30-01-2026, 04:06 PM
Chapter 10: The Hidden Room & A Stranger's Mercy
For weeks Vikram stayed in the back room of the mansion—a forgotten corner of the old building that no one talked about. The main hostel buzzed with life, but this section was hidden behind overgrown vines and cracked walls, almost like it had been abandoned years ago.
Inside, though, it was surprisingly decent: a small hall with a cot, a fan, a tiny kitchenette, and a bathroom that still worked. Mohan had built the new hostel block in front, but he never demolished the old one. A few close friends in his political circle had quietly asked to use it for "temporary hideouts"—politicians dodging raids, rowdies lying low, or shady deals being planned away from prying eyes. Mohan never advertised it. It just sat there, useful when needed.
Vikram barely left the room. Mohan brought food twice a day—simple rice, dal, sometimes fish curry—and a bottle of cheap liquor to share in the evenings. At first it was just one drink to dull the pain. Then two. Then the bottle. The liquor took its toll fast. Vikram forgot why he had come to Chennai. The mechanical dreams, the degree, the ring hidden in his trunk—all faded into a haze. He slept through days, woke with headaches, stared at the ceiling remembering Malar’s moans, Malavika’s smile, Suresh’s punch. The dark fire inside him dulled to embers. He became someone he didn’t recognize.
Mohan watched it happen and felt wrong. He had introduced the boy to liquor thinking it would help him sleep, help him forget. Instead it was slowly killing the sharp mind he had once believed in.
Sekaran, the bigshot politico, started using the room more often. Thick-necked, gold-ringed fingers, expensive shirt always unbuttoned at the top. He appreciated Vikram for the small errands—cigars, beer, snacks—for mere 100, 200 rupees. Whenever a new visitor came, Sekaran would call for Vikram. "That boy is reliable," he'd say. "No questions, no drama." Vikram did it mechanically, the only thing keeping him from total collapse.
One night Sekaran was sitting in the hall when the constable arrived.
The same constable who had taken Vikram to the village station months ago. He came for a different dark business: a politico-linked subject, hush money, threats. Sekaran listened, nodded, promised to handle it.
Then he asked the constable to wait upstairs while he finished his drink—there were some guests Sekaran didn’t want to share his deals with.
The constable climbed the stairs, opened the door, and saw Vikram sprawled on the cot—drunk, snoring, empty bottle beside him.
He woke the boy gently. Vikram blinked, confused.
“You…” the constable said. “I remember you. The village case.”
Vikram sat up slowly, head pounding.
Sekaran appeared at the doorway, curious. “You know him?”
The constable nodded. “This guy was falsely labeled a thief back in the village. I enquired myself—he was first in his academy, a nice person. Due to a woman’s lie he’s facing this.”
Sekaran listened to the full Malar story—ring, expulsion, family turning on him. His face changed.
He turned to Mohan. “Is he drinking because of Malar?”
Mohan looked down. “No, sir. Malar was the first blow. The latest one was worse. A woman named Malavika—Suresh’s girlfriend, the one who got him the job. He molested his friend’s girlfriend… that’s what everyone says now. His name got ruined because of that. He says he is not at fault, but there is no proof. The mansion threw him out. He’s been drowning ever since.”
Sekaran frowned. “I don’t get this. Can you share the full story like the constable did?”
Mohan explained the full scene-by-scene betrayal from Suresh’s point of view—how Vikram was caught nude on the bed, Malavika crying and accusing him of molestation, witnesses confirming the shouts, Suresh’s punch and disbelief, the question about who made him nude, Vikram’s guilty silence, the eviction.
Sekaran asked a few sharp questions—questions that turned the entire drama inside out.
“How did Kaushik the manager arrive so soon from a 30-minute travel place?”
“Why didn’t she call Suresh first?”
“Going by what you all said, did you see the clothes were torn? How did you believe he was trying to bang her?”
He laughed—hard, bitter. “I believe he was betrayed a second time.”
Then he looked at Vikram, still half-drunk, eyes glassy.
“Mohan, I don’t want to see a sharp mind getting wasted. Look—his academics are good. It’s a shame. I know the pain of not getting educated. Sharp minds should not go wasted.”
He paused.
“Don’t give him liquor tomorrow. Ask him to meet me. I have two offers. Let’s see where he fits in.”
Mohan nodded, eyes shining. “Somewhere I too trust him… and I wanted to. Glad he is… thanks, sir.”
The drunken Vikram didn’t know it yet, but unknown forces—strangers, mercy from a man who had seen too many wasted lives—were about to shape him better.
For weeks Vikram stayed in the back room of the mansion—a forgotten corner of the old building that no one talked about. The main hostel buzzed with life, but this section was hidden behind overgrown vines and cracked walls, almost like it had been abandoned years ago.
Inside, though, it was surprisingly decent: a small hall with a cot, a fan, a tiny kitchenette, and a bathroom that still worked. Mohan had built the new hostel block in front, but he never demolished the old one. A few close friends in his political circle had quietly asked to use it for "temporary hideouts"—politicians dodging raids, rowdies lying low, or shady deals being planned away from prying eyes. Mohan never advertised it. It just sat there, useful when needed.
Vikram barely left the room. Mohan brought food twice a day—simple rice, dal, sometimes fish curry—and a bottle of cheap liquor to share in the evenings. At first it was just one drink to dull the pain. Then two. Then the bottle. The liquor took its toll fast. Vikram forgot why he had come to Chennai. The mechanical dreams, the degree, the ring hidden in his trunk—all faded into a haze. He slept through days, woke with headaches, stared at the ceiling remembering Malar’s moans, Malavika’s smile, Suresh’s punch. The dark fire inside him dulled to embers. He became someone he didn’t recognize.
Mohan watched it happen and felt wrong. He had introduced the boy to liquor thinking it would help him sleep, help him forget. Instead it was slowly killing the sharp mind he had once believed in.
Sekaran, the bigshot politico, started using the room more often. Thick-necked, gold-ringed fingers, expensive shirt always unbuttoned at the top. He appreciated Vikram for the small errands—cigars, beer, snacks—for mere 100, 200 rupees. Whenever a new visitor came, Sekaran would call for Vikram. "That boy is reliable," he'd say. "No questions, no drama." Vikram did it mechanically, the only thing keeping him from total collapse.
One night Sekaran was sitting in the hall when the constable arrived.
The same constable who had taken Vikram to the village station months ago. He came for a different dark business: a politico-linked subject, hush money, threats. Sekaran listened, nodded, promised to handle it.
Then he asked the constable to wait upstairs while he finished his drink—there were some guests Sekaran didn’t want to share his deals with.
The constable climbed the stairs, opened the door, and saw Vikram sprawled on the cot—drunk, snoring, empty bottle beside him.
He woke the boy gently. Vikram blinked, confused.
“You…” the constable said. “I remember you. The village case.”
Vikram sat up slowly, head pounding.
Sekaran appeared at the doorway, curious. “You know him?”
The constable nodded. “This guy was falsely labeled a thief back in the village. I enquired myself—he was first in his academy, a nice person. Due to a woman’s lie he’s facing this.”
Sekaran listened to the full Malar story—ring, expulsion, family turning on him. His face changed.
He turned to Mohan. “Is he drinking because of Malar?”
Mohan looked down. “No, sir. Malar was the first blow. The latest one was worse. A woman named Malavika—Suresh’s girlfriend, the one who got him the job. He molested his friend’s girlfriend… that’s what everyone says now. His name got ruined because of that. He says he is not at fault, but there is no proof. The mansion threw him out. He’s been drowning ever since.”
Sekaran frowned. “I don’t get this. Can you share the full story like the constable did?”
Mohan explained the full scene-by-scene betrayal from Suresh’s point of view—how Vikram was caught nude on the bed, Malavika crying and accusing him of molestation, witnesses confirming the shouts, Suresh’s punch and disbelief, the question about who made him nude, Vikram’s guilty silence, the eviction.
Sekaran asked a few sharp questions—questions that turned the entire drama inside out.
“How did Kaushik the manager arrive so soon from a 30-minute travel place?”
“Why didn’t she call Suresh first?”
“Going by what you all said, did you see the clothes were torn? How did you believe he was trying to bang her?”
He laughed—hard, bitter. “I believe he was betrayed a second time.”
Then he looked at Vikram, still half-drunk, eyes glassy.
“Mohan, I don’t want to see a sharp mind getting wasted. Look—his academics are good. It’s a shame. I know the pain of not getting educated. Sharp minds should not go wasted.”
He paused.
“Don’t give him liquor tomorrow. Ask him to meet me. I have two offers. Let’s see where he fits in.”
Mohan nodded, eyes shining. “Somewhere I too trust him… and I wanted to. Glad he is… thanks, sir.”
The drunken Vikram didn’t know it yet, but unknown forces—strangers, mercy from a man who had seen too many wasted lives—were about to shape him better.
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