"The Price of Dreams

The sun had barely kissed the horizon when Ramesh tied the frayed laces of his old shoes and stepped out of the tin-roofed hut he called home. The chill of the morning bit through his thin shirt, but he didn't flinch. He had work to do. He always had work to do.

Ramesh was a cobbler by trade, squatting at the roadside beneath a faded umbrella with a box of tools and dreams larger than his earnings. Each day, he stitched soles and polished leather, not for himself, but for his son, Aarav.

Aarav was everything Ramesh had ever wanted to be—bright, curious, and hungry for knowledge. At only ten, the boy spoke fluent English, often correcting Ramesh’s mispronunciations with a giggle. Ramesh didn’t mind. That laugh was worth everything.

“Papa,” Aarav would say every night, “I want to be a doctor and help people. Like that man in the white coat who came to our school.”

Ramesh would nod, smile, and gently ruffle his son’s hair. “And you will, beta. You will.”

But dreams came with a price, and for Ramesh, the price was sweat, pain, and silent sacrifices. He skipped meals, wore torn clothes, and declined offers of rest, saving every rupee he could for Aarav’s school fees. At night, when the world slept, Ramesh sat with a candle and tried to learn English from Aarav’s books, just so he could help with homework. But the letters danced and mocked him. Still, he tried.

One evening, after a long day, Ramesh returned home with a small packet of sweets. “Aarav,” he called, “I got your report card.”

Aarav rushed over, eyes wide. “Did I pass, Papa?”

“Not just pass, my champ. You came first in your class!”

They hugged tightly. For a moment, poverty had no place in that embrace.

But happiness is often fleeting for the poor.

One day, Ramesh collapsed by his roadside stall. Passersby thought he was sleeping until someone noticed the blood on his lips. A kind woman called for help and Ramesh was rushed to a government hospital.

Diagnosis: Tuberculosis. Severe. Advanced. Months of untreated coughing had turned fatal.

The doctor sighed. “He needs rest, nutrition, and medicines. And it won’t be cheap.”

But Ramesh had no money. He couldn’t rest—he had a son’s future to build. So, the next day, he was back on the roadside, coughing into a handkerchief, refusing to close his stall.

When Aarav found out, he begged him. “Papa, please don’t go to work. I don’t want anything. Just get better.”

Ramesh smiled weakly. “If I don’t work, how will you study, beta? You said you want to be a doctor. I want to see that day.”

Aarav cried that night, the kind of tears that made one grow up too soon.

The illness worsened. Ramesh's body shrank, his voice grew hoarse, but he still worked. Until one monsoon morning, when his cough became a scream. He fell at his stall, eyes pleading, chest heaving.

By the time Aarav reached the hospital, Ramesh was barely conscious. He held his son’s hand and whispered, “Promise me, you’ll study. Be what I never could be.”

“I promise, Papa,” Aarav sobbed.

With a faint smile, Ramesh closed his eyes.

He never opened them again.

The community came together to help the boy. A teacher who admired Aarav's brilliance got him a scholarship. A local NGO provided shelter and support. And years passed, as Aarav held tight to his promise.

At 24, Dr. Aarav Sharma stood in the very hospital where his father had died. He wore a white coat and carried a stethoscope—not as a symbol of power, but of purpose.

Every day, he treated the poor first. No charge. No conditions.

And in his clinic, on a modest wooden shelf, stood an old, worn-out pair of cobbler’s tools—silent witnesses to a father’s sacrifice, and a son’s undying p