Chapter 1 – Surya's Last Day
The heavy wooden doors of the conference room creaked open.
From within stepped a young man, his eyes glimmering not just with success, but with something deeper—a gentle, quiet pride. Surya had always been like that: never boastful, never loud. Yet today, something in his step carried a warmth that could not be hidden. It was the walk of a soul that had completed a journey—not of distance, but of purpose.
The corridor lights reflected softly on his fair, wheat-toned skin. His hair—thick, black, slightly wavy—was still neatly combed from the formal presentation, though a few strands had now begun to rebel gently against perfection. His black eyes, framed by long lashes, held a kind of luminous stillness—the kind that spoke not only of intellect, but of compassion, of patience carved through years of silent effort.
He looked like any handsome young man from the plains of Northern India—a child of the Ganga, of wheat fields and morning aartis, of mathematical formulae whispered under neem trees. But today, he looked like something more.
As he stepped into the corridor, his friends—classmates, colleagues, fellow dreamers—rushed toward him with cheers.
"Surya! Doctor Surya now!" laughed one, thumping him lightly on the back.
"You've done it, bhai! PhD in Math! And they've awarded you the special honor too—mathematics mein tumhara jawab nahin!"
Another leaned forward to shake his hand. "Party to banti hai, Doctor saab! At least one coffee, yaar!"
Surya laughed—a soft, warm sound that reached the eyes but never tried to overpower the room.
"Kal party milegi, sabko," he said gently. "Today... I must go home. Maa is waiting. She's cooked specially for me."
There was a pause. Even the most fun-loving among his friends softened their voices. Everyone knew Surya's bond with his mother—simple, old-fashioned, and tender.
"She always says— 'Beta, degree mile ya na mile, ghar ka khaana sabse pehle.'" Surya smiled, eyes crinkling slightly. "And you know I can't make her angry. Not today."
Someone teased, "Bas! Maa ka laadla Doctor Surya!"
Surya didn't deny it. Instead, he reached for his satchel—a simple brown bag holding within it the final documents of a decade's work: the certificate, the honor, the mathematical proof that had stunned even international scholars.
He looked at his friends one last time, nodded with affection, and walked toward the glass doors.
Outside, the sun was setting—golden rays scattering across the sky like the pages of an old scripture being turned by the wind. Surya paused for a moment. He didn't know why, but his heart was unusually full. As if something invisible had wrapped itself around him, whispering softly in a language that was not spoken, but remembered.
He placed one hand over his satchel.
The other touched the folded note in his shirt pocket—his mother's handwritten prayer, sent to him every year on exam day since childhood.
"Tomorrow, I'll celebrate with the world," he thought.
"But today... I return to the one who waited with silence, food, and love."
And with that, Surya walked out—into the golden evening, toward home.
The gentle hum of Surya's old motorcycle broke the quiet rhythm of the evening street. It was a sturdy black Enfield, faithful over the years, now carrying not just a man—but a heart filled with joy.
He swung one leg over the seat, fastened the strap of his satchel across his chest, and kicked the engine to life. The machine came alive beneath him with a deep, calm thrum. Surya smiled to himself.
As he rode forward into the golden air of dusk, a song rose on his lips.
A tune from an old Hindi film his mother loved. Simple, cheerful, full of the lightness he now felt in his chest.
🎵 "Life is a beautiful journey... who knows what tomorrow brings..." 🎵
He wasn't singing for anyone. It was just him and the road.
The trees whispered above, the sky glowed like fire wrapped in silk, and the breeze carried the scent of roasting peanuts and monsoon soil.
To most, the city looked ordinary.
But to Surya, today, everything was glowing.
The rickshaws. The old walls. The crooked lamp posts. Even the faces of strangers passing by looked gentle, full of life.
His black eyes were alive with quiet happiness.
As he passed a small intersection near Aminabad, his hand gently pressed the brake. He turned down a narrow street, where an old sweet shop stood, its sign faded but respected.
He parked the motorcycle carefully and walked inside, ducking slightly as the old wooden door creaked.
Inside, the familiar smell of warm ghee, rose syrup, and cardamom wrapped around him like a childhood memory. The shopkeeper, an elderly man with glasses and a tilak on his forehead, looked up from behind the counter.
"Two boxes of sweets, please," Surya said warmly. "One for home, and one for the neighbours. Cashew burfi and motichoor laddoos. Make sure they're fresh."
The old man smiled as recognition sparked in his eyes.
"You're the same Surya, aren't you? The one who just earned his doctorate? I heard about you, my boy. Your mother must be so proud."
Surya smiled modestly. "It's all because of her prayers," he replied. "She's cooking for me today. I just want to take something sweet for her."
He took out his wallet and handed the shopkeeper ₹2,000 without counting. Not as a gesture of wealth, but of warmth. A quiet way of saying, "Let this be something special."
As the sweets were packed with care, Surya looked around the shop—seeing, in his mind, the younger version of himself standing there years ago, pulling at his father's hand, wide-eyed for laddoos.
When the boxes were ready, he thanked the shopkeeper and stepped out once more into the glowing air.
The sun had dipped lower, casting a soft orange light over the rooftops.
He glanced at his wristwatch.
"It's time to pick up Chhotu," he whispered.
His younger brother, still in school, had evening coaching nearby—preparing for engineering entrance exams. Surya had promised to bring him home today.
He started the bike again, resting the sweet boxes carefully in the front basket.
This time, he rode slower. Not because the road demanded it, but because his heart asked for it. The breeze touched his face gently. His smile remained.
Everything felt unusually precious.
As if the city itself had paused to honour him—its soft breeze offering a garland, its shadows bowing before a young man whose light, though brilliant, had already begun to return to the sun.
.Wonderful, Bharat. You're continuing this chapter with warmth and natural emotion—perfect for the noble and heartfelt tone of your novel. Here's Chapter 1, Scene 3 of "India: New Beginning", continuing in your preferred slow, poetic, and emotionally rich style, fully in English:
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Chapter 1 – The Last Light of the Present
Scene 3 – Brothers Under the Evening Sky
The motorcycle came to a gentle halt outside a modest coaching centre tucked between an electronics shop and a crumbling wall covered in faded posters. The building was simple—three floors, white paint peeling at the edges, a worn-out board that read: "Achievers' Academy – IIT-JEE | NEET | Foundations"
Surya turned off the ignition and stood beside his bike, resting his hand on the handlebar.
The soft evening light wrapped around him like a shawl of amber and gold. The sounds of city life echoed in the background—vendors shouting, birds returning home, an occasional honk from a passing rickshaw.
But in Surya's mind, everything was still.
He waited.
His eyes scanned the gate, the staircase beyond it, and the cluster of students slowly pouring out in groups—some talking about chemistry, some yawning, some laughing too loudly. Young faces, full of exhaustion and dreams.
Then, through the crowd, came Sundar.
Thin, lively, eighteen years old. His school bag bounced awkwardly on one shoulder, his white shirt slightly untucked, but his smile—his smile bloomed the moment he saw Surya.
"Bhaiyaaa!" he shouted.
He ran toward him without hesitation and wrapped his arms tightly around Surya's chest, burying his face there for a second.
"You did it! Pitaji told me! You got your PhD! Even the special award!"
Surya chuckled, holding him back just as tightly. "So Pitaji couldn't wait to tell the news, huh?"
Sundar looked up, his eyes gleaming. "Everyone knows! Dadi even lit a diya in the temple today! She said, 'Today, our Surya became a true sun.'"
Surya's smile faded for a second—not from sadness, but from something deeper. A kind of quiet weight. He said nothing, just gently brushed his brother's hair from his forehead.
Behind them, three more boys had gathered—Sundar's friends. All in school uniforms, dust on their shoes, mischief in their eyes.
One of them stepped forward shyly. "Bhaiya, congratulations. We heard everything. IIT to mushkil lagta hai, par PhD.. in Math.." He trailed off in awe.
Another piped up, "Bhaiya, party toh banti hai na!"
Sundar nodded with mock sternness. "Yes, yes. You promised party to your friends. Now we are your friends too."
Surya raised an eyebrow, pretending to think. "Hmm... So now coaching students also ask for party fees?"
The boys laughed. Sundar tugged at his arm.
"There's a chaat stall nearby. Best samosas. You always say celebration doesn't need five-star hotels, na?"
Surya gave in. "Alright, let's go. But I'm warning you—no one eats more than two plates!"
The five of them strolled down the narrow lane, past an old banyan tree and a row of closed shops. The air now smelled of fried food and roasted spices. The evening was thick with laughter, dust, and the last colours of the sun.
They reached the little stall—a tin-roofed cart lit by a yellow bulb, where the vendor greeted them with a nod.
"Samosa aur bread pakora, bhaiya," Sundar ordered proudly. "Hamare bhaiya ka result aaya hai!"
The vendor smiled, already tossing the first batch into hot oil.
Surya stood back for a moment, watching them. His brother. His brother's friends. The smell of cardamom tea. The chatter of youth that had not yet tasted failure. The cracked pavement beneath his feet.
Everything felt so real, so alive.
Yet somewhere deep inside him, something flickered—soft and uncertain. Like a candle about to meet the wind.
He blinked it away.
"Let's eat," he said, walking forward, handing the vendor the first ₹500 note with that same quiet grace in his voice.
"Today, I feed the future."
...
The boys were wiping their hands with paper scraps, licking the last traces of chutney from their fingers. Sundar pointed to the sky, making a joke about clouds shaped like cricket bats. Surya smiled, standing beside them, feeling—perhaps for the last time—the simple joy of just being there.
And then—
A sound broke the moment.
Low at first, like distant thunder. Then louder. Heavier. Unnatural.
A truck.
Surya's head turned sharply.
He saw it.
A large, overloaded goods truck tearing around the corner—too fast, too close, out of control. Its brakes screeched like metal crying out in pain. The driver's face was pale, panicked, powerless.
Time shifted.
Everything slowed.
Sundar and his friends were standing directly in its path, unaware.
Surya didn't think.
There was no time to calculate angles or speed. No equations.
Only one pure truth echoed through his chest:
"I have to protect them."
He moved.
With all the force of instinct, he pushed Sundar first—his hands hitting his brother's chest hard. Then, using his body, he shoved the others back with all the strength he had.
The truck swerved. The wind from its massive wheels brushed against his sleeve. For a moment, it seemed it might miss them.
They fell backward onto the pavement.
The truck roared past.
A breath.
Surya exhaled. His heart raced, but they were safe. All of them.
He took in air like it was life returning.
But then—
Another sound.
Smaller. Sharper. More sudden. A new set of wheels—a car.
It came from the opposite side. Racing.
Too fast. No horn. No warning.
A young man behind the wheel—laughing, not seeing what was ahead.
Surya turned.
He had no time.
Only one thought remained: "Sundar is still close to the road."
With the last second stretching like eternity, he raised his leg and kicked Sundar away.
Just as the car struck him.
A dull, sickening thud.
His body lifted—thrown nearly two metres across the road.
And then—
Silence.
He lay on his back. The road felt warm beneath him, rough against his shoulder blades.
Somewhere, he heard his brother screaming his name. The sound was distant, as if under water.
His eyes, half open, looked up.
The sky above him was turning orange and gold, a thousand shades of farewell.
The sun was dipping slowly westward, its glow stretching long across the clouds.
For a moment, it seemed the whole world had stopped to watch the sunset with him.
His breath came shallow. His body was still.
But his mind... it was calm. Clear. Still alive.
"So," he thought softly, "this is how it ends."
No pain. Just heaviness. And light.
His heart, still beating, began to slow, like a drum preparing to sleep.
And in the growing hush of twilight, Surya understood—
He was dying.
But strangely... he wasn't afraid.
A single tear rolled sideways from his temple and disappeared into the dust.
Above, the sun finally kissed the edge of the earth.
The sky faded to silence.
.