The Road Home"

**Title: The Road Home**

Ramesh was a driver.

Every morning, before the sun rose, he would roll out of bed from the corner of his one-room house in a narrow lane of the city’s old quarter. His wife, Meena, would already be up, preparing his tiffin—two rotis, some potato curry, and a pinch of pickle wrapped in foil. Their small stove hissed gently as tea boiled in a steel pan. Their daughter, Anjali, still slept in the corner, her schoolbooks arranged neatly under her pillow.

Ramesh drove for a private company. He ferried executives from home to office and back, often waiting long hours in the heat or rain until his boss finished meetings or dinners. For this, he earned ₹12,000 a month. On paper, it seemed just enough. But paper never reflected real life.

Rent took away ₹4,000. School fees and books for Anjali consumed another ₹2,000. Meena managed groceries with ₹3,000, often stretching rice and lentils to last longer. Electricity, water, and emergencies—like medicines for his aging mother back in the village—left them with nothing. Sometimes, less than nothing.

But Ramesh smiled. Always.

He believed in dignity, in hard work. He wore a crisp uniform, kept his car spotless, and greeted everyone with respect. The executives barely looked at him, glued to their phones. But he didn’t mind. His job was to drive, to reach safely. And he did it with pride.

One day, his boss, Mr. Arvind, got into the car in a foul mood. “Drive to Nariman Point. Fast,” he barked.

Ramesh obeyed silently.

On the way, traffic crawled. Mr. Arvind grumbled loudly, cursed other drivers, then suddenly shouted, “Don’t you people know how to drive? You all live in slums and think you own the roads!”

Ramesh’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t say anything. He had learned silence was safer than pride.

That night, at home, Meena noticed he was quiet.

“Everything okay?” she asked, handing him water.

He nodded. But then he looked at her—really looked. Her face was thinner than last year. Her bangles had disappeared, sold during Anjali’s school admission.

“We're doing okay, na?” he asked softly.

She smiled. “We have food, we have each other. What else do we need?”

The next morning, Ramesh woke up earlier than usual. He stood outside and looked at the narrow alley where children ran barefoot and old women swept the front steps. He thought of his dreams—once, long ago, he had wanted to buy a small auto-rickshaw, work independently. But Anjali had been born. Then his father had fallen sick. The dream had quietly died.

One weekend, Anjali brought home a paper she had written in school. “My Father, My Hero,” it said in bold handwriting.

Ramesh read it aloud:

“My father is a driver. He works very hard. He takes care of us and never complains. He says if I study well, I can be anything I want. One day, I want to earn enough so he never has to work again.”

Ramesh’s eyes filled with tears. He folded the paper and placed it in his shirt pocket.

A week later, he gathered courage and spoke to his boss.

“Sir,” he said nervously, “I was wondering if you knew anyone who needed a part-time driver. Maybe after 7 p.m.? I could use the extra income.”

Mr. Arvind looked at him blankly, then said, “I’ll see.”

He never mentioned it again.

But Ramesh didn’t stop. He asked guards at office buildings, watchmen in parking lots, even mechanics he knew. Slowly, work trickled in—night shifts, weekend weddings, airport drops. Meena worried about his health, but he smiled and said, “One more year. Then Anjali will be in college.”

Months passed. The city remained chaotic, the expenses rose, but Ramesh held on.

One evening, after dropping a passenger, he checked his phone. There was a message from Anjali:

**“Papa, I got a scholarship! Full fees covered for college! You don’t have to worry now!”**

He read it twice, then leaned back and looked at the stars through the windshield.

When he got home that night, Meena opened the door, eyes wide with joy.

“She got it?” she whispered.

Ramesh nodded, eyes glistening. “She got it.”

They sat together in silence, holding hands, while the fan creaked above them.

For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel so far away.
Thank You 😊