Chapter 3: Crossroads and Consequences

**Two.**

We got our scores in late June.

The morning the results dropped, our neighbourhood WhatsApp groups exploded. Aunties across the colony started forwarding screenshots, and Papa’s friends called non-stop. The air was thick with expectation and the scent of Amma’s poha.

I scored 706.

The number flashed on my phone screen, almost unreal. I stared at it, heart pounding, as Amma’s voice rose from the kitchen—"Rohan, kitna aaya? Jaldi bol!" My hands shook as I called out the number.

Hmm... I could go to St. Stephen's or IIT Delhi.

It was every middle-class Indian parent’s dream dilemma—arts at a prestigious old college or engineering at the holy grail.

While I was torn about which to choose, my mother got a call from the IIT Delhi admissions office at three in the morning.

Somehow, Amma was always up before dawn. She rushed into my room, phone pressed to her ear, her face shining with pride. "Rohan, they called! They’re offering you a seat!"

So she decisively chose IIT Delhi for me...

I tried to argue, but with Amma on one side and Papa on the other, my fate was sealed. "Engineering ka zamana hai, beta!" Amma declared, as if she’d just solved India’s unemployment problem.

St. Stephen's, goodbye.

I watched the application deadline slip by, my mouse hovering for a long moment before I finally clicked away from the website. A strange mix of relief and regret washed over me.

Of course, I was happy to get into the college I'd always wanted.

We crowded around the rickety table at Sharmaji’s tea stall, the clink of glass cups and the sharp tang of ginger chai mixing with the laughter of my friends. "Arrey, IITian ho gaya bhai!" My friends clapped me on the back, and someone tried to steal my samosa.

But when I thought about the Stephen's senior who'd helped me so much, I started to worry.

In the quiet of my room, away from all the congratulatory noise, guilt gnawed at me. She always wanted me to go to St. Stephen's, but I chose IIT Delhi instead. It felt like I'd let her down.

While I was agonising over how to reply, she messaged me first.

Her timing was uncanny. My phone buzzed, and there it was—her familiar handle, a gentle reminder of all those late-night study sessions.

"You all got your scores, right? How did you do?"

Such a gentle greeting. My guilt only deepened.

It was like she could sense my inner turmoil. Her words were soft, but they made my chest tighten.

I steeled myself, gritted my teeth, and replied:

"I didn't do well. I can't get into St. Stephen's."

I typed the words slowly, fingers trembling, knowing I was lying but unable to stop myself.

"..."

She fell silent.

Her reply didn’t come. The three little dots danced for a moment and then vanished. I stared at the screen, my throat dry.

Before she could reply again, I sent another message:

"Senior, I'm sorry. Goodbye."

Then, I blocked her and went offline.

For a long time, I sat there in the silent glow of my laptop, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, feeling like I’d just shut the door on something precious. In the distance, the colony temple bell chimed, the sound drifting through the open window and settling in my chest with a final, heavy note. The finality of what I’d done echoed in the quiet room.