Faces of Kasab

Kasab was a city of many faces. Some men worked under the sun, breaking their backs for a few rupees. Others sat in dark rooms, making money without ever lifting a finger.

Malik belonged to neither.

At the mechanic's shop, he worked in silence. Grease on his hands, sweat on his forehead—it was honest work, even if it paid little. Jaggu didn't talk much, but his assistant, Raju, did enough talking for both of them.

"You're too quiet, Malik," Raju would say, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. "This city eats quiet men alive."

Malik only shrugged. Words weren't worth much in Kasab.

The football field was different. There, he wasn't a worker. He was just another young man kicking a ball, running, breathing. The boys who played with him were from all over—some rich, some poor, none of it mattered on the field.

But Kasab wasn't a place for games.

One evening, on his way back, Malik passed through a narrow street near the docks. A group of men stood in the shadows, their voices low, their eyes scanning every passerby. He didn't stop, didn't look twice.

He had learned one thing in Kasab—some things were not meant to be seen.

He kept walking, head down, disappearing into the night.