““My name is written on the school register. In blue ink. It stays there.””
Kishan is the first person in his family to read. His father tills a leased half-acre and hopes for rain; his mother stitches whatever the tailor next door hands her. When the local field-worker knocked on their door, they thought it was about the electricity bill.
It was about a scholarship. Fees, books, a weekend tuition run — everything a first-generation learner needs, gathered into one quiet arrangement. Kishan sat at the small dining table with a new pencil case and turned it over in his hands for a long minute.
He passed his board exam with a first division. On his admit-card, his name was printed in blue ink. He touched it, once, with a fingertip. It stays there, he said. It stays.
