The streets of Rajendra Place were bustling that evening—cars honking, people rushing, life moving at its usual relentless pace. But amidst the chaos, my eyes locked onto something that didn’t belong to this motion.

A boy, barely 16, sat slumped against the pavement, his face buried in his hands. Shoulders trembling. Eyes swollen from crying.

I knelt beside him. “Kya hua?”

His story came out between choked breaths—he had fled his village, chasing the promise of a job, a future, a dream. The city, however, had given him nothing but hunger, failure, and an unbearable loneliness. Now, all he wanted was to go back. Back to the warmth of home. Back to parents who had no idea where he was.

I didn’t think twice.

I took him to my college’s washroom. As he stood under the running water, weeks of dust and despair washed away. I handed him fresh clothes. The boy who stepped out was no longer just a stranger—I saw hope in his eyes, a small flicker of dignity returning.

Next, we walked to a roadside dhaba. He ate in silence at first, then hungrily, as if reclaiming something lost. The dhaba owner observed, then simply shook his head when I reached for my wallet. “Paisa nahi chahiye, bhaiya. Bas dua kar dena.”

Finally, at the station, I pressed ₹2000 into his hands and watched as he boarded the train home. He didn’t stop looking back, his eyes still unsure if this was real.

The train left. And so did a part of me—with him.
𝐘𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠.

“Bhaiya… maine dukan khol li hai school ke samne. Thank you, bhaiya. Lakshya means a lot.”

Fifteen years later, that broken 16-year-old is now a man. He didn’t just go home—he built a life.

Some moments stay with you forever. Some kindnesses ripple into legacies.

And I coined the name Lakshya Jeevan Jagriti