Chapter 1
The sun was just a pale orange smear behind the smoky skyline of Delhi when Ravi Mehra tightened the straps of his faded blue delivery bag. His phone buzzed with a new order — Paneer Butter Masala, two Rotis, and a Coke — 7.4 km away.
He sighed. “Another long ride,” he muttered, kicking his worn-out scooter to life.
Ravi had been a delivery boy for over three years, ever since his small mechanic shop in Ghaziabad shut down during the pandemic. His wife, Neha, taught tuition to neighborhood kids, earning just enough to keep their one-room house lit and stocked with rice and lentils. They had dreams once — of sending their son, Aarav, to a good English-medium school. Now, dreams felt like luxury.
As he rode through the traffic-choked streets, Ravi’s mind drifted to the small promises he made to Aarav — a bicycle, a cricket bat, maybe a birthday cake this year. “Next month for sure,” he always said.
But “next month” never came.
---
By afternoon, the city was boiling. The heat bounced off the asphalt, stinging Ravi’s face like fire. He parked outside a high-rise apartment to deliver an order.
The security guard stopped him. “Wait here. Delivery boys aren’t allowed inside. The customer will come.”
Ravi nodded, sweat trickling down his temples. He waited under the sun, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief that had once been white.
A young man in branded shorts finally appeared, scrolling on his phone. Without looking up, he grabbed the parcel and walked away. No tip. No “thank you.” Just a door closing in his face.
Ravi opened the app — “Delivery Successful: ₹38 earned.”
Thirty-eight rupees for an hour’s effort, and still one more loan installment pending for his scooter.
---
By evening, Ravi reached the last delivery of the day — a hospital order. He parked outside, removing his helmet. His phone buzzed again.
Neha: “Ravi, Aarav has fever again. He’s not eating. Please come soon.”
He replied, “Just one last order.”
Inside the hospital, a nurse accepted the parcel and asked him to wait for change. Ravi leaned against the corridor wall. The beeping of machines, the rush of stretchers, and the smell of antiseptic filled the air.
A small boy on a nearby bed caught his eye — thin, pale, and struggling to breathe. For a second, Ravi saw his own son there.
The nurse handed him the money, snapping him back. “Here. You can go.”
He nodded and left quickly. The thought of Aarav lying sick at home pushed him to speed through traffic.
---
It was dark when he reached his lane. The power was out again, as usual. He parked his scooter, walked up the narrow steps, and opened the creaky door.
Neha sat by Aarav’s side, fanning him with a newspaper. The boy’s forehead was burning.
“Did you give him medicine?” Ravi asked.
Neha shook her head helplessly. “The pharmacy said our account is pending. They didn’t give it.”
Ravi opened his wallet — ₹87. That was it.
He looked at Neha. “I’ll go get it.”
“Ravi, it’s late—”
But he was already halfway down the stairs.
---
The pharmacy was closing when he arrived. “Please, bhaiya, just one strip of paracetamol,” he begged.
The pharmacist frowned. “You still owe ₹240 from last week.”
“I’ll pay tomorrow, I promise.”
The man hesitated, then sighed. “Fine, one strip only.”
Ravi thanked him and rushed out.
The rain began suddenly — sharp, cold, and merciless. He wrapped the medicine in his delivery bag and started the scooter. The streets glistened with water and headlights.
A car honked from behind; he swerved to the left. The tires slipped.
The world spun.
The scooter crashed against the divider.
He fell hard, his head striking the pavement. The medicine box rolled into a puddle, floating away.
---
When the police arrived, they found his phone still buzzing — a notification flashing from the delivery app:
“New Order: ₹42 payout.”
---
At dawn, Neha sat beside Aarav’s still body, her eyes hollow. The medicine never came.
Outside, the city woke up again — engines roared, shops opened, and another delivery boy rode past their street, speeding toward his next order.
Because in this city, life never stops for one man’s tragedy.
