Ek chhoti si haath,

ek anjaan sa sahaara.

Year - 2008

The weather had been uneasy since morning.

Dark clouds pressed low, thunder rolling without warning.

School hours ended—but the storm didn’t.

Because of the rain, students weren’t sent outside. Teachers guided them through the long corridors into the waiting office room where parents had already gathered. Wet footprints marked the marble floor. The smell of rain followed everyone inside.

Among the children was a girl—around six years old.

She was small, soft-featured, with curious eyes and a naturally bright expression. The kind of child whose smile came easily, unguarded, untouched by fear yet. She held her school bag tightly as she reached her mother and handed it over.

Then she froze.

Her pencil box.

She looked up at her mother. “Mama… pencil box reh gaya.”

Her mother hesitated only for a second. She trusted her daughter—too much. Like mother, like daughter. Fire-aced, confident, believing the world would be kind.

“Le aao,” she said.

The girl nodded and ran back.

The teachers didn’t notice. They were busy counting students, making sure everyone was present. Outside rain lashed hard, but inside, no one realized a child had slipped away.

She ran back to Classroom 1-A.

Under the last bench, her pencil box lay forgotten. She crouched, grabbed it, and smiled. That small, sunny smile—simple, innocent—could’ve softened anyone’s worst day.

She turned and ran back toward the office room.

The floor was wet.

Her foot slipped.

She stumbled straight into a group of 8th standard boys.

Everything crashed—bodies, bags, noise.

She fell hard, her forehead hitting the floor.

“Ouch… mama—” she cried.

Groans filled the corridor.

One of the boys stood up quickly—angry, irritated. He grabbed her arm and yanked her up without care. Pain shot through her small body.

A whimper escaped her lips.

Back in the office room, her mother’s uneasiness grew with every passing second.

A teacher reported, “Every student is here, sir.”

The vice manager exhaled in relief. “Good, then.”

The mother stood up suddenly. “Excuse me… my six-year-old daughter went back to the classroom. She forgot her pencil box.”

Silence.

Shock spread across the room.

“Ma’am,” the teacher said urgently, “why didn’t you tell us? It’s raining heavily. The floor is slippery—she could get hurt.”

The mother couldn’t answer. Shame tightened her throat.

“Let’s go,” the vice manager said quickly. “Before something happens.”

The teacher grabbed two umbrellas from the corner and handed one to him. They stepped out.

The mother sat down slowly, hands clenched.

Two parents beside her spoke softly.

“Nothing will happen. Mahadev is there.”

“Yes,” another agreed.

She nodded faintly, hope trembling in her chest.

In the corridor, the boys surrounded the girl.

“Aankhen band thi kya teri?” one shouted. “Jawab de!”

(Were your eyes closed or what? Answer me!)

She flinched. Loud voices scared her. Tears welled up.

“Please… meri galti hogi,” she whispered. “Mujhe jaane do.”

(Please, it must have been my mistake. Let me go.)

“Aise kaise jaane den?” another boy mocked.

(How can I just let you go so easily?)

“Tumne humein giraya hai,” Then another added.

(When you made us fall.)

“Mere pair fisal gaye the,” she pleaded, crying now. “Mujhe kuch mat karo… please.”

(My foot slipped, please don’t do anything to me. Let me go, please.)

One boy snarled. “Pair fisal gaya tha? huh!! Ruk abhi main teri pair hi kaat dunga.”

(Your foot slipped, huh?! Wait, I’ll cut your leg right now.)

Then, cruelly, he shoved her again.

She fell—hard.

Her knees scraped. Her forehead hit the floor again.

She screamed, sobbing. “Please… mujhe jaane do.”

(Please let me go.)

These weren’t ordinary boys.

They came from wealthy families. Untouchable. Short-tempered. Used to power.

The situation was spiraling.

Then—

A voice cut through the noise.

“Use jaane do.”

Cold. Steady. Dangerous.

“Agar use kuch hua,” the voice continued, “to mujhse bura koi nahi hoga.”

(Let her go. If anything happens to her, no one will be worse than me.)

The boys turned sharply.

A boy stood there—in school uniform, face hidden behind a black mask.

Watching.

One boy sneered at the masked boy.

“Tu kya uska boyfriend hai?”

(Are you her boyfriend or what?)

“Hahaha.”

The others burst into laughter, shaking their heads in amusement, as if the situation was entertainment made just for them.

“Dekh ke hi lag raha hai,” another mocked, “hero jaisi entry maari—apni girlfriend ko bachane ke liye.”

(It already looks like it—made a hero-like entry to save your girlfriend.)

“Hahah.”

The masked boy said nothing.

His calm unsettled them.

He walked toward the girl lying on the floor and knelt in front of her. His gaze met her tear-filled eyes. Behind the mask, his face hardened—but his voice stayed gentle.

“Kuchh nahi hoga,” he said softly. “Main hoon tumhare saath.”

(Nothing will happen. I’m here with you.)

He extended his hand.

She didn’t hesitate even for a second. She trusted him instinctively. Sometimes, body language alone tells you who is safe and who isn’t.

One of the boys whispered, irritated, “Isko toh koi asar hi nahi ho rahi.”

(It doesn’t look like this is affecting him at all.)

Another smirked darkly. “Asar aap hoga. Dekhta ja—kya karta hoon main.”

(It’ll be affected—just watch. I’ll show you what I do now.)

Before anyone could react, he kicked the masked boy hard.

The boy fell to the ground, his cheek scraping painfully beneath the mask.

Laughter erupted again.

“Arey kya hua babu?” one mocked. “Gir gaya kya?”

(Oh what happened, baby? Did you fall?)

The laughter cut off abruptly.

The masked boy stood up.

He helped the girl into his arms, keeping her safely at a distance, then guided her behind him along with his bag. Slowly, deliberately, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and stepped forward.

“Arey, aap kya—” one boy began.

(hey, what about you—)

A punch landed on his cheek.

Chaos followed.

The fight was sudden and brutal—sharp punches, stumbling bodies, pain landing fast and unexpected. A slap cracked through the corridor. Lips split. Cheeks burned red. Fear crept in where arrogance had lived seconds ago.

Wide-eyed and shaken, the boys whispered among themselves.

“Chalo… yahan se.”

“Ek kaafi dangerous lagta hai.”

“Kisi din badla lenge… abhi chalo.”

(Come on, let’s leave from here.)

(He looks really dangerous.)

(One day we’ll definitely take revenge. Now let’s go, hurry up.)

Grabbing their bags, they ran—fear driving every step.

The masked boy exhaled slowly, fixing his hair. He turned around.

The girl stood there, trembling—fear and awe mixed in her eyes.

Then she smiled.

A small, bright smile.

His heart skipped.

For a moment, an unexpected thought crossed his mind—Uski muskaan bahut pyari hai… jaise suraj ki dhoop.

(Her smile is so sweet… like the sunshine.)

The realization hit him immediately.

She was just a child.

He brushed the thought away and walked toward her, lowering himself to her level.

“Aap sach mein bahut acche ho,” she said softly, eyes shining. “Mere Superman.”

(You’re really very good… my Superman.)

He blinked. “Aapka Superman?”

(Your Superman?)

She puffed her chest proudly. “Haan bilkul. Aap mere Superman ho. Aapne aisa fight kiya ki woh log kabhi nahi aayenge.”

(Yes, absolutely. You are my Superman. You fought so well that they’ll never come back.)

A soft chuckle escaped him. Her childish confidence warmed something inside his chest.

“Mujhe bhi aisa lagta hai,” he said gently, kneeling. “Woh kabhi aayenge nahi.”

(I feel the same—they’ll never come back.)

She giggled.

He pulled out a small bandage from his pocket and carefully wrapped it around her bruised knee. She whimpered.

“Kuchh nahi hoga,” he murmured. “Sab theek ho jaayega. Shh…”

(Nothing will happen. Everything will be fine. Shh…)

He blew softly over the wound. “Yeh lo. Theek ho gaya.”

(There you go, it’s all better now.)

He bandaged her forehead next.

Her face lit up. “Thank you.”

“No mention,” he said quietly. “Ab chalein?”

(Shall we go now?)

She nodded.

Standing up, she looked at him from toe to head in awe. He was so tall.

Behind the mask, he smiled faintly.

They began walking just as the teacher and vice manager appeared.

“Are you both okay?” the vice manager asked, worry flashing across his face as he looked at the girl. “How did this happen?”

Her heart skipped. If she told the truth, the boy could be expelled.

Before anyone else could speak, she said softly, innocently—lying for the first time in her life.

“Actually sir, while running, I fell on the slippery floor. Then he came and saved me.”

The teacher melted instantly. The vice manager sighed in relief.

“Well done, boy,” he said.

The masked boy’s eyes stayed on the girl—clever little girl. He nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

They walked together under umbrellas—teacher carrying the girl, the vice manager beside the boy.

Inside the office room, her mother rushed to her, kissing her repeatedly. When she saw the injuries, panic flared—but the girl repeated the same lie.

Relief washed over her mother.

She turned to the boy and thanked him sincerely. He bowed his head respectfully.

Later, since his parents were stuck in traffic due to the rain, the mother offered him a ride home.

From the car window, the little girl blew him flying kisses and winked playfully.

He stared, disbelief turning into amusement.

Behind the mask, he smiled.

We’ll meet soon, he thought.

My little star.