The sun had already touched the western edge of the sky, yet the city was still burning with
unbearable heat. Weaving through the chaotic city traffic, he sped forward in his rather funny
red-and-orange uniform, chasing his own shadow on the road ahead. The food delivery box
strapped to his bike's pillion felt like it was sitting on his head, pressing down on him and
pushing him forward. There were just ten minutes left...
A late delivery meant a bad review, a drop in company ratings, and, worst of all, facing the grim,
angry face of a customer who might refuse the food for being just a few minutes late—leaving
the bill to fall on him. Sweat surfaced on his face and flowed down in steady, unceasing trails
inside the helmet, as he tightened his grip on the accelerator. As the signal ahead turned red, he
braked hard, his shadow stretching to the van's back, bringing his urgent momentum to a sudden
stop.
That's when he noticed them. Through the van's rear glass window, tiny little faces appeared.
Fresh. Tidy hair. Bright eyes. Pearly laughter. Tiny girls in their school uniforms peeping
through the glass like little mushrooms. His dry lips parted as he prayed, "Chellema..."
Memories of his daughter started to fill him, replacing the weight of the food order. His
Chellema—in her school uniform. Dimples deep, eyes shining, her tender skin glowing in the
soft light. He noticed the children inside the van pointing at him, waving a hand, giggling,
sparking a ripple of laughter. He hesitated. Then, slowly, he waved back. He knew those kids
couldn't see his face; all they might know is the 'motorcycle man who brings food.'
A ripple of excitement spread, layering over and over. Love bounced back and forth. They
covered their eyes, peeked, laughed—playing games with him. And suddenly, every child in the
van was Chellema.
Time froze, his heart softened, and his body loosened. The breeze crawled gently, untying the
knots of his strain. The stifling heat eased. Lightness spread through him. A faint ache stirred in
the depths of his belly, rising and spreading through his body. His eyes brimmed, spilling silent
tears.
Against the monsoon's mighty flow, a lonely, feeble voice rode a defiant wind, soaring over the
mountains, where baby monkeys clung tightly to their mothers. The wind, still carrying the
voice, crossed the salty seas, where uncountable fishes swam, gliding side by side. It drifted over
endless lands, where a lone gray-feathered sparrow with a thin, strong beak pecked for food. The
voice traveled far, echoing softly, reaching his ears—his daughter's voice, whispering, "Appa, I
started going to school! When will you come?"
The traffic signal turned green, the van in front of him turned left, and he went straight on his
motorcycle to deliver the food.