Life in words

  Aryan had always found solace in equations. Molecular interactions followed predictable rules, and chemical reactions unfolded with precision. The universe, to him, was a vast system of calculated probabilities. But love—love was the one equation he had never solved. He met Mira at a bioinformatics conference, where science and passion collided in a heated debate. Their session focused on molecular docking strategies, and she was quick to challenge his approach. “You’re underestimating ligand flexibility,” Mira remarked, her dark eyes flashing with certainty. “IC50 values alone won’t tell the full story of inhibition. Molecular dynamics play a crucial role.” Aryan leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. “Statistical models provide reliable predictions,” he argued. “A well-structured QSAR approach can—” “Can approximate reality, yes,” Mira interrupted, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “But molecules behave unpredictably, much like people.” That was the moment Aryan realized...

It was the first rain of the season in Kolkata. The kind that made the city smell like old earth and nostalgia. Maya stood beneath the half-torn shade of a secondhand bookstore on College Street, clutching her dupatta and watching the raindrops turn the dust into dark, wet patches. Her eyes followed the water trailing along the edges of the pavement, catching discarded betel leaves and broken dreams. She loved the monsoon. It was the only time the city slowed down, as if offering her time to breathe. Maya, a final-year literature student at Presidency University, had always believed that the rains told stories—hidden in thunder, in puddles, in the sigh of the wet wind. She wasn’t one for fleeting crushes or dramatic declarations. She believed love, like rain, had to come when the soil was ready. She was admiring the script on a weather-worn edition of Gitanjali when she saw him. A tall, thin boy walking down the middle of the road, unbothered by the downpour. He held no umbrella, wo...

  By the Beach, By the Heart The sun hadn’t yet risen fully, but the salt was already in the air—stinging, thick, stubborn. Just like her love for him. Radha walked barefoot along the shore, sari pinned tightly around her waist, carrying a small tin box wrapped in cloth. She paused every few feet, bending to pick seashells, not for their beauty, but because they reminded her of resilience. Shells break, yet they return to the sea. She had lived in this coastal village for 27 years. Her father sold salted dry fish from a wooden stall. Her mother made papads during summer to sell in bulk. Radha had grown up with the smell of brine and burnt turmeric, the sound of waves folding into themselves. And then Arjun came. He arrived in the village on a blue Hero Honda, wearing a white shirt too crisp for the heat. The panchayat had hired him from the city to help digitize land records. “He’s a government boy,” her father had whispered proudly. Radha met him during ration distribution,...

  Chapter 5: Richer Than Before Six months later, Ravi sat on a wooden bench outside a modest office in Lucknow. A ceiling fan creaked overhead. The air was thick with the scent of ink, chai, and faint desperation—familiar now. The sign outside read: “Shiksha Foundation – Financial Literacy for All.” Inside, volunteers were conducting a workshop for small shopkeepers on how to manage debt, avoid loan traps, and use digital payment systems responsibly. Ravi had just finished his part—an hour-long session on the psychology of money , delivered not with corporate polish, but quiet honesty. He spoke not as a professional, but as a cautionary tale. It hadn’t been easy to get here. After his termination, Ravi had returned to his hometown in Kanpur, broken and directionless. His parents had said nothing when he walked in with a backpack and no job. But their silence was warm, not judgmental. They made space for him—on the old swing, at the dinner table, in their prayers. ...

  Chapter 4: The Price of Trust The first unethical decision was small—almost invisible. Ravi had access to internal client data as part of his analyst duties. Nothing too sensitive, just portfolio trends, preferences, and upcoming investment interests. One afternoon, as he scrolled through a report, his eyes lingered on a line: Client X to invest ₹20 lakhs in emerging tech fund next week. A spark flickered in his mind. That fund was likely to surge when the news became public. If he entered before it did, he could ride the wave. He hesitated. He thought of his father’s medical bills. His mounting debts. Neha’s quiet but increasing expectations. The ever-lurking fear of losing everything. He told himself, It’s not illegal. Just… early awareness. That night, he made the trade through a personal account in a friend’s name. The fund spiked as predicted. In two days, he earned ₹34,000. The rush was addictive. He did it again—this time with a larger amount. Within a...

  Chapter 3: The Debt Trap The morning the markets crashed, Ravi was holding his phone like it was a lifeline—one that had suddenly snapped. Red arrows. Falling graphs. Panic in every WhatsApp group. The high-risk crypto scheme he’d invested in had vanished overnight—vanished like monsoon puddles under the sun. One app notification read: “Server temporarily down. Please check back later.” It never came back online. He sat frozen at his desk, the bustling Mumbai office around him blurring into static. ₹50,000—gone. His attempt to recover it by doubling down on a volatile stock pick two days earlier had backfired. Another ₹30,000 evaporated. He had barely enough left to pay rent. Ravi closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. For a man in finance, he had done the most financially reckless thing imaginable: believed in shortcuts. Worse, his salary was already committed to three credit cards, a personal loan, a car EMI, and an apartment deposit he had borrowed from a friend...