The narrow lanes of Kolkata’s Behala neighborhood bustled with life, but for Kabir Singh Rathore, the world was a blur of hardships. Dusty streets, the scent of frying samosas from a roadside stall, the honking of rickshaws—these were familiar companions in his life of struggle.

At twenty-three, Kabir was a tall, lean young man with sharp features that spoke of a regal ancestry he himself was unaware of. His dark eyes held a calm intelligence, but there was also a quiet storm brewing behind them, as though destiny had left something unresolved.

“Kabir! Where’s the money for this month’s rent?”

The voice echoed through the crumbling two-room house Kabir called home. His foster uncle, Mahesh Verma, a balding man with perpetually furrowed brows, stormed into the room. He held a crumpled slip of paper—an overdue rent notice—as though it were evidence of Kabir’s failure.

Kabir stood up from the corner where he was stitching a torn shoe, his hands coated with dust and glue. “Uncle, give me a day or two. I’ll manage.”

“Manage? Hah!” Mahesh laughed bitterly, his paunch shaking. “All you’ve managed in life is to beg for scraps. You’re useless, just like your dead parents!”

The words stung, but Kabir didn’t flinch. He had heard worse. He glanced across the room at his younger siblings, Rhea and Arjun, who were crouched in a corner, watching the scene unfold. Rhea, sixteen, held Arjun’s hand protectively. At twelve, Arjun looked small for his age, his thin frame evidence of nights they had gone to bed hungry.

“Don’t talk about my parents like that,” Kabir said, his voice low but steady.

Mahesh sneered. “Or what? You’ll hit me? Don’t forget, boy, you’re living in my house. Without me, you’d be on the streets!”

Kabir swallowed his anger. He had promised himself he wouldn’t fight back—not yet. One day, he would leave this wretched place, but until then, he would endure. For Rhea. For Arjun.

“I’ll have the money tomorrow,” Kabir said, turning his back on Mahesh.

“You’d better,” Mahesh snapped before stomping out of the room.

Later That Evening

Kabir sat on the steps outside their house, staring at the setting sun. Kolkata looked beautiful at dusk, the sky painted orange and gold, but Kabir felt none of its warmth. Beside him, Rhea sat down, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Bhaiya, don’t let him get to you,” she said softly.

“I don’t care about what he says,” Kabir replied, forcing a smile. “It’s just words.”

“But it’s not fair,” Rhea said, her voice trembling. “You work so hard. You do everything for us. Why do people treat us this way?”

Kabir looked at his sister, her large eyes brimming with tears, and his heart clenched. He wanted to promise her a better life, one where they wouldn’t be humiliated or hungry. But promises were hollow without action.

“I’ll fix this, Rhea,” he said quietly. “One day, we’ll leave this place. I’ll make sure you and Arjun never have to suffer again.”

“How?”

Kabir didn’t have an answer, but deep inside, he felt a flicker of something—call it determination, or perhaps fate’s whisper. He didn’t know what his future held, but he would fight for it, no matter the cost.

The Next Day

Kabir woke up early and headed to his usual spot—a small shoe repair stall near the market. For years, he had fixed worn-out sandals and broken heels, earning barely enough to buy food for his family. He didn’t complain. This work kept his siblings alive, and that was enough for him.

“Kabir bhai!” a familiar voice called out.

Kabir turned to see Srija Banerjee, her dupatta fluttering in the morning breeze. Srija was the kind of girl who didn’t belong in Kabir’s world—wealthy, confident, and kind. She visited the market daily and always stopped to greet Kabir, much to the dismay of the other shopkeepers.

“You’re early today,” Kabir said with a small smile.

“I came to give you this,” Srija said, holding out a small cloth bag. “Some food for you and your siblings. You can’t work on an empty stomach.”

“Srija, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she interrupted, her eyes holding his. “You’re a good person, Kabir. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Kabir took the bag hesitantly. No one had ever spoken to him the way Srija did, as though he were worth something. He watched her walk away, her footsteps light against the dusty road.

“She’s too good for you, Kabir,” one of the shopkeepers jeered. “Dream on, hero.”

Kabir ignored the comment, but as he sat back down, something shifted inside him. Perhaps it was Srija’s kindness or the weight of his sister’s tears from the night before. Either way, Kabir Singh Rathore decided he wouldn’t let the world trample him anymore.

This was only the beginning.