A gust of salty wind slipped through the antique wooden shutters of Anandham Veedu, making the ancient bell on the prayer shelf tremble ever so slightly — as if sensing the restlessness brewing inside its youngest occupant.
It was nearly 10 a.m. in the grand ancestral mansion where tradition lived in every stone and silence, and where Anand Rajeesh, the only heir, was pacing through the inner corridors like a storm held behind glass. His slim fingers gripped a brochure from a Mumbai architecture institute — the third one he'd printed that week — and his brows were knit into a quiet storm. His white kurta was half tucked, hair uncombed, and yet his every movement carried the precision of someone born into legacy, burden, and expectation.
"Anand!" Veena Rajeesh's soft voice echoed from the kitchen — calm, musical, and laced with familiarity. "Breakfast is ready. I made puttu, kadala curry, appam, and your favorite mango pachadi. Come before your father sees your face like this."
He didn't answer. His eyes were still fixed on the brochure.
Down in the nadumuttam courtyard, Rajeesh Raj stood tall, dressed in an off-white mundu and cream shirt, speaking sharply on the phone. His commanding voice layered over the chirping of birds and distant temple bells. "Tell the Collector I'll personally oversee the foundation stone ceremony next week. We'll not delay the Rajeev Housing Project." He paused, casting a side glance through the open pillar hall — catching sight of Anand rushing past the corridor like a whisper of rebellion.
He lowered the phone. "Where's he running now?" he muttered with restrained irritation.
---
Anand burst into the dining hall, sliding the paper in front of his mother. His eyes sparkled with desperation but also defiance.
"Amma... I want to apply. This is what I want. It's in Mumbai. Architecture."
Veena, graceful in her ivory cotton saree, didn't touch the brochure. Instead, she touched his cheek, her fingers soft and cool. "Anand... eat first. Your father will shout if you skip breakfast again."
He sat down, chewing in silence, his leg shaking under the table. The tension was building — invisible, but loud.
---
Ten minutes later, footsteps approached. Firm, deliberate.
Rajeesh entered, still holding his phone. He stopped at the door, sharp eyes moving between the plate of untouched appam and the flyer that now sat proudly on the table.
"Mumbai?" His voice was calm, but every syllable was steel.
Anand looked up, quiet but firm. "Yes, acha. I've decided. I want to study architecture there. I don't want to stay in Trivandrum."
There was a pause. The kind that carried history, legacy, and an unspoken storm.
Rajeesh took slow steps forward. "Why leave everything here? Your roots, your people, your name — Anandham Veedu is not something you abandon. It's something you grow into."
Veena stood up, placing herself just slightly closer to Anand.
"He's not abandoning us," she said softly. "He's just... finding himself."
Rajeesh gave her a sharp look — not angry, but disappointed. "You always protect him from facing life, Veena. He needs grounding, not running."
Anand stood up, his voice firmer than before. "Acha, I'm not running. I'm choosing. For once, I want to know who I am outside this house, outside this name. I want to build something on my own."
There was silence. The fan hummed above, the aroma of curry filling the hall, but none of it could cut the air between father and son.
Rajeesh studied him — this boy who never raised his voice, who followed every rule, who lived like a ghost of expectations. And now, here he was... wanting more.
"And if I say no?"
Anand's lips trembled, but he held his ground. "Then I'll wait... until I can leave without asking."
That sentence hit like a crack of thunder against temple bells.
Veena gasped softly, turning to her husband. "Rajeesh... don't make him a prisoner of our pride. Let him go... before he breaks inside."
A long pause. Then, Rajeesh turned and walked toward the door, back straight, face unreadable.
He stopped at the threshold and said, without turning, "If you want to build something, Anand, start by building your spine. We'll talk tomorrow. Not today."
He left.
Anand sat back down, his chest heaving, eyes burning. Veena sat beside him, placing her hand over his. "My storm… has finally made sound," she whispered with a faint smile.
Anand smiled back, the kind that wasn't loud, but for the first time — it was free.
The morning sun had begun its steady climb, casting soft amber light through the carved wooden windows of Anandham Veedu. The dining room, though elegantly silent, pulsed with the weight of unspoken words. The rustling of the newspaper in the hall, the faint clang of kitchen vessels, and the ticking clock on the beige wall—all seemed louder than they should.
Anand sat slouched on the cushioned dining bench, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. His brochure from the Mumbai School of Architecture lay on the table like a declaration of war.
Across from him, Veena Rajeesh moved with her usual elegance, setting down a silver tumbler of filter coffee in front of him. But there was an unusual softness in her eyes today—one that barely masked the concern she felt deep in her chest.
She sat beside him, tucking her saree pleats, and after a moment's silence, she finally spoke.
"Anand…" her voice was calm, too calm, like the way one speaks before a storm is either welcomed or stopped. "You're just seventeen, mone. Seventeen. Mumbai is far... very far."
He blinked. "Exactly. That's why I want to go."
Her lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. "You want to run from everything that raised you? Is that it?"
Anand looked down. "I want to breathe, amma. I want to know who I am when I'm not walking around with a last name that makes people lower their voice."
She gently brushed his hair back, fingers motherly and affectionate. "You think leaving Trivandrum will give you that answer? Then what? You'll spend nights in a city that doesn't sleep? No one to understand your silence. No meen curry, no temple mornings, no familiar roads. Just noise. You think that's freedom?"
He didn't reply. His jaw tightened.
She continued, her voice firmer now. "There are so many courses, Anand. You don't even like drawing. I've seen your sketches—every house looks like a box with eyes." She chuckled softly, trying to lighten the air.
He smirked, reluctantly. "That's called minimalist design, Amma."
She chuckled again, pulling his face toward hers with both hands. "It's called talentless sketching, kutta."
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. But that joy lasted only a second before his eyes returned to the brochure.
"I just thought… maybe this course would be right for me. Architecture felt big. It felt like I could shape something."
Veena's eyes softened, but she didn't let go of his face. "Maybe you can. But what if that something is not in architecture? What if it's in music? Or literature? Or law? Or even—politics, like your father?"
Anand groaned dramatically, leaning back. "Please not politics. That's the one fire I don't want to touch."
She smiled knowingly. "And yet your blood burns like your father's. You have time, Anand. Time to find what you're really meant to do."
He looked at her, unsure. "But the college deadlines…"
"We'll handle it," she interrupted. "I'll speak to your father. Not now—he'll only get defensive if you push him today. But I know him better than anyone. I'll find the time, and I'll talk to him when his mind is calm."
Anand's shoulders relaxed. "You'll really talk to him?"
She nodded, wiping a crumb off his cheek. "I always do. He listens… even if he growls first."
He looked at her with fresh eyes—those almond eyes that carried calm in chaos. The only person who could tame two storms: the father's wrath and the son's fire.
Veena stood up slowly and turned to leave, but paused at the door. Without turning around, she said:
"Choose a college nearby, Anand. One where you can still come home when you get leave. I can't bear to keep your plate warm for days. You're still my boy. And Kerala is still your root. Don't forget that in the noise of another city."
Anand swallowed the lump rising in his throat. For the first time in weeks, his rage felt quieter. He looked down at the brochure again—no longer as a final destination, but as a starting question.
The light from Anand's laptop cast a bluish hue across his darkened bedroom. The ceiling fan clicked rhythmically above him, pushing around the late-night warmth of Trivandrum. He lay sprawled on his bed, the brochure to Mumbai's architecture school tossed aside now like a used page in a story he wasn't sure he belonged in.
Ding.
Ding-Ding.
His phone vibrated repeatedly, screen lighting up with the familiar group name:
"Thozhans 4 Life "
He grinned unconsciously. It was them—his boys.Abhi:"Daaa macha! I asked my cousin. That Coimbatore college da… full vibe!! Hostel is mad, fest is crazy. Let's go there together, I'm already filling forms daaa!
Aryan: "Bro but Anand needs AC in class otherwise he'll melt like Kerala butter. Coimbatore is HOTTTTTTTT
Arjun:"Anand won't care as long as there's WiFi and his laptop. He probably already hacked their system and saw question papers. Anand laughed, fingers flying across the keyboard.Anand:"I'll hack you first, da. Don't test me. But Coimbatore, huh? Which college? Send full name, I'll check reviews."
Abhi: "SNS College of Tech. My cousin said the labs are proper, placements good. Plus they have a thick canteen, da. Food = 10/10
Then Aryan dropped the message that made Anand freeze for a moment.
Aryan:"Also da… think about this. You're the only one among us who's always on your laptop. You fix software, design posters, code websites for our dumb school projects. Why not B.Tech? You'll kill it in CS or IT."
"Why architecture da? Your sketches look like crime scenes. IIT, NIT – you should go for those. Use your brain for something solid."Anand sat up slowly, reading Aryan's words again.The idea wasn't new… but coming from them, it felt louder.He stared at the laptop on his side table. The machine that had been his quietest companion. From debugging his cousin's school app to designing a fake concert website just for fun—he'd done all of it for fun. It never even felt like "hard work." It was like breathing.
Arjun:"True da. Anand's brain is half motherboard."Adithyan (finally appearing):
"Boys. Why not Chennai? It's still close to Trivandrum. My brother's in SRM – crazy exposure, good girls, better tech, all of it. Let's hit there together."Abhi: "DAAAA YES! Group admission. Thozhans + SRM = historic combo.Anand laughed again, but this time it lingered. Their madness, their sarcasm—it was his world. And the idea of going to college with all four of them?It suddenly felt like everything clicked into place.He typed slower this time.Anand: "Guys… maybe you're right. I've been forcing this architecture thing because it sounded grand. But B.Tech… that actually feels like me.""I'll check the top colleges. Let's shortlist Chennai ones. Let's do this together.Abhi: "Ayooo Anand has spoken. Our robot has feelings daaa.Aryan: "Time to tell your mom you're not going to Mumbai. You're coming to Chennai with your brothers. We'll burn the hostel down in 3 days.Adithyan:"Five boys. One city. One hostel. Legend is about to be written."
Anand dropped back into his pillow, a grin stretched across his face.For the first time in weeks, he wasn't confused.He wasn't scared.He was sure.Not just of the course, or the college…
…but of the people who would walk with him into it.And in that dimly lit room of his ancestral home, with laughter buzzing in a group chat and dreams slowly stitching together across district borders…A boy's future found its spark.
It was past 10:30 p.m., and Anandham Veedu had begun to hush itself into its nightly rhythm. The servants had retired, the lamps in the corridors were dimmed to a golden glow, and from the nalukettu courtyard, the rustle of palm leaves whispered with the night wind.
Inside the master bedroom, a room lined with elegant wooden panels and framed black-and-white family portraits, Rajeesh Raj sat on a recliner, still in his mundu, the shirt folded over a chair nearby. His eyes were glued to his iPad, scrolling through political proposals, contractor reports, and architecture drafts. Yet a part of him had not let go of the scene from earlier—his son, standing straighter than usual, declaring the desire to leave.
From the dressing table, Veena silently removed her earrings, watching her husband through the mirror. Her calm grace, her white cotton saree gently rustling in the silence—everything about her seemed composed, except her eyes.
She turned around, slowly, deliberately. "He's not sleeping."
Rajeesh didn't respond.
Veena took a deep breath and walked closer, her anklets soft against the wooden floor. She stood in front of him, arms folded lightly—not confrontational, but steady.
"He's just seventeen, Rajeesh. The boy is confused. Let him breathe."
He didn't look up. "So breathing means leaving now, is it? Let him go to Mumbai, lose his head, waste time pretending to be something he's not?"
Veena's voice grew firmer, though still low. "And keeping him locked in Trivandrum, dragging him into deals and speeches he hates—that's better?"
Finally, Rajeesh looked up. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, met hers.
"This house gave him everything, Veena. Discipline. Class. Education. Legacy. What more does he want?"
She held his gaze without blinking. "He wants to know who he is, Rajee. Without being your son. Without the name Anandham Veedu breathing over his neck. Can you understand how heavy it is, being raised like a prince but never being allowed to want something that wasn't already chosen for him?"
He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek, jaw tight.
Veena stepped closer. "He came to me this morning... with trembling hands and a brochure. His eyes were desperate but proud. Do you know how much courage that takes? To speak in a house that doesn't raise its voice unless it's about legacy?"
Rajeesh exhaled slowly. "He's not even sure what he wants. Architecture? He can't sketch a cow from a crow. You saw the birthday card he made last year—looked like temple ruins."
Veena couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. "I told him the same thing. But that's not the point. The point is… he's asking to choose. He's not rebelling, Rajee. He's reaching."
A long silence followed. The air in the room thickened.
Rajeesh set the iPad aside. He stood up slowly and walked toward the window, looking out into the dark garden where thulasi plants swayed gently in the breeze. His voice was low, almost reluctant.
"You know what I was doing at seventeen?"
Veena said nothing.
"I was standing beside my father at a political rally, sweating in a starched shirt, forced to speak to a crowd of fifty men twice my age. I didn't have a voice. I didn't even have a choice."
He turned toward her, his voice softening just a fraction.
"Maybe I didn't want him to go through what I did. Maybe I thought if I mapped his life... he wouldn't fall the way I did."
Veena walked over, placing her hand on his arm. "He's not you, Rajee. And you didn't fall. You became who you are with grit and fire. But if you want Anand to rise… let him fall a few times too. He's your son. He'll get up."He studied her for a long moment, then nodded slightly."I won't say yes to Mumbai. Not yet. But… let him explore. Within Kerala, maybe Tamil Nadu. Somewhere close. Somewhere he can return when needed."Veena smiled—gentle, grateful, proud.She leaned forward, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. "That's all he needs. A little freedom... wrapped in your faith."Outside, the night breeze whispered through the windows of Anand's room. He lay awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling, unaware that somewhere in the house, his future was quietly being shaped—not by his rebellion, but by the quiet war his mother fought in hushed tones and softened hearts.
The first rays of sunlight filtered through the carved window grills of Anandham Veedu, casting golden mosaics across the polished floor. The air was thick with the scent of sambar, ghee-roasted dosa, and the unmistakable aroma of Veena's special coconut chutney.
Inside the dining hall, Rajeesh Raj sat tall at the head of the teakwood table, dressed in a crisp cream mundu and an olive shirt, eyes calmly fixed on the Malayala Manorama as he sipped his coffee. His expression was unreadable—calm on the outside, calculating on the inside. The kind of calm only men with power could wear like skin.
Veena, draped in a soft indigo cotton saree, was quietly placing freshly made dosas into the large brass thattu, humming an old Yesudas tune under her breath. She moved like morning itself—graceful, silent, comforting.
Suddenly—
"Ammaaaa!"
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the stairs. Like lightning across a still pond, Anand Rajeesh came tearing down from the upper floor, barefoot, half-tucked T-shirt, and hair flying. In his hand was a folded sheet of paper clutched like a winning lottery ticket. His eyes sparkled with something neither parent had seen in weeks—certainty.
Rajeesh looked up from the newspaper, raising one brow. Veena froze with the dosa ladle mid-air.
Anand practically skidded into the dining hall. "Amma, Acha, listen! Listen first before you say anything!"
He unfolded the paper dramatically and placed it right in front of his father's banana leaf breakfast. Rajeesh glanced down slowly—his poached egg now competing with something titled:
"B.Tech in Computer Science – SRM Institute, Chennai. Admission Brochure."
Veena blinked. "Chennai?"
Anand nodded rapidly, like a boy explaining a discovery. "Yes, yes! I stayed up with Abhi, Aryan, all of them! We're all applying together. And Acha, this course—this is me! Not architecture, not some random idea. This." He tapped the brochure like it had his future sealed inside.
Rajeesh leaned back, unreadable. "What happened to Mumbai?"
Anand took a breath. "That was a fantasy. Something far and glamorous. But this—this is real. I've always been good with computers, Acha. You remember when I fixed that driver issue in your office system last year? Everyone called tech support. I solved it in ten minutes."
Veena smiled faintly, stepping closer now.
Anand turned to her. "Amma, you were right. I'm not good at drawing." He laughed. "My sketches look like nightmares, okay? But coding, problem-solving—it comes to me without thinking. And SRM is in Chennai. Close to home. Good exposure. I can come during holidays. And I won't be alone. My friends will be there. We'll look after each other."
Rajeesh placed the coffee cup down with a soft clink. "So, you want to go to college to be with your gang? Not for studying?"
Anand's shoulders tightened. But then he replied, this time with clarity. "I want to go where I'm allowed to be who I am, Acha. With people who know me, not just my surname. I'll work hard. I'll build something of my own."
There was silence.
Then, Rajeesh reached forward… and shifted the brochure aside to continue eating his dosa.
Anand stared. Veena stared harder.
Rajeesh spoke, voice calm. "You made a decision. You defended it. You found a compromise between your dream and our reality."
He looked at Anand. His eyes, though stern, held the faintest edge of pride. "That's the first time you sounded like a man and not a boy."
Anand blinked. "So… is that a yes?"
Rajeesh finished chewing. "Apply. But if you go there and waste even one month fooling around with your friends instead of studying—" he looked up sharply, "—you come back and work in my office. From the front desk. In uniform."
Anand grinned so wide it looked like the morning had cracked open inside him. "Deal! Done! Thank you, Acha!"
Veena let out a soft exhale, her heart full and her hands reaching out to straighten his hair like she always did when he was small.
As Anand bounded away to grab his laptop and call the boys, Rajeesh reached for the brochure again.
He murmured, almost to himself, "Computer science. Hmph. At least it's not architecture."
Veena chuckled, setting more chutney beside his plate. "He didn't need to build buildings, Rajee. He just needed to build belief."The morning air in Anandham Veedu still carried the warmth of dosa and coconut oil, but Anand wasn't in the mood to eat anymore. He was back in his room, laptop open, papers scattered across the bed, and a half-sipped coffee cooling beside him. The SRM application portal blinked on his screen, but his fingers hovered above the keyboard, unmoving.His phone buzzed with new messages from the "Thozhans 4 Life" group.Aryan:"Da... pause! We can't apply right now "Abhi: "All colleges are asking for 10th + 12th certificates. Final marksheet upload is mandatory da. SRM, VIT, all same rules."
Adithyan: "2 more days till results da. We're all stuck. Without that, can't even generate rank or apply under counseling."Anand's fingers dropped slowly onto the keyboard. The portal he was so excited to fill in now felt like a cruel tease. He opened his group chat, his heart thumping, still hoping someone would say, "Hey, there's a way."
Anand: "But da... what if I at least lock my seat? I mean, I have 93% in 10th. Maybe I can start the process now, then send 12th later?"Abhi:"No da, even management quota is on hold until 12th results are out. Everyone is on freeze mode now. College can't calculate eligibility without our final mark sheet."Aryan: "My uncle works in VIT admin. He said min 50% in 12th is needed in PCM. We're all safe I think. But still, process starts only after results."Anand: "How much did you all score in 10th?"Arjun: "78% da. I scraped maths, but I'm alive. Abhi:"84%. No drama."Aryan:"80%. But this time I studied for 12th like Amma was going to disown me. Anand smiled for the first time in five minutes. His friends were being... themselves. Drama-filled, chaotic, and loud.But they were in this together.He typed back:"Okay then. We wait. But the moment that result drops... we apply."
"One college. Four boys. One mission."
"Let's burn SRM to the ground — academically, I mean.Adithyan: "Let's gooooo. Result Day = Judgment Day. Aryan:"I'm bringing sweets da. Either to celebrate or to mourn. Nothing in between."Anand laughed out loud, tossing his phone on the bed and lying back against the pillow. The ceiling fan spun above him like a ticking clock—each rotation one step closer to Result Day.
He knew he had the marks. He knew his boys would be fine too. But still... it was the longest 48 hours of his life.
From downstairs, Veena called out, "Anand, aren't you eating? You said today's the big application day!"
He shouted back, "Application on hold, Amma! Now it's Result Countdown!"
Veena entered the room, wiping her hands on her saree. "What happened?"
He looked at her, dramatically dropping his head onto the pillow. "The world is waiting for our mark sheets. Even destiny needs documents now."She smiled gently, walking over to smooth his hair. "Then let's wait with strength, not sulking. Your time will come, Anand. Let it arrive properly."And as he lay there, teasing his friends on text again, countdown clock ticking invisibly above their heads…He didn't know that in just two days, everything would change.
The central air conditioning hummed low in the background, failing to cool the fire that buzzed through the fourth-floor conference hall of the Kerala Youth Progressive Party headquarters. Behind a grand oval mahogany table, under a wall bearing framed photographs of freedom fighters and a golden map of Kerala, some of the state's most influential men sat in crisp white shirts and starched mundu, their pens moving, their minds calculating.
At the head of the table, sharp-eyed and composed, was Rajeesh Raj—business tycoon, political kingmaker, and the kind of man whose silence could silence a room.
His iPad lay before him, screen open to a page showing projections of upcoming 12th standard board results. It wasn't just any result this year. This was the year the party planned to launch a massive "Youth Power" initiative—scholarships, trophies, recognition campaigns for the state's brightest students. All of it tied to educational merit and early leadership grooming.
And all of it perfectly timed.
A grey-haired member leaned forward. "Rajeesh-etta, we're expecting record numbers this time. Especially in urban Trivandrum. We can select top scorers and offer early recommendations. The party image will shine like a mirror."
Another chimed in, laughing. "My daughter's biting her nails over her maths result. I told her, one mark down and no Instagram for two months!"
Laughter burst across the table.
"Same here," said Siddharthan Nair, a powerful trade union head. "My son's aiming for IIT. He's been locked in a tuition centre all year. I don't think I've seen his full face without textbooks in a year."
Rajeesh smirked faintly, but said nothing.
"Your son too, right?" another asked, turning to him. "Anand, isn't it? This is his 12th result year?"
The moment that name was spoken, the room's air shifted.
Rajeesh glanced at his watch.
"Yes," he said simply. "He's waiting."
"But I heard he wanted to go to Mumbai?" one man added, sipping tea. "Architecture?"
Rajeesh gave a small smile—not the warm kind, but the kind that left people unsure if they were being corrected or challenged.
"He wanted a dream. Then he found a direction. Now, we wait for the result to see if his path can carry him."
Everyone grew quiet. In that one line, Rajeesh had spoken like both a strategist and a father.
The meeting continued with slides and spreadsheets, plans for college tie-ups, digital application portals sponsored by the party, and the big announcement:
"Top 20 scorers across the state will receive the Future Torch Trophy"—a sleek golden honor delivered by the party president himself.
Rajeesh's fingers tapped the table once.
He knew Anand didn't care for trophies or titles.
But still… a part of him couldn't help but wonder—what if his son's name ended up on that list?
Not as the son of Rajeesh Raj.
But as Anand Rajeesh, the boy who chose fire over silence.
Back in the corner of the hall, as the projector clicked through more slides, Rajeesh discreetly opened a new tab on his iPad.
"Kerala HSC 2025 – Official Result Timer: 1 Day, 13 Hours Remaining."
He stared at the countdown like it was the stock market.
Not just because of politics.
Not just because of public image.
But because somewhere in a house not far away, his son was watching the same countdown—with dreams, hopes, and the belief that this time, he chose right.
It was a quiet night in Anandham Veedu.
The silver moonlight crept in through the sheer white curtains, casting a dreamy shimmer over the polished teak floors. The old grandfather clock in the corner ticked softly, as if it, too, was counting down the seconds till dawn.
At the long dining table, dimly lit by the antique hanging lamp above, Rajeesh Raj sat at the head, his plate neatly arranged—parippu curry, chena mezhukkupuratti, and a simple achar on the side. He wasn't one to eat much at night, but today, he sat a little longer. Maybe because something was heavier than usual.
Across the table, Anand was poking at his rice half-heartedly. His appetite had surrendered hours ago, somewhere between anxiety and overthinking. His phone sat face down beside his plate—a rare sign of seriousness from him.
Veena moved between the kitchen and table, humming under her breath, occasionally peeking toward her son like she could read his heartbeat.
And then—without any ceremony, in that deep calm voice that made boardrooms freeze—Rajeesh spoke:
"Will the results be good?"
The words fell heavy. Like thunder in a silent temple.
Anand blinked. Looked up. For a second, he wasn't sure if his father was talking to him or thinking aloud.
But Rajeesh's eyes were fixed on him. Waiting.
There was no sarcasm. No challenge. Just… curiosity. Maybe concern, even if buried under layers of pride and discipline.
Anand cleared his throat. "I think so, Acha. I studied. Not perfectly... but sincerely."
He paused.
Then added, "I didn't just read for marks this time. I read to understand. Even maths."
Rajeesh raised an eyebrow. "Even maths?"
Anand smiled faintly. "Even the parts I hated."
Veena returned with a bowl of payasam and placed it between them. "Then it'll come. What's done with effort never goes unrewarded."
Rajeesh took a slow bite, chewed, and then looked at Anand again. "If it doesn't?"
Anand inhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch before answering.
"If it doesn't... I'll still go forward. I'll take another route. But I won't stop."
The words weren't loud. They weren't defiant.
But they were real.
And something in Rajeesh's expression shifted. Just slightly. A twitch of the lips. A lift in the eyes.
"Hmm," he murmured. "That's how a man thinks. Not just a student."
Anand's heart thudded harder—not in fear, but in a strange, quiet happiness.
He had spent so many years trying to impress this man through silence. Tonight, one conversation had done more than all his trophies combined.
Veena served both of them payasam, her eyes moist and proud. "See? He's growing right in front of us. Just like those jackfruit trees in the backyard—stubborn to grow, but when they do…"
Rajeesh chuckled softly. "They make the whole house smell."
Anand grinned.
That night, there were no speeches. No advice. No pressure.
Just a shared dinner. A shared silence. A shared wait.And somehow, it was enough.
The ceiling fan spun above Anand's head, the same speed, the same sound—but tonight, it felt different. Every rotation seemed to echo louder, like it was counting down to something massive. The night sky outside was velvet dark, but Anand's room was still lit—his table lamp casting a golden halo across his bed where his phone buzzed non-stop beside him.The "Thozhans 4 Life " group chat had exploded into a frenzy.Aryan: "Da... confirmed. RESULT AT 2 PM TOMORROW. Abhi: "Official. Kerala board website will crash by 2:01 PM. I'm telling you. I'm refreshing from 1:50.Adithyan: "But bro... have you all heard? This time evaluation was BRUTAL. My tuition sir said papers were corrected like PhD thesis. Anand's throat tightened. He sat up straighter on his bed, the cool breeze from the window brushing against his face. His eyes were fixed on the screen, the soft glow illuminating his anxious face. He quickly typed—Anand:"Strict? How strict? What are you saying, bro? I thought the Chemistry paper was decent!"Aryan:"Paper might've been decent da... but evaluation was ruthless. My cousin's batch last year had grace marks. This time, zero mercy."Abhi:"And guess what? The topper in the neighbouring school got 98 in 10th. I bet He won't cross 85 this time."Adithyan:"Bro... I studied my lungs out. Still, my brain says: FAIL AWAITS. Anand: "STOP. Stop y'all. Let me sleep. I already have butterflies dancing chenda melam in my stomach."Aryan: "You're acting cool, but tomorrow 1:59 PM, you'll be pacing in circles like a temple elephant. Anand: "Promise me this, da. No matter what happens tomorrow... we all go together. Same college. Same dream. Same chaos."
There was a moment of silence in the chat.
Then one by one, the messages came.
Abhi: "Together."Aryan:"Always."Adithyan:
"Thozhans never split, even if one of us fails maths.Anand smiled, laying back down. The fear was real. The rumors of strict checking were everywhere. His hands were sweating. His mind was racing.
But in that chaos, their words were a thread—pulling him back to balance.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed his mother walking past the door slowly, peeking in. He pretended to sleep.
She didn't enter. But she paused for a second longer than usual.
Like she, too, was counting the hours.
2 PM.
A time.
But tomorrow... it would be a moment.
A number. A future. A verdict.
And all they could do now—was wait.
The first light of dawn crept into Anandham Veedu, touching the house like a whisper. The thulasi plant in the courtyard stood silent, leaves swaying softly in the summer breeze, as if the very air knew this day was different.
Anand had been awake the whole night. Not tossing. Not turning.
Just staring.
At the ceiling, the wall, the curtain that danced by the window—his thoughts louder than any sound in the house. No amount of deep breaths or closed eyes had silenced the war inside. His chest felt tight. His fingers tingled. 2 PM wasn't just a time. It was a ticking bomb.
He stepped downstairs barefoot, the cool stone floor grounding him for a moment. His eyes were puffy but alert, face unshaven, hair an unruly mess. His footsteps were slow—heavy not with sleep, but with expectation.
As he reached the dining area, the familiar scent of idli and sambar wafted in, but it felt distant. Like smelling memories, not food.
Veena Rajeesh emerged from the kitchen, saree neatly pleated, her face glowing with that effortless morning grace. She paused when she saw him.
"Didn't sleep?" she asked softly, already knowing the answer.
Anand just shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tried. My brain didn't agree."
She set the plate down with two idlis and poured hot sambar over them, her movements gentle. "You've already done what matters, monu. This result is just the world catching up to you."
He gave her a tired smile. "You always say poetic things before I walk into hell."
Just then—
From behind the newspaper, came a calm voice:
"Then walk in proudly."
Anand looked over. Rajeesh Raj was seated at the far end of the table, eyes still fixed on the newspaper, glasses resting on the tip of his nose. His plate was untouched, his tea steaming beside it.
He folded the newspaper halfway and looked up at his son.
"You look like a man waiting for judgment."
Anand blinked. "Feels like it too."
Rajeesh set the paper aside and leaned back, his tone unreadable—half teasing, half philosophical. "I once stood exactly like you, many years ago. My result day. The night before, I thought my world would end. But the next morning, I ate three dosas like nothing happened."
Veena snorted softly from the kitchen. "You were crying in the bathroom when the results came. I remember."
Rajeesh raised an eyebrow. "Veena, I was sweating. Not crying."
"Sweating through your eyes, then," she said dryly, placing chutney on the table.
Anand laughed, tension breaking for a moment.
He sat at the table, pulling the plate close but only breaking the idli with his spoon. "Feels weird, Acha. This result… feels like it decides everything."
Rajeesh looked him straight in the eye. "It doesn't. It decides a door. Not the building."
Anand blinked. "What?"
Rajeesh continued, "You want to be a builder, right? A creator? Then remember this—marks only open one door. You still have to build the rest. Your life won't be made by today's numbers. It'll be made by what you do after."
Veena placed her hand on Anand's shoulder as she walked by. "But for now, eat. Even builders need strength to break walls."
Anand smiled at both of them, suddenly feeling like he wasn't alone in this.
Somewhere in the city, three other boys were also waking up to the same storm—Abhi pacing in his room with a plate of puttu untouched, Aryan fighting with his mother over "good omens," and Adithyan lighting a lamp with his grandmother whispering shlokas in the background.
The clock was ticking.
2 PM was coming.
But in Anandham Veedu, that morning—amid the quiet clink of cutlery, the smell of coconut, and the steady gaze of a father who once waited like this too—Anand didn't feel like a boy anymore.
He felt ready.
Almost.