The Highway

By Poonam Chakraborty

The white hum of the kitchen light was the only sound in Suraj’s flat, though his mind was already on the highway. In a few hours, machines would roar, men would sweat, and he would wonder which would collapse first—the road, or the people building it. He leaned against the counter, a steaming bowl of Maggi in his hands, watching the noodles twist and curl. Outside, the city’s neon veins pulsed faintly through the windows. His mother moved behind him, arranging leftovers in the fridge, the clatter of utensils softened by tiled walls.

“Mom,” Suraj said, twirling his fork through the noodles, “I wish I could get pulled from this project. Night shifts, endless inspections… I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I know. But your father believes this is the best for your experience.” She came closer and placed her hand on his, “I can talk to him, maybe he’ll understand. Just… hold on for now.”

Suraj smiled faintly, pushing the bowl away. Privilege, his parents often reminded him, wasn’t a shield from hard work, it was only a head start. Still, the chaos of the site pressed on him heavier than anything he had faced.

By the time he mounted his bike, the streets were quiet, empty enough for his thoughts to drift. The ride to the city’s edge, where the new national highway was being carved out, was a half-hour of streetlights and curving lanes, occasional honks, and the faint spill of music from late-night eateries.

A few kilometres away, under the thin canvas of a makeshift tent, Kishan stirred rice and fried potatoes, the smell mixing with the damp earth beneath. Around him, eight other labourers waited, hands on knees, eyes fixed on the road for the van that would or sometimes wouldn’t come to take them to work.

Pinned to the centre pole was a faded photograph: a woman smiling softly, a child at her side, another child due in 3 months. Behind them, Kishan’s elderly parents waited too for their son’s return. Every morning, he left this tent to shoulder not just bricks and stone, but the weight of every life bound to him.

He pulled out his phone. No signal. Again. He hadn’t spoken to his wife in days. The money order he’d sent this month was their only lifeline. But money, he knew, could never replace his presence, the warmth of comfort, the words of love.

The van arrived with a rumble, men piling in, elbows and knees jolting for space. City lights streamed past the window in blurred streaks. In the distance, the glass towers of the rich rose like beacons. Kishan caught sight of them and smiled wryly.

The youngest labourer nudged him. “That’s where the baabu log live.”

“You mean the badey sahab?” Kishan asked.

The boy nodded, eyes wide. Kishan said nothing, only shook his head and looked away. Someday I too will have a pakka ghar, he thought to himself. 

By the time the van pulled into the site, Suraj was already there, helmet in hand, clipboard tucked under his arm. Floodlights carved harsh shadows across the asphalt. JCBs groaned, rollers rumbled, men moved like clockwork in the dust and glare. He spotted Kishan at once, adjusting his gloves while guiding two men with a steel beam. Suraj walked over, raising his helmet.

“Helmet. Gloves. Mask,” he said, almost pleading. “Stay safe. You don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

Kishan looked up, wiping sweat from his brow. A laugh broke out, rough and warm. “Helmet? Gloves? Mask?” He shook his head. “I’ve been at this since I was thirteen. Nothing’s happened to me ever. I won’t be harmed. Baabuji, six people pray for me every day, my mother, my wife, my children, my parents. That’s protection enough.”

Suraj hesitated. “But accidents don’t happen with a warning.”

Kishan ran a finger along the thin scar on his cheek. “See this? Uttarakhand. Timber cutting. Axe slipped. Could’ve split me open. Didn’t. You know why?”

Suraj shook his head in a no.

“Prayers. Not safety gears. Not manuals. People’s prayers.” Kishan’s smile flickered, shadowed by memory. “Machines break. Roads collapse. What keeps us standing is the faith our family hold for us.”

Something in his certainty unsettled Suraj. Here was a man who carried his world in his hands and in whispered blessings. The gap between them felt wide, and in this moment, it narrowed into something human. 

Suraj nodded. “Alright. Nice. Use these lines in your union meeting. But for now… be careful.”

Kishan chuckled, already turning back to the beam. “I’ve lived on careful all my life.”

Night fell fully, cloaking the site in shadows and dust, floodlights slicing through like silver knives. Suraj checked his clipboard, pacing along the freshly laid concrete, and caught sight of Kishan moving with the effortless rhythm of someone born to work with his hands. By day, Kishan bent under the sun, shaping stone and steel with calloused hands; by night, Suraj leaned over blueprints under fluorescent lights, his pen tracing lines as steadily as Kishan’s hammer struck metal. 

They crossed paths repeatedly, exchanging small words, sometimes just a nod. Suraj’s life was a series of privilege; Kishan’s, a testament to endurance, faith, and the quiet dignity of labour. Each glance, each fleeting interaction, stitched a brief bridge between their worlds.

The night air hung thick, sticky with the smell of hot tar and diesel. Suraj wiped sweat from his brow, the construction lamps casting long, jittering shadows over the half-finished highway.

A week had passed since he had begged his mother to pull him from the project. He had hoped distance could shield him from the site’s inevitable chaos. But deadlines were tight - the minister would inaugurate the road in five days. Every hand, every machine, every ounce of human effort had to keep pace.

The labourers flowed like a river of muscle and dust. Kishan carried bundles of steel rods with practiced ease, arms straining but their face calm. Suraj’s gaze lingered on them, not for supervision, but from a knot of worry tightening in his chest. Safety Gears. He had reminded them all countless times. “Safety first,” he said again, firm but careful, aware; he was a “babu log” trying to command men whose lives had been built on instinct and toil, not rules.

Kishan glanced up, half-smiling, shaking his head. “Baabu, relax. We’ll manage. Don’t worry so much.” There was a teasing light in his eyes, though Suraj noticed the crease of fatigue that even laughter couldn’t erase. Around him, the men reluctantly fastened their gear, acknowledging Suraj’s words out of respect, not fear.

Night shifts were brutal; every movement, every glance at the rumbling machinery, demanded vigilance. Suraj exhaled slowly. He couldn’t hover, couldn’t plead, couldn’t shield these men from the blows life hurled daily. He could only watch, remind, hope. 

Hours crawled. The grinding of rollers, clanging steel, and roar of engines filled the air. Suraj moved carefully, measuring distances, marking misalignments, adjusting plans. Occasionally, his eyes flicked to the labourers, bent over steel, their silhouettes sharp against the floodlights. He often thought of the nomad lives they were forced to live, the families that kept waiting and the children they supported. 

The men laboured tirelessly, muscles quivering, backs slick with grime, breaths uneven under exhaustion. Suraj’s stomach tightened as he watched the JCB grinding along the freshly levelled asphalt, its massive wheels devouring the road. He knew its path. He knew the danger. His chest throbbed with a dull ache of anticipation and dread.

At the far end, Kishan bent low to adjust a steel frame, his movements precise but slowed by fatigue. Suraj’s hand hovered over his clipboard, pen poised. “Watch the JCB!” he shouted, the words barely cutting through the rumble of the engine. Time stretched taut. Each second weighed heavy, heavy with possibility, heavy with fear. Suraj walked fast towards the path…

And then, it happened. A sickening crunch, metallic and human fused in an instant. Suraj froze. The ground seemed to shudder beneath him. Cries erupted immediately, raw and jagged, a chaotic symphony of pain, disbelief, and fury. Workers surged toward the machine, dragging the driver from the JCB and blowing punches, their anger snapping and coiling through the night air like live wires.

Mayhem unleashed. Few labourers rushed to check on whatever was left of their friend. Others broke into a fight with the site managers, and JCB drivers. 

Suraj stood, numb, rooted to the asphalt. Everything he had learned, every calculation, every precaution, meant nothing here, the contractor, Suraj’s uncle was immediately called to the site. He arrived with a calm face masking panic, eyes sharp with calculation. He looked at the remains of the man beneath the JCB and said flatly, “Move the roller. Finish the road.”

The engineer gasped. “But sir, this body…”

His uncle cut him off, adjusting the gold watch on his wrist. “Put asphalt. Roll it down. We can’t stop now.” Among the crowd, he spotted his nephew. “Suraj, come.”

The senior engineer and Suraj walked with him toward his car. Inside, the air smelled faintly of tobacco and sandalwood polish. His uncle lowered his voice. “I don’t trust anyone here. In five days, the minister will inaugurate this road. If even one of these men complains, this project shuts down. We lose thousands of crores. Pay them one lakh each. Complete the work.”

The car door slammed shut, headlights carving away into the night. Suraj’s stomach turned. The moral compass that had guided him all his life felt useless.

Moments later, his phone buzzed. His mother’s voice trembled with fear. “Suraj, what happened? Are you okay? I am putting you on speaker.”

Before he could answer, another voice cut in. His father. Calm. Icy. Almost surgical.

“Suraj,” he began, and Suraj could hear the soft click of him removing his glasses, the sound he had known since childhood whenever his father was about to lay down final word. “I asked your uncle to put you on this project as a favour. Don’t disappoint me with this nervousness.”

He paused, wiping the lenses slowly against his kurta.

“Accidents happen. Two months of money orders will go to their families. They’ll think their men are on another site. In time, they’ll forget. You come home tomorrow.” 

The line went dead.

Suraj stared at the smooth asphalt, gleaming under the floodlights. Beneath it, Kishan lay erased, swallowed whole. Authority had preserved itself; the powerless had vanished.

His body betrayed him. First nausea, then violent vomiting, raw and unrelenting. He collapsed on the site, shivering, chest convulsing as if trying to expel the images lodged in his mind. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was barely conscious. Doctors diagnosed severe dehydration, stress, exhaustion. But for Suraj, it was something else, the weight of asphalt pressing into his gut, the muffled screams echoing in his ears. For days, he drifted in and out of fevered dreams, each one returning him to the site, to the unrelenting sound of bones snapping beneath steel.

The morning sun broke over the highway, golden light bouncing off freshly tarred asphalt. Where cries had hung heavy a few nights ago, today there were banners strung across electric poles, marigold garlands tied hastily to the stage, and loudspeakers testing patriotic songs.

Suraj stood at the edge of the site, eyes raw and red. His shirt was stiff with dust and sweat. Around him, everyone else glowed with energy. Contractors straightened their ties, engineers smoothed their shirts, police officers adjusted caps and belts. The road was no longer a worksite; it had been dressed as a stage for power.

White SUVs rolled in one after another, tyres crunching on gravel. A minister emerged, starched kurta crisp, palms folded in a practiced namaste. Cameras flashed. Microphones thrust forward. Reporters murmured about deadlines, efficiency, development.

Suraj’s throat tightened. Each flash of the camera was an insult. Kishan’s face flickered in memory, teasing him under harsh lights about safety. Now that smile was gone, buried beneath the smooth asphalt everyone applauded.

For a fleeting moment, Suraj thought of stepping forward. The microphones were right there. He could tell them—tell the minister, the media, the nation—that this road was not just steel and tar, but bone and blood. His hands clenched. His heart raced.

And then, he saw him.

His father.

Dressed simply, but commanding the space as if he owned it. He walked unhurriedly, his kurta spotless, his glasses already in hand. He polished the lenses slowly, the familiar gesture freezing Suraj in place. Beside him, Suraj’s uncle leaned close, murmured something, and both men smiled, the kind of smile that sealed contracts, not lives.

That sight—his father’s ritual calm, the soft gleam of cleaned glasses—was enough. Suraj knew what it meant: silence. Order. Control. The quiet reminder of what happened to those who broke ranks. His courage shrank. The thought of speaking evaporated. Fear wrapped around him, cold and final.

The minister lifted the scissors. The ribbon fluttered. Children in pressed uniforms began to sing:

“Jana Gana Mana Adhinayak Jaya He, Bharat Bhagya Vidhata…”

The anthem rose, solemn and pure, while Suraj’s chest caved in. Tears spilled uncontrollably. He moved past the crowd, a sound tearing from him—grief, rage, helplessness. They clapped louder, proud of progress.

Suraj stumbled away, vision blurred, running for his life. Past flags, flowers, cheering. Behind him, his father adjusted his glasses, his face unreadable, his silence louder than the anthem itself. The minister lifted the scissors. The ribbon fluttered. Children in pressed uniforms began to sing:

“Jana Gana Mana Adhinayak Jaya He, Bharat Bhagya Vidhata…”

Suraj didn’t stop running until the music and clapping blurred into a single roar behind him. His lungs burned, but the sound inside him was louder: Kishan’s laughter, Kishan’s warning, Kishan’s silence. He rushed to his home, slammed the door of his flat shut; the echo rang too loud in the small apartment. He dropped his bag onto the bed, pulling clothes from drawers with shaking hands. Every movement felt desperate, clumsy, as if the air itself resisted him.

But the silence was unbearable. And then, the voices returned.

Kishan’s voice, rough but calm: “Relax, Baabuji. You think the world will stop because one steel beam falls? It’s all prayers and practice.”

Suraj’s hands faltered; a shirt slipped from his grasp. He could still see Kishan’s faint smile, through dust, sweat, and memory. He pressed the shirt into the bag and tried to shake it off, but another memory rushed back:

“Blueprints can’t protect you either, you know. All your planning, your gears… one mistake, and a machine doesn’t care about your privileges.”

The words stabbed deeper now. Suraj sank onto the bed, elbows on knees, fingers pressed into his temples. He tried to focus on packing, but Kishan’s voice threaded through the rustle of fabric: “Responsibility, huh? Heavy too, even if it comes with a salary no one here can dream of.”

Responsibility. The word weighed heavier than the bag on his lap. His father had dismissed it as an accident, his uncle had buried it beneath tar and bribes, but Suraj felt it pressing on him, the blood beneath his shoes, the silence he had agreed to.

He rose suddenly, pacing. The morning anthem replayed in his mind, every line mocking: “Bharat Bhagya Vidhata…” Whose destiny was being shaped, the powerful cutting ribbons, or the nameless crushed beneath them?

He threw another shirt into the bag, breathing uneven. Kishan’s last echo lingered, soft but unyielding: “Plans are just paper. Faith and sweat… that’s what keeps you alive. You’ll see soon enough.”

When it passed, he zipped the bag shut. His decision was clear, not logical, not planned, not in any blueprint. Just necessary. He grabbed his keys, stepped into the corridor, and didn’t look back. His boots thudded on the stairs, leaving behind fluorescent lights, clean checklists, and his father’s world. He didn’t know where he was headed, only that he could not stay.

By afternoon, the inauguration was over. Ministers and officials departed, leaving behind dust, posters, and an unmarked grave disguised as a road.

At the city’s edge, a line of labourers began their own journey. Each carried a bundle, some in cloth, some in plastic, some clenched in trembling fists. Inside, the hush-money: one lakh rupees, the price of silence.

They walked slowly, heavy not from exhaustion but grief. The road stretched before them like a scar. They spoke little. But in their silence, Kishan lived on.

The youngest labourer, barely twenty, clutched his envelope like a lifeline. He thought of the family waiting, the mouths to feed. Could he too vanish beneath a machine, his life reduced to another bundle of notes?

Their footsteps were slow, uneven, steady. They walked past the gleaming highway, each step on the edge of tar and dust. For them, this was not progress, it was a graveyard. They knew where their brother lay, nameless, unmarked, sealed beneath the shining surface.

And somewhere on another route, far from them, Suraj rode alone. Behind him lay men who wielded power as a shield, those who had swallowed others to pave their own comfort. Beneath him were the lives crushed quietly, erased without a trace. 

Ahead lay only escape, and with it, the fragile promise of freedom from the gasp of power.

By Poonam Chakraborty