[untamable_rohini]

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.

[untamable_rohini]

[untamable_rohini]

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."

[untamable_rohini]

Back to flashback, when they arrived Delhi as a married couple.

Their first home was the single-room barsati in Rohini Sector 16—tin roof that rattled in the rain, one small window facing a blank wall, and a shared toilet downstairs that always smelled faintly of phenyl. But to Tulika, it was freedom. No mother asking when she’d come home, no aunties commenting on her weight or her ambitions. Just her, Vikram, and the promise of tomorrow.
Vikram had found her a coaching institute in Mukherjee Nagar. The very next day she enrolled, paid the first installment with money they had borrowed from his chacha, and bought a second-hand notebook with a blue cover. She wrote “Tulika Kapoor – SSC CGL 2020” on the first page in neat black ink.
The nights belonged to them.
In those early months, sex was daily, almost ritualistic. After she returned from coaching—exhausted, hair damp from sweat, kurta sticking to her back—Vikram would wait. Sometimes he’d have made dinner: aloo paratha, curd, mango pickle. Sometimes he’d just pull her into the room before she could even change.
He’d kiss her slowly at first, tasting the salt on her neck, untying her dupatta with practiced fingers. Tulika, still new to this intimacy, would tense then melt. He’d undress her piece by piece—salwar first, then kameez, then bra—murmuring how beautiful she was, how he couldn’t get enough of her. She believed him because the way he looked at her felt like worship.
On the narrow bed, he’d lay her down, spread her legs gently, and enter her with a slow thrust that made her gasp every time. He was attentive, almost reverent. His fingers would circle her clit in steady rhythms while he moved inside her, watching her face for every small reaction. Tulika had never known her body could respond like this. In Hyderabad, she’d only ever touched herself furtively under the blanket, quick and guilty. Here, with Vikram’s mouth on her breasts, his hips rocking in a steady rhythm, she discovered what it felt like to climb toward something inevitable.
She came once each night—always once, but deeply. Her back would arch, fingers digging into his shoulders, a soft cry escaping before she bit her lip to muffle it against the thin walls. The orgasm would roll through her like a slow wave, leaving her trembling and boneless. Vikram would follow soon after, groaning her name, collapsing beside her with a satisfied sigh.
They would lie there afterward, sweat cooling on their skin, fan creaking overhead. He’d trace lazy circles on her belly and say things like, “We’re going to have the best life, jaan. You’ll see.”
And for a while, she did.
The daily intimacy began to change her body in small, noticeable ways. The constant release of endorphins, the regular calories from late-night meals Vikram cooked to celebrate “good days,” the way he loved touching her—kneading her breasts, gripping her hips, kissing the soft skin of her inner thighs—started to soften her edges. Her breasts grew fuller, nipples darkening slightly. Her hips widened just enough to make her old jeans snug. A gentle curve appeared at her waist, her belly softening from the way she lay on her back night after night, legs wrapped around him. She wasn’t voluptuous yet, but the sharp college-girl angles were rounding, her body blooming under consistent attention and affection.
Vikram noticed. “You’re filling out so beautifully,” he’d whisper against her neck, hands roaming possessively. “I love every inch of you.”
In the second year, luck turned for a moment. Vikram cracked three decent real-estate deals in quick succession—two small plots in Noida and one commercial space in Rohini. The commissions were enough to clear some debts and put down a booking amount for a 2BHK flat in Sector 7, Rohini—a modest but proper apartment with two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a balcony that overlooked a park.
They moved in on a rainy September afternoon. Tulika stood in the empty living room, barefoot on the cool tiles, arms wrapped around herself as she looked out at the drizzle. Vikram came up behind her, chin on her shoulder.
“This is it,” he said. “Our real beginning.”
She turned in his arms, kissed him deeply, and that night they christened every room—kitchen counter, bathroom shower, even the balcony under the cover of rain and darkness.
For the first time since moving to Delhi, Tulika felt something close to security. Her coaching notes were spread across the new dining table. Her body, now softer and more womanly, moved with a quiet confidence she hadn’t known she possessed. Vikram’s deals were flowing again. The future, for a brief shining moment, felt within reach

[untamable_rohini]

[untamable_rohini]

The next five years in Delhi passed like monsoon seasons—intense bursts of hope followed by long stretches of humid waiting.
Tulika threw herself into her SSC preparation with a discipline that bordered on obsession. She upgraded from the Mukherjee Nagar institute to a premium online-plus-offline course, waking at 5 a.m. every day to revise current affairs before the city stirred. Her notes filled three large ring binders, color-coded: green for Polity, blue for Economy, red for Quantitative Aptitude. She attempted the exam every year—Tier-I cleared four times in a row, Tier-II twice—but the final merit list always slipped away by a handful of marks.
Each failure was a bruise, but she never stopped. “Next attempt will be the one,” she told herself in the mirror every morning. She joined online forums, watched YouTube toppers’ strategy videos until 2 a.m., practiced mocks under timed conditions. The pressure of repeated near-misses only sharpened her focus.
Meanwhile, Vikram’s real-estate career rode its own rollercoaster. The first two years after moving into the 2BHK were golden: three more solid deals in Noida and Dwarka, enough commission to pay off the remaining loan from his chacha and buy a second-hand Maruti Swift. He strutted around the flat like a man who had finally cracked the code. “See? I told you—persistence pays,” he’d say, pulling her into a celebratory hug.
But the market cooled after COVID. Lockdowns killed footfalls, buyers vanished, projects stalled. Vikram’s phone, once buzzing with client calls, grew silent. He pivoted to smaller deals—reselling flats in under-construction societies, brokering rentals in Rohini—but the commissions shrank. Debts crept back in, quieter this time: credit card bills, personal loans from apps, EMIs on the car. He started drinking more—first one peg after a bad day, then two, then three. The late nights returned, though now they were spent staring at property portals rather than chasing clients.
Through it all, their physical intimacy remained the one constant rhythm. Almost every night, even on the days when words between them were scarce, Vikram would reach for her. And Tulika, tired as she was, would let him. It had become their unspoken truce—a way to feel connected when everything else felt fragile.
Her body responded to the years of consistent love-making, good food (when they could afford it), and the natural settling of maturity. By 2024, at twenty-eight, Tulika had transformed in ways she barely noticed at first.
Her skin, once a warm wheatish tone, had lightened to a soft, glowing fairness—partly from staying indoors for long study hours, partly from the fairness creams her mother sent from Hyderabad “just to try.” Her face had acquired a refined beauty: high cheekbones more defined, full lips naturally pinker, almond eyes brighter from the quiet confidence that comes with surviving repeated setbacks.
Her figure had ripened fully into womanhood. The daily intimacy, the way Vikram’s hands and mouth worshipped her breasts night after night, had encouraged them to grow into a lush 34D—firm yet heavy, nipples darkening to a deep rose. Her waist had narrowed slightly from stress and skipped meals, settling at 28 inches, while her hips flared out to a generous 36, creating the classic hourglass that turned heads when she walked through the market or the coaching center corridors. Her belly remained softly rounded, a gentle curve that Vikram loved to trace with his fingers after they finished.
She had become more beautiful than she had ever been in college—elegant, sensual, quietly magnetic. When she wore a fitted saree to family functions or a simple anarkali for rare outings, people stared. Women asked for her skincare routine; men lingered a second too long on her walk. Tulika noticed, but she didn’t preen. Beauty, to her, was secondary to the job she still hadn’t secured.
Vikram noticed too. On the nights when deals went well, he’d pull her close and whisper, “You’re getting more gorgeous every year, jaan. Once you get the posting, everyone will be jealous of me.” On the bad nights, he’d look at her with a mixture of pride and something darker—resentment, perhaps, that her beauty and brains hadn’t yet translated into the financial security he craved.
By early 2024, the 2BHK flat felt both like home and like a cage. The balcony plants she had nurtured had grown wild; the walls bore faint marks from shifting furniture; the bed still creaked under their nightly rhythm. Tulika’s study table in the second bedroom was piled high with fresh mock-test papers, her laptop screen glowing late into the night.
Vikram’s phone would buzz occasionally with a lead, and hope would flicker again.
Tulika would smile at him across the room, still believing—just barely—that the next attempt, the next deal, would finally change everything.

[untamable_rohini]

[untamable_rohini]

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.

[untamable_rohini]

[untamable_rohini]

That night, after Tulika had fallen into a restless sleep beside him, Vikram quietly took her purse from the bedside table. He pulled out the crumpled visiting card. The cheap paper felt warm in his fingers, as if it had been burning a hole in their lives for weeks.
He didn’t sleep.
The next morning, while Tulika was in the bathroom, he saved the number in his phone under the name “Property Client – M”. He told himself he was just going to gather information. Nothing more.
Three days later, on a Thursday afternoon, Vikram took an auto to Laxmi Nagar.
He found Malhotra exactly where Tulika had described—sitting on the same blue plastic chair under the tin awning, sipping tea from a kulhad. The man looked up as Vikram approached, his small eyes narrowing behind the thick glasses.
“You must be the husband,” Malhotra said with a slow smile, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him. “Sit. Chai?”
Vikram sat. The plastic chair creaked under his weight. “No chai. Let’s talk.”
Malhotra nodded, waving away the tea-w,.'. He leaned back, folding his hands over his belly. “So. Your wife has been telling you.”
“She has.”
“Good. Saves time. Let’s speak like men. Twenty lakhs. Cash. No bank transfer, no UPI. Half upfront, half after prelims result. That’s my final offer.”
Vikram’s jaw tightened. He had come prepared to hear thirty, maybe twenty-eight. Twenty felt like a trap.
“Too much,” Vikram said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
Malhotra chuckled softly. “Nobody has it lying around, beta. That’s why people come to me. You borrow, you sell gold, you take a personal loan—people do what they have to do. Twenty is already generous. Last month I took twenty-seven from an engineer for his son.”
Vikram’s mind raced. Twenty lakhs. He could liquidate the fixed deposit they had saved for a new fridge. He could borrow ten from his cousin in Ludhiana. Maybe mortgage the flat for a short term. The numbers spun in his head like a roulette wheel.
“Fifteen,” Vikram countered, even though his stomach twisted at his own audacity. “Fifteen, and I can arrange it faster.”
Malhotra’s smile faded. He picked up his kulhad and took a slow sip, watching Vikram over the rim. “Fifteen won’t even get her past the first gate. You think this is like buying vegetables? The people I deal with don’t negotiate like this. They have fixed rates. I’m already giving you a family discount because your wife is… persistent.”
Vikram felt a flush of anger, but he swallowed it. “Then tell me exactly what twenty gets us. I need to know it’s real.”
Malhotra leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Twenty gets her name moved up by 800 to 1200 ranks. Enough to clear prelims comfortably. After that, if you want mains help, we can discuss separately. But prelims is guaranteed. If she doesn’t clear after my help, you get your money back. I don’t do business on maybes.”
Vikram’s heart pounded. A guarantee. That word tasted dangerous—sweet and poisonous at the same time. He thought of Tulika sitting in that classroom for six years. He thought of the way her shoulders slumped when she checked the mock results. He thought of the credit card bills hidden in his drawer. He thought of finally having breathing room, of telling her they could afford another attempt without panic, of maybe even taking her on a small vacation.
But mostly, he thought of what would happen if it went wrong. If they paid and nothing changed. If Tulika ever found out he had gone behind her back.
“Eighteen,” Vikram said, his voice lower now. “Eighteen, half now, half after prelims. And I need some proof that you can actually deliver.”
Malhotra studied him for a long moment. The rain started again, light at first, drumming on the tin roof above them.
“Eighteen and a half,” Malhotra replied. “And proof I cannot give until money is in my hand. That’s how this world works, Kapoor sahib. Trust is expensive.”
Vikram stared at the muddy water pooling near his shoes. His mind screamed at him to get up, to walk away, to tell Tulika to keep studying like she always had.
But the number eighteen and a half kept echoing.
He looked up. “I need a few days to arrange the money.”
Malhotra smiled again, slow and knowing. “Take your time. But don’t take too long. Opportunities like this have a habit of disappearing.”

[untamable_rohini]

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.

[untamable_rohini]

The next afternoon, Tulika sat alone on the balcony with her phone in her lap. The sky was a flat grey, the air still heavy from last night’s drizzle. Vikram had left early for a “site visit” he claimed would bring in a small commission. She hadn’t asked for details. She hadn’t spoken much since their conversation the previous evening.

Her thumb hovered over Rashi’s name in the contacts.

Rashi—her college roommate from Osmania, the one who had married well and moved to Gurgaon. They hadn’t met in over a year, but they texted on birthdays and festivals. Rashi was the kind of friend who always answered, no matter how long the gap.

Tulika pressed call.

It rang twice.

“Tu! Oh my god, finally!” Rashi’s voice burst through, bright and unchanged. “I was thinking about you just yesterday. How are you? Still killing it with the exam prep?”

Tulika managed a small laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Trying. You know how it is.”

They talked for a few minutes—surface things: Rashi’s new flat with the infinity pool view, her husband’s promotion, the latest family drama back in Hyderabad. Then Tulika’s voice dropped.

“Rashi… I need to ask you something. It’s big.”

A pause. The background noise on Rashi’s end faded; she must have stepped into another room.

“Tell me.”

Tulika swallowed. “We’re in trouble. Financially. Really bad. Vikram’s deals aren’t closing, the EMIs are killing us, and… I’m thinking of taking a shortcut for the exam. Someone offered to help—for money. A lot of money.”

Silence stretched. Then Rashi spoke softly. “How much?”

“Eighteen and a half lakhs. We can scbang together maybe twelve or thirteen if we sell things, borrow from family. But the rest…”

Rashi didn’t hesitate. “I’ll send you three. Cash. Today itself.”

Tulika’s breath caught. “Rashi, no. That’s too much—”

“Tu, stop. It’s three lakhs. For me, it’s not even a month’s grocery bill. My husband won’t even notice. And you’re my sister from another mother. You’ve helped me through so many breakdowns in college. Let me do this.”

Tulika’s eyes filled. “I’ll pay you back. I swear. As soon as I get the job—”

“Whenever. No hurry. Now listen—my driver will come to your place in two hours. He’ll bring an envelope. Don’t tell anyone how you got it. Just use it.”

Tulika nodded even though Rashi couldn’t see. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just clear that damn exam and call me when you get selected. We’ll celebrate with champagne in Gurgaon.”

They hung up. Tulika sat there, staring at the potted tulsi until the leaves blurred.

Two hours later, a black Innova stopped outside the building. A uniformed driver got out, looked around, then walked up the stairs. He rang the bell, handed her a thick brown envelope without a word, and left.

Inside: Bundles of new currency notes, neatly rubber-banded. Tulika counted them twice, hands shaking. Real. Heavy in her palm.

She hid the envelope in the bottom drawer of her study table, under old notebooks.

That night, everything shattered.

They were eating dinner—simple khichdim- when the doorbell rang. Sharp, insistent knocks.

Vikram frowned. “Who at this hour?”

He opened the door. Three men stood there—broad-shouldered, faces hard under the corridor light. The leader, a man with a thick neck and a gold chain, stepped inside without invitation.

“Kapoor? You owe us five lakhs. Time’s up.”

Vikram’s face drained of colour. “I told you next week—”

“Next week was last week.” The man’s eyes flicked to Tulika, who had frozen at the table. “You think we run a charity?”

They pushed past Vikram. One grabbed him by the collar, slammed him against the wall. The other two started ransacking—drawers yanked open, cushions thrown, the TV stand kicked aside.

Tulika stood. “Please. We’ll pay. Just give us time—”

The leader turned to her, eyes cold. “Time is over, memsaab.”

He pulled a switchblade from his pocket. The blade flicked open with a soft click. He stepped closer to Tulika, the knife hovering near her throat.

“Strip,” he said.

Vikram struggled against the man holding him. “Don’t touch her!”

The leader ignored him. “I said strip. Or we take it off for you.”

Tulika’s hands shook as she reached for the pallu of her saree. Tears streamed down her face, but she moved mechanically—pallu falling, blouse hooks undone, saree pooling at her feet. She stood in her bra and petticoat, arms crossed over her chest, shivering.

The men looked. One whistled low. The leader stepped closer, blade tracing the air an inch from her skin—down her collarbone, along the edge of her bra, stopping just above her navel.

He smirked. “Pretty. But we’re not here for fun.”

He stepped back. “Five lakhs. Now.”

Vikram, pinned, gasped. “The drawer—study room—bottom one.”

One of the men went, came back with the envelope Rashi had sent. He opened it, counted quickly, nodded.

“Five exactly.” The leader pocketed the cash. “Next time you borrow, remember—we don’t give extensions.”

He gestured. They released Vikram, who slid to the floor, coughing.

The men left without another word. The door clicked shut behind them.

Tulika stood frozen in her underclothes, arms wrapped around herself. Vikram crawled to her, pulling her down, wrapping his arms around her trembling body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t cry. She just stared at the wall, the envelope gone, the three + two lakhs vanished into the night along with any illusion of control they had left.

[untamable_rohini]

[untamable_rohini]

The next morning dawned grey and muggy. Vikram woke before Tulika, his body aching from the bruises the lenders had left—dark purple marks blooming across his ribs and a split lip that stung when he spoke. He lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily, replaying the night: the knife at her throat, her saree falling, the envelope disappearing into the leader’s pocket. Five lakhs gone. Three from Rashi, two scbangd from their own hiding spots. And nothing to show for it except shame and silence between them.

Tulika had barely spoken after the men left. She’d dressed again with mechanical movements, made him tea without asking if he wanted it, then gone to bed facing the wall. He hadn’t dared touch her.

By 10 a.m., Vikram was dressed in yesterday’s shirt—blood speck on the collar—and heading back to Laxmi Nagar. He needed answers. Or money. Or both.

Malhotra was in his usual spot under the tin awning, reading a Hindi newspaper, kulhad of chai balanced on his knee. He looked up when Vikram’s shadow fell across the page.

“Kapoor sahib,” Malhotra said mildly, folding the paper. “You look like you had a rough night.”

Vikram didn’t sit. He stood rigid, hands clenched at his sides.

“Five lakhs,” he said, voice low and rough. “Last night. Three men came to my house. Beat me. Threatened my wife with a knife. Took everything we had in cash. Including the three lakhs we were going to use for your… arrangement.”

Malhotra’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He took a slow sip of tea, eyes never leaving Vikram’s face.

“Loan sharks?”

“Obviously.”

Malhotra sighed, setting the kulhad down. “People borrow from the wrong places, things get ugly. Classic story. What do you want from me? Sympathy?”

“I want to know if you can still help,” Vikram said. “We’re short now. Very short. But if you lower the amount—or give us time—I can still arrange something.”

Malhotra leaned back, chair creaking. “You think I’m running a charity? I told you—eighteen and a half. No discounts after the first one. And definitely no after your little midnight drama.”

Vikram’s voice cracked. “They stripped her, Malhotra. Held a knife to her throat. She’s… she’s broken. We did this because we believed you could fix things. Now we have nothing. Nothing.”

For the first time, something flickered in Malhotra’s eyes—pity, or calculation, it was hard to tell.

He gestured to the empty chair. “Sit. You’re drawing attention standing there like a wounded dog.”

Vikram sat. His hands shook on the plastic table.

Malhotra spoke quietly. “Listen carefully. I don’t control who your wife borrows from. That’s on you. But the deal stands. Eighteen and a half. If you can bring even half by tomorrow—nine lakhs—I’ll talk to my people. Maybe push her name enough for prelims. But no more haggling. No more stories. Money talks. The rest is noise.”

Vikram stared at the muddy ground. “Nine lakhs. By tomorrow. After last night… we have maybe two left in the bank. The rest is gone.”

“Then find it,” Malhotra said flatly. “Sell the car. Pawn jewellery. Beg your relatives. People do miracles when they’re desperate. You want a miracle? Make one.”

Vikram’s laugh was bitter. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy. It’s survival.” Malhotra picked up his newspaper again, unfolding it like the conversation was over. “Tomorrow, same time. Bring what you can. Or don’t come at all. Your choice.”

Vikram didn’t move for a long minute. The tea-w,.' passed by, offering fresh chai. Malhotra waved him away without looking up.

Finally Vikram stood. His voice was barely audible.

“If I get the money… you swear it’ll work?”

Malhotra glanced up, eyes flat. “I swear nothing. But I deliver what I promise. Always have. Now go. And tell your wife to stop looking so scared. It doesn’t help negotiations.”

Vikram walked away without another word, shoulders hunched against the gathering rain. The weight of last night clung to him heavier than any bruise. Nine lakhs by tomorrow. A knife at her throat. A promise that might be a lie.

He didn’t know how he would face Tulika when he got home. But he knew one thing: he couldn’t go back empty-handed again. Not after what they’d already lost.