We stepped back into Chandan's garishly lit drawing room. Kamal Sir, the chemistry teacher at Chandan Classes, walked up to us with his trademark cheerful smirk.
"Happy New Year, ji! Another year, another JEE. Another batch of confused kids, ji," he said, laughing at his own recycled joke.
I tapped my glass against his.
"Happy New Year, Kamal ji."
"Where were you both? Arora ji was asking," he added.
"Just needed some air," Saurabh replied.
"And now, some whisky," I said with a wink. "Kamal ji, mind fetching me a refill?"
"Sure, sure," he nodded, waddling off.
As soon as he left, Saurabh turned to me, his eyes narrow with disapproval.
"Stop. That was your last drink," he said firmly. "And no, you're not getting your phone back."
"Oh come on, Golu. You're too cute when you're angry. Your round tomato face gets all red and puffed up," I teased, reaching toward his pocket for my phone.
"Stop it," he snapped.
I tickled his stomach. "Another year, another JEE, right? You and your mithai obsession—still growing sideways, huh?"
"Better than loving someone I'll never have," he muttered, brushing me off.
"Come in, come in, the great Rajpurohit sir!" boomed Chandan Arora's voice from across the room, his mouth stuffed with gutkha.
The room reeked of pan masala. Chandan waved me to a seat, still chewing. I sat, glancing at the wall of self-congratulations behind him. There were framed photos with successful IIT students and forged certificates calling him the "Ultimate King of JEE Chemistry." One especially ridiculous picture showed him, arms folded and sunglasses on, standing atop an IIT Delhi building—his way of "conquering" the exam system he never cleared.
Chandan had never made it to IIT. He was once a chemistry lecturer at Delhi University's Venkateswara College. A decade ago, he began tutoring JEE aspirants in his garage. That side hustle turned into Chandan Classes—now a full-blown operation with a rented three-storey building, fifteen full-time faculty members, and seven IITians on staff, which he never stopped bragging about.
"I never did IIT," he'd often say to parents, "but look—now IITians work for me."
He even used me as a marketing tool. "See him? IIT Delhi, 2013 batch. Works for me now," he'd declare proudly, stressing the me like some kind of victory.
Splat. He spat gutkha into a bin, jolting me back to reality.
"So, Rajpurohit sir, how are your classes going?"
"Good, sir," I replied with a forced smile. "Just finished the calculus module."
He slid a file across the table. "Student feedback," he said. "Some claim you discouraged them from attempting IIT."
"That's not true," I said quickly.
He flipped the file shut. "Then why would they say that?"
"Sir, these are the bottom-rankers in every mock test. They don't have the aptitude. I just think it's cruel to give them false hope."
"We're not here to offer career counseling, Rajpurohit ji," he said, leaning back.
"But sir, many of them openly admit they don't want to do IIT. Their parents forced them into this."
"Not our problem. We don't interfere with families. We take classes. That's it."
He didn't stop there. "You've also failed to bring in new students."
"I've been busy with lectures."
"You're supposed to do marketing. Talk to walk-ins. Convince them. You're not doing that."
I bit my tongue. I hated that part—selling dreams to kids who'd never make it. Less than 2% crack JEE, but Chandan wanted us to sell hope like candy.
"You need to be more of a go-getter," he said.
Sure. Whatever that means.
"I'll try, sir," I said. But in my head, I promised myself I'd update my résumé tonight. I deserved better. A better job. A better life.
Later that night, back in our shoebox flat, I poured two large pegs of Blenders Pride. We sat on our too-small rug in our too-small living room.
"I thought you weren't drinking this month," Saurabh said. He hadn't seen a bottle open since New Year's Eve, when I made a fool of myself over Zara. That one-month no-alcohol promise had long expired.
"Forget it," I said, handing him a glass.
"This isn't about Zara, is it?" he asked gently.
"No," I lied.
Zara was always there. One DTC bus, a girl in a chikankari salwar kameez, a tree—anything could remind me of her. My brain had rewired itself. Everything looped back to her. Even ice reminded me of snow, snow of Kashmir, Kashmir of Zara.
But tonight, it wasn't her.
Saurabh didn't press. Men know when to stay quiet. I downed my first glass and poured a second.
"I'll join," he said, "but keep it in control."
"I need this tonight."
"What's wrong?"
"I hate my job."
"Join the club," he chuckled. "Tell me something new."
"We can't do this forever. We went to IIT, man."
"You did. I'm just a simple NIT guy from Nagpur."
"You're no less. Why are we stuck in this idiot's coaching center?"
"That gutkha-chewing clown say something again?"
"Yeah. But that's not all. I bombed two interviews."
"What interviews?"
"I didn't tell you. Applied to ten companies—only two called. Both rejected me today."
"Which ones?"
"Infosys and some tiny firm in Gurgaon called Flow Tech. I thought I did okay."
"They rejected you?"
"Yup. A company that ships coders to Dubai didn't even want me."
"Bastards," Saurabh muttered.
"They asked why I joined a coaching center after IIT."
"There's a stigma. Like we're unfit for real tech jobs."
"Updated your LinkedIn?" I asked him.
"Nothing to update."
I pulled up his profile on my phone. "At least put a better picture. You look like a pervert."
"Show me," he said, grabbing the phone. "And you look like a background dancer. That earring? You think that helps?"
"It's Rajasthani culture!"
"No tech firm hires guys with jewellery."
I set my phone down.
"We suck. We can't even make a decent profile."
"That's why I say—just chew tabacco and enjoy Chandan Classes."
I shot him a glare.
"Sorry, sorry. We won't give up," he said quickly.
We turned on the TV. The news showed girls being lathi-charged at Banaras Hindu University. Their crime? Protesting against molestation.
"Are they serious?" Saurabh said. "The police are beating girls for protesting peacefully?"
Zara liked protests too, my brain whispered. I didn't want to go there, but I was already there.
The past tugged at me, pulling me back—years ago, to one of our activist-dates