Shanaya Thakur [Mumbai]
I stared at Zeel. Zeel stared at me. It was like one of those weird Mexican standoffs from old movies, only significantly less glamorous and a lot more awkward. Five minutes had ticked by — literal minutes — and neither of us had blinked, breathed properly, or moved a muscle. At this point, my patience had withered into dust and was about to be blown away by the nearest metaphorical breeze.
"Come on! Just spit it out, Zeel," I finally snapped, my voice rising an octave and shattering whatever ridiculous staring contest we had fallen into. "Dying from sheer suspense under the roof of these designer walls without even a whiff of my dream life is not, I repeat not, how I plan to go."
Zeel, who apparently believed in performing dramatic monologues in her past life, gave me a solemn nod, and peeled herself off the couch with all the urgency of a sloth on sedatives. "Alright," she drawled, dragging the word out. "So the score is…"
She let the sentence dangle in the air, milking it for all the unnecessary drama it was worth.
I was precisely two seconds away from smothering her with a decorative pillow so fluffy it could've been classified as a murder weapon in court. She must have noticed the homicidal gleam in my eyes because she hastily finished with a triumphant smirk, "Three hundred and forty out of fucking four hundred!"
OH. MY. HOLY. SHITBALLS.
Three hundred and forty.
I blinked at her, my brain pulling the emergency brake on all rational thought. That was more than the minimum score to get into BR Advocates. Actually, it was enough to get me into any law firm in the goddamn country and probably qualify me for sainthood too.
I screamed loudly. Like, actual banshee-decibel screaming.
"AHHHH THAT'S SO GODDAMN AMAZING!"
Zeel, being the best friend, apartment-mate, and current miracle worker that she was, screamed back. Because apparently that's what emotionally repressed adults do when faced with overwhelming success.
We started jumping up and down like we'd just won a lottery, a car, and free pizza for life all at once. High-fives flew. Wild, awkward dances were performed. We finally collapsed into each other's arms like I had just returned home from being stranded on a cannibal-infested island for eight years.
"Now I can die happy knowing that you," Zeel pointed at me with a wicked grin, "will no longer require 3 AM dance therapy sessions to feel less lonely and emotionally constipated."
"They were scientifically proven to boost the nervous system," I defended, shoving her hand away.
She made a show of rolling her eyes. "Not when it's 3 AM and you're dragging your emotionally stable, half-asleep friend into doing the Macarena in pajamas with pizza stains."
In a rare act of maturity, I decided to let her sarcastic little comments slide. Mainly because I was riding too high on the wings of my academic badassery to care. Lucky for her, she lived to see another sunrise. Otherwise, she'd be six feet under, buried alive by my death stares.
"Anyway, let's fill the application form right away," I said excitedly, flashing wide-teeth smile.
She blinked at me like I had suggested harvesting our own kidneys. "Right now?"
"Relax and don't give me that look, I'm asking you to traffic an endangered species. It's just a form, not international smuggling." I said, practically vibrating with excitement as I dove for my laptop, which was lying on the coffee table, screen still aglow, like it was waiting for me to claim my destiny.
As I plopped on the couch and started typing, Zeel lazily made her way into my orbit and landed right beside me and sighed.
"Fine," she muttered, giving me an impressively exaggerated side-eye. "I'll supervise for moral support while you go insane."
I didn't dignify that with a response. I was too busy clicking open the website of my dream law firm, scrolling down faster than my dignity could keep up. The glossy headshots of elite advocates flashed across the screen along with their experience and accomplishments. A big knowing smile formed on my face as bold, forty-two-ish female face with sharp features and high pony tail showed up. Her name, Tara Rao, was written in bold caps. She was my idol. A person I always dreamed of working with, learning from and becoming of. TARA OBEROI— most feared, adored and hated divorce lawyer in India.
Zeel snapped yanking me out of my stare, "Stop drooling, she is married and settled. unlike us"
"I am attracted to her excellence, Zeel!" I clarified, without looking at her.
With one swift scroll, I immediately landed on the intake section embellished with 'Apply Now' option in red box. My fingers, as if they had brain of their own, immediately pressed the button and my eyes were bombarded with lot of information both wildly unnecessary and important one.
"I bet this'll take centuries," Zeel said, already slouching further into the couch like she was preparing for a siege.
My grin widened as my eyes scanned the requirement section like a typewriter: from left to right. At ten-X speed.
"Degree in Law?" I ticked it off. "Check!"
"Two years internship experience!" I chirped. "Ha! I have three."
"Licensure exam score should be minimum 320" I wanted to punch devil in excitement, "I'm basically overqualified."
"Woohoo" Zeel gave hand-flourish to add more charm. It wasn't required but, thank you.
I kept reading giddily, "Strong communication and defense skills?"
"Double check," Zeel added, mock serious.
Everything was rainbows and unicorns until my eyes stumbled on the final requirement — and everything inside me died a little.
I blinked. Then again. Then for a third time, just in case I was hallucinating.
The gleam in my eyes was murdered instantly and I was utterly robbed of words. Just to make sure that I was a sane being and world was crazy out there— I scrolled back up to the top of the Requirements section and started reading again from the point one with the wide-eyed terror of someone re-scanning a will and realizing they've been left a single sock. By the time I reached the bottom again, my soul had already filed for divorce from my body.
"What happened?" Zeel jabbed her pointy little elbow into my side. Hard. "You look like you've just time-traveled forty years into the future and found out you peaked yesterday. What's the damage?"
"This," I croaked, jabbing a trembling finger at the screen as if it had personally kicked my dog. "This cannot be real."
Zeel's gaze followed the line of my dramatically accusatory finger—and then her mouth dropped open so far it probably needed a map to find its way back.
"What the real actual hell is this?"
"I know, right?" I spluttered, still blinking at the screen as though it might start making sense if I stared long enough. "The firm always rolls out one new policy every intake—one cute little surprise to keep us on our toes. But this?" I jabbed at it again, because once was not enough for this level of betrayal. "This is a hate crime against humanity."
"They're only accepting married people?" she whispered in horror, like we were reading the apocalypse menu.
"This is a joke," I emphasized, even though deep down, my soul knew better. "And not even the fun 3 a.m. pizza-ordering kind. The kind of joke where the punchline ends with you losing your job, your dignity, and possibly your last three working brain cells."
Zeel turned toward me, her expression an unholy cocktail of curiosity, panic, and just the tiniest sprinkle of hope. "Oh my God, please tell me you're secretly married. Secret spouse, secret child, secret life—I'll take anything at this point. Just blink twice if you're a suburban mom living a double life."
I crossed my arms in defiance and in name of no-joke mood. "Yeah, totally. I'm married. Twice over. My secret second husband is an alpaca farmer from Peru. We have three kids and a thriving Etsy store."
Zeel erupted into one of those scandalously loud laughs that made the walls shudder. She was wiping away invisible tears and wheezing like she'd just won front row tickets to a comedy show, while I maintained my award-winning Death Glare — a look I had honed over years of being underestimated.
"Hey..." she said, swallowing her amusement, "don't get your undies in a frenzy, okay? You can just apply for the next intake. No big deal."
"Oh yeah" I responded in mock agreement, "because what's two more years of my life anyway? I'll be thirty, still fetching piping-hot tea for Mr. Rao, who probably thinks 'management skills' means the ability to balance three cups and a biscuit tray at once. And when I finally dare to glance at the requirements section again—bam! New policy: Applicants must have had consensual relations under a waxing moon with two heterosexual individuals while juggling flaming torches. Woohoo." I placed a hand dramatically on my heart. "But you're right. No biggie. I'll just keep tossing my youth into the black hole of hopeful ambition."
"Fine, fine! Stop making my ears bleed," she yelped, throwing her arms up dramatically, as if shielding herself from a verbal hurricane. "I get it. Your point is not just valid—it's tattooed across my brain in neon pink. But what now, Miss Existential Crisis? How are you planning to get into this firm when your dating history reads like a series of cautionary tales and your current relationship status is 'in a long-term commitment with self-development'?"
I lifted my chin, feeling the weight of brilliance formulating behind my eyes. "I do have one option."
"And what is that?" she arched a suspicious brow.
The words slid out so easily, I almost looked over my shoulder to check if someone else had said them.
"Fake marriage."
Zeel's mouth dropped open, her eyes ballooned to the size of full moons, and for a hot second, I was genuinely concerned she might faint and add even more drama to my day.