07-01-2026, 11:06 PM
The Yamuna flowed black and indifferent beneath the ITO bridge, its surface catching fractured reflections of the city’s distant lights. It was past midnight on a bitter January night in Delhi, the kind where the fog clung to your skin and the cold seeped into bones no amount of wool could warm. Tulika Kapoor stood alone on the narrow footpath, her navy-blue cotton saree wrapped tightly around her as if it could hold her together. The pallu fluttered weakly in the wind, the only movement in a body that felt too heavy to belong to her anymore.
In her right hand, she held a small plastic strip—ten white tablets, the last of the sleeping pills she had been saving from sleepless nights. She had counted them twice on the auto-rickshaw ride here, then again while walking the empty stretch from the main road. Enough, she had decided. More than enough.
Her phone lay dead in her coat pocket. She had switched it off hours earlier, after dialing the same unreachable number again and again until the automated voice became a taunt. There was no one to call now. Not her mother in Hyderabad, who still believed her daughter’s marriage was a quiet success. Not Vikram, asleep on the sofa back in their Rohini flat with an empty whiskey glass beside him. Especially not Vikram.
Tulika sat on the cold concrete pabangt, legs dangling over the drop. The river smelled of diesel and decay, but it was quieter than the thoughts roaring inside her head. She thought of the life she had wanted—the government job, the postings abroad, the pride of standing on her own feet. She thought of the promises Vikram had made seven years ago under Hyderabad’s monsoon sky, his voice full of certainty and coffee-scented breath. She thought of how those promises had slowly curdled into debts, excuses, and finally something unspeakable.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed the first pill out of its foil. It was small, harmless-looking. She placed it on her tongue and swallowed dry. Then the second. The third. Each one went down with the weight of every compromise she had made to keep their fragile life afloat.
The city was asleep, or pretending to be. A lone truck rumbled across the bridge overhead, its headlights briefly sweeping over her before vanishing. Tulika closed her eyes and waited for the numbness to come, for the pills to pull her under like the river below.
A small sound broke the silence—a dry, rasping cough from the shadows beneath the bridge.
Tulika opened her eyes and looked down.
On the muddy bank, half-hidden by piles of garbage and discarded plastic, a child moved. A girl, wrapped in an oversized sweater that dragged in the dirt. She was poking through the refuse with a long stick, searching for bottles or anything sellable. Every few moments she stopped to cough again, a deep, chesty sound that should have belonged to someone much older. Yet when she pulled a crumpled water bottle free, she held it up to the faint streetlight with a quick, fierce smile—as if the night had just given her a gift.
The girl sensed she was being watched. She looked up, squinting into the darkness. For a long second, her eyes met Tulika’s across the distance. There was no fear in the child’s gaze, only curiosity. Then, almost shyly, she raised one small hand and waved.
Just once.
A simple, defiant wave that said: *I’m still here. The night hasn’t won yet.*
Something inside Tulika shattered—not into despair, but into a raw, aching clarity.
She lurched forward over the pabangt, retching violently. The pills came up in a bitter rush, splashing into the dark water below along with whatever surrender she had almost accepted. She heaved until there was nothing left, clinging to the concrete with fingers that felt suddenly, fiercely alive.
When it was over, she slid down to sit on the footpath, back against the cold wall, breath coming in ragged sobs. The little girl below watched for a moment longer, then shrugged and returned to her search, undefeated.
Tulika stayed there until the first pale hint of dawn touched the sky. The wind had dropped; the city was beginning to stir. Somewhere, a muezzin’s call drifted over the rooftops, thin and beautiful in the cold air.
She stood slowly, legs unsteady, and began the long walk home.
The pills were gone. The river had not taken her.
And tomorrow, the SSC results would come.
In her right hand, she held a small plastic strip—ten white tablets, the last of the sleeping pills she had been saving from sleepless nights. She had counted them twice on the auto-rickshaw ride here, then again while walking the empty stretch from the main road. Enough, she had decided. More than enough.
Her phone lay dead in her coat pocket. She had switched it off hours earlier, after dialing the same unreachable number again and again until the automated voice became a taunt. There was no one to call now. Not her mother in Hyderabad, who still believed her daughter’s marriage was a quiet success. Not Vikram, asleep on the sofa back in their Rohini flat with an empty whiskey glass beside him. Especially not Vikram.
Tulika sat on the cold concrete pabangt, legs dangling over the drop. The river smelled of diesel and decay, but it was quieter than the thoughts roaring inside her head. She thought of the life she had wanted—the government job, the postings abroad, the pride of standing on her own feet. She thought of the promises Vikram had made seven years ago under Hyderabad’s monsoon sky, his voice full of certainty and coffee-scented breath. She thought of how those promises had slowly curdled into debts, excuses, and finally something unspeakable.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed the first pill out of its foil. It was small, harmless-looking. She placed it on her tongue and swallowed dry. Then the second. The third. Each one went down with the weight of every compromise she had made to keep their fragile life afloat.
The city was asleep, or pretending to be. A lone truck rumbled across the bridge overhead, its headlights briefly sweeping over her before vanishing. Tulika closed her eyes and waited for the numbness to come, for the pills to pull her under like the river below.
A small sound broke the silence—a dry, rasping cough from the shadows beneath the bridge.
Tulika opened her eyes and looked down.
On the muddy bank, half-hidden by piles of garbage and discarded plastic, a child moved. A girl, wrapped in an oversized sweater that dragged in the dirt. She was poking through the refuse with a long stick, searching for bottles or anything sellable. Every few moments she stopped to cough again, a deep, chesty sound that should have belonged to someone much older. Yet when she pulled a crumpled water bottle free, she held it up to the faint streetlight with a quick, fierce smile—as if the night had just given her a gift.
The girl sensed she was being watched. She looked up, squinting into the darkness. For a long second, her eyes met Tulika’s across the distance. There was no fear in the child’s gaze, only curiosity. Then, almost shyly, she raised one small hand and waved.
Just once.
A simple, defiant wave that said: *I’m still here. The night hasn’t won yet.*
Something inside Tulika shattered—not into despair, but into a raw, aching clarity.
She lurched forward over the pabangt, retching violently. The pills came up in a bitter rush, splashing into the dark water below along with whatever surrender she had almost accepted. She heaved until there was nothing left, clinging to the concrete with fingers that felt suddenly, fiercely alive.
When it was over, she slid down to sit on the footpath, back against the cold wall, breath coming in ragged sobs. The little girl below watched for a moment longer, then shrugged and returned to her search, undefeated.
Tulika stayed there until the first pale hint of dawn touched the sky. The wind had dropped; the city was beginning to stir. Somewhere, a muezzin’s call drifted over the rooftops, thin and beautiful in the cold air.
She stood slowly, legs unsteady, and began the long walk home.
The pills were gone. The river had not taken her.
And tomorrow, the SSC results would come.
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