The hall hums. Arjun paces. The red digital numbers on the wall flip — 14… 15. His fingers tap a quick rhythm against his thigh. The fan overhead whirs. Steady. Counting time. Counting seconds.
Arjun taps. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. The numbers climb. 15. The crowd shuffles. Papers rustle. Coughs echo. Booth seven — he has to find booth seven.
He checks the paper. Third time. Booth seven. He lifts his gaze — past shoulders, past hats, past a hundred moving heads. Where is it?
Booth seven. They find it. But the clerk doesn't look up. A finger points — wrong row. Arjun freezes. The mother steps forward.
She smooths his collar. Her fingers are gentle. "This way," she whispers. The crowd thickens around them, but she guides him through — steady, sure.
At the right booth, the clerk stamps.Thunk. The sound is sharp. The form slides back. Arjun takes it. His mother presses his hand.
Her thumb traces three quick circles on his knuckles. One. Two. Three. "I always knew," she whispers. He nods. Just once. The form is warm in his hand.
He steps outside. Kerala afternoon. Bright. Cicadas rise from the trees — a thousand tiny voices. He holds the form against his chest and walks toward the gate. She falls into step beside him.