The day my entrance exam results came out, the house erupted with cheers. I had secured a 93 percentile—a result good enough to apply for the next round of counselling.
My mother cried a little while hugging me. My father, stoic as always, had a small proud smile tugging at the corner of his lips. My younger brother clapped like he was at a cricket match, and my sister—well, she'd already updated the family WhatsApp group before I could even open my mouth.
That evening, we celebrated at one of the five-star restaurants in Patna—one we usually passed by without glancing twice at. I still remember the warm lights, the soft instrumental music, and how everything felt a bit too fancy for our middle-class comfort zone.
And after dessert, my father handed me a small box.
It was the latest smartphone in the market. I hadn't asked for it, but that's how he was. Quiet in his love, loud in his gestures.
Everything should've felt perfect.
But it didn't.
Despite all the happiness, a part of me remained unsure. Skeptical.
Was this really what I wanted?
The truth was—I never dreamed of becoming a doctor. It was just... the only thing left. In Bihar, if you don't choose medical, your career path shrinks down to law, engineering, or public service. I had no love for equations, no passion for politics or courtrooms.
Medical was the safest bet.
Or maybe the only one.
A few weeks later, the counselling results came out. I had applied to a number of colleges based on the previous year's cut-offs, praying silently for a miracle.
I didn't get any of my top choices.
Just one government college picked me.
Jaipur Medical College.
I cried silently that night, staring at the Delhi college list over and over again. I met the cut-off. I cleared the benchmark. Why wasn't my name there? It felt unfair. Cruel even.
The next morning, Papa came to my room. He didn't say anything at first, just sat beside me, gently running his fingers through my hair like he used to when I was a child.
Papa:
"Aaradhya beta, I know this isn't what you wanted. But this is just the start of your journey. You have your entire career ahead of you. Think of Jaipur as a stepping stone. In Masters, you can choose any place you like—even Delhi. Sometimes life doesn't give us the road we asked for, but it still leads us where we're meant to go."
I nodded, trying to believe him. And slowly, I did. Maybe it wasn't Delhi. But it was still a beginning.
The day I left for Jaipur, the whole family came to drop me off at the station.
Papa made sure I had enough cash and emergency contacts.
Ma kept stuffing packets of snacks into my bag till the zipper protested.
My sister kept adjusting my scarf and hair, fussing like a typical older sibling.
My brother sulked for two whole minutes because I was leaving, then gifted me his favorite comic book with a quiet "don't lose it."
Right before I boarded, Papa said something that stayed with me.
Papa:
"There's a family from our village living in Jaipur—Kamlesh Bhaiya and his family. You can stay with them for a week until they allocate you the hostel. They'll be like your local guardians if you ever need anything."
(Reached Jaipur)
I stepped down from the train, dragging my luggage behind me as I scanned the sea of faces.
Uncle Kamlesh... where are you?
That's when I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
I turned around—and blinked.
He wasn't uncle-like at all.
A boy, or maybe a man, a few years older than me, stood there with a casual posture and an unreadable face.
Aaditya: "Hey."
Aaradhya: "You?"
Aaditya: "I'm Aaditya. Kamlesh uncle's son. My father was supposed to pick you up, but he got a last-minute call from work. So here I am." (He casually took the luggage handle from my hand.)
Aaradhya: "Hi. I'm Aaradhya."
Aaditya: (already walking ahead) "I know."
We started walking toward the exit gate. I had to take a few quick steps to keep up.
Aaradhya: "So... you're in college?"
Aaditya: "Yeah. Final year B.Tech."
Aaradhya: "Okay, I'm here for medical."
Aaditya: (without turning) "I know. Dad told me."
He stopped an auto, gave the driver an address, and we both got in.
The rest of the ride was... quiet. Awkwardly so.
He didn't ask me anything. No questions about the journey, no small talk, nothing. Just eyes fixed out the window like he was in another world.
Maybe he's an introvert. Or maybe he just doesn't like talking to people he doesn't know.
But still... there was something about him. Something calm. Like a still lake—not cold, not warm. Just... distant.
I leaned back into my seat, the city of Jaipur slowly unfolding around me, wondering what kind of beginning this would be.
The auto stopped in front of a modest two-storey house, nestled quietly at the corner of a residential lane in Jaipur. There was nothing particularly grand about it—it didn't have the freshly painted charm of an elite bungalow nor the rustic messiness of an old ancestral home. It was simple. Practical.
Aaditya stepped out first and helped me with the luggage. He didn't ring the bell. Instead, he took out a key from his pocket and unlocked the gate.
Aaradhya: "No one there in home?"
Aaditya: "No. No one's at home. They're out right now. Dad's at work. Mom went to visit a cousin. Both of them will be back in evening"
(He said it like a fact. No extra words.)
I followed him in. The moment I stepped inside, I noticed how neat everything was. Not the kind of neatness that comes from obsessive cleaning, but the kind that comes naturally—like the person who lives here values space, order, and calm.
The house was filled with warm tones—soft cream walls, wooden furniture, and yellow lighting that should've made it feel cozy. But still... something about it felt cold.
There were no family photographs on the walls. Just a few generic paintings—sunsets, flowers, a forest path. The kind you buy in sets and forget where you got them from. It felt like a home where everything had its place, but not its story.
We walked through the living room to a guest room in the corner.
Aaditya: "You can stay here. There are clean sheets in the cupboard and fresh towels in the bathroom. If you need anything... just ask."
I nodded. He was already halfway out the door before I could even say "thanks."
But something caught my eye before he left.
There was a tall bookshelf near the hallway, partially visible through the open living room door.
I paused.
Books have always been my soft spot. They say you can tell a lot about a person from the music they listen to or the books they read.
I walked up to it when he disappeared into his room.
The shelf wasn't overly full, but each book seemed chosen—not bought in bulk or collected for show. Titles ranged from Dan Brown to Murakami, Khaled Hosseini, to a few thriller fiction titles I hadn't even heard of. And tucked in between all the hardcovers was a thin, well-used poetry book by Gulzar.
I wasn't expecting this.
People usually reveal themselves in pieces. Sometimes, unknowingly. And this shelf? This was a piece of Aaditya that didn't quite match the quiet, almost guarded version of him I met at the station.
He seemed like someone who didn't talk much. But here was proof that his mind spoke plenty.
The guest room was clean. A single bed, a desk with a lamp, a cupboard with sliding doors, and beige curtains that let in a soft filtered light. It was quiet. Too quiet.
I sat down on the bed, still in my travel clothes, and let out a deep breath I didn't realize I was holding.
This was it. Jaipur.
A new city. A new life.