Chapter 2: The Bet Behind the Door

The day I overheard Kabir and Ritika talking, I had just estimated my board exam score.

720.

That was the raw score of last year’s state topper. The number glowed in my rough notebook margin, circled three times. I could finally breathe, just as the faint smell of frying pakoras from the staff room drifted through the corridor.

I had barely exhaled when Ritika’s familiar voice floated out from behind the door.

“Kabir, don’t forget, you haven’t won our bet yet.”

“Only if you get Meera to go to a diploma college with you, do you count as having beaten me.”

Kabir sounded completely unconcerned:

“Can’t you see her marks now? Barely above 400—what decent university could she possibly get into?”

His voice had that lazy drawl, as if nothing in the world could bother him—not even the chaos of Monday morning assembly.

Ritika pressed on, “But her foundation is so strong, what if—”

“Even if she miraculously pulls it off, whatever college she gets into, isn’t it up to me to decide?”

At that, the others nearby burst into laughter. It echoed down the tiled corridor, blending with the drone of a fan and the slap-slap of chappals running late for class.

My stomach clenched as I pressed closer to the cool wall, the steel railing biting into my palm. I tried to keep my expression neutral in case anyone passed by, even as their words sliced through me.

Those same people who used to call me ‘bhabhi’ at every turn were now mocking me with the nastiest words. Their laughter felt sharp, like the sting of a teacher’s ruler.

“With the way Meera clings to Kabir bhaiya, forget diploma college—she’d be happy picking up raddi with him.”

“Exactly! Everyone at City No. 1 School knows she dropped from the top straight to the bottom of the class just to be with Kabir. What wouldn’t a hopeless romantic like her do?”

Another round of knowing laughter followed. Some even slapped each other’s backs, as if they’d cracked the joke of the year.

I heard every word, but none of it bothered me. I stood there, back straight, thumb pressed hard against the steel railing, willing myself not to flinch.

Like King Harishchandra, who gave up everything for truth—so what if, for a hero like Kabir, I put on a show and tanked my grades a few times to please him? In our colony, people remembered stories of sacrifice far more than toppers’ names.

Someone else, thinking aloud, teased:

“Ritika di, if Meera ever finds out this was all your revenge, she’ll probably hate you to death.”

Ritika rolled her eyes at him with disdain.

“Arrey, isn’t it obvious? Why even ask?”

But this time, they were wrong.

I didn’t hate Ritika at all. On the contrary, I was deeply grateful to her.

Maybe I’m just fooling myself, but I’d rather hold on to this one year of being special—even if it was all a setup.

After all, someone as plain as me—a face that wouldn’t even leave a mark in wet atta—got the chance to be with a stunner like Kabir, all thanks to Ritika. I caught my reflection in the window, hair pulled back in a hasty plait, and looked away. Sometimes, fate does a little jugaad in your favour.