As my finger tapped 'Play' on the online rummy app, something in me snapped. My posture straightened, my breath slowed. Around me, time blurred—but inside the game, I felt sharp. Alive.
I became completely different—no longer a jobless graduate, but someone in control. Someone with skill. I'd practiced enough to predict cards, to calculate odds, to believe I was good.
That night, after eating my favourite dinner—hot chapati with chicken curry, just the way I liked it, cooked by my mom with so much love—I stepped out and sat on the old swing outside.
The night breeze was gentle. As I rocked back and forth, sleepiness began to pull at my eyes. My mind drifted—spinning back to how all of this had started.
Online rummy.
At first, it was just for fun. Practice mode. No money.
But it felt easy. Win a hand, feel the rush.
The cards didn't judge. They didn't ask for resumes or degrees.
They just rewarded focus.
I started using my pocket money—Rs. 2000 my mom sent every month for small expenses.
And strangely, I started winning.
Small amounts—Rs.5, 25… once, even Rs.100.
But the first time I won Rs. 1000, I couldn't stop smiling.
That entire day, my smile bloomed like a spring.
Even my mom asked, "Karthik, what are you grinning for? Some good news?"
I just laughed. "Nothing, ma."
I didn't tell her. Because if she knew, she'd make me stop immediately. She'd seen the news—about lives ruined, even lost, to online rummy.
But that win… it felt like magic.
I thought maybe I'd found it—
My shortcut.
My escape.
A way to earn while having fun.
No boring job. No shouting boss. No dragging 10-hour shifts.
I started dreaming big—bikes, cars, maybe even my own house one day.
And on that swing, under the stars, my thoughts curled around that dream.
That month passed like a train with no brakes—win, lose, win again.
I was hooked, and somehow, I'd managed to save nearly ₹7000.
One evening, as she scrolled through her phone, My Mom said,
"Karthik, salary credited. I'll send your usual."
I hesitated.
Then, trying to sound casual, I said,
"Ma… can you send a little extra this month? Like ₹1000 more?
I'm thinking of buying a couple of new shirts."
She looked at me—just a second too long.
My stomach tensed.
But then she nodded. "Okay."
No questions. No doubt. Just trust.
A few taps later, ₹3000 landed in my account.
As I stared at my phone screen, a strange mix of excitement and guilt brewed inside me—like mixing biriyani with chocolate syrup. Two things that should never go together.
Night fell. I locked my room, like always. I played like an owl, hunched over the glowing screen. Sleep became a luxury—five hours, sometimes less. But it didn't matter anymore.
On the screen, the Online Rummy app pulsed like it was calling me.
I hesitated.
Then tapped it open.
I had saved enough now—₹10,000. And tonight was the Grand Tournament.
The prize?
₹1,000,000.
If I won… everything would change.
But a whisper crawled in—What if I lose?
I shut it down.
I trusted my skills. I wasn't lucky. I was smart. Focused.
If I won, I could make My mom retire early. No more aching legs after work. No more sighing over bills. I'd treat her like a queen.
That dream—to give her back everything she gave me hundredfold—made the guilt feel smaller, almost quiet.
I scrolled to the tournament tab.
Entry Fee: ₹9,999.
Prize: ₹1,000,000.
The screen glowed like it held my future.
My thumb hovered—then tapped.
My money vanished like air.
No fear. Just expectation. Determination.
As the clock struck 12:00 AM, I exhaled deeply.
The game began. Cards shuffled.
The world around me vanished. It was just me and the screen.
Thirty minutes in, even with the air conditioner on, sweat soaked my underarms. My ears burned like hot pans.
I was one round away from losing it all.
"No, no, no… just one more round, please—please, God…"
But the match ended.
Defeat. Final. Unforgiving.
My hopes, my dreams—shattered in a second. I just froze.
My heart missed a beat.
As I lay on the bed, sleep never came.
My mind was too loud with regret. I told myself—no more online rummy, no more shortcuts. I'll find a real job. I'll set a goal tomorrow.
And with that thought holding me steady, I finally slept.
But the next morning, as my mom stepped into the bathroom, that thought... cracked.
I picked up her phone.
My fingers trembled. Guilt clung to me—but something else pushed harder: determination.
I can't let ₹10,000 vanish for nothing. Maybe yesterday was bad luck. Today, I'm sharp. Just a small amount. I'll win it back.
She had two accounts—one for salary, one for savings. She saved ₹5,000 every month for the future. She never checked that one much.
I told myself: This is for us. For our future.
So I transferred ₹1,000 to my account—deleted the alert, cleared the message.
No trace.
Except the one inside me: A thin thread of guilt— Quiet, but tight.
Two months passed.
And somehow, I was still at it.
Win—smile. Lose—rage. Still transferring money from my Mom's account. Still deleting messages. Still telling myself, Just this one time.
I had already taken ₹3,00,000 from her savings.
Lost. All of it.
I couldn't touch her account anymore—only the bare minimum remained. If I took more, the bank might notify her.
The money moved. And the guilt? It stuck. Like bubble gum in hair—hard to get rid of.
So I turned to loan apps—my last hope. Bright, shiny lies that promise money fast, and steal peace even faster.
I borrowed ₹10,000. Then another. Then another. Some apps gave me credit, others demanded repayment before giving more. I lied. Dodged. Switched off my phone when the calls began.
In just two months, I had taken nearly ₹1,00,000 in loans.
And lost it all.
Inside, I was a war zone.
One voice said, Just one more try. You'll win it back.
Another whispered, End this. Please.
My brain felt like it was tearing apart. I wanted to scream.
I did scream.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
But only inside.
If that sound had escaped, it might've shattered every window on the street.
Finally—I broke.
No more.
I couldn't do this anymore.
I first thought this was a shortcut—an easy way to make money while having fun.
But now?
I'd take a boring job. A loud boss. A dusty chair. Anything.
At least then, my soul would still be intact.
With a firm breath and no hesitation, I deleted the Online Rummy app—no drama, no ceremony. Just… gone.
I stopped answering the loan app calls.
I didn't know what I'd tell them anyway.
The guilt still sat in my chest like a stone. But deleting that app? It lit a small flame inside me. A flicker of peace.
But it was too late to realize—too late, with chains of guilt already wrapped around me: ₹3 lakh taken from my Mom's savings, and ₹1 lakh borrowed from loan apps.
His thoughts were cut by her serene, caring voice.
"Karthik, why have you been so quiet these past few days? Did something happen? Tell me, we'll solve it together."
She set a cup of coffee beside me, the way she always did—soft, simple, full of love.
I held the cup in both hands, but her words felt like needles. Not because they were sharp—because they were gentle. And I didn't deserve gentle.
Then—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang.
And the moment shattered.
As she moved to open the door, I caught a glimpse of the man outside—worn shirt, sling bag, a clipboard in hand.
He looked like the kind who comes when money isn't paid.
My whole body tensed.
No. Please, no.
And then—like a wave crashing through the quiet—he spoke.
"Is this Karthik's house?"
My mom paused at the threshold. "Yes," she replied, turning halfway. "Karthik, someone's here for you."
She paused. Her eyes narrowed.
"Why are you asking for Karthik? Who are you?"
Her tone wasn't rude—just sharp. Alert.
The man didn't look like a friend. Too old. Too serious. His eyes searched, not smiled.
I stood frozen, my feet stuck to the floor.
My legs felt weak, barely carrying me forward.
I walked slowly—each step like dragging shame behind me.
And when I finally stood behind her, I didn't say a word.
I just stayed there—half-hidden, half-exposed—using her as a shield from the blade I knew was coming.
But the man didn't shout.
He spoke calmly—too calmly.
"Karthik," he said, "your repayment date has passed. You've taken over ₹1,00,000 in loans across multiple apps. They've notified us. I'm here to assess whether you're a defaulter or just delayed."
His voice was polite. Measured.
But every word hit like a bullet I couldn't dodge.
Beside me, my mom turned slowly, her eyes locking onto mine—questioning, stunned.
Is this true? her silence asked.
I couldn't meet her gaze.
She inhaled sharply, then turned back to the man.
"Give me a moment."
She stepped inside. Her hands didn't tremble—but I could feel the storm inside her.
She pulled out her phone. Checked her salary account— not enough.
Then switched to her savings— her safety net, five years of careful planning, ₹3,00,000 saved for the future.
She tried to transfer.
A message popped up:
"Insufficient balance. Please contact bank for further assistance."
Her hands trembled as she held the phone. I could see the unease spreading across her face.
She glanced at me—just for a second. I lowered my head, unable to meet her eyes.
She looked back at the man, then quietly transferred ₹3,000—just the interest—from her salary account.
"I'll pay the rest today. You don't need to come again," she said, her voice steady, but tight.
The man hesitated. His eyes shifted to me—I kept my gaze on the floor.
Then he nodded. "Okay, madam. I believe you."
And he walked away.
She closed the door gently.
But her eyes never left me.
Still staring, she pulled out her phone and called the bank manager.
"Hello, sir? I had ₹3,00,000 in my savings account two months ago… now it's showing only ₹5,000. Can you check what happened?"
She gave her account details.
On the other end, a pause. Some tapping.
Then the manager's voice:
"Madam, there have been continuous transactions to an account named Karthik. Is that someone you know? If not, you should file a complaint—either to the police or directly with the bank. This might be a case of fraud."
Her gaze locked onto me, tighter now. Sharper.
But I didn't look up.
My head hung lower, the weight of guilt crushing me like a mountain collapsing on my chest. That silence—that refusal to meet her eyes—was all the confirmation she needed.
The reveal shook her to the core.
Someone she trusted—someone she raised with both hands and heart—had betrayed her.
She slowly brought the phone back to her ear.
"…It's my son," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "He made the transfers. He told me about it earlier, but I forgot. Sorry for disturbing you, sir."
The manager's voice came gently through the phone.
"Oh… alright, madam. Let us know if you need anything."
Click.
The call ended.
She didn't yell. Didn't ask why. Didn't say a single word.
She just looked at me—once—and walked away.
That silence hurt more than any slap.
My stomach twisted. My eyes stung. I stood frozen, unable to speak, unable to move.
Then I watched her walk to the wardrobe, open it slowly, and take out a small box.
Her gold.
The one she wore only on special occasions. The one she never let out of her sight.
She stepped outside with it in hand, started her scooty, and rode off without another word.
I knew exactly where she was going. The pawn shop.
She would pawn it today—to cover the loans I had taken. Quietly. Without borrowing. Without asking for help.
Because that's who she was.
The scooty's hum disappeared into the distance, and silence took its place. But inside me, a storm was screaming.
I walked away from that spot, heart heavy, eyes still brimming.
In the mirror, I saw myself—and felt more disgusting than a cockroach.
A heartless creature.
The guilt was tearing me apart. The fear of the future—jobless, directionless—and the shame of cheating the only person who ever believed in me... it all crushed me from the inside.
I wanted it to stop.
I wanted silence.
Peace.
To escape the pain I'd caused, the guilt I couldn't carry anymore, I made a choice.
Maybe... maybe the only way to pay for what I'd done was with my life.
I clenched my fists.
No more tears.
No more guilt.
I wiped my face, even though more tears kept falling. I told myself: This is the end. It's better this way.
I didn't want to feel like this anymore. Didn't want to look into my mother's eyes and see love I didn't deserve.
"Sorry, Ma," I whispered. "I've shamed you. A worthless son... for a mother like you."
Before I die, I thought—I'll eat my favorite meal.
I picked up my phone and opened the food delivery app. Ordered chicken biryani. With curry. And Chicken 65.
If this is my last day, why not have one last plate of joy?
My mom would be gone for at least two hours, finishing the work she'd rushed off for. I had time.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
The delivery guy stood there holding the warm bag. I paid him with what little I had left.
Didn't matter.
Money had no meaning anymore.
I brought the food inside, turned on the home theatre, played my favorite song, and switched on the AC. My mom always scolded me—"Why put the AC on in the morning?"—but today, I didn't care.
I'm going to die anyway.
Tears streamed down my face, but I didn't bother to wipe them.
I'm going to die anyway.
I sat there, alone, eating like it was a celebration.
Each bite felt empty.
Each chew dragged longer than it should've.
Then, I opened my laptop and typed into the search bar:
[How to die without pain.]
Meanwhile, at the pawn shop, something shifted in My mom's chest.
Her stomach twisted. Her heart skipped a beat—sharp, sudden.
Like the air had changed.
Like something terrible was happening miles away but still touching her skin.
A thought struck her so hard it made her dizzy: What if something's happened to Karthik?
The gold in her hand suddenly meant nothing.
She packed it up without a second thought, pushed it back across the counter. "I'll come later," she said, voice tight with panic.
She ran out, hopped onto her scooty, and kicked the ignition.
She didn't know why. But she knew one thing with terrifying clarity—
If she was even a minute late, she might lose the most precious part of her life.
She reached home at full speed, cutting through traffic, not caring about rules—or her own safety.
Her scooty skidded to a stop outside. The front door was already slightly open.
Her heart thudded.
The front door creaked open.
My Mom stepped in.
Her eyes scanned the room—music still playing through the speakers, the air thick with biriyani and cold from the AC. I saw her nostrils twitch at the smell. Her eyes narrowed.
Then they landed on me.
I froze—mid-bite. My hand paused halfway to my mouth, chicken piece dripping with gravy. Tears were running freely now, my nose was leaking like I'd eaten the world's spiciest dish. But it wasn't the food.
It was everything else.
Her eyes met mine.
And I swear, something inside me shattered.
She didn't say anything.
She just stood there—staring. And I sat there, still crying, still chewing. Because what else could I do? I'd come so far down this hole that even this—my stupid last meal—felt hollow.
I looked at her, really looked.
Her hair messy from the wind. Her face pale, lips slightly open. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. Like she'd been running. Or panicking. Or both.
She came and sat beside me.
Not a word.
But her eyes… they saw it.
The laptop screen, still glowing.
[How to die without pain.]
Her body froze.
Her stomach twisted.
And her heartbeat—thunderous, desperate.
Her tears came before her words—quiet, sudden. Like a dam cracked open too fast to stop.
She looked at me. Not with anger. Not even with confusion.
With heartbreak.
As if she was seeing her little boy again—the one she once held in her arms the day he was born.
And then, without caring that the biriyani spilled across her saree, she pulled me into her arms.
Held me tight.
Her voice broke through her sobs.
"Why, Karthik… why?"
I couldn't speak. My chest caved in. My body trembled.
My tears had dried—but now, from somewhere deeper, they returned. Overflowed. Flooded.
Her voice, shaking, whispered again.
"You think I would ever value numbers and paper more than you?"
That shattered me.
Whatever strength I had left collapsed completely.
I sobbed—loud, ugly, uncontrollable. The kind of sob that only comes when guilt can no longer be buried.
"I'm sorry, Ma…"
My voice cracked like glass.
"I'm so stupid. I should've listened. I did so many stupid things. I thought I was smart… I thought—"
I couldn't finish.
I laid my head in her lap, like a child lost in a storm.
And she—she just caressed my hair.
Gently. Lovingly.
Like I was still her little boy.
Because in her eyes—I always would be.