The original speaker finished, and the room's atmosphere snapped taut. The lights in the assembly hall subtly focused on the stage, silencing the students instantly. A woman, Shaila, walked onto the stage carrying a thin white file. Her presence was quiet, demanding total attention.
She didn't smile, placing the file on the podium. "Welcome. I am here to review your Domain Selection."
Her gaze swept the few junior Business students. "Only two of you in Class 5 have opted for this path this year. It suggests clarity, if nothing else."
She paused, the weight of her scrutiny making the juniors shift nervously.
"Riya and Aryan Kumar. Quite a decision you had made."
The senior students, Class 7 and 8, immediately began whispering, confirming the difficulty of the path.
"A project pitch right away," a staff member muttered to a colleague near the front.
"This is even tougher than last year. They want to eliminate the non-serious candidates early."
Tanushri leaned close to Aryan. "High attrition, kanna. This domain is a meat grinder."
Shaila's eyes landed on Riya.
"Based on your entry scores, you are already setting a high benchmark. Your choice suggests a profound understanding of legacy and future market relevance. You carry the expectations of generations of industry leaders."
Riya stood, a flush of vindication replacing her nervousness. This is it. The recognition I earned. She owned the spotlight, the praise validating her perfect scores. Internally, her ambition solidified: They think I'm just a trophy. I will close a massive deal on my first project. That is the only proof that matters.
Shaila gave a subtle, cold nod. "Excellent. It is vital to own the space you choose."
Her gaze then locked onto Aryan, who remained seated. He didn't look down, refusing to concede the attention. He stared straight back, an unyielding grudge—not panic—settling in his stomach. This system saw only numbers. He was determined to force it to see truth.
Shaila acknowledged his defiance with a slight, cold smile.
"And Aryan Kumar. A curious case. Choosing the path of maximum rigor despite no prior apparent inclination. That is either courage, or a misjudgment."
Shaila let the challenge hang for only a second, then pivoted to action.
"Look at your immediate surroundings," she commanded, her voice hardening. "Who is your competition? It's not the person you like or trust. It's the person who is most likely to extract value faster than you are."
She clicked a remote. A chart titled 'DHARA Assessment Structure' appeared.
"In Business & Management, we don't reward effort. We only reward results. The first major assessment is a Project Pitch. You will be given a real-world, localized problem, and you must present a solution that is profitable, scalable, and sustainable."
She looked directly at the juniors.
"This project is due in four weeks. It counts for thirty percent of your annual DHARA scholarship rating. And you must work alone."
A wave of dread went through the room.
"Riya," Shaila continued immediately, her pace relentless. "Since the standard must be set, tell me: What is the biggest advantage an early mover has in a competitive market?"
Riya responded instantly, her focus razor sharp. "The advantage is setting the standard, Ma'am. They establish the cost structure, the distribution channels, and often, the consumer expectation for the product."
"Precisely," Shaila confirmed. "And once the standard is set, it is very, very difficult to change."
Aryan, still seated, cataloged the crucial words—standard, cost structure, expectation. He wasn't interested in public display, but Shaila's rules were the blueprint for the fight.
His internal thoughts coalesced, sharp and immediate, pushing the headache to the background: Four weeks. I have no capital. I can't set the standard with money. I must set the standard with value.
He knew his first action: He needed to find a problem that was so deeply rooted in the school's inefficiency that solving it would force Shaila's corporate system to acknowledge goodwill as a legitimate asset.
He needed to strike where they were weakest—their claim to community.
He stood up, not to seek attention, but to leave. He had his assignment, his timeline, and his target.
Tanushri grabbed his arm quickly. "Where are you going?"
"I have four weeks," Aryan murmured, his gaze distant, already focused on the broken systems outside the room. "And I don't need to listen to the rules if I already know the game."
Aryan pushed open the thin wooden door to his home. He didn't just feel the humidity; he felt the immediate drop in ceiling height—a physical reminder of the constraints that defined his life.
The hall was small, but perfectly ordered through his constant jugaad. His small mattress was neatly rolled against the wall. The steel mancha wasn't just furniture; it was a vertical storage unit, stacked high with books and containers, utilizing every inch of air space. His talent wasn't just for grades; it was for optimization, honed right here.
The headache, dulled by the journey, sharpened again at the sight of the blue plastic sheet sagging over the roof—a temporary shield against the monsoon's relentless noise.
He didn't turn on the TV. He was too drained for manufactured joy. He walked straight to the kitchen corner, noticing the faint, metallic scent of factory dye that seemed to cling to the walls even when his mother wasn't there. He felt the weight of the assignment—four weeks to change this reality—and let the domestic routine be his anchor.
He washed quickly, then stood before the small Devara Kona—a few beloved, framed photos of Hanuman, Yellamma, and Lakshmi tucked into a corner. He lit the diya. He didn't pray for success; he simply watched the tiny flame burn steadily in the still, cramped air. It was a silent act of control in a life defined by uncontrollable leaks and debt.
He started the water for tea, timing it. His mother, Sarala, was due between 6:30 and 7:00 PM, depending on traffic—she left at 8 AM for a far-off factory.
At 6:45 PM, the door opened.
Sarala stumbled in, not walking, but dragging her feet. Her face, usually so quick to bloom with a smile, was slack with bone-deep exhaustion. The skin around her nails was stained a dull red from the day's chemical dyes—a color that looked horribly like old blood.
She was an absolute mother. Her first words, however weary, were for him.
"My officer... you're waiting." Her voice cracked with the effort of cheerfulness. She immediately placed her hand on his forehead, a quick, familiar check for fever.
"Is the thinking pain gone?"
"It's gone, Mummy," Aryan lied, his throat tight. He took her heavy, sweat-damp canvas bag. As he did, he felt the rough, sharp edges of a broken zipper—another small expense they couldn't afford to fix.
While she washed, trying to scrub the factory smell from her skin, Aryan poured the tea and placed two worn, chipped ceramic mugs on the floor.
They settled, the low sound of the neighbor's radio mixing with the clink of their mugs.
"They gave the project today," Aryan said, keeping his tone flat. "It's about making a plan that saves the school money. No capital."
Sarala's smile softened, taking on a look of shrewd realism. "Good. You are smart with no money. Like us." She squeezed his hand, her stained fingers rough against his clean skin.
"Don't fight their money. You are good at seeing what is broken."
Her words weren't a general blessing; they were a direct instruction, derived from years of maximizing output from broken machinery and meager rations. They were the engine of Project Saffron.
As they ate a simple dinner of dal and rice, Aryan helped her chop onions, finding a bizarre, shared peace in the mundane work. He looked at her face, the fatigue now pressing down her eyelids like weights.
I have to stop this, he thought, the truth more piercing than any headache. I have to build a system so perfect, so undeniable, that she never has to touch those chemicals again
Later, in the suffocating darkness of their sleeping space, Sarala thought Aryan was asleep. She rose, moving to the tiny window, drawn by a pressure she couldn't contain.
Her exhaustion finally forced the raw, emotional truth out of her. She spoke not to the night, but to the memory of her late husband, Rakesh.
"Rakesha," she choked, her voice a desolate whisper, low enough not to disturb the boy.
"My heart is failing me. He carries the weight of the whole roof. Why did you leave him to carry this burden? He deserves a happy, easy life, not this constant fight."
She wasn't complaining about poverty; she was lamenting the premature loss of her son's innocence and lightness. She turned, her eyes heavy with tears, looking at Aryan's still form. She saw not the topper, but the small boy who never complained. I just want him to be happy, she thought, wiping her face quickly, her guilt forcing her back to her mat.
Aryan, who had heard it all, didn't move a muscle. He felt the tremor of his mother's pain, the raw, honest truth that she was struggling to maintain the protective lie of their happiness.
His vow solidified: His fight wasn't just a business pitch; it was his declaration of war against the weight of the rusted roof.