I never thought I’d be running at my age. But here I am, lacing up worn shoes, heart pounding not from fear—but purpose. My grandson needs surgery. Twenty-five thousand rupees. A fortune. I lost my job, my son, my family’s trust. Vijay died working himself to the bone while I did nothing. Now Ravi, my younger son, has stepped up—brave, loyal, everything I failed to be.

Seth Usman threw me out like trash. No one would hire me. So I pulled a rickshaw. Sweated through monsoon rains. Starved so my grandson could eat. And when the doctor said, 'One month, or he won’t make it,' I knew I had to fight.

Then came the announcement: a race for senior citizens. Prize money: 25,000 rupees.

I looked at my trembling hands, my aching knees. But I whispered, 'I have to win.'

Now, standing at the starting line, I see Ravi in the crowd—nodding, proud. The goons who once attacked Seth Usman are here, threatening me. But I don’t care.

The whistle blows.

I run—not just for money.

For redemption.