Soon, the teenage boy thanked the chef. The chef picked up the already packed parcel and handed it to him.

  Seeing the boy hesitate to speak, the chef looked at him and asked, "Boy, if you have something to say, just say it."

  The teenage boy took a deep breath and said meekly, "Brother Rahman, can you give me some more food? It doesn’t matter, even if it’s leftovers."

  "Haha! If that’s all you wanted, you should have asked me earlier," Rahman said with a boisterous laugh. He took another parcel and placed it in front of the boy.

  The teenager’s eyes lit up, and he thanked the chef repeatedly, bowing respectfully.

  He took the parcels and walked straight toward the slum where he lived. Since he was exhausted from work, it took him more than half an hour to reach his small hut, built from scraps found in the dump yard.

  Once inside, he placed one of the packages down, keeping enough for himself. Then, taking the remaining parcels, he stepped outside and called out, "Raju, Ravi, Chitti! Where are you all?"

  His voice trailed off. A few kids from similar scrap-built huts hurriedly ran out, their faces filled with excitement.

  "Brother, we thought we would go hungry today," a little boy said with a silly smile.

  "Stop, Ravi!" Chitti scolded the boy before turning to the teenager with a flattering smile on her tender face. "Brother, what did you bring us today?"

  The teenage boy reached out to gently rub Chitti’s head and said with a broad smile, "Today, I brought you Biryani."

  "Biryani?" The kids' eyes lit up as they exclaimed loudly, drool forming at the corners of their mouths.

  "If there’s any left after you eat, take the leftovers home to your parents," the teenage boy said, his expression filled with an elder brother’s warmth.

  The kids eagerly nodded, staring at him expectantly.

  "Why are you all looking at me like that?" the teenage boy asked, taken aback by their stares.

  "Umm… we’re hungry," Chitti whispered softly.

  "Oh, I’m so sorry! Here, take them and start eating," he said with an apologetic smile, stretching out his hands to give them the parcels.

  The kids hurriedly grabbed the food, quickly dividing into two teams—one clearing the ground, the other laying out cardboard. Once ready, they shared the food equally and excitedly opened their parcels.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  In this city, people from high societies ate biryani every day, but for these kids, it was a rare treat—something they only got once a year or every few months. To them, it was a treasure, and the teenage boy felt immense joy seeing their blissful smiles.

  He returned to his hut and ate his own biryani. A few minutes later, with a satisfied burp, he finished every last grain of rice, gathered the waste into a plastic bag, and carried it a little distance from his hut to throw it in the dustbin.

  Suddenly, he thought he heard a gentle yet sweet voice. Turning around, he saw a group of teenage girls walking along the roadside, chatting happily. For a moment, they all seemed to look like Nomil. He hurriedly rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again, they had returned to normal. Letting out a sigh of relief, he thought it was just his imagination.

  But then, he heard another gentle voice and turned to see a flower-selling woman. For a brief moment, she too seemed to look like Nomil. Shaking his head, he thought, "What’s happening to me? I’ve already recovered from my injuries. Could this be a side effect?"

  "Maybe I’m just tired," he reasoned, and he walked back to his hut, falling into a deep sleep.

  The next morning, after freshening up, he went out in search of work. He had heard that a construction site near the junior college was looking for workers. Hurrying toward the site, he soon spotted it and made his way there.

  Seeing a small line, he approached the last person and asked, "Brother, why are you all standing here?"

  "We’re waiting in line to register our details for work," the man replied with a straight face, saying nothing more.

  "Okay," the teenage boy nodded and joined the back of the line, silently observing his surroundings.

  After a few minutes, it was his turn to register.

  The Maistri (worker’s leader) asked without looking up, "What’s your name? Where do you live? What kind of work can you do on the construction site?"

  "My…" The teenage boy hesitated for a moment. Noticing the impatient expression of the man noting down details, he quickly said, "My name is Chaithanya. I live in the slum area, and I can do any work on the construction site."

  "Oh, you can do any work?" Maistri asked sarcastically.

  "Yes," the teenage boy nodded, his face innocent.

  "So, can you do construction design?" Maistri asked.

  "No," the boy admitted, shaking his head.

  "Can you do electrical work, plumbing, or any other technical jobs?" Maistri pressed, irritation creeping into his voice.

  "No," the boy said uneasily, shaking his head again.

  "Then why are you spouting nonsense like 'I can do any work'?" Maistri snapped, annoyance clear on his face.

  "So… sorry," the teenage boy stammered.

  "Stop the nonsense and just tell me what you can actually do," Maistri said in an intimidating tone.

  "I can do any labor work—like lifting and carrying heavy loads. I can do any labor job," the boy said in a low voice.

  "Hmph. Then why are you still standing here? Go! Join them!" Maistri barked, pointing toward the workers.

  "O-okay!" The teenage boy nodded quickly, like a chicken pecking at rice, and ran toward the workers, joining the construction site laborers.

  While working, everyone grew fond of the teenage boy, who was always kind and considerate to those around him. Unconsciously, they all developed a liking for him.

  After a few hours of work, everyone sat in a shaded area and began drinking water.

  Suddenly, he heard a small commotion from a certain direction and turned to see the Maistri beating a worker.

  The teenage boy frowned slightly and hurried toward them. The others merely gathered around, watching the scene unfold, but no one stepped forward to stop the Maistri.