The line started at 4 AM. By 8, when Maya arrived, it snaked around the block—two hundred women, maybe more, clutching their ration cards like prayer beads. The sun was already brutal, the air thick with sweat and anticipation.
The ration shop was a concrete box, green paint peeling, with a single window where Kotedar Mishra sat like a king. He controlled wheat, rice, sugar, kerosene—the basics of survival. And in this economy, he controlled who ate.
Being a student and a creator is a whole mood. Between uni fees and bills, I’m out here doing my best to keep the stories coming! Just a heads up: When you pay through the platform, they take such a huge cut that I only actually see about half of it. If you want to support me directly so it 100% reaches me, you can tip here. Even the smallest bit helps more than you know. Thanks for being real ones! ✨
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