Sumit was running late for work and silently cursed the late-night party as he hurriedly tied his shoes. He picked up the half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray and lit it again. There were still a few minutes before the autorickshaw was supposed to arrive, but he anxiously kept checking the Uber app, hoping it would get there sooner. He liked to think his friends had dragged him to the party last night, though deep down, he knew he hadn’t resisted much: “I can’t, yaar. I’ve got meetings tomorrow.” Saying no was hard; what if they stopped inviting him?

“Sunil bhaiya, don’t bring the tea now, I’m already running late. Make sure to come on time tomorrow.”

The blaring horn of an autorickshaw snapped him out of his thoughts. He stepped outside and climbed into the three-wheeler.

“Bhaiya, 7312,” he told the driver, giving him the Uber OTP. Greetings were reserved for his colleagues and seniors.

“Bhaiya, wrong OTP. Please check again,” the driver said. Sumit looked at his phone, and the OTP was correct. Frustrated, he asked the driver to try again, but the result was the same. Irritated, he insisted the driver enter the code one more time. As Sumit watched him type it in, he suddenly realized he had gotten into the wrong autorickshaw.

“Come on, bhaiya! Why didn’t you tell me you were waiting for a different passenger?” he exclaimed, stepping out of the rickshaw without bothering to hear a reply. Just a few feet away, another rickshaw was parked. He checked the number plate and climbed in.

“7312”

Sumit asked the driver to stop at the tea shop near his office. He paid the fare and stepped out of the vehicle.

“Bhaiya, a cup of tea,” he called out to the shopkeeper while lighting his cigarette. As he did, he noticed the shopkeeper shooing away a beggar, as usual. The beggar was a familiar figure in the area, showing up at the shop multiple times daily to ask for money. Sometimes, the shopkeeper would give him something, while the beggar was met with harsh words at other times. Sumit never gave much thought to the man.

Following his usual routine, he finished his tea, took the last puff of his cigarette, and then pulled out a 5-rupee coin, handing it to the beggar. He glanced around, satisfied that there were witnesses to his small act of generosity. Just then, his phone rang.

“Pranaam, Maa! I’ll call you later, I’m running late for work,” he said, heading toward his office. Behind him, the beggar picked up Sumit’s discarded cigarette butt and tossed it into the dustbin.

Sumit’s days fell back into their usual rhythm, which mostly involved juggling meetings, rushing through presentations, and finding a few seconds in between for a smoke. Every morning, he’d stop at the same tea stall for his “one tea and one cigarette,” sometimes glancing at the beggar hovering near the shop. Time and again, he noticed the beggar picking up discarded cigarette butts, his own and those left behind by other customers, and carefully tossing them into the dustbin. It was odd, but Sumit never bothered to ask why. It was just another eccentricity of the city, he told himself.

Days rolled on, and Sumit found himself in a sour mood one afternoon. He had just come out of a heated meeting where his boss had berated him for being late on deadlines and “not pulling his weight.” The boss had chastised Sumit before the entire team to make matters worse. Frustration and a bruised ego tugged at him as he stormed out of the office.

He reached the tea stall, craving a smoke to calm his nerves. The beggar was there, collecting yet another used cigarette butt from the ground.

“Bhaiya, tea, and a cig,” Sumit ordered the shopkeeper, his tone sharper than usual. The shopkeeper handed him his usual tea, and Sumit lit his cigarette with an irritated flick of the lighter.

The beggar hovered close, eyes darting between Sumit’s face and the cigarette in his hand. Something about his presence set Sumit off, maybe it was the memory of his boss’s scolding, or perhaps it was just the cumulative stress.

“What do you want?” Sumit snapped, glaring at the beggar. “Don’t you have anything better to do than pick up these cigarette butts?”
The beggar still crouched down, mumbled, “I was just like you.”

“Just like me?” Sumit spat, exhaling smoke in frustration. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
But the man only offered a faint, haunted look, resumed his cigarette-butt-collecting routine, and drifted away, leaving Sumit with more questions than answers.

Sumit turned back to his tea, the warmth of the drink failing to soothe his temper. The shopkeeper finally broke the silence.

“Leave him alone, Sumit bhai,” the shopkeeper spoke, his gaze laced with a quiet sadness as he looked at the beggar. “He has lost everything in the world.” Sumit shrugged, still annoyed but curious. “Why, what happened to him?”

The shopkeeper pulled out a small stool and wiped his forehead with a towel. “His name is Raman. He used to be an accountant. He worked in the office at the corner of the street. He was married and had a daughter. But he smoked too much, just like you, bhaiya, always saying work was so stressful. His wife argued with him to quit and begged him, but he never really listened.”

Sumit took a deep drag, his anger slowly giving way to interest. “So what happened?”

The shopkeeper sighed. “One day, their 3-year-old daughter started coughing. Doctors diagnosed her with pneumonia. They couldn’t save her.” He paused for a moment, letting the weight of those words sink in.

Sumit blinked, a pang of guilt tightening in his chest.

The shopkeeper continued, “His wife left him after that. Now, don’t misunderstand, she didn’t die because of his smoking, not directly. But Raman blamed himself. He felt that if he hadn’t smoked so much, maybe the air in the house would have been cleaner, or maybe he would’ve taken better care of his family. Those thoughts haunted him. Eventually, he lost his mental balance. Left his job and lost his home. Now he’s here.” Sumit’s gaze followed Raman, who was diligently picking up someone else’s cigarette butt off the pavement.

“He says it keeps the streets clean… stops someone else’s kid from picking it up,” he explained. “He thinks maybe, just maybe, it’ll make a difference for another family.”

Sumit’s mind spun. He recalled his own mother’s countless pleas to take care of his health, to come home earlier, to smoke less. Suddenly, the beggar didn’t seem like another face on the streets. He recognized in Raman the person he had ignored for so long, someone who, in many ways, wasn’t so different from himself.

He flicked his own cigarette to the ground and, without thinking, reached for the butt. For the first time, he tossed it into the dustbin himself. A moment of reflection seized him, and he felt an unusual ache in his chest that had nothing to do with smoke. It was regret… and fear.

In the distance, Raman glanced back, nodded once as if acknowledging Sumit’s small gesture, and resumed his quiet routine.

As Sumit walked back toward his office, he couldn’t stop replaying the shopkeeper’s words. He thought of the many times he had lit a cigarette, using work stress as an excuse, ignoring his mother’s calls, his own well-being, and even the small moments that truly mattered. He had been so busy trying to impress friends, coworkers, and his boss that he had forgotten to look at himself—not just in the mirror but deep within.

For the first time in a long time, he thought less about the next big promotion or the next night out and more about the person he was becoming. Perhaps it was time to stop ignoring the person who needed his attention the most, himself.