The Final Attempt
I arrived in Bhubaneswar with a suitcase, a dream, and crippling self-doubt.
The auto driver dropped me in front of Allen, where a massive banner displayed smiling toppers with AIRs so low they probably had Einstein’s brain in their DNA. Below them, in bold, motivational letters:
"YOU TOO CAN BE NEXT!"
"Bro, I couldn’t even be last in my batch, let alone next."
Dragging my suitcase to my hotel, I noticed the city had two types of people—those who studied at Allen and those who profited from those who studied at Allen. Every shop was either a PG, a tiffin center, or a photocopy shop selling last year’s NEET papers at 10 rupees per page.
I checked into my hotel, a small room with a bed, a table, and a tube light that flickered like my confidence. The receptionist barely looked up. He had seen too many students like me—full of hope in June, full of regret by December.
As I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my phone buzzed.
MOM: Beta, settle ho gaye? Kal se mehnat start karna!
DAD: This is your last chance. No distractions this time.
I turned my phone to Do Not Disturb. Because if I was going to ruin my future, I might as well do it in peace.
Tomorrow, Allen Bhubaneswar. My final attempt. It’s time.
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