Chapter 9 A Room of Broken Windows

Arinay sat in a borrowed room in the district guesthouse, its windows old and cracked, its walls peeling with forgotten seasons. The ceiling fan hummed a tired song, one that matched the rhythm of his sleepless thoughts.

Every morning, he opened his notebook and tried to plan his defense. But the pages remained mostly blank-except for lines of poetry, scattered memories, and questions he wasn't sure how to answer anymore.

He wandered the town's alleys in the evenings, watching other schools where uniforms marched and rules reigned. The laughter he was used to was missing. Here, education wore ironed collars and avoided eye contact.

One evening, he saw a child crying outside a shop. Her slate was broken. Without thinking, he knelt and offered a corner of his notebook. "Draw here," he said.

She hesitated. Then drew a house. Then a tree. Then a bird.

He asked, "What's the bird's name?"

She whispered, "Udaan."

He smiled. "A good name."

Back in his room, he taped the page to the wall above his bed.

The cracks in the windows let in the cold, but also the stars.

He sat beneath them and wrote a letter-to Padmapur, to the children, to the banyan tree.

It began: Even when they take the chalk from your hand, never stop writing.