On the Pulsar, as they approached the school gate, Banni whispered a short line under her breath:
> "Activate Confidence Recall."
The Magical Space shimmered inside her mind.
> "Revision Pack: Algebra, Ratios, Word Problems, Geometry — Loaded."
Her cousin brother's voice echoed lightly in her thoughts.
> "If a bus leaves Mysore at 60 km/hr and another at—"
She smiled.
> "Stop, Anna. I got this now."
---
Inside the hall, she flipped open the Maths question paper.
Her eyes moved quickly.
Section A: Short sums.
Section B: Application problems.
Section C: 4 marks each — the long ones.
First few lines — easy. The kind she could now do without blinking.
She started solving.
Numbers, like soldiers, fell into formation.
---
The Magical Space supported her, but it didn't interfere.
Because now… she didn't need saving.
She just needed reminders.
Her hand moved quickly, recalling shortcuts her cousin taught her.
> "If it's asking speed, use the triangle: D = S × T. Always."
> "For LCM and HCF, test the smallest numbers first. Don't panic."
> "If the diagram looks confusing, break it down into squares and triangles."
---
Halfway through the paper, she paused, took a breath, and smiled to herself.
This wasn't the same girl from two weeks ago.
This wasn't the girl who feared every maths chapter.
This was the girl who had been taught with care.
And she was writing this paper for two people:
One — herself.
Two — her brother, who gave her his only remaining strength.
---
As she finished the last long answer — a 4-mark profit-and-loss question — the final bell rang.
She placed her pen down.
Done.
No second-guessing.
No panic.
Just completion.
---
Outside, as her father waited at the gate, she walked out with a lightness in her step.
> "How was it?" he asked, voice calm.
She replied with just two words:
> "Full attempt."
And for the first time in a long time, her father patted her back gently — not out of habit, but pride.
Evening had settled gently over the house.
The pressure cooker had already whistled once. Her younger brother was playing with a paper spinner on the veranda. The TV was on in the hall, but the volume was low. A typical day — except Banni was glowing on the inside.
Her Maths exam had gone well.
Not perfect.
But complete.
She'd attempted every question, written every formula she had revised, drawn every diagram without confusion.
The weight on her shoulders had lightened.
---
After washing her face and changing into a loose kurti, she walked into the small shared room where her cousin was half-asleep, one earphone dangling, the other side of his pillow folded.
He opened one eye.
"Done?"
She nodded, a small smile creeping across her face. "Full attempt."
He sat up, blinking in disbelief. "You sure?"
"I'm not saying I'll get full marks," she said, chuckling. "But I understood every question. All because of your revision plan."
For a moment, the room fell into silence.
Then he rubbed his eyes and said:
> "That's the first time someone said I helped them... and meant it."
She sat beside him on the edge of the bed. "It mattered."
He didn't reply. But something softened in his face.
Not pride exactly — more like relief.
As if something broken inside had shifted a little… and started to heal.
---
Later, in the kitchen, Amma handed Banni her dinner — a hot bowl of tomato rasam, rice, a spoon of palya, and a little jaggery on the side.
Amma didn't say much.
But while handing her the plate, she quietly added:
> "Next time, just keep one small paper in your math book with the steps. It helps with revision."
Banni paused. Amma never usually commented on her studies.
She looked up — Amma wasn't looking at her.
She was stirring the sambar like it was nothing.
But Banni smiled.
She understood.
That was Amma's way of saying: "I saw. And I'm proud."
---
That night, as she slipped into bed, the Magical Space chimed in gently:
> "Maths exam completed. Tag: Full Attempt. Memory stored successfully."
And then… a pause.
> "Emotional Balance Level: Strong.
Support Circle: Active.
Self-Worth: Increasing."
Banni closed her eyes, hugging her pillow tightly.
For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like a girl trying to catch up.
She felt like a girl who was finally leading her own journey.
In the small living room, gathered around a round plastic table, sat:
Banni's father — firm, practical, weathered by experience.
Mr. Ramesh — his elder brother, cautious but determined to do things differently this time.
The silent listeners: Banni, her younger brother Manu, cousins Harsha and Vani (fresh B.Com graduates), and both mothers — seated nearby, quietly alert, exchanging occasional glances.
But no one interrupted.
This was not casual talk.
This was a business conversation.
A decision that could reshape everything.
---
Mr. Ramesh cleared his throat.
> "So… we both agree. No more hotel business."
Banni's father nodded.
> "Too many losses. High rent, daily wastage, dependency on staff... it's not worth it anymore. Food business isn't stable — not for us."
Ramesh folded the towel in his lap.
> "Then what are you thinking?"
A brief pause.
Then, her father leaned forward, voice calm but sure.
> "A mini supermarket. Small investment. Fast-moving products. No daily cooking. Less staff needed. Fixed prices.
"It's changing," he added. "People don't buy raw rice sacks anymore — they buy branded packets. Soap, detergent, baby food, tissue rolls, mops instead of brooms. Lifestyle is shifting. I want to get ahead of it."
---
Mr. Ramesh rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
> "You'll need shelves, billing counter, a fridge… won't all that drain your savings?"
Her father took out a folded sheet from his shirt pocket.
> "I've done the math. I'll stretch what I have. Use secondhand racks if needed. Hire just one helper."
> "Hmm…"
Mr. Ramesh paused. Then slowly said:
> "Then I'll go the other way. A traditional general store — rice, oil, jaggery, matchsticks, toor dal, candles. Small capital, low maintenance. Two wooden counters, storage sacks, one helper. I've got a spot near the milk booth and temple road. That crowd still prefers local shops for daily needs."
---
Silence followed.
Banni glanced at her father — steady eyes, quiet courage.
Harsha glanced at his father — calculating, but grounded.
Two brothers.
Two different visions.
Both rooted in lessons from failure.
---
Mr. Ramesh finally said:
> "I can't risk big again. Not yet. I want stability — even if profit is low."
Her father replied without hesitation:
> "And I'm ready for a measured leap. I've watched the need grow — scooters outside homes, women earning, families choosing small luxuries."
---
The mothers didn't speak.
But Vani, sharp-eyed and silently watching, whispered to herself:
> "Both are right. In their own way."
And Banni, sitting cross-legged on the floor, thought:
> "This is how life really shifts.
Not just through exams or grades —
But through choices made around a plastic table…
By men who've fallen once and are still brave enough to try again."