The sun, half-awake and already burdened with guilt, broke through the grey of the clouds like a spotlight, unwanted, but necessary. On the corner where a labyrinth of roads met, a barefoot boy of perhaps seven squatted beside the traffic light. The asphalt hissed under him, but he didn’t flinch. His skin was caked in grime, his limbs the thin geometry of neglect. A faded yellow T-shirt – far too big and worn thin – hung from his bony shoulders, and his eyes, those cavernous eyes, searched every windscreen with a haunting plea.
Some honked him away like a nuisance, some rolled up their windows like shutting off conscience, and a rare few tossed a coin or a half-eaten piece of morsel. He moved with an eerie stillness – part ghost, part child, part something else. Each time he raised his hand to beg, he clutched his chest first, as though summoning a silent prayer.
Around him roared a city of steel wheels clashing on steel tracks laid on cobbled streets, of idols of gods and goddesses rolling down in trucks, of the stench of fish and the fragrance of incense smoke. A yellow metallic beast with a blue belt on four wheels coughed past. A handcart rattled by. In the background, the unmistakable dome of a white marble memorial peeked through the smog. This was a city that you only realised if your soul had known her once; this was Kolkata in the year of Our Lord 2025.
What no one saw was the ripple – an invisible pulse, emitting from the child’s heart, like a whisper through the wind, earth, fire, and water. And far, far away, in four different corners of the country, four hearts stirred in unison.
Born on the night of Karthik Puja in Bansberia, many years ago in 1980, when the sky rained firecrackers and the Ganges glowed crimson in reflection, Skanda’s life had begun in ashes. His mother, a victim of domestic abuse, had left him swaddled in smoke-soaked cloth near the crematorium. The flames had danced dangerously close but never touched him.
Skanda grew up in a railway colony, making a playground of rusted engines and coal bins. He learned early how to spot smoke before it turned to fire. As if born from flame itself, he grew up to join the fire brigade, where he became infamous for his fearlessness. Others donned flame-retardant suits. He walked through infernos with nothing but his will. People whispered he could speak to fire, command it even. But the truth was simpler – he understood it, respected it, and moved with it like no one else.
Kamala was born in the same year as Skanda, under the full moon of Laxmi Puja in a flooded slum of Guwahati, abandoned outside a temple with ants crawling over her enswathed form. A flower-seller found her and raised her, with leftovers from devotees for food and haunting mantras for lullabies by cracked-voice priests, on the temple courtyard’s earthen floors.
Her fingers learned to read soil like braille, where it hid coins, statues, pottery, fossils, and bones. She became an archaeologist, digging truths from the depths of time, finding gods where others saw dirt. Her obsession wasn’t with history, but with roots – her own and those of the world. Her teams joked she could “smell” where the treasure lay, and they weren’t entirely wrong. The earth listened to her because she had once been its orphaned daughter.
In 1980, another was born. On Saraswati Puja in Bhubaneswar, as red-and-white-clad girls sang hymns, a newborn floated in a basket down a temple pond, reminiscent of ancient legends. Vani was that child. The local priests called her a miracle and raised her until she was six, when a flood swept through the town and destroyed her makeshift home.
She survived, holding her breath underwater for minutes, surfacing downstream with a laugh. Water never frightened her – it was her kin, her lullaby. Vani became a deep-sea diver, exploring shipwrecks, decoding currents, and breathing in silence. The ocean spoke to her in whale songs and coral whispers. They said she could sense a storm before the radar did. But she didn’t control water; she belonged to it.
Born in Dharavi on Ganesh Chaturthi, in the same 1980, Vinayak’s first cry was drowned in a thousand drumbeats. His mother wrapped him in a sari and placed him beside a pandal before vanishing into anonymity. A kabadiwala raised him among junk heaps and broken transistor radios.
Vinayak was restless, always climbing, jumping, chasing kites. The sky called to him even when hunger held his feet down. He became a pilot, training against all odds, always chasing clouds. He could glide through turbulence like a bird returning home. “The plane listens to him,” his co-pilots would say. No, it was the wind that welcomed him back.
Thus, in 1980, four unwanted children were born on four auspicious days dedicated to four gods and goddesses who favoured the four elements. Growing up, they did not know each other. But for the past few years, they had known of each other – in dreams that danced on the edge of sleep, dreams of a child begging on a nameless street. A child whose heart seemed too big for his body, glowing like a fifth element – warm, vulnerable, and binding.
Forty-five years after their birth, one day, all four of them arrived in Kolkata separately but not by accident. Fate, or something more poetic, orchestrated their travel. Kamala was attending a historical excavation conference at the Indian Museum. Skanda was invited to train fire officers at the Behala station. Vani was tracking a sunken ship rumour near Diamond Harbour. Vinayak had a layover at Dum Dum Airport on a diverted route. And yet, all four found themselves on the same day, at the same hour, at that intersection.
Perhaps it was the divine intervention of gods and goddesses to bring their mortal children, four demigods, to respond to the plea of an innocent heart. With Lord Karthik igniting his element of fire through Skanda, Goddess Laxmi waking her element of earth through Kamala, Goddess Saraswati releasing her element of water through Vani, and Lord Ganesh unleashing the power of his element, the wind through Vinayak. Or was it a simple coincidence?
The child looked up, and for a second, time paused. A wind blew. A gutter overflowed. A streetlight sparked. The earth vibrated beneath their feet. It felt like the elements acknowledged their presence. The four looked at each other, not in surprise, but recognition. “You…” Kamala whispered. “I’ve seen you,” Vani added. “In a dream,” said Skanda. “With him,” Vinayak pointed to the boy.
What followed was both fable and fury. For days, they followed shadows – children with missing limbs begging in traffic, eyes vacant like scratched glass. One led to another, like breadcrumbs of horror, to an old warehouse near Sealdah. There, they saw it. A room of children – freshly trafficked, trembling. Some had bandaged stumps, some had burns, some were drugged silent. A man in a white kurta, face calm like a monk, ran the operation.
In India, over 3 lakh children are believed to be forced into street begging by organised crime. A study by Save the Children estimated that a child beggar could fetch between rupees 1,000 and 2,500 per day, depending on location and disability status. Many are kidnapped or sold, transited across borders, and then mutilated – acid, iron rods, knives – tools of conversion from child to money-making machines. These four, who had been abandoned once, knew they had come full circle.
The rescue was no less than a myth retold. Vani cut the water pipes, flooding the warehouse and causing panic. Kamala burst through the floor’s weakest point using demolition gel she had sourced for excavation. Vinayak flew low with a drone that blasted warning sirens. And Skanda walked through the smoke – literally – setting fire to the front gate as a diversion.
The gang fled. The police, tipped off anonymously by Kamala, arrived minutes later. But the real rescue had already happened. The children were freed. The fifth element – the child with the Heart – smiled for the first time.
They didn’t stay in Kolkata. Each returned to their world, their element. But once a year, on the full moon of Ashwin, they met again – four foundlings turned fire, earth, water, and wind, checking whether any of them had another dream, which would lead them to yet another adventure to lessen the evil in this world. And in the ashram by the Ganges, the child who once begged on an intersection now painted hearts with colours so vivid they bled memory. He had no name, but the staff called him “Ansh” – a piece of something whole. Because he had been, and would always be, the heart that brought the elements home.
Copyright © 2025 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
This is so haunting. And it breaks my heart.
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Glad that you find my story so moving.
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It is hard not to. Especially when it captures the reality of so many children. Especially in India. I loved your descriptions. Have never been to India but it felt like I was there when reading it. Thank you my friend. 🙏
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Your comment really makes writing such stories worthwhile. If I am able to convey the sights and sounds of my land to my distant readers, then I have really achieved something.
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You truly have. And shown me many things about your culture. It was like looking at a movie in my head.
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You are too kind with your appreciation. I treasure it. There are many more stories here, do read them when you have the time.
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I shall my friend, I love your work. You have a fan with me 🙏
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I have gained a friend.
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🙏
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Thank you so much Ned for promoting my story.
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Amazing story…. written with so much of heart… always a fan
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Thank you for being the first one to comment. Really treasure your appreciation. So glad that you liked my story so much.
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I cannot, Trishikh, find enough words to thank you for such a moving and inspiring story, beautifully written! Your talent is shining with every word, and your story is unforgettable. Reading this extraordinary tale, I was emotional, as you have a gift to reach readers’ hearts and souls. A big thank you! You have made my day!
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, as always, reading your comment gives me so much joy. I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for being an ardent admirer of my stories. So happy that my latest story touched your heart so deeply.
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Since long I felt the word अंश is quite appropriate to express the elements Fire, Earth, Air and Water. I can also relate how the English words “inch” and “ounce” are but cognates of the word “अंश”, because resemble phonetically and mean literally too the same. Both are a small part of something bigger.
🤗
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Wow, I did not realise this about the words ‘inch’ and ‘ounce’. Yes your thoughts are in line with mine about ‘Ansh’ relating to the elements. So glad that you read and liked my story. Thank you for this lovely comment.
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The story reminds me of a real experience of mine in Bengaluru many years ago.
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I am sure it resonates for anyone who has visited India. Children begging on the streets are so common here, the real problem is with organised begging, arranged by criminal gangs.
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I often wonder what the life of that young child was like in later years. It took a bit of questioning to figure out that he was being watched and “had” to get a cash donation to please his boss rather than accept just some food I bought for us both to share.
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It’s really painful if you think of it in that way. Just remember that you did a good thing at that moment to the best of your capacity.
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Ouch. That’s a bit common in Nigeria
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Sad but true.
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😥😥😥😥
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Fantastic story. Sounds like the making of a graphic novel or a comic book series. I full on ennoyed it.
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Thank you so much, I also felt the same when I completed the story.
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Nice post
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Thank you. Gly that you liked it.
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Such realities makes the heart bleed. We feel so helpless. So much agony, so much wrong coming through the waves of time. Beautiful heart wrenching story.
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You are so right. Treasure your appreciation.
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🙏
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I read this story till the end it was amazing!
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So happy that you liked it.
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Oh that was so good, it moved my heart greatly.. you paint so well with the words the story becomes alive.. thank you,
Love Fiona ❤️
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Dear Fiona, as always, your comment gives me great joy. So happy that you liked my latest story.
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Thank you so much for promoting my story in your blog. Now so many more people will be able to read it.
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A well drafted blend of mythology and realism, addressing the social ills, which still plaguing societies that claim the civilised high ground. We are challenged by our ignorance and by our lack in conscious awareness, provoking the question what does it mean to be a human being?
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So true, when will we realise that life is too short to waste in violence and petty squabble? When will we really be civilised? When will we finally evolve as ultimate human beings, a supreme species with a lot of responsibility?
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An amazing story, Trishikh. Reality is harsh, it cannot be denied, but once in a while miracles happen, people are being saved by others. That is the wonderful part of the story.
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Very very true, it cannot be denied.
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An amazing story, Trishikh. Reality is harsh, it cannot be denied, but once in a while miracles happen, people are being saved by others. That is the wonderful part of the story.
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Oh you are absolutely right, there is nothing more beautiful that someone helping others selflessly.
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Nice story and enjoyed the descriptions in particular. I liked the idea of using the elements too. Good job.
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So happy that you liked it. I have always been fascinated with the elements and mythology. Glad that this came out good.
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Nicely done, Trishikh. I have been hoping you’d return and resume your distinctive endeavors.
Regards,
Annie
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Dear Annie, thank you so much. Yes, thankfully I have been able to get back to writing my short stories. July 2025, has been quite a productive month till now. Have written and published 3 stories this month and am writing the 4th one this month, which is my 74th too.
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That’s good news, Trishikh. I’m very glad.
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This is amazing blog, Please leave a comment on my blog if you got a chance or multiple comets! 😉
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Thank you for your comment. Somehow it had landed in Span, so the late response. Of course I will subscribe and like your content as well.
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Hi Trishikh. You published your blog after a long time. Any how you have been returned. Start with new energy, new subjects, and new hopes. Best of luck.
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Wathore Sir, so nice to hear from you. Yes, I am back indeed. July has been a really productive month of writing for me. Have written and published 3 stories this month and am writing my 4th one this month, that is my 74th short story. So happy to receive your comment.
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A heartbreaking story. If only all such trafficked children could be rescued.
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Yes, if only. Unfortunately so many children are lost every year and so little is known about them.
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A powerful story of adversity, resilience, and hope. 💜
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Thank you for appreciating. I really treasure your words.
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💜
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You write beautifully.
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Thank you so much. Always treasure an appreciation. It really makes my day.
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hello, i have enjoyed reading your blog, i subscribed to your blog, please check out my blog and consider Subscribing, so we can help each other grow our blogs. have a great day!
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Oh, certainly, I have subscribed to your blog too. Thanks for liking my stories as well.
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You are amazing! Have you tried doing your stories to YouTube narrations?
Those children converted to beggars are so sad!
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Yes, I have thought about YouTube narrations, but am not sure whether it will dilute my whole effort/ quest for making people read short stories.
Yes, children converted into beggars are a really sad reality.
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❤️
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🙏 Thank you so much for appreciating my story.
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This story is as heartbreaking as it is good! Very well-written!
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Yes, the story has its sad elements. Glad that you found it well written.
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Hikayelerinizi özlemişim hatırlattığınız için teşekkür ederim ve emeğinize sağlık çok güzel.
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Oh, I missed writing these stories as well, so glad to have found the enthusiasm to write such stories once again. Thank you for appreciating my stories.
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Your story does more than describe—it transports and transforms. Like a bridge, it carries us into the streets of India while also stirring something universal within the human heart. That is rare magic: storytelling that both witnesses reality and awakens hope.
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Dear Livora, you say that my story “transports and transforms,” is a huge compliment for me. I am so grateful to you for this, for your constant admiration for my tales.
If God wills, I will try my best to keep this magic of short stories alive.
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Dear Trishikh, may God continue to bless your gift—your stories already shine with that timeless magic. 🌟
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Dear Livora, thank you so much.
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