22-01-2026, 04:26 PM
Vikram returned home that evening just as the streetlights flickered on outside their Rohini flat. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and damp. He found Tulika at the small dining table, surrounded by open books and a laptop screen glowing with a mock test scorecard—another near-miss, seven marks short of the simulated cutoff.
She didn’t look up when he entered. “You’re late.”
“Client meeting ran over,” he lied smoothly, hanging his jacket on the hook. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, the cold water doing nothing to calm the pulse hammering in his ears. Malhotra’s words kept replaying: *Eighteen and a half. Half now, half after prelims. Trust is expensive.*
He dried his hands slowly, buying time. Then he walked over, pulled out the chair opposite her, and sat.
“Tulika,” he began quietly. “We need to talk about what you told me. About that man at the chai stall.”
She closed the laptop with a soft click. “I already told you. I’m not interested.”
“I know what you said.” Vikram leaned forward, elbows on the table, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “But I went to see him today.”
Her expression hardened. “You went behind my back?”
“I went to ask questions. Only questions. I needed to know if he’s real or just another fraudster preying on desperate people.”
Tulika crossed her arms. “And?”
“He seemed… credible. He knew things—specific things—about how the commission works, the internal ranking process, the way names get adjusted in the final list. He even mentioned a batch from last year, gave roll numbers that matched the selected list. I checked online after I left. It’s true.”
She stared at him. “So what? That doesn’t make it right.”
“I’m not saying it’s right.” Vikram’s voice dropped lower, almost pleading. “I’m saying it’s happening. Whether we like it or not. And we’re running out of time, jaan. Six years. Six attempts. Every time you come so close, and every time something small—a silly mistake in Quant, a bad day in English—pushes you back. You’re brilliant. You know that. But the system isn’t fair. It never has been.”
Tulika looked away, toward the balcony where the potted tulsi plant shivered in the evening breeze. “I won’t cheat.”
“This isn’t cheating on your part,” he said carefully. “You’ve already done the work. You’ve studied more than most people ever will. This is just… levelling the field. A one-time adjustment. After that, it’s all you—mains, interview, everything on merit. You’ll shine there. I know you will.”
She shook her head. “You sound like him now.”
“Maybe I do. Because I’m tired, Tulika. Tired of watching you kill yourself over this exam. Tired of seeing you come home with red eyes and that look—like you’re failing me, failing us. Tired of the bills piling up while we wait for a miracle that might never come.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. She didn’t pull away, but her fingers stayed stiff.
“Eighteen and a half lakhs,” he continued softly. “I can arrange it. I’ll sell the fixed deposit, borrow from my cousin in Ludhiana, maybe take a small loan against the flat. It’s a lot, but it’s doable. And if it works—if your name clears prelims comfortably—you’ll have the peace to focus on the next stage without this constant fear hanging over you.”
Tulika’s eyes filled. “And if it doesn’t work? If he takes the money and disappears?”
“Then we lose the money. But we’re already losing—time, health, hope. At least this way we take a real shot. One calculated risk. For our future. For the life we talked about on Necklace Road. Remember? The postings abroad, the flat with a view, the security we both deserve.”
She was silent for a long time. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the quiet room.
Vikram squeezed her hand gently. “I won’t force you. I swear. If you say no right now, I’ll delete his number and never mention it again. We’ll keep going the way we have—hard work, merit, whatever comes. But I had to ask you to think about it. Really think. Because I love you, and I hate seeing you suffer like this.”
Tulika looked down at their joined hands. Her wedding ring glinted under the tube light—simple gold, slightly scratched after all these years.
“How much time do we have?” she asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.
“He said the offer closes soon. Before prelims registration ends.”
Another long silence.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it: “I need to think.”
Vikram nodded. He released her hand, stood up, and went to the kitchen to make her favourite adrak chai. When he returned with two steaming cups, she hadn’t moved. She took the cup without looking at him.
They sat like that for the rest of the evening—quiet, separate, but still in the same room. The weight of the decision settled between them like a third presence, patient and unyielding.
Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent to the small, desperate choices being made in one flat among thousands.
She didn’t look up when he entered. “You’re late.”
“Client meeting ran over,” he lied smoothly, hanging his jacket on the hook. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, the cold water doing nothing to calm the pulse hammering in his ears. Malhotra’s words kept replaying: *Eighteen and a half. Half now, half after prelims. Trust is expensive.*
He dried his hands slowly, buying time. Then he walked over, pulled out the chair opposite her, and sat.
“Tulika,” he began quietly. “We need to talk about what you told me. About that man at the chai stall.”
She closed the laptop with a soft click. “I already told you. I’m not interested.”
“I know what you said.” Vikram leaned forward, elbows on the table, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “But I went to see him today.”
Her expression hardened. “You went behind my back?”
“I went to ask questions. Only questions. I needed to know if he’s real or just another fraudster preying on desperate people.”
Tulika crossed her arms. “And?”
“He seemed… credible. He knew things—specific things—about how the commission works, the internal ranking process, the way names get adjusted in the final list. He even mentioned a batch from last year, gave roll numbers that matched the selected list. I checked online after I left. It’s true.”
She stared at him. “So what? That doesn’t make it right.”
“I’m not saying it’s right.” Vikram’s voice dropped lower, almost pleading. “I’m saying it’s happening. Whether we like it or not. And we’re running out of time, jaan. Six years. Six attempts. Every time you come so close, and every time something small—a silly mistake in Quant, a bad day in English—pushes you back. You’re brilliant. You know that. But the system isn’t fair. It never has been.”
Tulika looked away, toward the balcony where the potted tulsi plant shivered in the evening breeze. “I won’t cheat.”
“This isn’t cheating on your part,” he said carefully. “You’ve already done the work. You’ve studied more than most people ever will. This is just… levelling the field. A one-time adjustment. After that, it’s all you—mains, interview, everything on merit. You’ll shine there. I know you will.”
She shook her head. “You sound like him now.”
“Maybe I do. Because I’m tired, Tulika. Tired of watching you kill yourself over this exam. Tired of seeing you come home with red eyes and that look—like you’re failing me, failing us. Tired of the bills piling up while we wait for a miracle that might never come.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. She didn’t pull away, but her fingers stayed stiff.
“Eighteen and a half lakhs,” he continued softly. “I can arrange it. I’ll sell the fixed deposit, borrow from my cousin in Ludhiana, maybe take a small loan against the flat. It’s a lot, but it’s doable. And if it works—if your name clears prelims comfortably—you’ll have the peace to focus on the next stage without this constant fear hanging over you.”
Tulika’s eyes filled. “And if it doesn’t work? If he takes the money and disappears?”
“Then we lose the money. But we’re already losing—time, health, hope. At least this way we take a real shot. One calculated risk. For our future. For the life we talked about on Necklace Road. Remember? The postings abroad, the flat with a view, the security we both deserve.”
She was silent for a long time. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the quiet room.
Vikram squeezed her hand gently. “I won’t force you. I swear. If you say no right now, I’ll delete his number and never mention it again. We’ll keep going the way we have—hard work, merit, whatever comes. But I had to ask you to think about it. Really think. Because I love you, and I hate seeing you suffer like this.”
Tulika looked down at their joined hands. Her wedding ring glinted under the tube light—simple gold, slightly scratched after all these years.
“How much time do we have?” she asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.
“He said the offer closes soon. Before prelims registration ends.”
Another long silence.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it: “I need to think.”
Vikram nodded. He released her hand, stood up, and went to the kitchen to make her favourite adrak chai. When he returned with two steaming cups, she hadn’t moved. She took the cup without looking at him.
They sat like that for the rest of the evening—quiet, separate, but still in the same room. The weight of the decision settled between them like a third presence, patient and unyielding.
Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent to the small, desperate choices being made in one flat among thousands.
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