Chapter 2 - The Girl on the dusty Road

 

2

 

 

            A few days later, I found myself once again near a bus window.

 

            Perhaps that is the strange thing about roads - they never allow thoughtful people to stay away for long. After my previous journey, life had returned to its ordinary rhythm, yet something inside me still wandered among highways, villages, and unknown faces.

 

            That morning, the bus rolled slowly out of the town and entered the open countryside.

 

            June had grown harsher now. The fields shimmered beneath the burning sun. Farmers worked silently in distant corners of land while dusty winds moved lazily across the roads. Inside the bus, passengers carried their own worlds - some sleepy, some lost in mobile phones, some staring outside without expression.

 

            I rested my head lightly against the window.

 

            And then I saw her.  A schoolgirl walking alone on the side of the village road…Perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old.

 

            White salwar. Blue kameez. Faded school bag hanging from one shoulder. A few notebooks pressed tightly against her chest as if they were something precious, something that could not be allowed to fall.

 

            The bus crossed her within seconds. 

 

            But something about her remained in my mind.  I turned my neck slightly to keep watching until she disappeared behind a cloud of dust.

 

            There was nothing extraordinary about her appearance.

 

            No dramatic scene.

 

            No tears.

 

            No cinematic background music.

 

            Just a village girl walking under the ruthless afternoon sun.

 

            Yet my heart suddenly became heavy.  Because I knew that road.  Not the exact road perhaps, but the kind of road.  A road where dreams walk silently.  A road where ambition has no audience.  A road where nobody claps for your struggle.

 

            The bus continued moving, but my thoughts remained with the girl.

 

            How far was her school?

 

            Three kilometres?

 

            Five?

 

            Maybe more.

 

            In villages, distance is not measured the way cities measure it. A city child complains if the school bus arrives five minutes late. But village children often walk miles daily without complaint. Their shoes break quietly. Their uniforms fade quietly. Their dreams also grow quietly.

 

            No motivational speaker ever comes to those dusty roads.

 

            No giant banners say: “Believe in yourself.”

 

            No social media influencer records videos there saying: “Rise and grind.”

            No coaching institute promises: “Guaranteed success.”

 

            And yet, every morning, thousands of children still walk toward schools carrying invisible hopes.

 

            The girl I saw was one among them.

 

            I began imagining her life.

 

            Perhaps she wakes before sunrise.  Maybe her mother shakes her gently from sleep while darkness still hangs over the village.  Maybe she helps knead dough before school.  Maybe she fills water from the hand pump.  Maybe she feeds cattle before touching her books.  Then she walks several kilometres to attend classes in a building where fans barely work during power cuts.

 

            Still she studies.

 

            Still she memorises lessons.

 

            Still she writes answers carefully in neat handwriting.

 

            Still she dreams.

 

            Dreams are strange things.

 

            In cities, dreams often become fashion.

 

Children announce them proudly:

“I want to become this.”

“I want to become that.”

 

            Parents upload achievements online. Certificates become social media posts. Success becomes public performance.

 

            But village dreams are usually quieter.  A village child rarely announces dreams loudly because life teaches caution very early.  Dream too much, and people laugh.

 

            Study too much, and relatives ask:  “What is the need?” 

 

            Especially if the dream belongs to a girl.

 

            I looked outside again.

 

            The road had become emptier now. Heat waves rose from the earth like invisible smoke. Somewhere far away, a tractor moved slowly through fields.

 

            And suddenly I remembered my own school days.

 

            How easily we forget our beginnings once life moves ahead.

 

            There was a time when even reaching school felt like achievement. Some children crossed canals. Some travelled on broken bicycles. Some studied under lanterns during electricity cuts.

 

            Yet today society only celebrates the final result.  Nobody sees the road.  Everybody applauds the officer.  Nobody remembers the child who once walked barefoot to school.

 

            The bus stopped briefly near a small village chowk.

 

            A tea seller climbed inside carrying a steel kettle.

 

            “Tea... tea...”

 

            A few passengers bought cups lazily. The conductor shouted for people to hurry.

 

            Near the bus stand, I saw two little girls sharing one ice cream while standing under the shadow of a closed shop. Both were wearing school uniforms.

 

            Again my thoughts returned to that girl on the road.  What kind of future waits for children like her?  That question disturbed me deeply. 

 

            Because villages are full of unfinished stories.  A brilliant student leaves studies because the family cannot afford further education.  A girl tops her class but gets married at eighteen.  A boy prepares for exams while also working in fields.  Another abandons school because the nearest college is too far away.

 

            Talent is everywhere.  Opportunity is not.

 

            That is the real tragedy. 

 

            We often speak proudly about successful people from villages. We celebrate rare examples like miracles.  But perhaps the bigger truth is this:  For every person who succeeds, hundreds disappear silently into responsibilities.  Not because they lacked intelligence.  But because survival arrived before opportunity.

 

            The bus started moving again.

 

            An elderly woman sitting nearby suddenly spoke to another passenger about her granddaughter. 

“She studies very well,” she said proudly. “Wants to become a doctor.”

 

            The other passenger smiled politely, but I noticed uncertainty in his expression.  Maybe he was calculating expenses in his mind.  Maybe he knew how difficult such dreams are for ordinary families.

 

            Education in villages is not only about intelligence.  It is about endurance.  Endurance against poverty.  Against distance.  Against social pressure.  Against hopelessness.  Against the invisible belief that some people are simply not meant to dream big. 

 

            I closed my eyes for a moment. 

 

            And in my imagination, I saw that schoolgirl years later.  Perhaps she becomes a teacher.  Perhaps a nurse.  Perhaps an officer.  Or perhaps nothing society considers “successful.”  Maybe she eventually marries into another village and spends her life managing household responsibilities.

 

            But even then, would her struggle become meaningless?

                       

            No.  Because education does something deeper.  Even when it does not change income immediately, it changes awareness. It changes the way a person sees the world. It changes how mothers raise children. It changes how families think.

 

            A single educated girl can quietly transform generations.

 

            That is why the sight of girls walking toward schools in villages always feels powerful to me. 

It is not merely movement.  It is resistance.  Resistance against centuries of silence.  Resistance against limitations accepted as destiny.  Resistance against the belief that rural lives should remain small.

 

            Outside the bus, clouds had started gathering slowly.

 

            The harsh sunlight softened a little.

 

            Somewhere children were flying kites from rooftops despite the heat. A group of boys played cricket in an open ground using bricks as wickets.

 

            Life never stops completely in villages.  Even hardship learns to smile there.

 

            I suddenly wondered whether the girl knew the value of what she carried against her chest.  Those books.  Simple notebooks.  Perhaps covered with brown paper.  Maybe names written carefully in blue ink. 

 

            To the world, they looked ordinary.  But for many village children, books are not objects.  They are doors.  Doors toward dignity.  Toward confidence.  Toward escape.  Toward possibility.  And sometimes, simply toward self-respect.

 

            The tragedy is that privileged people often underestimate silent struggles.

 

            A student sitting in an air-conditioned coaching centre may never understand the determination of a girl who studies after completing household work under a dim bulb.

 

            One studies with resources.  The other studies with hunger. And yet both appear for the same examination.  Life is rarely fair.  But perhaps courage is born precisely from unfairness.

 

            The bus crossed another village.

 

            Outside a government school, I saw a faded slogan painted on the wall: “Padhegi Beti, Badhega Desh.”  The paint had cracked.  Part of the sentence had faded under rain and sunlight.  Yet somehow it looked beautiful to me.  Because even faded hope matters.

 

            I thought again about modern society.  Today everybody wants quick success stories.  Thirty-second motivational videos.  Instant inspiration.  Instant fame.  Instant results.  But real struggles do not fit inside short videos.

 

            Nobody records the girl walking four kilometres daily under burning heat.

 

            Nobody posts reels about mothers saving coins secretly for school fees.

 

            Nobody applauds fathers who continue educating daughters despite financial pressure.

 

            These stories remain invisible.  Perhaps that is why they are pure.

 

            The bus entered a rough patch of road and shook violently.  Passengers adjusted themselves irritably.  A child began crying.  The conductor moved through the aisle collecting fares.  Ordinary scenes.  Ordinary people.  Ordinary journeys. Yet somewhere among them lived extraordinary endurance.

 

            I looked outside once more and saw another lone figure walking along the road - this time a boy carrying a school bag.

 

            For a moment both images merged in my mind.  Thousands of children.  Thousands of dusty roads.  Thousands of hidden dreams walking silently every day across villages of India.  Without applause.  Without headlines.  Without guarantees.

 

            And suddenly I realised something.  Perhaps the real strength of this country does not live in famous speeches or television debates.  Perhaps it lives in these unnoticed journeys.  In the farmer working under brutal heat.  In the mother waiting for her child outside a government school.  In the student studying despite uncertainty.  In the girl walking alone on a village road carrying books against her chest like fragile hope itself.

 

            The bus moved ahead endlessly.

 

            But my thoughts refused to move on.  Long after that girl had disappeared from sight, she remained seated beside me like a question. 

 

            A painful question.

 

            How many dreams are still walking alone on dusty village roads while the world remains too busy to notice them?

 

            And another question followed quietly behind it:

 

            If those children continue walking despite everything…then what right do the rest of us have to surrender so easily?

 

Chapter 1 - The Farmer

 

1

 

            The bus arrived with a tired groan, as if it too had already lived through half the day before sunrise. Its faded blue body carried scratches of forgotten journeys, political slogans written in dust, and fingerprints of countless passengers who had held onto its iron bars while life rushed past them. I climbed in slowly, adjusting the cloth bag hanging from my shoulder, and searched for a window seat. A bus journey without a window seat always feels incomplete, like reading only half a novel.

 

            It was the middle of June.

 

            Even at seven in the morning, the air already carried the warning of a cruel afternoon. The sun had not fully risen, yet the roads looked exhausted. Tea sellers beside the bus stand were pouring steaming tea into small glasses while flies circled lazily around sugar jars. A few labourers sat silently on a broken bench, their lunch wrapped in old newspapers. School children, half awake, leaned against their mothers. Conductors shouted names of destinations with the urgency of men who believed the world might end if one passenger was left behind.

 

            I sat beside the window and wiped the glass with my handkerchief. The bus jerked forward with a sudden cough of smoke. Slowly, the town began slipping behind us.

 

            Morning roads have a strange honesty.

 

            People are not yet hidden behind the masks they wear later in the day. Faces look natural, worries look genuine, and conversations have not yet become performances. A milkman riding a bicycle with two silver cans tied behind him. A shopkeeper sweeping dust outside his shutter before opening the shop. A stray dog stretching lazily under a tree. These ordinary scenes often feel more truthful than the loud speeches given by powerful men on television every night.

 

            Inside the bus, passengers settled into their own small worlds. Some closed their eyes immediately as if sleep were a form of resistance against life itself. Some stared continuously into their phones. An old woman took out prayer beads and whispered something under her breath. Two college boys discussed cricket with the seriousness of philosophers discussing the future of civilization.

 

            The bus moved out of the town and entered the open countryside.

 

            Fields stretched endlessly on both sides like giant green oceans frozen under the sun. Tube-wells stood silently like lonely soldiers guarding the land. Buffaloes rested near muddy ponds, flicking their tails lazily against flies. Occasionally the smell of wet soil entered through the window, carrying memories older than language itself.

 

            For nearly an hour, I remained lost in these moving pictures.

 

            There is something deeply spiritual about watching villages from a bus window. You never fully belong to the scene, yet for a few seconds you become part of it. A woman washing clothes near a hand pump. Children running barefoot behind a tractor. An old man sitting under a tree smoking a hookah. The bus keeps moving, but fragments of their lives remain sitting beside you long after they disappear from sight.

 

            By ten o’clock, the heat had become merciless.

 

            The sunlight no longer fell softly upon the earth. It attacked it.

 

            The metal frame of the window had become too hot to touch. Dry wind entered the bus like air from an open furnace. Passengers began covering their heads with towels and dupattas. The conductor’s shirt was soaked with sweat. Even the trees outside appeared defeated, their leaves hanging motionless as though surrendering to the afternoon.

 

            And then I saw him.

 

            Far away in a field near the road, a farmer was working alone.

 

            At first he looked like a dark moving shadow against the burning land. The bus came closer, and slowly his figure became clearer. He was bending repeatedly, perhaps clearing weeds or preparing the soil for another crop. His turban was soaked with sweat. His clothes clung to his body. The earth around him looked cracked and thirsty. There was not a single tree nearby to offer shade.

 

            Yet he continued working.

 

            The bus sped ahead, but my eyes remained fixed upon him until he disappeared behind clouds of dust.

 

            Something about that man refused to leave my mind.

 

            Inside the bus, debates had already begun.

 

            One passenger was criticizing politicians. Another blamed religion for the country’s problems. Someone else argued loudly about corruption, caste, and unemployment. A young man wearing earphones interrupted occasionally to give his opinion gathered from social media videos watched late at night.

 

            The arguments grew louder.

 

            Each person spoke as though truth belonged exclusively to him.

 

            Yet somewhere behind us, under the brutal June Sun, that farmer continued working silently.

 

            No speech.

 

            No ideology.

 

            No performance.

 

            Only labour.

 

            I leaned my head against the vibrating window and kept thinking about him.

 

            Perhaps distance from noise protects certain souls.

 

            Cities produce clever minds but tired hearts. Villages, despite poverty and hardship, sometimes preserve a kind of inner simplicity that educated urban people slowly lose. In cities, every opinion becomes a weapon. Every conversation becomes a battlefield. People endlessly discuss humanity while becoming less human with each passing year.

 

            But farmers rarely have the luxury of such noise.

 

            The soil does not care about political debates. Crops do not grow through social media arguments. The land demands sweat, patience, and silence. Perhaps that is why many villagers still possess a certain honesty that educated society often mistakes for ignorance.

 

            I remembered how people in cities proudly announce their ideologies at parties, offices, and online platforms. They divide themselves into camps and tribes. Religion against religion. Language against language. Rich against poor. Left against right. Every person convinced that he alone understands justice.

 

            But the farmer in that field probably had no time for these fashionable wars.

 

            The Sun above him was real.

 

            The thirst was real.

 

            The debt was real.

            The crop failure was real.

 

            And perhaps because his struggles were real, his mind remained free from many artificial conflicts created by comfortable people sitting in air-conditioned rooms.

 

            The bus stopped briefly near a roadside stall.

 

            Passengers rushed out for water bottles and cold drinks. I remained seated near the window. Outside, the road shimmered under the heat like melting glass. A little boy carrying cucumbers walked from bus to bus hoping someone would buy from him. His face looked dry and tired, but every time a passenger looked at him, he forced a smile.

 

            I bought two cucumbers from him.

 

            As he handed them over, I noticed his fingers covered in dust and tiny cuts. Children in cities spend summers inside malls and gaming rooms. This child spent his summer walking on burning roads under a punishing sky.

 

            Again the same thought returned to me:

 

            Who truly understands life more deeply?

 

            The educated man discussing morality online?

 

            Or the farmer who silently feeds strangers?

 

            The child selling cucumbers to support his family?

                       

            Or the city intellectual writing essays about poverty from expensive cafés?

 

            The bus resumed its journey.

 

            Fields continued passing like scenes from an endless documentary. Somewhere women were transplanting paddy with their feet buried in muddy water. Somewhere an old farmer repaired a broken water pipe with bare hands. Somewhere smoke rose slowly from a brick kiln under the white afternoon sky.

 

            India often survives not because of its powerful people but because of ordinary people who continue working quietly despite disappointment, heat, and neglect.

 

            The farmer I had seen earlier became larger inside my thoughts than he had appeared in reality.

 

            I imagined his life.

 

            Perhaps he had woken before dawn. Perhaps he had checked the electricity supply for irrigation during the night. Perhaps he carried loans on his shoulders heavier than sacks of grain. Perhaps his children studied in some distant town while he continued battling weather, market prices, insects, and uncertainty.

 

            Yet no television debate would ever invite him.

 

            No newspaper headline would celebrate his endurance.

 

            His suffering would remain private, buried inside the fields like seeds waiting for rain.

 

            The bus crossed a small canal.

 

            Water flowed slowly beneath us, reflecting harsh sunlight like broken mirrors. A group of boys jumped into the canal laughing fearlessly. For a moment their laughter cut through the heat and noise like fresh rain upon dry land.

 

            Life is strange that way.

 

            Pain and beauty travel together.

 

            Exhaustion and hope sit beside each other like silent passengers inside the same bus.

 

            I noticed an elderly man across the aisle staring outside just as deeply as I was. Our eyes met briefly. He smiled faintly, as though he too had spent years learning from roads instead of books.

 

            Perhaps all travelers become philosophers eventually.

 

            Continuous movement changes a person.

 

            When you sit by windows for long enough, watching unknown people pass through unknown villages, you slowly realize how temporary everything is. Human ego begins looking foolish. Our arguments, ambitions, and rivalries suddenly appear very small against the endlessness of roads and seasons.

 

            The bus entered another town around noon.

 

            Shops blared film songs through dusty speakers. Rickshaw drivers waited lazily under trees. Fruit sellers sprinkled water over watermelons to keep them cool. The heat had emptied most streets. Even stray animals searched desperately for shade.

 

            As passengers prepared to leave, I looked once more toward the distant fields visible beyond the buildings.

 

            Somewhere out there, countless farmers were still working under the cruel June Sun.

 

            And perhaps none of them knew that a stranger passing through in a noisy bus had carried their image deep into his heart.

 

            The conductor shouted the name of the stop.

 

            I stood up slowly, holding the warm iron rod for support as the bus trembled to a halt. Before stepping down, I looked back once at the long aisle filled with tired passengers, hanging bags, sleeping children, and dust floating through sunlight.

 

            A bus journey is never only about reaching somewhere.

 

            Sometimes it quietly introduces you to truths that were waiting beside the road all along.

 

            That day, the truth wore a sweat-soaked turban and stood alone in a burning field beneath the merciless June sky.

The Legend Who Sang in a Voice That Broke Many a Silence

The passing of Asha Bhosle marks the end of an era in Indian cinema... an era where a single voice could carry the weight of emotions too complex for words. For over seven decades, she did not merely sing songs; she gave expression to silence, desire, rebellion, and longing.

Born in 1933 into the illustrious family of Deenanath Mangeshkar, Asha Bhosle’s life was intertwined with music from the very beginning. Alongside her elder sister Lata Mangeshkar, she stepped into the world of playback singing at a tender age, compelled as much by circumstance as by talent. Yet, her journey was never meant to be easy.

In her early years, she struggled for recognition, often relegated to songs that others would refuse. But within those limitations, she found her strength. Her collaboration with O. P. Nayyar changed her fortunes, giving her a space to craft a unique identity... bold, expressive, and refreshingly unconventional.

If Nayyar gave her a foothold, it was R. D. Burman who helped her redefine the very language of film music. Together, they created songs that were not just heard but lived... rhythmic, experimental, and emotionally layered. Whether it was the playful seduction of cabaret numbers or the aching tenderness of ghazals, Asha Bhosle moved effortlessly across genres, making each her own.

What set her apart was her fearless versatility. At a time when playback singing often followed fixed moulds, she broke them... lending her voice to everything from classical compositions to Western-inspired tracks. She sang in multiple languages, adapting not just her pronunciation but her very soul to the demands of each song.

Beyond the studio, her life reflected the same resilience that defined her music. Personal setbacks, professional rivalries, and the constant pressure of living up to expectations never dimmed her spirit. Instead, they seemed to deepen the texture of her voice... adding layers of experience to every note she sang.

Honoured with numerous accolades, including the prestigious Dadasaheb Phalke Award, Asha Bhosle’s legacy cannot be measured in awards alone. It lives on in the countless songs that continue to resonate across generations, in the voices she inspired, and in the silences she so beautifully filled.

Her departure leaves behind a void that cannot be replaced. Yet, legends like Asha Bhosle do not truly fade away. They linger... in melodies that play on, in memories that refuse to dim, and in the quiet moments where their voice still speaks to the heart.

In the end, she did what only the rarest artists can do... she turned silence into song, and song into something eternal.

English Story / Forgiveness / Harry Stuart

 Wasted moments are sins. I am cursed by each one that I have slung with casual indifference. Her smile broken by my temperament. My thoughtless disregard. Instead of being hollowed out by regret, the fear stirs and sinks its claws into what is left of me that feels.

I can’t see.

Backing out of the driveway, the light refracts. It is stunted by the heaviness of drifting clouds. I grip the steering wheel tighter, knowing I have no choice but the road ahead. The weakness of my brother-in-law. Summoning me to the hospital to be the one to render the final moment. I am lost, but I know the direction. It is splintered.

“The ambulance took her.”

“What happened? I thought she was holding her own.”

The breaking and cracking starts.

“She wasn’t making sense, talking but I couldn’t understand what she wanted…what she needed. She was agitated in a listless way. She couldn’t swallow her pills. The light, in her, was fading.”

A long pause and then he stumbles out the words, emotive and trembling, “I am scared.”

Searching. A rush of anxiety and dread. The first glimpse of an end.

“No, it can’t be. What did the paramedics say?”

He’s racked with denial. Spitting out truths but not hearing them.

“Her blood pressure had plummeted. Forty-four over twenty-four. I don’t know.”

And then there is the noise, guttural and low, followed by an unease of longing.

“I’m at the hospital now, Ann. You have to come. I can’t do this…”

“What can’t be done?”

I ask it, anticipating the answer. Sunk by the doom. I should have been prepared.

“She is gone, but still here. They have her propped up on a drip. It’s keeping her blood pressure elevated. She can’t sustain it on her own. She can’t talk. She moans and thrashes about some. Her eyes are open, but she can’t see.”

His tears fall in the silence. I don’t know it, but in that space is where I die.

I punch the accelerator.

The trees that line the highway fly past the car window like a moving picture screen. I concentrate on the blurred vision that looms in front of me. Panic. I can’t discern shape or form. In the few minutes I’ve been driving, reality has morphed into nothingness. I struggle to find the horizon. A balance, something familiar.

I have to get there.

I can feel the wetness on my cheek. It gains intensity. My body shakes. A release. A way to comprehend what is next.

Focus on breathing. Don’t jump from memory to memory. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Breathe out.

I remember the last time we spoke. Mere hours behind me.

“How are the kiddos?” she asked in between chewing.

Relief that she is eating. The cancer had stolen her appetite. It poked its way into every corner of living. Needling and robbing.

“They’re good. Playing now with their new puppies. You’ll have to come over soon to see them.”

My sister doesn’t like dogs, but she agrees. Her voice is airy and light. She sounds happy.

“What are you doing today?” I inquire.

“Trying to eat this Texas toast.”

I can hear the struggle. Everyday tasks in their enormity.

“Oh, you should eat. Probably best not to talk and swallow at the same time. We’ll talk more later. Okay?”

Another pause. The space between us diminishing.

“Yes, yes, you’re right. I’ll call you back in a little bit.”

We say our goodbyes and she doesn’t call back. And neither do I, because there is always tomorrow. The worst sin.

The accelerator is on the floor, trying to race past the pain. In the pursuit, my field of vision is lessening. It is collapsing on itself. The motion is stationary, everything smudged in disorder. If I can’t see what is in front of me, how can I be expected to continue?

With a sharp jerk, I pull the car into the strip mall parking lot. It is early morning. The sun finding a resting spot in the earth’s revolution. I don’t have time. I have to make this right.

“Please,” I implore to the gods, to anyone who will listen.

I call the only person who has the weight and resolve to be my anchor.

“Wayne, I’m stuck. I can’t do this…I’m not strong enough for this moment.”

“Hold on, deep breath, hold on. Do you want me to come? I’ll bring the girls and we’ll go with you.”

“No, no…we talked about it. I don’t want them to be subjected to it.”

The pristine white of the hospital walls. The glare of death in its anti-septic smell.

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I pulled into a parking lot. I can’t see. I literally cannot see.”

The fissure is complete, the perfection of life imperfect.

“You are stronger than you know. Stay there until you can summon your calm. You got this, my dear. She needs you. Your sis needs you.”

She has always needed me. To protect her. To make her laugh. To validate her strengths in the grip of inadequacy. What is skipped, or missed entirely, is how much I need her.

In that gentle realization, the light bends. Suddenly, there is a crispness to the colors, the way the green of the leaves effuses an immortality. The cycle will not cease.

“I will be there for her,” a whisper of acceptance.

I set my cell phone in the passenger seat. I wipe the dampness from my chin. The tear streaked path of resolution.

The span of minutes leaving my house to this nondescript parking spot, I understand I will not be the same. A finality to a shared history. A divide from everything known.

I let my forehead rest in the palm of my right hand. The rocking brings the cadence to normalcy, a quiet breathing. Courage gathered. Clarity to details. The buildings, signs, and traffic light in the distance are blunted into sharpness.

I resume the fated journey.

Easing back onto the asphalt, I cannot know that the pain will be exacting and crushing. An all-encompassing tidal wave of brokenness. I drive toward it with conviction, defiance and peace.

“Where you go, Michelle, I will be with you.”

I don’t see it as much as I hear it. The crunch of metal. There is a feeling of being airborne before the lights extinguish. Suspended between a wakefulness of contrition and remorse. An epiphany interrupted. A new life forward.

 Dedication

To those moments
that were never completed,
yet changed the direction of life.

To those smiles
that quietly stood by,
hiding the pain beneath them.

To those paths
we walked together,
yet led us to different destinations.

To those memories
that time did not erase,
but only made deeper.

And to that paused feeling
that somewhere within,
still breathes.

A Note to the Reader

This story is not told in a loud voice.
It is made of those things
that often remain unspoken within.

Do not read it in haste.
Let a few moments pause,
for every paused moment
has something to say.

The Wisdom of the First Coin: Why Schools Must Teach the Art of Money

 In every age, societies have sought to prepare their young for the challenges of adulthood. Education has traditionally focused on reading, writing, science, mathematics, and history—subjects that shape intellect and culture. Yet, in the rapidly changing economic world of the twenty-first century, there is one subject whose absence in the classroom is increasingly felt: the understanding of money. The ability to manage money wisely is not merely a practical skill; it is a life skill that determines security, dignity, and independence. For this reason, a subject on money investment and savings should be introduced in schools from the eighth class onward so that students may learn the importance of financial management at an early stage.

Money has become one of the central pillars of modern life. Every decision—education, healthcare, housing, travel, and even personal aspirations—is connected, directly or indirectly, with financial resources. Families work tirelessly to earn and save, governments design policies around financial growth, and individuals plan their futures based on financial stability. Yet it is ironic that while money affects almost every aspect of life, formal education rarely teaches young people how to handle it responsibly. Students graduate with degrees in various fields but often enter adulthood without even the basic knowledge of saving, budgeting, or investing.

Introducing financial education at the school level can fill this significant gap. By the time a child reaches the eighth class, he or she begins to develop an understanding of society and personal responsibility. At this stage, the mind is curious and receptive. Teaching the fundamentals of money management during these formative years can help students build healthy financial habits that remain with them throughout their lives.

One of the most important lessons such a subject could teach is the value of money itself. Many children grow up seeing money simply as a means of buying things. They may observe their parents spending or saving, but they rarely understand the effort behind earning it. When students learn how income is generated, how expenses accumulate, and how savings grow over time, they begin to appreciate the true value of every rupee. This awareness often cultivates responsibility and discourages careless spending.

Another key component of financial education is budgeting. Budgeting is essentially the art of balancing income and expenses. It teaches individuals how to prioritize their needs and control their desires. When students learn to create a simple budget—even with small amounts of pocket money—they begin to understand the importance of planning. They learn that every purchase has consequences and that thoughtful decisions can prevent financial stress later in life.

Savings form the backbone of financial security. In traditional societies, the concept of saving has always been respected. Elders often advised younger generations to “save for a rainy day.” However, modern consumer culture encourages instant gratification. Advertising constantly promotes spending, making it difficult for young people to resist unnecessary purchases. Teaching students about the importance of savings can counterbalance this influence.

When young learners understand how even small amounts saved regularly can grow into significant sums over time, they develop patience and foresight. The principle of compound growth—where savings increase not only through deposits but also through accumulated interest—can be an eye-opening lesson for students. Such knowledge encourages disciplined habits that protect individuals from financial hardship in the future.

Investment is another crucial concept that deserves attention in school education. While saving preserves money, investing allows it to grow. Many adults struggle with investments simply because they were never taught the basics. They may fear financial markets or fall victim to unreliable schemes promising unrealistic returns.

By introducing the idea of investment early—through simple examples such as bank deposits, government savings schemes, or mutual funds—students can learn how money can work for them over time. The aim would not be to turn schoolchildren into financial traders but to build awareness about safe and responsible ways to grow wealth. Understanding the difference between risk and security, long-term and short-term investment, and genuine opportunities versus fraudulent offers can protect young citizens from financial mistakes.

Financial literacy also promotes independence. A young adult who understands money management is less likely to fall into debt traps. Credit cards, loans, and digital payment systems have made spending easier than ever before. While these tools can be useful, they can also lead to reckless borrowing if used without understanding. Teaching students about responsible borrowing and the consequences of debt can prevent many financial crises.

In addition, financial education supports entrepreneurship. Many young people dream of starting their own businesses, but lack the knowledge of financial planning. Learning basic accounting, cost calculation, profit analysis, and investment strategies can inspire students to think creatively about economic opportunities. Such education can nurture a generation that not only seeks jobs but also creates them.

Another benefit of teaching money management in schools is the promotion of social equality. Financial ignorance often affects people from disadvantaged backgrounds more severely. Without knowledge of savings and investments, families may remain trapped in cycles of poverty. When schools provide financial education to all students, regardless of their economic background, they empower every child with tools for economic progress.

Moreover, the digital revolution has transformed the way money is handled. Online banking, mobile payments, digital wallets, and electronic investments are now part of everyday life. While these technologies offer convenience, they also demand awareness and caution. Students must understand concepts such as digital security, fraud prevention, and responsible online transactions. A structured subject on financial literacy can prepare them for this modern financial environment.

Some critics may argue that the school curriculum is already overloaded and that adding another subject would increase pressure on students. However, financial education need not be complex or burdensome. It can be taught in practical and engaging ways. Real-life examples, small projects, simulations of budgeting, and discussions about everyday financial decisions can make the subject interesting and useful rather than stressful.

Teachers can encourage students to maintain simple savings diaries or participate in classroom activities that demonstrate how money grows through saving and investment. Schools could even collaborate with banks or financial institutions to provide educational workshops. Such initiatives would transform financial literacy from a theoretical subject into a living experience.

Parents would also benefit indirectly from such education. When children learn about saving and budgeting, they often discuss these ideas at home. These conversations can influence family habits and encourage more thoughtful financial behavior. In this way, the lessons learned in classrooms can spread throughout society.

Furthermore, financial literacy contributes to national economic stability. A population that understands money management is more likely to save and invest responsibly. Increased savings strengthen financial institutions and contribute to economic growth. Educated investors are less vulnerable to fraud, which reduces financial losses and strengthens trust in economic systems.

The psychological benefits of financial awareness are equally important. Financial stress is one of the major causes of anxiety in modern life. People who lack financial planning often face uncertainty about the future. By learning money management early, individuals can approach adulthood with confidence rather than fear. They understand how to plan for education, emergencies, retirement, and other life goals.

In many countries, financial literacy programs are already becoming part of school education. Governments and educational institutions recognize that economic awareness is as essential as academic knowledge. By adopting similar initiatives, schools can prepare students for the realities of modern life.

The subject could be structured progressively from the eighth class onward. In the early stages, students might learn about the basic concept of money, income, expenses, and savings. Later classes could introduce more advanced topics such as investments, banking systems, taxation, and digital finance. By the time students complete their schooling, they would possess a clear understanding of financial responsibility.

Importantly, the goal of such education is not merely to accumulate wealth. Rather, it is to cultivate wisdom in financial decisions. Money, when managed wisely, becomes a tool for stability, generosity, and opportunity. When mismanaged, it can lead to stress and hardship. Teaching students the ethical and responsible use of money can shape not only prosperous individuals but also conscientious citizens.

Financial education also encourages long-term thinking. Young people often focus on immediate desires, which is natural at their age. However, understanding the benefits of long-term savings and investment teaches them patience and discipline. These qualities are valuable not only in financial matters but also in every aspect of life.

Schools have always been the foundation where society plants the seeds of future values. Just as students learn the importance of health through physical education and the importance of knowledge through academic study, they must also learn the importance of financial responsibility. The classroom is the ideal place to introduce these lessons because it provides guidance, structure, and reliable information.

The world today is full of financial choices and temptations. Without proper guidance, young people may fall into the traps of impulsive spending, unnecessary loans, or deceptive schemes. Education can serve as a protective shield. When students understand how money works, they become capable of making thoughtful and informed decisions.

Ultimately, the teaching of money management is about preparing the next generation for real life. Education should not only fill minds with facts but also equip individuals with practical wisdom. Knowing how to earn, save, invest, and spend responsibly is one of the most valuable forms of wisdom a person can possess.

If schools begin to teach financial literacy from the eighth class onward, they will be planting seeds that will bear fruit for decades. Students will grow into adults who respect the value of money, plan their futures wisely, and contribute to the economic strength of their families and their nation.

In the journey of life, the first coin a child learns to save may appear small and insignificant. Yet within that humble coin lies a powerful lesson: the understanding that every financial decision shapes the path ahead. When schools teach the art of managing money, they are not merely teaching about currency—they are teaching about responsibility, foresight, and the architecture of a secure future.

And perhaps that is the greatest investment a society can make: educating its young not only to earn money, but to understand it, respect it, and use it wisely.