Aarav had always dreamed of flying. Not in a plane, not with machines—just him, soaring through the sky like a bird. The idea had taken root in his mind when he was just a child, watching eagles glide effortlessly across the open sky. While other kids played cricket in the dusty fields of their village, Aarav would lie on his back, staring up, wondering what it would feel like to be weightless, to escape the limits of gravity.

But in his small village, dreams like his were considered foolish. Flying wasn’t something ordinary people did—it was reserved for the rich, the privileged, or those born into a life that had access to proper education. Aarav’s father was a farmer, his mother stitched clothes for the neighbors to earn extra money, and their biggest concern was making sure there was food on the table.

"You? Fly?" his cousin Vikram had once laughed. "You can't even reach the mangoes on the tallest branch!"

The village boys often made fun of him, but he didn’t care. His mind was always elsewhere—thinking of birds, gliders, wings, and how air could lift something as heavy as a human if only designed the right way.

With no internet, no resources, and no one to guide him, Aarav relied on whatever he could find. He borrowed tattered old books from the school library about physics and aerodynamics, though most of the concepts went over his head. He studied how birds flapped their wings and how kites danced in the wind. At night, when the village slept, he sketched designs of wings on scraps of paper, experimenting with different shapes.

One day, while walking home from school, he overheard his teacher talking about a national science competition being held in the city. The challenge? To build a working model of a human-powered glider. The winner would get a scholarship to study aviation.

Aarav’s heart pounded. This was it. This was his chance.

But how could a boy with no money, no proper tools, and no experience build something that would actually fly?

Most would have given up, but not Aarav. He scavenged materials from everywhere he could—bamboo sticks from the riverbank, cloth from his mother’s old sarees, bits of wire and metal from the scrapyard. The village mechanic, amused by Aarav’s obsession, gave him an old bicycle frame.

For months, he worked in secret, often skipping meals to save money for glue, nails, and string. His hands bled from splinters, his arms ached from sawing wood, but his spirit never wavered. Every evening, he tested small models, throwing them off the rooftop to see how they glided. Each failure taught him something new.

When his family finally found out what he was doing, they were shocked.

"Aarav, this is madness," his father scolded. "We don’t have time for dreams. You need to focus on school and help in the fields."

"But Baba," Aarav pleaded, "this is my chance. If I win, I can get a scholarship. I can study aviation!"

His father shook his head. "Dreams don’t fill stomachs."

But his mother saw the fire in his eyes. Later that night, when everyone was asleep, she quietly left a small bundle of rupees under his pillow. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had saved.

"Don’t tell your father," she whispered the next morning. "If you’re going to do this, do it right."

Aarav’s throat tightened with emotion. His mother believed in him. That was enough.

Finally, the day of the competition arrived. Aarav carried his makeshift glider—fragile but built with every ounce of his passion—on a train to the city. The moment he arrived at the competition venue, his confidence wavered.

He was surrounded by students from elite schools, their projects sleek and engineered with precision. Their gliders were made of lightweight alloys and carbon fiber, tested in wind tunnels, designed with the help of teachers and mentors.

His was a crude construction of bamboo and cloth, held together with rope and bicycle parts. The other contestants stared at it, whispering. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"That thing will never fly," someone scoffed.

A judge even raised an eyebrow when he saw Aarav’s entry. "You built this yourself?"

Aarav nodded.

"Alright then," the judge said. "Let’s see it in action."

His heart pounded as he climbed onto the launch platform. He could feel the weight of every doubt, every insult, every moment of struggle pressing against him. For a second, fear crept in. What if he failed? What if they were right?

Then he remembered the nights spent under the stars, the endless testing, the bruises and cuts, his mother’s silent support.

He took a deep breath, gripped the handlebars of his contraption, and ran.

The wind caught beneath the wings.

For a moment—a single, breathtaking moment—he was airborne.

He wasn’t just a boy from a small village anymore. He was a bird, a dreamer, a flyer.

The glider wobbled, then crashed onto the ground. Gasps filled the air.

Aarav sat up, his heart still racing. He hadn’t flown far, but he had flown.

The judges were silent. Then, applause.

A scientist in the audience, impressed by his determination and ingenuity, stepped forward. "You may not have won first place," he said, "but I see something special in you. How would you like to study aeronautics with us?"

Aarav’s breath hitched. He looked at the man, then at his broken glider.

His impossible dream had taken flight.

And this was only the beginning.