22-01-2026, 04:00 PM
The coaching centre in Laxmi Nagar was a narrow four-storey building squeezed between a photocopy shop and a dosa stall. Every morning Tulika arrived by 7:30, climbed the steep stairs to the third floor, and claimed the same corner seat near the window. The classroom smelled of stale coffee, damp notebooks, and the collective anxiety of two hundred aspirants. The teacher—a thin man in his fifties with a perpetual frown—rattled through Polity MCQs at machine-gun speed while students scribbled furiously.
Tulika’s fears had sharpened into something physical over the years. She felt them in the tightness of her throat during mock tests, in the way her palms sweated when the cutoff discussion began. Every time the teacher announced, “Only the top 5% will make it to mains,” her stomach twisted. She was good—consistently in the top twenty in her batch—but good wasn’t enough. Not when lakhs applied for a few hundred posts.
One humid afternoon in late July, after a particularly brutal Quant session where she lost eight marks on simple percentage questions, Tulika stepped out for air. The sky was the colour of wet cement. She crossed the lane to the small chai stall under a tin awning, the one with the blue plastic chairs and the eternal queue.
She ordered a cutting chai and stood to the side, staring at her phone, re-reading the same wrong answer explanation for the third time.
A man in his late forties, pot-bellied, wearing a checked shirt two sizes too small, stepped up beside her. He had small eyes behind thick glasses and a thin moustache stained faintly orange from paan.
“Madamji, SSC?” he asked, nodding at the stack of printed notes peeking out of her bag.
Tulika glanced up, surprised. “Yes. You too?”
He laughed—a short, oily sound. “No, no. I just sit here every day. Watch people like you come and go. Same worried face, same big dreams.”
She gave a polite smile and turned back to her phone.
He didn’t leave. “Tough exam. Very tough. Cutoff keeps rising. You must be preparing for years now.”
“Four,” she said quietly, not wanting to encourage him.
“Four years. Wah. Dedication. But dedication alone doesn’t always win, does it? Sometimes you need… a little push.”
Tulika looked at him properly now. “What do you mean?”
He lowered his voice, leaning closer so the tea-w,.' wouldn’t hear. “I know people. Inside. In the commission. A small amount—twenty-five, thirty lakhs—and your name can move up. Not much. Just enough to cross the line.”
Her stomach dropped. “You’re talking about bribe.”
“Call it facilitation fee. Everyone does it quietly. You think all those selected candidates are purely merit? Come on, madamji.”
Tulika stepped back. “I don’t do that.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But when the result comes and your name is just below the cutoff… remember the offer is open. Ask for Malhotra. Everyone here knows me.”
He handed her a crumpled visiting card—plain white, only a mobile number and “Malhotra Consultancy” printed in faded ink.
She took it automatically, more out of reflex than interest, then dropped it into her bag like it burned.
That evening she told Vikram while they ate rajma-chawal on the small dining table.
“He said twenty-five lakhs. Just like that.”
Vikram’s spoon paused. “And?”
“And nothing. I’m not doing it.”
He nodded slowly. “Of course. But… did he seem serious? Like he actually knows people?”
“I don’t care. It’s wrong.”
Vikram didn’t push then. But the next week, when she passed the chai stall again, Malhotra was there—same chair, same cup of tea.
“Thought about it, madamji?”
“No.”
“Thirty now. Prices are going up. Last chance before prelims.”
She walked past without answering.
It became a pattern. Every few days he would be there—sometimes alone, sometimes with another man in a safari suit. He never raised his voice, never threatened. Just the same calm, oily offer.
“Twenty-eight lakhs. Cash. One instalment. Your roll number moves up. Simple.”
“Twenty-five final. I like you, madamji. Special discount.”
“You look tired today. Result tension? One phone call from me and tension over.”
Tulika started taking a different lane to avoid the stall, but the lane looped back to the metro anyway. Malhotra was always there, patient as a vulture.
One rainy afternoon in September she was soaked, umbrella forgotten in the classroom. She ducked under the awning for shelter. Malhotra was already sipping chai.
“See? Even the sky wants you to listen.”
She glared. “Stop following me.”
“I sit here every day. You’re the one who keeps coming.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by rain drumming on tin.
“Twenty lakhs,” he said quietly. “Last price. After that, offer closes. Think of your husband. Think of the flat EMIs. Think of how many more years you want to sit in that classroom.”
Tulika’s hand tightened on her bag strap. She thought of the latest mock test—missed cutoff by seven marks. She thought of Vikram coming home defeated again, of the growing stack of bills on the fridge.
She turned and walked into the rain without a word.
But the card stayed in her purse.
And that night, when she lay beside Vikram, listening to his even breathing, the number on that card burned quietly in her mind.
Tulika’s fears had sharpened into something physical over the years. She felt them in the tightness of her throat during mock tests, in the way her palms sweated when the cutoff discussion began. Every time the teacher announced, “Only the top 5% will make it to mains,” her stomach twisted. She was good—consistently in the top twenty in her batch—but good wasn’t enough. Not when lakhs applied for a few hundred posts.
One humid afternoon in late July, after a particularly brutal Quant session where she lost eight marks on simple percentage questions, Tulika stepped out for air. The sky was the colour of wet cement. She crossed the lane to the small chai stall under a tin awning, the one with the blue plastic chairs and the eternal queue.
She ordered a cutting chai and stood to the side, staring at her phone, re-reading the same wrong answer explanation for the third time.
A man in his late forties, pot-bellied, wearing a checked shirt two sizes too small, stepped up beside her. He had small eyes behind thick glasses and a thin moustache stained faintly orange from paan.
“Madamji, SSC?” he asked, nodding at the stack of printed notes peeking out of her bag.
Tulika glanced up, surprised. “Yes. You too?”
He laughed—a short, oily sound. “No, no. I just sit here every day. Watch people like you come and go. Same worried face, same big dreams.”
She gave a polite smile and turned back to her phone.
He didn’t leave. “Tough exam. Very tough. Cutoff keeps rising. You must be preparing for years now.”
“Four,” she said quietly, not wanting to encourage him.
“Four years. Wah. Dedication. But dedication alone doesn’t always win, does it? Sometimes you need… a little push.”
Tulika looked at him properly now. “What do you mean?”
He lowered his voice, leaning closer so the tea-w,.' wouldn’t hear. “I know people. Inside. In the commission. A small amount—twenty-five, thirty lakhs—and your name can move up. Not much. Just enough to cross the line.”
Her stomach dropped. “You’re talking about bribe.”
“Call it facilitation fee. Everyone does it quietly. You think all those selected candidates are purely merit? Come on, madamji.”
Tulika stepped back. “I don’t do that.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But when the result comes and your name is just below the cutoff… remember the offer is open. Ask for Malhotra. Everyone here knows me.”
He handed her a crumpled visiting card—plain white, only a mobile number and “Malhotra Consultancy” printed in faded ink.
She took it automatically, more out of reflex than interest, then dropped it into her bag like it burned.
That evening she told Vikram while they ate rajma-chawal on the small dining table.
“He said twenty-five lakhs. Just like that.”
Vikram’s spoon paused. “And?”
“And nothing. I’m not doing it.”
He nodded slowly. “Of course. But… did he seem serious? Like he actually knows people?”
“I don’t care. It’s wrong.”
Vikram didn’t push then. But the next week, when she passed the chai stall again, Malhotra was there—same chair, same cup of tea.
“Thought about it, madamji?”
“No.”
“Thirty now. Prices are going up. Last chance before prelims.”
She walked past without answering.
It became a pattern. Every few days he would be there—sometimes alone, sometimes with another man in a safari suit. He never raised his voice, never threatened. Just the same calm, oily offer.
“Twenty-eight lakhs. Cash. One instalment. Your roll number moves up. Simple.”
“Twenty-five final. I like you, madamji. Special discount.”
“You look tired today. Result tension? One phone call from me and tension over.”
Tulika started taking a different lane to avoid the stall, but the lane looped back to the metro anyway. Malhotra was always there, patient as a vulture.
One rainy afternoon in September she was soaked, umbrella forgotten in the classroom. She ducked under the awning for shelter. Malhotra was already sipping chai.
“See? Even the sky wants you to listen.”
She glared. “Stop following me.”
“I sit here every day. You’re the one who keeps coming.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by rain drumming on tin.
“Twenty lakhs,” he said quietly. “Last price. After that, offer closes. Think of your husband. Think of the flat EMIs. Think of how many more years you want to sit in that classroom.”
Tulika’s hand tightened on her bag strap. She thought of the latest mock test—missed cutoff by seven marks. She thought of Vikram coming home defeated again, of the growing stack of bills on the fridge.
She turned and walked into the rain without a word.
But the card stayed in her purse.
And that night, when she lay beside Vikram, listening to his even breathing, the number on that card burned quietly in her mind.
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