08-01-2026, 10:00 PM
Tulika Kapoor pushed open the door to their cramped Rohini flat just as the first rays of morning sun filtered through the smoggy Delhi skyline. The air inside smelled stale—of last night's half-eaten dal-roti and Vikram's lingering whiskey breath. He was still sprawled on the sofa where she had left him hours ago, one arm dangling off the edge, his face slack in uneasy sleep. The empty glass had tipped over, leaving a dark stain on the threadbare carpet.
She paused in the doorway, watching him. Vikram looked smaller in repose, his sharp features softened by exhaustion, the premature gray at his temples more pronounced in the dawn light. At 32, he carried the weight of unfulfilled ambitions like a poorly tailored suit—his lean frame starting to sag around the middle from too many skipped meals and stress-fueled binges. His fair skin was sallow now, marked by faint lines around his eyes from squinting at loan documents and failed investment apps. He snored softly, oblivious to the storm that had nearly claimed her.
Tulika slipped off her shoes quietly, not wanting to wake him yet. Her own reflection caught her in the small mirror by the entrance: 29 years old, wheatish skin flushed from the cold walk, long black hair disheveled from the wind, almond-shaped eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Her body, once slim and unassuming, had filled out over the years into soft curves—a voluptuous hourglass that turned heads in the ministry corridors she dreamed of walking. But tonight, she felt every inch of it like a burden, heavy with secrets and the life stirring faintly inside her.
She moved to the bathroom, turning on the tap with a creak. The water was icy, but she stripped off her saree anyway, letting it pool on the tiled floor. Under the dim bulb, her figure was a map of quiet changes: full breasts that strained against her blouse hooks, a rounded belly that hinted at more than just recent indulgences, wide hips that swayed with unintended grace. She scrubbed her skin raw with the cheap soap, as if she could wash away the night's despair along with the river's chill. The orphan girl's wave replayed in her mind—a small hand cutting through the darkness like a lifeline.
Dressed in a fresh pink salwar kameez, Tulika brewed chai on the gas stove, the familiar ritual grounding her. The aroma filled the flat, stirring Vikram awake. He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. "Tulika? Where were you? I waited up..."
She set a cup in front of him without a word, her expression unreadable. "Out. Thinking."
He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. "About us? The results are today. It'll change everything, you'll see."
Tulika stared into her own cup, the steam rising like forgotten promises. Her mind drifted back, unbidden, to a time when "everything" had seemed possible. To Hyderabad, seven years ago, when she was still Tulika Rao—a typical college girl, all sharp angles and youthful energy, far from the woman she had become.
It was the monsoon season of 2019, the air thick with petrichor and the promise of renewal. Tulika Rao, 22 and in her final year of Master's in Political Science at Osmania University, navigated the crowded campus with a backpack slung over one shoulder. She was the epitome of a college-going girl back then: slim and lanky at 5'6", with a boyish figure that hadn't yet blossomed into curves—flat-chested enough to borrow her roommate's T-shirts without issue, narrow hips that made jeans hang loose, and a waist that disappeared into straight lines rather than dipping into an hourglass. Her wheatish skin glowed from daily walks to class, free of makeup except for a quick swipe of kajal around her almond eyes. Long black hair was always tied in a practical ponytail, swinging as she hurried between lectures on governance and international relations. She had that fresh-faced innocence—full lips often curved in a thoughtful smile, cheeks dimpling when she laughed at her friends' jokes about boys and exams.
Life was simple: mornings in the library poring over UPSC prep books (even then, her dream of a government job burned bright), afternoons debating politics in the canteen over idli-sambar, evenings helping her widowed mother run their modest two-room home in Begumpet. Tulika's motivation was rooted in survival—her father's early death had left them scbanging by on her mother's tailoring gigs. She vowed to break the cycle, to secure a stable job that meant independence, travel, respect.
The engagement party changed everything. It was her friend Priya's sister's bash in Banjara Hills, a splashy affair with fairy lights strung across the lawn and a DJ blasting Telugu hits. Tulika had come straight from a group study session, dressed in a borrowed green anarkali that hung a bit loose on her slender frame, her ponytail slightly frizzy from the rain. She was on tray duty, balancing glasses of kesar badam milk, when disaster struck.
A young man backed into her path, his elbow knocking the tray. Hot filter coffee splashed across her dupatta, soaking through to her skin.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" He spun around, hands outstretched. Vikram Kapoor, 25 and fresh from Punjab, was in Hyderabad chasing a property deal that promised quick riches. He was lean and energetic then, 5'9" with fair skin, short black hair styled with gel, and sharp features that lit up with a boyish grin. Dressed in a crisp white kurta-pajama that screamed "out-of-towner trying hard," he looked mortified but charming.
"Let me help," he insisted, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at the stain with gentle pats. "I'm Vikram. And apparently, a walking hazard."
Tulika couldn't help but laugh, her dimples flashing. "Tulika. It's fine, really. Coffee washes out."
But Vikram wouldn't hear of it. He spent the evening making amends—fetching her a fresh dupatta from Priya's wardrobe, regaling her with tales of Delhi's chaos and his grand plans. "One big deal, and I'm set. Flats in posh areas, cars, the works. You should see it—Delhi's where dreams happen."
She was intrigued. No boy had ever talked to her like that, with such fire. Over the next weeks, he pursued her with the persistence of a monsoon storm: daily texts turning into coffee dates at old Irani cafés, where they'd share chai and dreams. Vikram listened to her ambitions—the SSC exam, ministry postings abroad, escaping the grind. He painted their future in vivid strokes: "You'll be the officer, I'll handle the business. Together, we'll conquer Delhi."
Long drives along Necklace Road became their ritual, windows down, rain pattering on the roof as they held hands. Tulika, with her slim fingers intertwined in his, felt seen for the first time. Her friends teased her about the "Delhi boy," but her mother worried: "He promises too much, beta. Be careful."
One rainy evening by Hussain Sagar Lake, under the shadow of the massive Buddha statue, Vikram knelt in a puddle with a simple gold ring. "Marry me, Tulika. Let's build that life. I promise it'll be everything we want."
Her heart raced. At 22, with her lanky frame leaning into his embrace, she said yes. The world felt full of possibility.
The wedding was modest—a temple ceremony in Secunderabad, garlands of marigolds, her mother wiping tears as Vikram tied the mangalsutra around Tulika's neck. She wore a red silk saree that dbangd awkwardly over her slim figure, but her eyes shone with hope. Two weeks later, they boarded the train to Delhi, Tulika clutching her new surname like a talisman.
Back in the present, the chai had gone cold. Vikram's voice pulled her from the reverie. "Tulika? You okay?"
She met his eyes, the weight of seven years between them. "The results are today," she said flatly. "We'll see what changes."
She paused in the doorway, watching him. Vikram looked smaller in repose, his sharp features softened by exhaustion, the premature gray at his temples more pronounced in the dawn light. At 32, he carried the weight of unfulfilled ambitions like a poorly tailored suit—his lean frame starting to sag around the middle from too many skipped meals and stress-fueled binges. His fair skin was sallow now, marked by faint lines around his eyes from squinting at loan documents and failed investment apps. He snored softly, oblivious to the storm that had nearly claimed her.
Tulika slipped off her shoes quietly, not wanting to wake him yet. Her own reflection caught her in the small mirror by the entrance: 29 years old, wheatish skin flushed from the cold walk, long black hair disheveled from the wind, almond-shaped eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Her body, once slim and unassuming, had filled out over the years into soft curves—a voluptuous hourglass that turned heads in the ministry corridors she dreamed of walking. But tonight, she felt every inch of it like a burden, heavy with secrets and the life stirring faintly inside her.
She moved to the bathroom, turning on the tap with a creak. The water was icy, but she stripped off her saree anyway, letting it pool on the tiled floor. Under the dim bulb, her figure was a map of quiet changes: full breasts that strained against her blouse hooks, a rounded belly that hinted at more than just recent indulgences, wide hips that swayed with unintended grace. She scrubbed her skin raw with the cheap soap, as if she could wash away the night's despair along with the river's chill. The orphan girl's wave replayed in her mind—a small hand cutting through the darkness like a lifeline.
Dressed in a fresh pink salwar kameez, Tulika brewed chai on the gas stove, the familiar ritual grounding her. The aroma filled the flat, stirring Vikram awake. He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. "Tulika? Where were you? I waited up..."
She set a cup in front of him without a word, her expression unreadable. "Out. Thinking."
He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. "About us? The results are today. It'll change everything, you'll see."
Tulika stared into her own cup, the steam rising like forgotten promises. Her mind drifted back, unbidden, to a time when "everything" had seemed possible. To Hyderabad, seven years ago, when she was still Tulika Rao—a typical college girl, all sharp angles and youthful energy, far from the woman she had become.
It was the monsoon season of 2019, the air thick with petrichor and the promise of renewal. Tulika Rao, 22 and in her final year of Master's in Political Science at Osmania University, navigated the crowded campus with a backpack slung over one shoulder. She was the epitome of a college-going girl back then: slim and lanky at 5'6", with a boyish figure that hadn't yet blossomed into curves—flat-chested enough to borrow her roommate's T-shirts without issue, narrow hips that made jeans hang loose, and a waist that disappeared into straight lines rather than dipping into an hourglass. Her wheatish skin glowed from daily walks to class, free of makeup except for a quick swipe of kajal around her almond eyes. Long black hair was always tied in a practical ponytail, swinging as she hurried between lectures on governance and international relations. She had that fresh-faced innocence—full lips often curved in a thoughtful smile, cheeks dimpling when she laughed at her friends' jokes about boys and exams.
Life was simple: mornings in the library poring over UPSC prep books (even then, her dream of a government job burned bright), afternoons debating politics in the canteen over idli-sambar, evenings helping her widowed mother run their modest two-room home in Begumpet. Tulika's motivation was rooted in survival—her father's early death had left them scbanging by on her mother's tailoring gigs. She vowed to break the cycle, to secure a stable job that meant independence, travel, respect.
The engagement party changed everything. It was her friend Priya's sister's bash in Banjara Hills, a splashy affair with fairy lights strung across the lawn and a DJ blasting Telugu hits. Tulika had come straight from a group study session, dressed in a borrowed green anarkali that hung a bit loose on her slender frame, her ponytail slightly frizzy from the rain. She was on tray duty, balancing glasses of kesar badam milk, when disaster struck.
A young man backed into her path, his elbow knocking the tray. Hot filter coffee splashed across her dupatta, soaking through to her skin.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" He spun around, hands outstretched. Vikram Kapoor, 25 and fresh from Punjab, was in Hyderabad chasing a property deal that promised quick riches. He was lean and energetic then, 5'9" with fair skin, short black hair styled with gel, and sharp features that lit up with a boyish grin. Dressed in a crisp white kurta-pajama that screamed "out-of-towner trying hard," he looked mortified but charming.
"Let me help," he insisted, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at the stain with gentle pats. "I'm Vikram. And apparently, a walking hazard."
Tulika couldn't help but laugh, her dimples flashing. "Tulika. It's fine, really. Coffee washes out."
But Vikram wouldn't hear of it. He spent the evening making amends—fetching her a fresh dupatta from Priya's wardrobe, regaling her with tales of Delhi's chaos and his grand plans. "One big deal, and I'm set. Flats in posh areas, cars, the works. You should see it—Delhi's where dreams happen."
She was intrigued. No boy had ever talked to her like that, with such fire. Over the next weeks, he pursued her with the persistence of a monsoon storm: daily texts turning into coffee dates at old Irani cafés, where they'd share chai and dreams. Vikram listened to her ambitions—the SSC exam, ministry postings abroad, escaping the grind. He painted their future in vivid strokes: "You'll be the officer, I'll handle the business. Together, we'll conquer Delhi."
Long drives along Necklace Road became their ritual, windows down, rain pattering on the roof as they held hands. Tulika, with her slim fingers intertwined in his, felt seen for the first time. Her friends teased her about the "Delhi boy," but her mother worried: "He promises too much, beta. Be careful."
One rainy evening by Hussain Sagar Lake, under the shadow of the massive Buddha statue, Vikram knelt in a puddle with a simple gold ring. "Marry me, Tulika. Let's build that life. I promise it'll be everything we want."
Her heart raced. At 22, with her lanky frame leaning into his embrace, she said yes. The world felt full of possibility.
The wedding was modest—a temple ceremony in Secunderabad, garlands of marigolds, her mother wiping tears as Vikram tied the mangalsutra around Tulika's neck. She wore a red silk saree that dbangd awkwardly over her slim figure, but her eyes shone with hope. Two weeks later, they boarded the train to Delhi, Tulika clutching her new surname like a talisman.
Back in the present, the chai had gone cold. Vikram's voice pulled her from the reverie. "Tulika? You okay?"
She met his eyes, the weight of seven years between them. "The results are today," she said flatly. "We'll see what changes."
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