If you ever want to see the exact moment the Indian middle-class dream turns into a collective, high-decibel panic attack, you should visit the Anathapuri College of Engineering (ACE) during the month of October.
The atmosphere at ACE during placement season is a very specific type of toxic. It's a cocktail of ironed-to-death shirts, cheap Rexona deodorant, and the kind of high-octane desperation that only three hundred final-year students with a combined GPA of 'barely surviving' can produce. It's a place where 'Synergy' is a sacred mantra, 'Scalability' is a prayer whispered into the void of an empty wallet, and 'Six Lakhs Per Annum' is the literal, undisputed definition of heaven on earth.
The Seminar Hall was packed to its three-hundred-person capacity, though the sheer density of the humidity suggested there were at least four hundred bodies crammed into the space. The air conditioning was making a sound like a dying lawnmower, wheezing out a feeble, luke-warm breeze that gave up and died long before it reached the back rows where the 'lost causes' and the dreamers usually sat.
Rukmini sat in row M, seat 14—a position chosen specifically because it was far enough to avoid eye contact with the HR speaker, but close enough to the side exit to make a quick, ninja-like getaway before the "Q&A session" began.
In the complex social hierarchy of Anathapuri College, Rukmini was a statistical anomaly. Most people in her batch fell into two very distinct, very loud categories.
First, you had the 'Coders'—the guys who treated LeetCode like a holy text and spent their nights in the dark, their faces glowing a ghostly, irradiated blue as they debugged Python scripts they hoped would buy them a one-way ticket to a glass office in Bangalore. These guys measured their worth in GitHub contributions and spoke in a language that was 40% syntax, 60% caffeine, and 0% human emotion. They didn't just want a job; they wanted to build the next world-changing algorithm, or at least an app that delivered groceries three minutes faster.
Then you had the 'Survivors'—the ones who had accepted three years ago, somewhere between a failed Mechanics exam and a brutal Electronics lab, that they'd never understand Triple Integration. They just wanted to clear their fifteen back-papers, get a piece of paper that said 'Engineer' in fancy font, and either join their father's construction business back in their hometowns or open a themed cafe in Varkala that served overpriced avocado toast and lukewarm kombucha to European tourists.
Rukmini was neither.
She was strikingly beautiful, but it was a quiet, unbothered beauty that felt like a glitch in the dusty, concrete reality of the engineering block. Her eyes were deep and rimmed with a permanent look of 'medium energy.' If Rukmini were a smartphone, she would perpetually be on 1% battery—not quite dead, but certainly not looking for any more apps to run. She moved through the corridors of ACE like she was walking through a museum of things she didn't particularly want to buy, while everyone else was running a frantic marathon toward a finish line that didn't exist.
Her name didn't help her case. In a class full of Archana's, Sneha's, and Diya's—names that sounded like they came with a pre-installed LinkedIn Premium subscription—"Rukmini" felt like a heavy, antique piece of rosewood furniture. It was a name that belonged to a legendary grandmother who spent her days making mango pickles in a sunlight-drenched kitchen in the 1940s, not a twenty-one-year-old girl trying to understand Object-Oriented Programming. Her classmates called her 'Rukku,' a nickname that felt like a polite, modern apology for a name that was far too traditional for the Technopark era.
"Rukku, please tell me you're listening to this guy. He's literally handing out the keys to the kingdom, and you're drawing a tree," whispered Deepa, leaning over from seat M-13.
Deepa was the human equivalent of a high-priority push notification. She was the Class Representative, a 9-pointer, and currently vibrating with enough anxiety to power the entire Technopark Phase 3 campus for a week. She had three different neon highlighters in her hand and a notebook full of "Core Competencies," "Actionable Insights," and "Deliverables." Deepa was the kind of person who had her wedding guest list and her retirement fund already mapped out on a color-coded spreadsheet.
"I'm listening," Rukmini murmured, her voice carrying the slow, melodic lilt that only a true Trivandrum local can master. "He said 'Iterative Process' six times in the last three minutes. I'm keeping a tally. If he hits ten, do I get a prize? Maybe a free keychain with the company logo?"
Deepa groaned, a sound of genuine physical pain. "This isn't a joke, Rukku. This company is a Tier-1 firm. They're hiring for the Kazhakoottam office. This is our home ground, our backyard. If you don't crack the aptitude round today, you're going to end up in a mass-recruitment firm where they treat you like a glorified data-entry clerk, pay you in peanuts, and make you work on Saturday mornings while the HR organizes mandatory 'fun activities' like lemon-and-spoon races."
Rukmini looked at her notebook. It was empty, save for a small, detailed sketch of a rain-tree in the corner, its branches weeping under the weight of an invisible monsoon. She wasn't lazy, exactly; she just didn't see the point in the frantic, elbows-out scramble. Every girl in her batch was racing toward a glass cubicle and a plastic ID card like it was the ultimate prize of human existence. Rukmini looked at the grey, heavy sky through the high, barred windows of the seminar hall and wondered if anyone ever stopped to ask if they actually liked the sound of their own mechanical keyboards clicking until midnight.
"I don't think I'm industry-ready, Deepa," Rukmini said softly.
"No one is industry-ready! That's the industry's biggest, most expensive secret," Deepa hissed, her yellow highlighter hovering dangerously close to Rukmini's white cotton sleeve. "You just fake it until you get the offer letter. That's the Indian Engineering Rulebook, page one. But you... you have zero fire, Rukku. You're a Zero-Percent Girl. You're just... there. Existing. Like a very pretty houseplant that forgot how to photosynthesize."
Rukmini didn't argue. She knew she was a disappointment in slow motion. She felt it every time she went home to her father's aging, quiet house in Kowdiar. Her father, a retired government officer who still wore his shirts starched and ironed to a crisp even on the hottest Sundays, never shouted. He never pressured her with aggressive words or comparisons to the neighbor's kids. But he looked at her with a quiet, terrifying hope that was harder to bear than any lecture. He saw her as the ticket out of their middle-class squeeze, the one who would finally fix the leaking kitchen roof and the creaking front gate that had been broken since the Great Monsoon of '18. To him, her getting a job in Technopark wasn't just a career move; it was a family redemption arc.
The HR manager on stage, a man in a navy-blue suit that looked like it had been vacuum-sealed onto his body by a team of high-end professionals, flipped to a slide about "Corporate Ethics and Cross-Functional Synergy." The room erupted into the frantic scratching of pens as students took notes on things they would likely never practice in the real world.
The weight of it all—the expectations, the "synergy," the looming December deadlines, the smell of rainy asphalt outside—suddenly felt like a physical pressure on Rukmini's chest. She stood up, her movements slow and deliberate, ignoring the unspoken 'stay seated' rule of the presentation.
"Where are you going?" Deepa whispered, her eyes wide with genuine horror, as if Rukmini were walking off a cliff. "The aptitude test starts in ten minutes! They're locking the doors from the outside, Rukku! You'll be trapped in the hallway!"
"I have a headache," Rukmini whispered back, gathering her things. "I'll catch the next company. There's always another company, Deepa. The world is full of companies hungry for souls."
"There isn't another one like this, Rukku! You're self-destructing in real-time!"
Rukmini ignored her and slipped out of the side door. The corridor was empty, echoing with the distant, muffled hum of the HR manager's voice talking about 'delivering value to the end-user.' Outside, the Trivandrum monsoon was in its final, most aggressive phase. The sky was a heavy, bruised grey, and the scent of rain-soaked earth—petrichor—was everywhere, thick, intoxicating, and far more real than anything happening inside the hall.
She walked toward the Old Block of Anathapuri College, the colonial-era building that housed the library. This was the only part of ACE she actually liked. It felt like it belonged to the version of Trivandrum she loved—the city of old libraries, quiet museums, and KSRTC buses that took their sweet time. Here, the "hustle" of the computer labs felt like a distant, annoying radio station playing nothing but static.
As she reached the winding, wooden staircase of the library, she saw it.
Sitting on the stone window ledge, right next to a pile of dusty, abandoned journals from the 1990s, was a silver pocket watch.
It was an intricate piece of work, the kind of thing that looked like it had been passed down through several lifetimes of gentlemen who actually knew the value of a second. The silver was tarnished in places, giving it a dull, expensive glow. Rukmini picked it up. She expected it to be warm from the afternoon humidity, but the metal was ice-cold. It was a cold that seemed to seep into her bones, making the hair on her arms stand up in an instinctive, primitive warning.
She looked at the face. The roman numerals were elegant, but the hands were moving wrong. The second hand was ticking, but it was going counter-clockwise.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Each backward click sounded like a tiny, frozen hammer against her pulse. Rukmini frowned. Was it broken? She turned it over and saw an inscription on the back, the metal looking as if it had been engraved only seconds ago, the grooves still sharp and bright:
One more day to see you thrive.
A sudden, sharp chill swept through the corridor, despite the absence of any breeze. Rukmini felt a presence—a heavy, masculine energy that seemed to materialize out of the shadows behind the trophy cabinet. It wasn't the vibe of a student or a professor. It was the presence of a man who had already seen the end of the world and had come back specifically to talk about it.
She felt a warmth near her ear, though the air remained cold. It was the sensation of someone standing inches away, breathing in her scent, memorizing the way her hair fell over her shoulder.
"You're running away again, Rukku," a voice said.
It was deep, smooth, and laced with a longing so profound it made her own heart ache in sympathy. It was a voice that sounded like it had traveled across oceans of time and mountains of regret just to say her name.
Rukmini spun around, her "medium energy" jumping into a state of high alert.
The corridor was empty. The rain was the only thing moving outside, drumming a relentless, hypnotic rhythm on the parking lot.
She looked down at the watch again. The hands were moving faster now, still ticking backward, counting down to something she couldn't possibly understand. Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, flared in her chest. She shoved the watch into her bag and started walking toward the main college gate, her pace faster than it had been in years.
By the time she reached the main gate of Anathapuri College, the rain was a wall of water. She stood under the leaking bus shelter, her cotton kurta soaked through, her braid a heavy, wet rope against her back. The KSRTC bus stop was a microcosm of Kerala's educational desperation. Scores of students stood huddled together, their faces illuminated by the eerie blue light of their smartphones as they checked for placement updates, bus timings, or just scrolled through Instagram to feel something other than dread.
Rukmini stood at the very edge, letting the cold spray from the passing buses cool her face. She felt like an alien. Every girl around her was talking about "Aptitude Shortcuts" and "Logical Reasoning hacks." They were all preparing for a life of glass buildings and fluorescent lights.
"You're going to miss the 4:45 bus to Kowdiar," a voice said.
Rukmini froze. It was the voice from the library.
Standing just outside the shelter, completely indifferent to the torrential downpour that was drenching everyone else, was a man who looked like he had been copy-pasted from a high-budget corporate thriller. He held a large, matte-black umbrella that seemed to repel the rain itself. He wore a charcoal-grey shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were lean, tanned, and corded with muscle.
He was handsome in a way that felt aggressive. It wasn't the boyish, TikTok-ready charm of the guys in her batch; it was the polished, lethal handsomeness of a man who had already won his wars and lost his soul in the process. But his eyes were the most jarring part—dark, stormy, and fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel like she was the only person left in the entire city of Trivandrum.
"Who are you?" Rukmini asked, her voice shaking with a mix of cold and sudden fear.
The man stepped closer, but he stopped exactly three feet away. He seemed to be measuring the distance, respecting a boundary she hadn't even set yet.
"I'm Saurav," he said. "And I know you're currently wondering if you should scream for help or ask me why I'm carrying an antique watch that belongs to you."
Rukmini's hand flew to her bag, clutching the cold metal through the fabric. "How do you know my name? I don't know you. I've never seen you in my life."
"I know everything, Rukku," he said. The way he used her nickname didn't feel casual or disrespectful. It felt like a prayer whispered in a cathedral. "I know that in exactly two minutes, your father is going to call you. He's going to tell you that the roof over the kitchen has started leaking again, and he's going to sound so guilty about it that you'll promise him you'll crack the Technopark interview just to make him feel better."
Rukmini stared at him, her eyes wide. "That's... everyone's roof leaks in the monsoon. It's Kerala. That's just a lucky guess."
"Is it?" Saurav stepped a fraction closer, his expression softening into a grief that was almost physical. "I also know you have a secret folder on your laptop filled with sketches for a story you're too shy to write. I know you like your tea with too much ginger and exactly zero sugar. And I know you're terrified that you'll spend your whole life being 'medium energy' because you're afraid of what happens to people who actually try."
Rukmini felt a jolt of electricity run down her spine. "Who are you? Really?"
"I'm your husband, Rukmini," he said. His voice was steady, but his jaw tightened as if the words were physically painful to speak. "Or I will be. I've come from six years into the future. And I have exactly one day to feel your love again... but before that day comes, I have months to ensure you don't make the same mistakes I did."
Rukmini let out a short, nervous laugh, looking around for hidden cameras or pranksters. "You're insane. You're a very well-dressed, very attractive insane person."
"Maybe," Saurav shrugged, his gaze never leaving her face. "But the police can't help you with the aptitude test tomorrow. I can. I know the exact questions they're going to ask because I was the one who helped you prepare for them the first time around."
Suddenly, Rukmini's phone vibrated in her pocket. Pappa Calling.
She answered it, her eyes locked on Saurav. "Hello, Pappa?"
"Rukku? Mole... I was calling to say... the kitchen roof, near the chimney... it's started dripping again. I'm so sorry, mole. I know you're stressed with the placements and the seminars. You just focus on Technopark, okay? Don't worry about the house. I'll handle it. We need this, Rukku. We need you to fly."
Rukmini hung up slowly, her hand trembling. She looked at Saurav, who was still standing in the rain, perfectly dry under his black umbrella. "How?"
"It doesn't matter how," Saurav said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding tone. "What matters is that you have a choice. You can go home and watch your father struggle with a bucket and a leaky roof, or you can let me mentor you. I have months to turn the 'Zero-Percent Girl' into the woman the world can't ignore."
He held out his hand as if to guide her, then suddenly jerked it back, his fingers curling into a tight fist. He tucked it into his pocket with a look of pure loathing directed at himself.
"One rule, Rukku," he said, his eyes turning cold and professional. "I will guide you. I will fix your career. I will make you perfect. But we do not touch. Not once. Not even a handshake. If you can agree to that, I'll stay. If not, I disappear right now."
Rukmini looked at the man who claimed to be her future. She took a breath, the "medium energy" of her life finally flickering into something sharper, something dangerous. She looked at the rain, then back at him.
"Deal."
Saurav didn't smile. He just turned and started walking toward the parking lot, his pace fast and purposeful. Rukmini followed him, stepping into the shadow of his matte-black umbrella, unaware that she was walking toward the most beautiful months of her life—and the most heartbreaking goodbye she would ever have to say.