Dreams And Struggles

In the dim glow of the early morning, narrow alleyways of Dharavi, seemed to murmur secrets from the previous night. Morning sun’s tentative rays filtered through uneven cracks between crumbling walls casting long, undulating shadows on the dusty-floor. The air, thick with smell of damp earth, tinged with a tantalizing scent of frying ‘batata-wadas’ (fried-potato-dumplings). And the street vendor’s cart, offered a familiar comfort in the form of hot, appetising ‘wada-pav’ (potato-dumpling burger).

Vishnu perched at the edge of his bed. A single mattress, uneven and lumpy, resting precariously on a thorny wooden frame, that looked more like a junk than a piece of furniture. The cramped room, barely spacious enough to contain a, so-called, bed, that resonated with creaks and groans at every breath, and, few personal belongings that barely filled a cardboard box, placed at the peeling, flaky corner. Some clothes were hanging one over the other, piled on a hook, clinging as if barely holding on.

Vishnu’s father, Madhaorao Ganpatrao Patil, was already out, his autorickshaw sputtering to life as he braced himself for another gruelling day, navigating through the chaotic streets of the dream city, Mumbai.

In the kitchen, his mother, Sulochana Madhaorao Patil, was preparing tea. Her hands moved deftly through the battered pot with broken handle, its surface warped and scarred from years of use, the base blackened from flames of the stove, bearing witness to countless meals cooked with tireless dedication.

Vishnu watched quietly as she poured the tea into a chipped, ceramic cup which once had a handle, a humble relic of their daily life. She set the cup aside with a practised gesture. A small comfort amidst their demanding lives that would keep her going through the long hours of cleaning other people’s homes.

But Vishnu’s mind was elsewhere. On his phone tucked under the pillow, laid the world that he dreamed of. A world that was Vishnu’s sanctuary in the chaos called life, where he could express himself freely, where his body moved to the rhythm of music that pulsed through his veins. The world that was an escape from that relentless drudgery, his personal getaway from a quiet suffering. His world of dance. The world of Hip-Hop.

He would practice late at night, his movements a fluid defiance against the gravity of his circumstances. Dance became his whispered dialogue with the universe, a way to assert his existence in a world that seemed indifferent to his struggle.

The slum was both a prison and a stage, its crumbling facades and narrow lanes, a testament to Vishnu’s internal battles. Each step he took was a ball, each breath a beat in rhythm, he alone could hear. Gray realities of his life warred with the vibrant colours in his dreams. Vishnu’s dream was not just to soar, but to transcend the narrow confines of his world through the art of dance. But in this house, in this life, such dreams were an impossible luxury.

“Vishnu, quickly finish your tea and head to college.” Sulochana called out, breaking his reverie, snapping him back to the present. Vishnu nodded, slipping the phone into his penniless pocket as he took the tumbler, still warm from freshly brewed tea. The liquid scalded his throat as he gulped it down hurriedly, the intense heat barely registering against the excitement bubbling in his mind.

His thoughts were already on the latest Hip-Hop moves he had seen online, the ones he would practice in secret. The videos, vibrant with energy and creativity, were his escape from the critical and disapproving gaze of his father. Each move, he rehearsed in privacy, was a disobedient whisper of freedom against the backdrop of his father’s harsh hopes.

Vishnu’s family had never understood the gravity of his passion for dance. To them, it was a frivolous pursuit, a waste of time better spent earning money. The reality of their daily struggles overshadowed any appreciation for Vishnu’s dreams as his father was especially unsparing in his rigid views.

Madhavrao's harsh words often cut deep. “How will you earn a living with this nonsense?” He would bark with disdain and insist, “Finish basic studies, secure a job, and contribute to the family’s financial burden. It’s high time, you learn to be responsible. Behave like a man! Dancing’s meant for girls.”

The dream of dance, a realm where Vishnu felt alive and free, was dismissed as a pointless indulgence. With every passing day, the divide between Vishnu’s passion and his father’s expectations grew wider, deepening his isolation into loneliness.

But Vishnu was not entirely alone in his struggle. Anwesha, his best friend-cum-girlfriend, was a beacon of understanding and support amidst the darkness. Her life was a world apart from his. Anwesha’s mother, Sharmila, ran a small daily-needs shop, which provided them with a modest yet comfortable existence. Anwesha attended a better college, worked alongside her mother in their shop, and rehearsed her dance routines regularly. Her life with her mother was a upholstery of stability and grace, contrasting to Vishnu’s turbulence.

She was a trained Kathak dancer, her movements embodying elegance and control, a striking counterpoint to Vishnu’s dynamic, fluid Hip-Hop. Despite their different dance forms, their shared passion for the art, created a profound connection between them. In each other’s presence, they found solace and inspiration, their bond growing stronger through their mutual love for dance. Their modest yet serene existence was a refuge from the chaos that enveloped Vishnu.

Conflict

Days passed in monotony, each indistinguishable from the previous. College, family demands, and the clandestine allure of dance filled Vishnu’s days. Whenever the opportunity arose, he would slip away to the alley of street-dance battles and practice his moves in secrecy.

One late afternoon, Vishnu’s routine was interrupted by the distant thrum of a familiar hip-hop beat. Crowd had gathered at the end of dance street, their energy crackling in air. His heart pounded with anticipation. ‘Street-dance challenge,’ an event he sometimes dared to watch, had just begun but, already in full swing.

For a moment Vishnu hesitated. “Baba would be home soon!” His father’s arrival meant a shift in atmosphere, from anticipation to complete suffocation. Yet the magnetic pull of dance was too powerful to resist. He edged through the throng of spectators, his eyes scanning for the performers whose movements and spins offered the breath of freedom he craved. His body, instinctively, began to sway.

Just then, Vishnu felt a gentle yet firm grip on his shoulder. It was Anwesha. Her presence was both comforting and cautionary. “Vishnu, don’t,” she urged, her eyes filled with concern. “Kaka could be home any moment. It’s not worth the risk.”

But Vishnu was already lost, the music igniting a spark within him that he couldn’t ignore. As he began to dance, his movements became a blend of grace and raw emotion. The crowd erupted in cheers. Applause fuelled his passion. In those moments, Vishnu was freed from his troubles, completely absorbed in the pure joy of dance.

Unfortunately, his contentment was short-lived. Madhavrao, having returned home early, had seen the gathering from a distance. His face, usually stern, was now a mask of disbelief and fury. He stormed through the crowd, parting the sea of spectators with an angry force that was both shocking and palpable.

“Vishnu!” Madhavrao’s voice thundered, slicing through the music. “What is this nonsense?”

The crowd fell silent, energy of the dance-challenge evaporating into tense anticipation. Vishnu’s heart sank. He felt the storm, that was about to break. Madhavrao’s rage was a physical thing, palpable in the tight grip he had on Vishnu’s collar. Without warning, Madhavrao’s waist-belt cracked through the air, the sound sharp and brutal. Each strike echoed with a painful resonance that silenced the onlookers.

Anwesha’s face went pale as she pushed through the crowd, her hands reaching out in vain. “No kaka, Stop! Please, stop!” Her voice trembled, but it was drowned out by Madhavrao’s relentless rage.

Vishnu’s screams mixed with the crowd’s gasps. Sulochana arrived in a flurry of desperate pleas and tears for her only son, but her efforts were in vain. Madhavrao’s anger was a tidal wave, and Vishnu lay crumpled and bleeding, the pain, contrasting his earlier exhilaration. The crowd, now a few sympathetic witnesses, watched in stunned silence as Vishnu’s world shattered before their eyes.

As Madhavrao’s anger subsided, Vishnu lay motionless on the ground, his body barely responding. Anwesha, in a state of extreme panic, called for an ambulance while Sulochana held him close, her tears mixing with his blood. She whispered words of comfort that seemed to hang in air, unreal and distant.

Next few days were a relentless torrent of pain and hardship at the government hospital. While doctors laboured to mend his physical wounds, the emotional scars remained untouched, as if no remedy existed for the anguish beneath his skin. Anwesha stayed by his side, her heart breaking for him. Though the fire in his eyes was dimmed, she could still see a flicker of his unconquerable spirit.

One sweltering afternoon, Anwesha slept on a floor-mat besides Vishnu's bed in the general ward. Vishnu stared blankly into the distance, searching for answers to unanswerable questions. A tall, imposing figure entered the room. His muscular frame was adorned with peculiar tattoos of skulls, lizards, and other cryptic elements. Introducing himself as Bosco, a dancer, choreographer, and owner of a local dance studio, he revealed that he had witnessed Vishnu's dance performance before his father's arrival and knew all about him.

Bosco extended an offer to Vishnu. A chance to join his dance studio, work there, assist him with dance projects, and live in a small room within the studio, away from his current turmoil.

Bosco leaned closer, his voice confident and persuasive, “Tera idhar kuch nahi honeka re. Tu maska dancer hai. Meri baat maan, mere sath chal, life badal dal khudka.”

(“Nothing will come of this place for you. You’re a talented dancer. Listen to me, come with me, change your life.”)

Desperate to escape his father’s wrath and the stifling confines of his current life, Vishnu agreed without a second thought. Next day, after being discharged from the hospital, he went to see his mother at her workplace. “Mai ja raha hai Aai. kuch ban k hi wapas aaiga aur tereko is daldal me se nikal k le ke jaiga. Bas tu thode din ruk ja.”

(“I’m leaving, Mom. I’ll come back successful and take you out of this mess. Just hold on for those few days.”)

He left, stepping into a new chapter with Bosco, to a different part of the city, leaving behind the slum and its crushing realities for a different future.

Darkness Calling  

Vishnu settled into his new life at Bosco's studio, where he quickly bonded with other dancers. His street-dance video, from the other day, had been viral on social media, and his unique hip-hop moves were, talk of the town.

Everyone at the studio eagerly awaited that day when his doctor would allow Vishnu to dance again. That day finally arrived, and Bosco’s studio buzzed with excitement.

As music began and Vishnu started to dance, he suddenly froze. It felt as though his body had transformed into stone. Memories of that traumatic day flashed before his eyes, reel by reel, in slow motion. Despite his best efforts to overcome, Vishnu continued to struggle.

He made several honest attempts after that day but each time, he would inexplicably paralyse, mid-performance. His hope began to wane, his confidence shattered, and the dream he once cherished seemed to slip further away. He feared, he might never be able to dance again.

Bosco was a firsthand witness to Vishnu’s struggle and understood his helpless situation well. "Tu bas lage reh. Try karte jaa. Dekhna tu ek din bijli k mafik dance karega. Bas jid nahi chhodneka kabhi." (“Just keep at it. Keep trying. You’ll see, one day you’ll dance like lightning. Just don’t give-up ever.”)

Vishnu would reassure him, "Kabhi nahi chhodega bhai. Ye jid ne ich jinda rakela hai apun ko." (“Shall never give up, brother. It’s this determination that has kept me alive.”)

But, in the inside, Vishnu couldn’t fully believe the encouragement. Deep down, he was shattered and struggling to maintain hope. Almost losing the grip of it.

One fine evening, Vishnu accompanied Bosco to a glamorous city-club, where the excitement was tangible. A renowned pop singer was set to perform, and Bosco’s dance troupe had been invited to showcase their talents. As the club buzzed with anticipation, Vishnu immersed himself in the hustle, helping with setup and assisting Bosco and the dancers.

Amidst the whirlwind, Vishnu accidentally bumped into the celebrity singer’s dressing room which was a cocoon of opulence, filled with faint scent of perfume and hum of muted conversations.

To Vishnu’s shock, he saw the singer taking a hit of cocaine. The artist, caught in the act, met Vishnu’s gaze with an unsettling calmness, his eyes devoid of surprise or shame.

Without missing a beat, he beckoned Vishnu closer with a nonchalant gesture, "Le, try kar. Imported hai. Magic hai, solid wala. (“Here, give it a try. It’s imported, pure magic.”)

Vishnu hesitated, but the singer's voice was smooth and persuasive, “Dukh, dard, khisiyahat, ye daba hua jo bhi gussa, aur sara ander ka mach-mach, khalaas ho jayega, ek second me. Akkha Jannat me udega tu."

(“All your pain, sorrow, shame, pent-up anger, and all inner turmoil will disappear instantly. You’ll be soaring in paradise.”)

Torn between hesitation and desperation, Vishnu took a tentative hit. The substance burned slightly as it entered his system, but he quickly left the room, feeling an odd mix of apprehension and relief.

At first, nothing seemed to change. But as the performance began, something extraordinary happened. Music filled the space and Vishnu, overcome by an unexpected surge of energy, found himself moving with fluidity, he had never experienced before. His body seemed to glide effortlessly. Each step perfectly synchronized with the rhythm. It was as if he had tapped into a hidden well of grace and freedom, his movements so smooth and enchanting that it appeared he was levitating.

The crowd’s reaction was electric. Eyes widened, jaws dropped, and murmurs of awe, rippled. Bosco, initially elated by Vishnu’s stunning performance, suddenly felt a pang of worry. The intensity of Vishnu’s expression and the unnatural ease of his movements made Bosco uneasy.

For Vishnu, the dance was a euphoric escape. But as the music wound down, the euphoria began to fade, leaving him breathless and disoriented. The unambiguous contrast between Vishnu’s earlier struggles and his sudden, mesmerizing performance was nothing short of a miracle. Yet, beneath the thrill of the moment, a deeper, more troubling reality lingered.

Bosco smilingly watched Vishnu. But his feeling of joy seemed to mingle with an unfathomable growing concern for Vishnu.

Falling into Darkness

Vishnu had started keeping secrets from Bosco. Deep down, he knew he was incredibly talented, sharp, and God-gifted. He had a knack for observing and memorizing sequences and choreography in his head, almost effortlessly. But the weight of his painful past was a constant burden, causing him to zone out, freeze, and struggle during rehearsals. It was as if his mind and body were at war, unable to reconcile the trauma with his natural abilities.

However, on the days of final performances, something incredible, yet abnormal, would happen. He’d pull off a flawless routine, his moves fluid and precise, leaving everyone in awe. It was as if, for those brief moments, all his pain and hesitation vanished, allowing his true talent to shine through.

But this unpredictable brilliance only deepened the mystery around Vishnu’s state of mind, creating a troubling gap between his rehearsals and his performances, and raising unspoken questions about what he was truly battling inside.

He would often take a half-day leave, only to vanish for four or five days. When he returned, he’d spin a story, cry, beg for forgiveness, and somehow, Bosco would relent, letting him stay.

On the other hand, Bosco’s dance studio was thriving, gaining fame and reputation, and with it came numerous shows and choreography projects. It wasn’t long before a major Bollywood production house signed a Movie contract with Bosco.

Bosco, Vishnu, and the entire crew poured their hearts into the project, working tirelessly to perfect every detail. The pressure was immense, but their dedication was unwavering. Two days before the final shoot, Vishnu once again took a half-day leave, promising to return soon. But morning turned to night, and Vishnu was nowhere to be found. Bosco's worry quickly turned into seething anger.

Day of the shoot arrived, and the team was ready, except for one crucial element, Vishnu. Bosco was on edge, pacing the set, his mind racing with frustration. The shoot began, everything proceeding smoothly but with an unsettling void where Vishnu should have been. Bosco tried to keep his cool.

The shoot started well and in no time, it was lunch break. As they resumed post-lunch, Bosco’s worst fears came true. Vishnu staggered onto the set, clearly not in his senses, and started dancing erratically, disrupting the entire production. Bosco’s face turned red with a mix of rage and embarrassment as he watched Vishnu causing chaos.

"Yeh kya kar raha hai, Vishnu?!" ("What are you doing, Vishnu?!") Bosco’s voice echoed across the set.

"Pagal ho gaya hai? Set pe nasha karke aya! Yeh shoot hai, tera gali ka chhapri dance nahi!" ("Gone mad? You came to set, high! This is a shoot, not some random street-side dance!")

The actors and crew were equally shocked, watching Vishnu's behaviour with a mix of concern and disbelief.

Bosco stormed, grabbing Vishnu by the arm. "Nikal yahaan se! Tera ghatiya harkatein ab bahut ho gayi! Nikalta hu tujhe, studio se, team se aur Naukri se bhi. Abhi ka abhi! Bhag yaha se! Haat!"

("Get out of here! I've had enough of your pathetic behaviour! I'm kicking you out. off the studio, off the team, and off the job. Right now! Get lost! Move!")

Bosco’s voice was laced with a mix of anger and betrayal. It was clear that despite everything, Bosco had always hoped Vishnu would turn his life around. But this was the final straw.

As Vishnu was dragged off the set, his eyes glazed over, barely registering the harm he had caused. Bosco, standing rigid, felt a wave of disappointment wash over him.

He muttered under his breath, "Tu talent ka kachra kar diya, Vishnu. Yeh teri aakhri chance thi, aur tune nashe me usse bhi barbad kar diya."

("You’ve wasted your talent, Vishnu. This was your last chance, and you ruined it with your addiction.")

The finality of Bosco’s words hung in air, marking the end of their professional relationship, and leaving Vishnu’s future in a precarious balance.

Anwesha’s Struggle

“Today marks 22 days. There’s still no news of Vishnu. I’ve called countless times, but he doesn’t pick up. No matter how tired he gets, even if he is hell busy, even if his hands tremble and his words falter on video call, he never sleeps without talking to me. But this time, it's gone too far. He hasn't picked up my calls for so many days! Oh God, I hope nothing has happened to.... No, no. I’m going to Bosco Sir’s studio again. I've gone so many times, and every time I hear the same from neighbours, “Bosco sir is on outdoor shooting, with his team.” He used to go before too, but Vishnu would always inform me properly. I just hope today, the studio is open. If I can see that Vishnu is fine, it will bring some peace to my heart.”

With a swirl of countless anxious thoughts, the words she spoke aloud in her head, Anwesha quickened her steps. With her body and face betraying the fear and desperation that she tried so hard to hide as she speedily headed towards Bosco's studio, with determination.

The studio was open, offering Anwesha a brief moment of solace. But the unlocked space only heightened her anxiety, intensifying the desperation to catch a glimpse of Vishnu. Her heart raced as she hurried inside, her eyes darting around frantically, hoping to find even the faintest visual of him.

Vishnu was nowhere to be seen. Panic surged through her as she dashed towards Bosco's office. Bosco was surrounded by people, but as soon as he spotted Anwesha, he waved everyone away with a swift gesture. Bosco quickly guided Anwesha to a chair, who was completely soaked in sweat and distress. Handed her a glass of water, and, after she had a moment to calm down, he recounted the entire story in one breath. “The shaking hands and slurred speech you noticed during your video call conversations with him, were not due to exhaustion, but intoxication.” The ground seemed to shift beneath Anwesha's feet.

Anwesha couldn't believe what she had just heard. She kept replaying their video calls in her mind, trying to make sense of them, in light of this new revelation. Her mind was a whirlwind of disbelief, confusion, and an unsettling realization of the truth. She struggled to reconcile her faith, illusions, and the harsh reality.

Silently, she rose from her seat, her face pale and stricken with grief, and then quietly walked out of the studio, her heart heavy and her steps slow.

She got transported to her childhood, a time when her father, in a drunken stupor, would mercilessly beat her mother. But, after the effects of alcohol wore off, he would weep and beg for forgiveness.

She remembered one harrowing day when her father had beaten her so badly that he broke Anwesha’s arm. Mom rushed her to the hospital, midnight, and that was the final day. They left him and moved away. Her mother sold her jewellery to open a small shop. The very next month, they received news of her father's death after he had been run over by a truck while lying drunk on the street. By then, her mother's tears had long dried.

Anwesha wondered if her fate would mirror her mother’s. Had she also fallen in love with the wrong person? No, she thought. She couldn’t live like this.

That same night, with few trusted friends from the underground dancing community, Anwesha set out on a heart-wrenching mission to find her love. At every step, she prayed fervently for his safety, her heart beating with dread. On the fourth day, their search led them to a sight that was both horrifying and deeply sorrowful.

They found Vishnu in the most deplored condition imaginable. His once-proud body was now a canvas of pain. Naked and vulnerable, with his skin covered in deep, angry scars and bruises. The stench that clung to him was almost unbearable, a nauseating mix of rotting filth and decay that hugged to his every pore. His long, grimy nails were caked with layers of dirt, and his once-lustrous hair was now a breeding ground for roaches.

Foam dripped grotesquely from his mouth, staining his face with a repulsive film. His eyes were swollen shut, red and inflamed, as if they had been subjected to unspeakable agony. His nose was raw and running uncontrollably, further adding to his pitiful appearance. Each detail of his condition painted a picture of utter despair and degradation.

The scene was a brutal reminder of how far Vishnu had fallen from the vibrant, talented dancer, he once was. The sight of him, reduced to such a state, was a devastating blow to Anwesha's heart, leaving her grappling with the harsh reality of his suffering.

Overwhelmed by the sight of Vishnu in such dire state, Anwesha's world spun out of control. The intensity of her emotions was too much to bear, and she fainted.

When regained consciousness, she found herself in the sterile hospital environment. The soft, rhythmic beeping of medical monitors filled the space, a world away from the chaos of moments she last remembered. Her vision cleared to reveal Vishnu lying on a bed across from hers, connected to wires and medical devices. His eyes closed and face still marked by his recent ordeal.

Amidst the worried faces of her dancer friends, Anwesha noticed a faint hint of a smile. She glanced at them. Her eyes full of questions. One of them gently informed, “Drug overdose! But he’s stable now. Nothing to worry!”

Anwesha let out a deep, shaky breath, the weight of her anxiety momentarily lifting as she processed the news.

Fight Against Addiction

“It has been three months since Vishnu started recovering. The days are long and full of challenges. I know the journey is tough and filled with obstacles. But I will not give up.  Never! I didn’t choose to love, just for the sake of it. I chose to love, to stand by him,” Anwesha thought to herself as she tied her ghunghroo, watching Vishnu practice the new dance moves they had been working on.

(Ghunghroo-small metallic bells tied around ankles, in traditional Indian dance.)

Vishnu and Anwesha’s battle with addiction was far from over, but signs of progress were visible. Anwesha, with Sharmila’s support, had taken a significant step by bringing Vishnu to her home where the environment was calm and sympathetic.

The rooftop where they practiced had become their sanctuary. Surrounded by the raw, gritty essence of Dharavi, it was here that Vishnu was finding solace. He was struggling, both physically and emotionally, fighting cravings that came unbidden. Every moment was a battle.

“Ye craving mereko maar dengi, Anwi. Mera abhi dance ka koi mood nahi hai, sanjhi tu?”

(“These cravings are going to kill me, Anwi. I’m not in the mood to dance right now, understand?”) Vishnu admitted one evening, his voice strained.

“Tereko lat lagane ki hai, toh dance ki lat laga. Dance ka hi nasha kar,” (“If you need to get hooked on something, let it be dance. Get addicted to the high of dance,”) Anwesha replied firmly.

“Sun, Ye dance hi teri madad karega. Ye jo ladayi hai. Jeetni padegi. Har step, har beat mein apni craving ko nikaal. Us se ladne ki takleef ko nikal. Chal, wapas se shuru karte.”

(“Listen, this dance is going to help you. This is a fight, and you have to win it. Channel your cravings into every step, every beat. Release the pain of fighting it through dance. Come on! Let’s start again.”)

Vishnu hesitated, his eyes reflecting the inner turmoil he was experiencing. “Toh yeh dance mera addiction se ladne ka tareeka hai? Main jo guzar raha, usko dikhane ka tareeka?” (“So, this dance is my way of fighting the addiction? A way to express what I’m going through?”)

Anwesha nodded with determination. “Barabar! Chal uth!” (“Exactly! Now, get up!”)

Unknowingly, they started designing and developing something new. A fusion. A unique and aesthetic confluence of Kathak with Hip-Hop. The process was exhausting but therapeutic. As they combined the traditional grace of Kathak with the raw energy of Hip-Hop, it became a symbol of Vishnu’s struggle and hope.

Anwesha’s rooftop turned into a vibrant space of creativity and recovery. The underground dancing community rallied around them. Their support was unwavering, and their involvement was more than just about dance. It was about companionship and mutual healing.  

Anwesha watched as Vishnu danced with renewed vigour, his movements reflecting the inner transformation he was undergoing. The dance, a fusion of Kathak’s elegance and Hip-Hop’s vibrancy, symbolized the merging of his past struggles with his current hope.

In this unconventional therapy, Vishnu found a new purpose and a way to express the pain and joy of his journey. The dance became a lifeline, and the rooftop, once a place of struggle, was now a stage for healing and celebration.

Rhythm of Rebirth

The days turned into weeks, and the new fusion dance form was not just a unique blend of styles but also a representation of Vishnu’s journey. The dance was more than just steps. It was a testament to his strength and the support of those around him.

As they rehearsed on their so-called rooftop studio, the community would gather, applauding their efforts and celebrating their growth. Vishnu started reclaiming his life, finding solace in the rhythm of his recovery.

The underground dance community, once a chaotic realm of temptation, became a preserve where he channelised his pain and rediscovered his passion.

Sharmila, had become a maternal figure to Vishnu, helping him with his recovery and providing a nurturing environment that was foreign to him. Vishnu spent countless hours perfecting his craft. His performances meant to reflect his inner transformation.

One evening, Vishnu found himself wandering through the old streets of his slum. The familiar sights and sounds stirred memories of his past. He was drawn to the alley where he had once danced, where his father had beaten him in front of a crowd.

Anwesha, sensing something was off, followed him discreetly. She saw Vishnu crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into that alleyway. The scene was hauntingly familiar. The same place where his dreams and fears had once collided.

Vishnu’s mind was a tumultuous storm of regret and longing. He reflected on the moment he had first seen the alley and the past that had clawed its way out to confront him. Memory of the beating, the drugs, and the struggle seemed to merge into one painful reality.

“I remember the precise moment, crouching behind the crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek,” Vishnu thought, the words echoing in his mind. “That was a long time ago, but it’s wrong what they say about the past. I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.”

The weight of his past, the mistakes, and the pain he had endured, seemed unbearable. But in that moment, Vishnu made a choice. He could either succumb to his old life or embrace the future he had fought so hard to build.

With a deep breath, Vishnu stood up and walked away!