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.
But my thoughts were cut by a familiar voice—my mom's—like a cold blade slicing through my focus.
"Karthik, Karthik! Can you come here for one moment and move this cylinder? I can't move it."
"Wait, mom! I'll come in one minute," I replied, eyes still locked on the screen. One minute became ten. I forgot.
Then I heard her voice again, this time closer.
"Karthik! Always on the mobile! How many times have I called you?"
With a sigh, I minimized the Rummy app and went to help her. But in my mind, I was panicking. Oh no… it's the final round… just wait… please wait…
By the time I came back, unlocked the screen, and maximized the app—Game Over.
I screamed inwardly, a sharp breath caught in my chest. Why couldn't my mom have Sundays as working days in her government job? I could've played without any disturbance.
Then I shook the thought away. I couldn't really blame her. Sigh.
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, while my phone lay charging inside.
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 even treated my friends with a big smile and a bigger bill.
They were shocked too. "Karthik, you never treated this big—what's the matter?" they asked. I only smiled and said, "Just felt like it."
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.
Just cash, cards, and a screen.
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.
I drifted off right there, as if everything I ever wanted was finally within reach.
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 crept in—What if I lose?
I shut it out. I wasn't lucky. I was skilled. Focused. This time, I'd win.
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 humming, sweat soaked my underarms. My ears burned like hot pans. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest.
The game was reaching its climax—But it turned into an anticlimax. 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. My instinct took over, and I screamed—"NOOOOOOOOO!" The sound ripped through the night like glass breaking.
My mom jolted awake in her room, heart pounding. For a split second, panic seized her. A thief? Should I call the police? What if something happened to Karthik? Oh God…
She rushed into the hall—
No broken windows.
No open doors.
No sound. Just silence.
Then she froze.
That voice… it was familiar.
She moved to my room, her knuckles knocking the wood, urgency in every beat. "Karthik? Karthik! What happened? Is everything okay? Open the door—answer me!"
My mom's voice pulled me back to reality. My heart sank. God… did I scream out loud?
Wiping my tears quickly with my shoulder, I forced my face to go blank and opened the door.
She stood there—panic all over her face. "Karthik, are you okay? Did you have a nightmare?"
I nodded. "Yeah… sorry, mom. Just a bad dream." But inside, the truth burned. Yes, a nightmare. I lost everything.
Then my mom said softly, "That's why I always tell you—use the phone less. Now look, it's giving you nightmares."
She didn't question further. Just gently unscrewed a water bottle and handed it to me. "Here. Drink this."
I took it, drank, and tried to steady my breath.
But as I looked at her—tired, worried, still thinking only of me—I felt something heavier than loss.
Guilt.
She was here, caring for me without knowing the truth. And I was here, drowning quietly in the consequences of my choices.
She gently caressed my hair. "Sleep well. Call me if you need anything."
Then she turned and walked back to her room.
I sighed.
As I lay on the bed, eyes open to the dark ceiling, 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 promise holding me steady, I finally fell asleep.
But the next morning, as my mom stepped into the bathroom, that resolve… cracked.
I picked up her phone.
My fingers trembled. Guilt clung to me—but something else pushed harder: desperation dressed as determination.
I can't let ₹10,000 vanish for nothing. Maybe yesterday was just bad luck. Today, I'm sharper. Just a small amount. I'll win it back.
She had two accounts—one for her salary, and one for savings. Every month, she quietly set aside ₹5,000 for the future, slowly building it up to ₹3,00,000. She rarely checked that account. It gave her comfort—like a safety net she never wanted to touch.
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 pulled 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 reduced from her account. And the guilt? It built—like an immovable mountain, impossible to climb, harder to escape.
But I couldn't just sit still—I had to return the money before she ever found out. 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 offering 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.
The silence that followed was louder than anything.
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 I realized it too late—far too late. By then, the chains of guilt were already wrapped around me: ₹3 lakh stolen from my mom's savings…₹1 lakh borrowed from loan apps I could never repay.
And just as those thoughts tightened like a noose—
Her voice cut through them.
Calm. Caring. The voice that raised me.
"Karthik, why have you been so quiet these past few days? Did something happen? Tell me… we'll solve it together."
She placed a cup of coffee beside me—just like she always did. Warm. Familiar. Soft, simple… and full of love.
I held the cup in both hands, but her words pierced deeper than any anger. Not because they were sharp—but because they were gentle. And I didn't deserve gentle.
My throat tightened. My eyes burned. I was about to break. I was right there—on the edge of letting everything spill out.
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 like I expected. 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—Let me eat my favourite last meal.
I picked up my phone and opened the food delivery app. Chicken biryani. With curry. And Chicken 65.
No hesitation. No second thoughts.
If this is my last day… I want it to end with flavour I love most.
Mom would be out for at least two hours, finishing the work she'd rushed off to handle. 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.