Dipti Gupta

Dipti Gupta stood at the end of the Bureau of Industry's corridor. She had been standing there for almost two hours.

She wore the only white shirt she could still wear out. Its collar was frayed, but its buttons were neatly fastened. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail because she had not washed it.

She held nothing in her hands. Her old canvas bag sat on the windowsill, with a notebook and a photograph of her grandmother inside.

She had nowhere left to go.

She had tried every avenue she knew.

The banks said they did not want women, the firms said they did not want fresh graduates, and the government offices said she was overqualified.

No one said, "You aren't good enough." They only said, "You aren't suitable."

She had come to the Bureau of Industry today because the employment registry had told her to pick up a form, saying there might be a government clerk position she could apply for.

When she arrived, they told her all the forms had been handed out and to come back next month. She left the office empty-handed. She simply stood there, not knowing where to go next.

Footsteps came from the other end of the corridor. Instinctively, she turned sideways and pressed closer to the wall to make room.

But the person called her name outright, and she looked toward the voice.

A young man in white cloth garments walked toward her from the other end of the corridor, a sacred thread hanging across his chest.

Dipti Gupta quickly recognized the young man who had called his name.

He was the freshman who had dropped out of the University of Lucknow's business school. He was her junior, and she had shown him around before.

Dipti's gaze swept over the sacred thread on his chest, and panic stirred inside him.

Then she lowered her head, raised her joined palms to her forehead, and bent at the waist. Her fingers pressed together, her knuckles turning slightly white.

She had grown used to bowing to others; her body seemed to have memorized the motion. Her bow was perfectly executed, except that her fingers still tensed out of habit, carrying her last trace of helplessness and humiliation.

Aditya stopped. He looked at Dipti, standing bent over beside the wall, her body turned sideways, her shoulders drawn in, and her head deeply bowed.

Aditya's heart tightened. He hurried forward to help her straighten up, but halfway through reaching out, he felt it would be inappropriate. He stopped and said, "Senior, please don't."

Dipti froze. Slowly, she raised her head without lowering her joined hands. Her gaze settled on his face, a trace of hesitation in it. "You, Aditya... you still remember me?"

Aditya could not help reaching out again. He caught Dipti by the sleeve and guided her arm down, keeping him from bowing.

Then Aditya smiled and said, "I remember. You were the one who took me to the dormitory on my first day."

At his tug, Dipti obediently lowered her hands, letting her arms fall to her sides. Then her face reddened, and she discreetly drew her sleeve back.

"Have you graduated, senior?" Aditya asked.

"Yes." Dipti's eyes dimmed.

"How's the job search going?" Aditya asked next.

Dipti did not answer immediately. She lowered her head, glanced at her empty hands, and said quietly:

"Lucknow has no shortage of accountants, and even less need for female accountants. The banks said they didn't want women, the firms said they didn't want fresh graduates, and the government said I was overqualified.

My grandmother died last year. She never got to see me graduate or find a job. I have nowhere to go back to. I came to the Bureau of Industry for a form today, and they told me to come back next month."

She spoke calmly, without anger or pain, as though stating a set of figures that had been checked countless times but could never balance.

Aditya looked at Dipti. She wore an old shirt, and her hair was neat.

Aditya knew this senior was outstanding. She was the top student in the business school. She could straighten out the accounts and make every figure tally. Yet after graduating, she had run into walls everywhere, and not a single company was willing to hire her.

She was a Vaishya and a woman. That was all.

Aditya said, "I've opened a textile mill in Varanasi. The accounts are often wrong. Could you come help me work through them, senior? I can pay you."

Dipti raised her head. She looked at him, her gaze lingering on his face.

Dipti did not know whether this Brahmin junior was joking or merely making a casual remark. She had heard too many polite words already.

Dipti's heart had long since gone cold. It was the despair that followed disappointment.

Then she said, "You came to the Bureau of Industry looking for an accountant?"

"The accountant I'm looking for happens to be at the Bureau of Industry," Aditya answered with complete seriousness.

A trace of warmth rose in Dipti's heart. She stared at Aditya and said coldly, "I'm a Vaishya."

"I don't know what a Vaishya is. I only know that Dipti is my senior," Aditya said earnestly, meeting her gaze.

"I'm only a university student. I might not be able to handle your accounts properly." As though burned by Aditya's gaze, Dipti immediately lowered her head again.

"Your notes were very good, and your handwriting was beautiful. I believe in you, senior."

Dipti said nothing. She felt the warmth in her heart grow warmer still. The heated blood flowed from her heart into her limbs. Her body felt so hot; perhaps she had a fever.

Dipti simply stood there, her fingers curling slightly, as though she wanted to grasp something but feared closing her hand on empty air.

Then she spoke, her voice quiet but clear. "I'll go with you. I live in the apartment building opposite the University of Lucknow, on the right on the third floor. Come pick me up tomorrow morning. I'll have my things packed."

She paused. Her body began to tremble, and she bit her lip, her voice barely audible.

"I'll make sure your accounts are in order."

Aditya nodded. "Seven tomorrow morning. I'll wait for you downstairs."

Aditya turned and left, his steady footsteps unable to conceal the joy in his heart.

Dipti stood where she was, watching until Aditya disappeared behind the wall.

Then she lowered her head and covered her cheeks with both hands. Quiet sobs rose from her throat. Slowly, she sank into a crouch, her body jerking again and again, beyond her control.

Only after a long time did Dipti lower her hands. Her eyes were red, and two trails of tears slid down her cheeks.

She turned, walked to the windowsill, and picked up the old canvas bag. Unzipping it, she took out a tissue and wiped her face.

Then she zipped it up, slung the canvas bag over her shoulder, straightened her back, and walked toward the other end of the corridor.

Dipti's steps were a little lighter, and she hummed some unfamiliar lyrics.

At seven tomorrow morning, she would stand downstairs outside the apartment building opposite the University of Lucknow, holding a cloth bag containing her notebook and her grandmother's photograph, waiting for her junior to pick him up.

She was not sure whether that junior was deceiving her, but she was willing to believe him. Because she had nothing left, it no longer mattered to her.

Dipti had said everything she needed to say. She would wait for tomorrow to come. Whether tomorrow was good or bad, she was willing to accept it all.

She would no longer stand at the Bureau of Industry, no longer wait for an opportunity that would never come.

At seven tomorrow, she was already waiting downstairs. She needed no further preparations, because the last thing she needed to take with her had been beside her bed for a long time.