Suman Gurung stepped out of the sleek, glass-paneled office building in Shoreditch, his laptop bag tugging at his shoulder. The startup where he worked, a buzzing hub of innovation and endless deadlines, sat on a street lined with industrial chic coffee shops and street art murals. In the short winter days, the streets were already bathed in the golden glow of streetlights, and the air was sharp with the kind of cold that seeped through layers. Suman welcomed the sting. It was a grounding contrast to the cocoon of warmth and fluorescent light he’d spent the last ten hours in.
The startup life was everything he’d once dreamed of: fast-paced, challenging, and full of opportunities to create something that mattered. As a software engineer, Suman spent his days writing elegant code, debugging with precision, and brainstorming solutions with a team of equally driven colleagues. Yet, even amidst the excitement of building the next big thing, his thoughts often drifted 7,000 kilometers away to the terraced hills and quiet valleys of his home in Pokhara, Nepal.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he began the short walk to a nearby park. Shoreditch hummed with life—bike couriers zipping past, couples walking hand in hand, the muffled laughter of patrons spilling out of trendy pubs. For all its vibrancy, the city often felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with the weather. Suman loved London’s endless possibilities, but he knew he didn’t truly belong here. He wasn’t building roots; he was building bridges.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts. Two missed calls from home. He smiled faintly, imagining his sister, Maya, rolling her eyes at him for not answering right away. Maya had taken on the role of the family communicator, the one who delivered updates, shared worries, and nudged him to call more often. Suman slipped into the park, finding a quiet bench under the skeletal branches of a tree, and dialed back.
“Dai!” Maya’s voice came through immediately, bright but tinged with the familiar undercurrent of worry. “Bhai’s school sent a notice. The exam fees are due next week.”
Suman closed his eyes, picturing their small house in Pokhara, his father’s weathered hands holding the letter as he debated whether or not to trouble his son. He could see his mother, wringing her hands and insisting they manage without bothering him. And then there was Maya, practical and unflinching, the one who always called anyway.
“How much is it?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
Maya hesitated before answering, “Twenty-five thousand rupees. And Baba needs a refill of his medication, too.”
Suman nodded to himself, even though she couldn’t see him. “I’ll take care of it,” he said firmly. “Don’t worry about anything.”
After a few more minutes of catching up, Maya ended the call with her usual laugh. “Take care of yourself, Dai. Don’t work too hard.”
Suman leaned back against the bench, the faint drizzle soaking into his coat. He stared at the glowing screen of his phone, his thoughts circling the call. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to step in, and it wouldn’t be the last. He didn’t resent it—if anything, it gave his work purpose. But the weight of responsibility was always there, pressing down on him like a steady, familiar hand.
He opened the MoneyTO app on his phone, its clean interface glowing softly in the dark. Over the past year, it had become a lifeline, a way to stay connected to home in the most tangible sense. It wasn’t just an app; it was a bridge between his two worlds. A few taps later, he entered the amount for the school fees, added some extra for his father’s medication, and another bit for Maya’s textbooks. His thumb hovered briefly over the “Send” button before pressing it, sealing the act with quiet finality.
The confirmation screen appeared, a simple acknowledgment of a complex bond. Suman sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The satisfaction of knowing he’d eased their worries, even for a while, was tempered by the nagging thought of how much more he wanted to do.
His phone vibrated again, this time with a WhatsApp message from Maya: Got the transfer already? You’re so fast, Dai! Baba’s smiling. Thank you.
He smiled to himself, reading the message twice before tucking the phone back into his pocket. The wind picked up, rustling the few remaining leaves clinging to the trees. Suman stood, stretching his arms to loosen the knots in his shoulders from a day spent hunched over his laptop. The walk to the tube station wasn’t far, but he made his way slowly, savoring the quiet.
As he walked, his thoughts drifted to his family. His father had once been the backbone of their home, a man of quiet strength who worked the fields without complaint. But the years had caught up with him, and now Suman carried that weight. Maya was thriving at university, but tuition didn’t come cheap, and their younger brother’s dream of becoming an engineer would require even more sacrifices. Suman bore it all willingly. Every line of code he wrote, every late night he spent debugging a stubborn issue, was for them.
By the time he reached the station, the rain had picked up, streaking the glass walls of the escalator as he descended into the Underground. The city’s energy was still palpable, even underground, with its hurried commuters and the constant rumble of trains. Suman slipped into a seat on the train, his mind already shifting to tomorrow’s tasks: a sprint meeting at 10, a debugging session in the afternoon, and a looming product demo at the end of the week.
The startup life was relentless, but it had given him the tools to build the life he wanted—not for himself, but for his family. He thought of Maya’s laughter, his brother’s ambition, and his father’s pride. They were the reason he worked so hard, why he endured the long hours and the aching distance. They were his purpose.
As the train sped through the tunnels, Suman leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The scarf around his neck felt heavier, a quiet reminder of home, of the lives he was tied to by invisible threads. And in the stillness of that moment, as the train rattled on, he allowed himself a rare feeling of peace. For now, he had done enough.