The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the road outside their house still remembered it — brown water sitting in every dip, refusing to drain.

Vihaan pedalled hard past the tea stall, his school bag thumping against his back. He didn’t see the pothole until his front wheel dropped into it.

The bicycle skidded sideways. He went down with it, palms scraping against wet gravel.

“This road!” he said, dragging the bicycle up by its handle. The front tyre had gone flat, a long gash cut clean through the rubber.

“Whoever built this road should be ashamed,” he muttered, wheeling the bicycle home, water squelching in his shoes.

At the gate, his father Rajesh was watering the tulsi plant. He looked at the tyre, then at his son’s face, red with more than the heat.

“The municipality never fixes anything,” Vihaan said before his father could ask. “And this rain — it comes every year and every year the roads break like this. Somebody should have covered that pothole days ago.”

Rajesh set down the mug he’d been using to water the plant. “You are right that the road is bad,” he said. “Now tell me — did blaming it get you home any faster?”

Vihaan opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Or did walking, and pushing the cycle, get you home?”

He didn’t answer that either. His shoulders had that stubborn set they got when he knew he was caught but wasn’t ready to admit it.

That evening, Rajesh brought out the small brass Krishna that lived on the shelf above the television — not for puja, just to hold while he talked, the way some men hold a pen when they’re thinking.

“You know the story of Arjuna, on the battlefield, when he couldn’t decide what to do?”

“Baba, I’ve heard this story since I was six.”

“Then hear it once more, because today you needed it and didn’t know you did.” Rajesh turned the statue over in his hands. “Krishna didn’t tell Arjuna, worry about the enemy, worry about who wins and who loses. He said, do your work. Do it fully, do it honestly. What happens after is not entirely yours to hold.”

“But Baba, the pothole really is the government’s fault.”

“It is true. I’m not saying otherwise.” Rajesh set the statue down, facing the room. “The road isn’t in your hands. The rain isn’t in your hands. Even the municipality officer, sitting somewhere in his office, isn’t in your hands. But you know what is?”

Vihaan looked at the deflated tyre, propped against the wall where he’d left it.

“The next patch of road. Whether you look down at it or keep your eyes ahead. Whether you walk home defeated, or walk home already thinking of how to fix the tyre.” Rajesh tapped the bicycle frame. “That part is yours. Only that.”

Vihaan crouched beside the bicycle and ran his thumb along the gash. It was a clean cut — the kind that could be patched, if he was careful with the rubber solution and didn’t rush it.

“Repair kit’s in the shed,” Rajesh said, already walking that way. “Second shelf, behind the paint tins.”

They fixed the tyre together under the light of a single bulb, the smell of rubber solution thick in the shed. Vihaan held the patch down with his thumb, counting to sixty like his father had taught him.

Outside, the road stayed exactly as broken as it had been an hour before.

It mattered less now.

Scripture/Source: Inspired by the Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 2 — Krishna’s teaching to Arjuna on focusing on right action rather than its outcome. Not a direct verse translation; adapted as an original story.

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