Chapter 2: The Making of a Stephen's Reject

**One.**

After my school divided us into humanities and science streams, my marks took a nosedive.

Suddenly, the cheerful chaos of my days turned into silent hours hunched over textbooks. I watched as my friends, who’d once shared tiffin with me, drifted to other classrooms—commerce, arts, science—while I sat alone, feeling lost in a maze of equations that refused to make sense. At night, my mother’s pressure cooker hissed in the kitchen as I stared at pages and pages, the marks on my last test stinging in my mind like a slap.

I was worried I wouldn't make it to IIT Delhi.

The thought haunted me through restless nights, my pillow damp with the sticky Delhi heat and the worry that I would let my parents down. I could hear Papa’s friends gossiping in the lane outside—"Arrey, Sharmaji’s son is sure to get into IIT, what about yours?"—and the pressure felt like an invisible weight pressing into my chest.

Feeling helpless, I started chatting online with a senior whose username was "Stephen's Reject."

It started with a simple message in a student forum, my desperate plea for help typed late at night, under the blue glow of my old laptop. "Hi, I’m struggling with chemistry revision, can someone guide me?" A reply popped up: "Sure, I’m Stephen’s Reject. Let’s work through it together."

I asked her to help me revise my lessons.

Each evening, after the last echoes of the street vendors faded and my parents’ voices settled into murmurs in the living room, we chatted over WhatsApp. She sent me PDFs, voice notes, and sometimes even scolded me gently when I made silly mistakes.

She was gentle, thoughtful, and incredibly patient.

Her messages always came with little smileys and the kind of encouragement that made me believe in myself again. "Don’t worry, Rohan. Try this again—think about it like a cup of chai and samosa, the solution is simpler than you think!" It was the sort of warmth you’d expect from a favourite cousin or an old friend.

"Don't worry. With me here, I guarantee you'll get into St. Stephen's."

I was flattered.

A shy smile crept onto my face, and I caught myself humming an old Bollywood tune under my breath. She had that effect—her confidence made me feel like anything was possible.

"No, no, that's not necessary."

But deep down, I muttered: IIT Delhi would be fine too.

I was too embarrassed to say it out loud, but the dream of walking past the IIT gates, backpack slung over my shoulder, had been with me since childhood. Still, I couldn’t help but be swept along by her enthusiasm.

She clicked her tongue. "Arre, little brother, what are you saying? You can doubt your own intelligence, but don't underestimate my ability."

Her words came with a playful edge, like a teasing elder sister at a family get-together. I could almost hear the roll of her eyes, the affectionate scold that made me laugh despite my nerves.

Me: "..."

Yes, yes, yes.

I really didn't dare underestimate her.

Because this Stephen's senior truly had skills.

She broke down the toughest questions with the patience of a good teacher, mixing technical jargon with street-smart tricks only someone raised in India would know. Her late-night jokes about tuition classes and Delhi’s chaat stalls made me feel like I wasn’t just another student in the crowd.

With her tutoring, my grades not only improved rapidly, but also became more stable.

I started sleeping better, and for the first time in months, Amma stopped worrying so much when she looked at my report cards. Even Papa, usually so stern, ruffled my hair and smiled. "Beta, now you’re getting there!"

In my second mock exam before the boards, I even scored a whopping 689.

I excitedly shared the news with her.

The moment the results came out, I sent her a message with more exclamation marks than I’d ever used. For good luck, I even sent a photo of the temple’s prasad.

She was calm as ever. "Hmm, that should be enough for St. Stephen's."

It really was. But I didn't want to go to St. Stephen's.

The place I always dreamed of was IIT Delhi.

I kept my secret close to my chest, feeling a little guilty. My heart pounded with every college application—what if she found out?

But over the year or so that the Stephen's senior tutored me, I could clearly sense her special obsession with St. Stephen's.

She often spoke of its campus, the ancient red bricks, the debates in English under the shade of neem trees, the canteen’s legendary cutlets. She described the place with the nostalgia of someone who’d left something precious behind.

Otherwise, she wouldn't still be using the username "Stephen's Reject" after all this time.

If I didn't go to St. Stephen's, would she be disappointed?

I began to worry. I imagined her sighing at her phone, the disappointment in her eyes. What if she stopped talking to me?

Looking at the message she sent me, I decided to test her.

"Senior, what if I can't get into St. Stephen's?"

"Don't worry, you definitely can."

Her reply came with that signature confidence—like she’d already seen my future.

Hmm...

She probably thought I was just nervous before the boards and was trying to comfort me.

So, I never mentioned my dream of going to IIT Delhi.

Some secrets are better left unspoken, especially when you’re not ready to see someone else’s disappointment.

The day before the boards, she messaged me, wishing me luck and reminding me to tell her my results when they came out. She said she was busy with her final year project lately.

Her last words—"Best of luck, Rohan! May Ganpati Bappa bless you!"—echoed in my head as I sharpened my pencils and pressed my uniform shirt for the big day.