Chapter 19: The Email That Changed the Sky
The notification arrived without drama.
No music.
No thunder.
Just a soft vibration against Suhani’s phone, resting beside her cup of half-finished green tea.
She glanced at the screen absentmindedly, expecting another promotional message or a reminder from the grocery app Niddhi had recently become obsessed with. The sender’s name, however, froze her breath midway.
**Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai**
For a second, she didn’t open it.
Her fingers hovered. Her heart didn’t race—it slowed, as if her body wanted to give the moment the dignity of stillness. Outside the Bandra apartment, the afternoon sky was already losing its blue, clouds layering over one another like unspoken thoughts.
She tapped.
> *We are pleased to inform you…*
The words blurred.
She read the line once.
Then again.
Then a third time, out loud, barely above a whisper.
“I got selected…”
Her voice cracked—not with disbelief, but with something heavier. Relief. Validation. A quiet sense of *I was not foolish to dream this*.
The email was formal, precise, everything institutions were meant to be. It spoke of **selection**, **provisional admission**, and **document verification scheduled within the coming days at the Mumbai campus**. It mentioned supervisors, timelines, and expectations.
And then, near the end, a line that made her chest tighten again—not with joy this time.
> *Given the nature of the proposed research involving extensive rural fieldwork across districts of Maharashtra, candidates are advised to ensure availability of immediate guardian or family contact details for emergency, relocation, and institutional coordination purposes.*
Immediate guardian.
Family contact.
Relocation.
The words sat heavily, like stones placed gently but deliberately.
Suhani leaned back on the sofa, phone still in her hand, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Somewhere in the apartment, Niddhi was on a call with a friend, laughing about something trivial—college gossip, probably.
This was not trivial.
This was her life opening into something vast and uncertain.
She forwarded the mail to her parents first. No commentary. Just the subject line and the official seal.
Then—to Dhruv.
Not with explanation. Just:
**“I got selected.”**
The reply came within seconds.
**“I’m proud of you.”**
Two words.
No emojis.
No excess.
Yet something about them steadied her.
---
That evening, the sky kept its promise of clouds.
Dhruv stood near the balcony, phone in hand, reading the weather forecast again even though he already knew it.
“Scattered showers,” he murmured. “Possibly heavy by late afternoon.”
Suhani noticed him from the dining table, where she had spread out printouts of the email, a notebook, and a pen she hadn’t yet used.
“You’re reading that like it’s a balance sheet,” she said gently.
He turned, faint smile on his face. “Weather predictions are more honest than people.”
She smiled despite herself.
When she told him about the document verification dates, he didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll take you.”
Suhani looked up. “Dhruv, I can go alone. It’s just—”
“It’s not about capability,” he interrupted, softly. “It’s about not taking unnecessary risks.”
She understood what he wasn’t saying.
Rain.
Last time.
Fear.
She nodded.
---
The next morning, Mumbai felt suspended.
The roads shimmered with humidity, the air thick but calm, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Dhruv’s car moved steadily through traffic, the driver unusually quiet, perhaps sensing the significance of the day.
Suhani sat by the window, watching the city pass by. Bandra faded into Sion, Sion into Dadar, Dadar into something more academic, more restrained.
“You’re quiet,” Dhruv said after a while.
“I’m thinking,” she replied.
“About?”
She hesitated. Then spoke, carefully. “My project.”
He waited.
“I proposed studying the long-term psychosocial impact of migration on women in drought-affected rural belts of Maharashtra. Especially women who move seasonally for labor… sugarcane cutters, brick kiln workers.”
He glanced at her, impressed but unsurprised.
“That’s not an easy topic.”
“No,” she agreed. “It means living there. Months at a time. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with families who don’t trust outsiders. It means… uncertainty.”
“And courage,” he added.
She exhaled. “The email mentioned family contact. Guardian details. They’re going to ask.”
Dhruv’s jaw tightened—not visibly, but she felt the shift.
“And what will you tell them?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “My parents are supportive, but… they worry. And this isn’t a city campus. It’s villages. Interior districts.”
The car slowed as they approached the TISS gate.
Dhruv looked ahead, eyes focused, thoughts already spiraling.
*Immediate guardian.*
*Emergency contact.*
*Relocation.*
The words echoed again in his mind.
A thought surfaced—not sudden, not dramatic—but persistent.
Paper marriage.
The idea didn’t scare him.
What scared him was how logical it felt.
---
The Tata Institute of Social Sciences stood quietly, almost humbly, amid the chaos of Mumbai. Red brick buildings softened by trees. Pathways worn smooth by decades of students walking with questions heavier than their backpacks.
As Suhani stepped out of the car, she felt something unmistakable.
Belonging.
The reception area smelled faintly of old books and fresh paper. Faculty members moved with calm authority—no rush, no noise. Just purpose.
A woman at the desk looked up and smiled.
“PhD admissions?”
Suhani nodded.
“Welcome. You must be Suhani Singh.”
Hearing her name spoken there sent a shiver through her.
The faculty panel was smaller than she expected. Three professors. One woman in a simple cotton saree with silver hair pulled into a bun, eyes sharp but kind. A man with round glasses and a notebook filled with handwritten notes. Another, younger, observant, quiet.
They asked about her proposal—not aggressively, but deeply.
“Why rural Maharashtra?”
“What ethical safeguards have you considered?”
“How will you handle emotional burnout?”
Suhani answered honestly. Sometimes with certainty. Sometimes with pauses.
The woman professor leaned forward. “This work will demand emotional resilience. And logistical support. You’ll need someone… anchored.”
Suhani nodded slowly.
“I understand.”
“And your family?”
“They know,” she said. “They’re… learning.”
The professor smiled softly. “Good. This institute believes in scholarship, but not at the cost of personal safety.”
When Suhani walked out an hour later, papers stamped, verification acknowledged, her hands trembled—not from fear, but from magnitude.
Dhruv stood up the moment he saw her.
“Well?” he asked.
She smiled. A real one.
“It felt right.”
That was all she said.
It was enough.
---
Back at the apartment, evening settled quietly.
Niddhi was on the couch, laptop open, half-eaten packet of chips beside her.
“You’re glowing,” she announced the moment Suhani entered. “Either you conquered academia or fell in love.”
“Academia,” Suhani laughed, sinking beside her. “Love is too complicated.”
Dhruv retreated to the balcony, phone pressed to his ear, pretending to take a call. He needed space. To think.
Suhani told Niddhi everything—the faculty, the fieldwork, the rural postings, the guardian requirement.
Niddhi’s expression softened.
“That’s huge,” she said. “I mean… amazing. But huge.”
“I know.”
“And accommodation?” Niddhi asked. “You can’t commute daily.”
“There are field hostels. Sometimes rented homes. Sometimes NGOs help,” Suhani replied. “But it’s unpredictable.”
Niddhi bit her lip. “You’ll be alone a lot.”
Suhani nodded.
Across the room, Dhruv ended his call without saying goodbye.
He watched them—two women navigating futures too big for neat answers.
Later that night, as rain finally tapped gently against the windows, Dhruv stood alone in his room, staring at the city lights.
*Paper marriage.*
Not as obligation.
Not as control.
But as structure. Protection. Presence.
He wasn’t ready to voice it.
But the thought had taken root.
And somewhere, in another room, Suhani lay awake too—heart full, path uncertain, sky cloudy, and a future quietly, irrevocably unfolding.
