in an old handkerchief. “When I’m up,” he promised himself, “I’ll return it with a big sum. Total cut. No looking back.”
He was sleeping soundly for the first time in days.
Next day was routine for what he was going to do for the next seven days.
Days became routine. Dawn to dusk: job hunt. He targeted mechanical firms—factories, workshops, garages—degree in hand, asking for apprentice or junior technician roles. Most laughed. “No experience? No reference? Come back when you have both.” Some days he ate; most days he didn’t.
Hunger became a constant companion, gnawing but familiar. Nights he returned to the mansion exhausted, feet blistered, mind numb. The room was smelly but better than the platform.
But peace never came fully. Every night the dreams returned—haunting, relentless. Malar’s moans echoing in the dark storage room, Vicky’s hips slamming forward, her body arching. In the dream Vikram always tried to take her by force, to reclaim what was promised, but Vicky was always stronger, always won. Vikram woke sweating, cock hard against his thigh, shame burning hotter than arousal. Loser. The word followed him into waking hours.
In the mansion he met Ramesh and Suresh—two kind-eyed working-class men who had seen their share of broken arrivals.
Ramesh was mid-thirties, a mechanic, hands permanently stained with grease. Suresh was Vikram's age, working in a small factory, quiet but steady. Suresh generally spoke to a woman on the hostel phone—his girlfriend—long conversations in hushed Tamil. Vikram never asked. They noticed Vikram’s degree, heard bits of his story over shared tea in the common corridor. “You’re not like the others who come and cheat,” Ramesh said one evening. “We’ll help.”
They offered him a lead—small workshop near Ambattur where Ramesh had contacts. Vikram went for two days: cleaned tools, carried parts, learned fast. The owner nodded approval. “Come tomorrow. We’ll see about salary.”
Trouble came on the third morning.
A security officer jeep pulled up outside the mansion. Two constables stepped out, asking for Vikram by name. The entire mansion watched—men pausing mid-shave, peering from windows—as the cops read from a sheet: theft complaint from the village, gold ring and cash missing, FIR filed by Vicky.
Vikram’s stomach dropped. Malar’s lie had followed him 300 kilometers.
The constables took him—no handcuffs, just firm grips on his arms, bundling him into the jeep. Ramesh and Suresh rushed forward. “He’s not a thief! He’s been here only days—ask Mohan!” Mohan appeared, face hard. “Wait. Let me come with you. This boy is no criminal.”
The jeep drove off with Vikram in the back. Ramesh, identified as a friend of the security officer through his NGO work (helping on field with community patrols), explained the issue to the constables. Mohan followed in a cab, determined to reach the village station and speak for him.
The bus from the village rattled into Chennai at dawn, spilling Vikram onto the platform at Koyambedu like discarded luggage. His body ached from the overnight journey—back stiff, legs numb, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. He stepped down carrying everything he owned: a crumpled degree certificate rolled inside a plastic cover, the gold ring tucked deep in his pocket, and the few hundred-rupee notes Malar had pressed into his hand before she walked away with Vicky.
The city hit him like a wall of noise and heat. Horns blared, autorickshaws weaved through crowds, vendors shouted over each other. He stood still for a long minute, letting the chaos wash over him. Then the irony sank in, bitter and sharp: the money in his pocket came from her—the woman who had just broken him. He walked to the nearest roadside stall, ordered tea and a bun, paid with one of her notes. The tea burned his tongue; the bun tasted like cardboard. He ate slowly, staring at the ring in his palm. “Keep it,” his mind whispered. “Earn enough. Return it with interest. Cut every link.”
But honor wouldn’t let him sleep on the street. He asked around, found directions to cheap lodges near the bus stand. He searched for long, feet aching from the concrete, asking at five or six places. Most were grimy holes with 1200+ rent, way beyond his reach. Then he found Mohan's mansion—a rundown building with "Men's Hostel" painted on the wall, rooms for laborers and students. Rent: 700 per month, 5000 advance.
Vikram explained his situation—he just came to Chennai to earn and he has less money. He can afford the rent upfront now but the advance he'd pay soon. Mohan, the manager—a wiry man in his fifties with a mustache and sharp eyes—shook his head. "No advance, no room. I've heard this story a hundred times. Go elsewhere."
Vikram searched further, walking kilometers through crowded streets, but nothing was affordable. By evening, exhausted and defeated, he came back to Mohan's mansion one last time. He ate two idlis with Malar's money at a pushcart stall, the spicy chutney burning his empty stomach, then approached Mohan again. "Just four days, anna. Once I get a job, I'll give the full amount. Please."
Mohan sighed, eyeing him up and down. He'd seen so many people—liars, cheats, but also genuine ones who needed a hand. Something in Vikram's eyes—the raw truth, the desperation without begging—softened him. "I know you have no place now. So just one day. Tonight only. Get out in the morning."
Vikram nodded gratefully. "Which room?"
"Stay with me in the ground floor hall. Sleep here, use my restroom, and be gone by morning."
The sleep time came. Mohan spread a mat on the hall floor, the fan whirring lazily overhead. As they lay down, Mohan started the conversation casually. "What's your father and mother doing?"
Vikram hesitated, then the story poured out—father's death, mother's early passing, uncle's house, aunt's cruelty, the betrayal with Malar and Vicky. The words came slowly at first, then rushed like a dam breaking. Two hours the conversation went… Mohan heard every word, face softening in the dim light.
By the end, Mohan sat up. "Get up, 222—it's yours. Go to the room now and sleep."
Vikram said, "Anna, advance?"
Mohan: "I've seen hard lives, boy. Yours is one. But never this intense—you are surrounded by wolves. Alright—two months you can stay here with that 700 upfront. Get a job soon. I believe you can give me double the advance."
He patted Vikram on the shoulder and handed over the key.
Vikram was happy, relief washing over him like rain. He thanked Mohan again and again, and got into his single room. He hid the ring inside his small trunk box, wrapped in an old handkerchief. “When I’m up,” he promised himself, “I’ll return it with a big sum. Total cut. No looking back.”
He was sleeping soundly for the first time in days.
Next day was routine for what he was going to do for the next seven days.
Days became routine. Dawn to dusk: job hunt. He targeted mechanical firms—factories, workshops, garages—degree in hand, asking for apprentice or junior technician roles. Most laughed. “No experience? No reference? Come back when you have both.” Some days he ate; most days he didn’t.
Hunger became a constant companion, gnawing but familiar. Nights he returned to the mansion exhausted, feet blistered, mind numb. The room was smelly but better than the platform.
But peace never came fully. Every night the dreams returned—haunting, relentless. Malar’s moans echoing in the dark storage room, Vicky’s hips slamming forward, her body arching. In the dream Vikram always tried to take her by force, to reclaim what was promised, but Vicky was always stronger, always won. Vikram woke sweating, cock hard against his thigh, shame burning hotter than arousal. Loser. The word followed him into waking hours.
In the mansion he met Ramesh and Suresh—two kind-eyed working-class men who had seen their share of broken arrivals.
Ramesh was mid-thirties, a mechanic, hands permanently stained with grease. Suresh was Vikram's age, working in a small factory, quiet but steady. Suresh generally spoke to a woman on the hostel phone—his girlfriend—long conversations in hushed Tamil. Vikram never asked. They noticed Vikram’s degree, heard bits of his story over shared tea in the common corridor. “You’re not like the others who come and cheat,” Ramesh said one evening. “We’ll help.”
They offered him a lead—small workshop near Ambattur where Ramesh had contacts. Vikram went for two days: cleaned tools, carried parts, learned fast. The owner nodded approval. “Come tomorrow. We’ll see about salary.”
Trouble came on the third morning.
A security officer jeep pulled up outside the mansion. Two constables stepped out, asking for Vikram by name. The entire mansion watched—men pausing mid-shave, peering from windows—as the cops read from a sheet: theft complaint from the village, gold ring and cash missing, FIR filed by Vicky.
Vikram’s stomach dropped. Malar’s lie had followed him 300 kilometers.
The constables took him—no handcuffs, just firm grips on his arms, bundling him into the jeep. Ramesh and Suresh rushed forward. “He’s not a thief! He’s been here only days—ask Mohan!” Mohan appeared, face hard. “Wait. Let me come with you. This boy is no criminal.”
The jeep drove off with Vikram in the back. Ramesh, identified as a friend of the security officer through his NGO work (helping on field with community patrols), explained the issue to the constables. Mohan followed in a cab, determined to reach the village station and speak for him.
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