save the boy from failure, she had to let the girl emerge"
From 23% to 94%. From failure to district topper. From lost boy to found soul.
Everyone had given up on Rama. His school. His neighbors. Almost even himself.
But his mother hadn't. And neither had Kiran-the brilliant, disciplined girl next door who saw potential where others saw only failure.
Their tutoring arrangement starts with strict rules: Wake at 5:30 AM. Study six hours daily. Complete obedience to Kiran's methods.
But Kiran's methods are... unconventional.
Lipstick for making stop smoking. Piercings for non-compliance. Household chores for discipline. Feminine clothing, Traditional Tamil beauty treatments. Each strange change comes with academic improvement so dramatic it can't be denied.
As Rama's scores climb-55%, 70%, 85%-so does something unexpected: feelings for the girl transforming him. And when Kiran reveals she's been falling for him too, they must navigate a love story that doesn't fit any conventional script.
This is the story of how a failing student became a success. How a boy discovered he could be more than one thing. How discipline became devotion. How transformation of being failure boy to a successful girl became truth.
Set in Chennai with rich Tamil cultural detail. A unique love story about becoming your truest self.
Chapter 1: The Failing Report Card
The ceiling fan squeaked with each rotation, a metronome counting the seconds of Rama's shame. He sat on the floor of their small living room, long hair hanging in greasy strands around his face, staring at the paper in his mother's trembling hands.
FAIL
The word stamped in red across his 10th standard result sheet might as well have been branded on his forehead.
"Again?" Shailaja's voice cracked. She was forty-two but looked older, her hands gnarled from years of pushing needles through thick fabric, her back permanently curved from bending over her sewing machine. "Rama, again? Two years... two years you've failed?"
"Amma, I—" Rama started, but what could he say? That he'd spent more time at Kumar's tea shop than studying? That he'd been too busy dreaming about becoming a bike racer or a gaming streamer to care about mathematics and science?
"Do you know what this means?" Shailaja's voice rose, attracting the attention of neighbors in the cramped middle-class colony. Through the open window, Rama could see Mrs. Krishnan from next door craning her neck to listen. "You cannot go back to school. No school will take you. You'll have to register as a private candidate. Do you understand? Private candidate!"
Rama knew. Private candidates were the losers, the ones who'd been kicked out or had failed so many times the schools refused to let them back. They studied at home—if they studied at all—and showed up only for the final exams.
"Do you know how much private tuition costs?" Shailaja continued, tears now streaming down her face. "I can barely afford our rent! I skip lunch four days a week so you can eat!"
Rama's stomach clenched. He'd noticed his mother getting thinner, noticed the way she pushed food toward him claiming she'd already eaten. He'd just chosen not to think about it.
"Your father left us with nothing. NOTHING!" The pain in her voice was raw. "And I thought, it's okay, my son will study hard, he'll make something of himself. But you..." She looked at him with such disappointment it felt like a physical blow. "You're throwing away every sacrifice I make."
"I'll do better," Rama mumbled, but even he didn't believe it.
"With what? How?" Shailaja crumpled to the floor, the report card falling from her hands. "I can't afford a tutor. I can barely read Tamil, how can I help you with mathematics and science? What are we going to do?"
From the doorway, Mrs. Krishnan's voice rang out, sugar-sweet with malice. "Such a shame about that useless boy. Two years failing! In my day, parents would have beaten sense into him."
Other voices joined in, the colony's morning gossip session finding fresh meat.
"Poor Shailaja, working so hard for such an ungrateful son."
"I heard he spends all day at that tea shop with those rowdy boys."
"Long hair like a girl, but can't even pass a simple exam!"
Rama felt his face burn. He wanted to shout at them to mind their own business, but shame kept him silent.
Shailaja wiped her tears, her expression hardening into something desperate. "Get out. Go to your tea shop. I can't look at you right now."
Rama fled.
Kumar's tea shop was a small stall at the corner of their neighborhood, where the smell of cardamom and ginger permanently perfumed the air. It was only 9 AM, but Vijay and the others were already there, lounging on the wooden bench, scrolling through phones.
"Rama!" Vijay called out, his best friend since childhood. "Come, come! Did you see the new KGF trailer? Mass scene, da!"
Rama slumped onto the bench. "I failed again."
Silence. Then Vijay laughed nervously. "Ah, who cares about 10th standard? It's just paper, no? Real life is different."
"Easy for you to say," muttered Arun, another friend. "You at least passed. Rama, this is your second time, no? What will you do?"
"Private candidate," Rama said flatly.
"Ohhh." The sound rippled through the group, a mix of pity and judgment.
Kumar brought over a small glass of sweet tea without being asked. "Your mother knows?"
Rama nodded.
"She must be very upset," Kumar said gently. The old man had known Rama since he was a child. "What will you do now?"
"I don't know."
"You should study," Kumar said simply. "Get a tutor. Pass next year."
"With what money?" Rama snapped. "You think we're rich?"
Kumar said nothing, just patted his shoulder and moved away to serve another customer.
Vijay pulled out his phone. "Forget all this tension. Come, let's watch some videos. New bike racing clips from Sepang—"
But for once, the distraction didn't work. Rama sat there, sweet tea growing cold in his hands, watching the neighborhood come alive around him. Aunties carrying kolam powder to draw rangoli at their doorsteps. Men heading to work on scooters and bicycles. Children in crisp school uniforms, laughing and chattering.
He was eighteen years old and going nowhere.
That evening, Shailaja left the house without explanation. Rama sat in the growing darkness, listening to her sewing machine's absence. She'd usually be working on orders now, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump a constant soundtrack to their lives.
When she returned an hour later, her eyes were red but determined.
"I went to Manju's house," she said.
Rama's head shot up. Manju Auntie was their neighbor two houses down, wife of Mahesh Uncle who worked at the electricity board. Their daughter—
"Kiran will tutor you."
"What?" Rama's voice cracked. "Kiran? That girl?"
"That girl," Shailaja said sharply, "passed her 12th standard with 95%. That girl got into the engineering entrance exam preparation. That girl is your age but already planning her future while you rot at the tea shop."
Rama's face burned. He knew Kiran vaguely—saw her sometimes in the colony, always in jeans and t-shirts, always walking with purpose. She was the girl the aunties praised and held up as an example to their wayward sons. She was everything Rama wasn't.
"I'm not—"
"You ARE," Shailaja cut him off. "Tomorrow morning, 6 AM, you'll go to her house. She's agreed to tutor you. For free. Because her mother felt sorry for me."
The shame of it sat heavy in Rama's chest. Charity. Pity.
"I don't need—"
"You NEED," Shailaja said, her voice breaking. "You need this, Rama. Because if you fail again, I don't know what we'll do. I'm getting older. My hands hurt more each day. How much longer can I sew? If you don't study, don't get educated, don't get a job—what will happen to us?"
She grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. "This is your last chance. Manju said Kiran is strict, very strict. She won't tolerate laziness. But if you listen to her, really listen and try, maybe..."
"Maybe I won't be such a failure?" Rama finished bitterly.
"Maybe you'll become the man I know you can be," Shailaja said softly. "The smart, capable son I used to have before... before everything."
Before his father left. Before the money ran out. Before Rama gave up.
That night, Rama lay on his mat, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow he'd have to face Kiran, the perfect daughter, the disciplined student. The girl who had her life together while his fell apart.
He touched his long hair, his one vanity. At least he looked good, he'd always thought. Like a hero from the movies. Like a bike racer.
But looking good didn't fill empty stomachs or pay rent.
Outside, the neighborhood settled into sleep. Temple bells rang for evening prayer. Someone's radio played an old Tamil song. The scent of jasmine and garbage mingled in the humid air.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
Rama just didn't know how much.
Chapter 2: Enter Kiran - The First Confrontation
The morning sun was already aggressive at 6 AM, turning Chennai into a furnace. Rama dragged himself to Manju Auntie's house, his hair uncombed, yesterday's t-shirt wrinkled, feet dragging in worn-out slippers.
He could hear sounds from the courtyard—rhythmic thuds, sharp exhales.
When he pushed open the gate, he stopped short.
Kiran was in the center of the small courtyard, dressed in a black tank top and track pants, holding a long wooden staff. She moved with precise, deadly grace—spinning, striking, the staff whistling through the air in practiced patterns.
Silambam. Tamil martial arts.
Rama had seen performances during temple festivals, but never up close like this. Never seeing the raw power and control it required.
Kiran was tall—taller than him by at least an inch—with shoulders that spoke of strength. Her hair was cut short, just touching her shoulders, pulled back in a practical ponytail. No makeup. No jewelry except a simple watch. Just clean, focused intensity.
She completed a complex spinning pattern, then stopped, noticing him.
"You're late," she said flatly. "I said 6 AM. It's 6:12."
"I... sorry, I—"
"Sorry doesn't pass exams." She set the staff against the wall and grabbed a towel, wiping sweat from her face. "Come inside. We have six hours of work before afternoon heat makes it impossible to think."
"Six hours?" Rama's voice squeaked.
Kiran fixed him with a look that could cut glass. "You failed 10th standard twice. Did you think passing on the third attempt would be easy?"
She walked past him into the house, and Rama had no choice but to follow.
The room she led him to was small, neat as a pin. A desk with organized stacks of books. A wall chart with a study schedule marked in different colors. Shelves with labeled folders. Everything in its place.
It made Rama's chaotic corner at home—clothes piled on the floor, books scattered randomly—seem like a garbage dump in comparison.
"Sit," Kiran commanded, pointing to a floor mat. She sat across from him, her posture perfect.
Rama slouched down, his long hair falling in his face.
"First things first," Kiran said, pulling out a notebook. "Show me your last exam papers."
"I... don't have them."
"You don't have them," she repeated, her tone dangerously calm. "The papers that show where you went wrong, that would tell us what to focus on—you don't have them?"
"I threw them away," Rama admitted. "Why would I keep papers that say FAIL?"
Kiran closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Okay. New question. What subjects are you weakest in?"
Rama shrugged. "All of them?"
"All of them," Kiran echoed. "Great. Wonderful. This will be fun."
Her sarcasm stung. Rama felt defensive anger rising. "Look, I didn't ask for this. My mother forced me to come here. If you don't want to tutor me, I'll just—"
"What?" Kiran leaned forward, her eyes sharp. "You'll just what? Go back to your tea shop? Fail again? Let your mother starve herself to feed your useless existence?"
Rama shot to his feet. "You don't know anything about me!"
"I know you're eighteen and still in 10th standard," Kiran said, standing as well. She was taller, he realized with embarrassment. Looking down at him slightly. "I know your mother came to mine crying because she doesn't know what to do with her failure of a son. I know you waste every day at Kumar's tea shop while she works until her hands bleed."
"Shut up!" Rama shouted. "You're just some girl who thinks she's better than everyone—"
The words were barely out of his mouth when Kiran moved.
One second Rama was standing. The next, he was on his back on the floor, Kiran's knee on his chest, her hand twisting his arm in a hold that sent pain shooting through his shoulder.
It had taken maybe three seconds.
"Let me be very clear," Kiran said, her voice calm despite pinning him effortlessly to the floor. "I am better than you. Not because I'm smarter—though I am. Not because I'm more talented—though I might be. But because I work. Every single day. I wake at 5 AM. I train. I study. I help my mother. I do my work without excuses."
She increased the pressure slightly, making Rama gasp. "You? You sleep until 10. You drink tea and waste time. You disrespect your mother's sacrifice. So yes, right now, I am absolutely better than you."
"Get off me!" Rama struggled, but she might as well have been made of iron.
"But," Kiran continued, "you could be better than you are. That's why I agreed to this. Not for you—for your mother, who deserves better than a waste-of-space son."
She released him suddenly, standing up and walking back to her seat as if nothing had happened.
Rama scrambled up, his face burning with humiliation and fury. His shoulder ached. His pride ached worse.
"Never," Kiran said, sitting down with perfect posture, "underestimate me again. And never disrespect me by calling me 'just some girl.' I can break you in thirty seconds. Remember that."
From the kitchen, Manju Auntie's voice called out, "Kiran? Is everything okay?"
"Fine, Amma!" Kiran called back sweetly. Then, to Rama, in her normal cold tone: "Sit down. We're wasting time."
Rama stood there, shaking with anger and fear and something else he couldn't name. Every instinct told him to walk out, to never come back, to tell this arrogant girl to go to hell.
But he thought of his mother's face last night. The tears. The desperation.
Slowly, hating every second, he sat down.
"Smart choice," Kiran said. "Now. We'll establish the rules. You'll be here every day, 6 AM to 12 PM. You'll bring all required books. You'll complete every assignment I give. You'll speak respectfully. You'll follow my instructions without question."
"Or what?" Rama said sullenly.
Kiran smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. "Or I'll quit, and I'll tell your mother exactly why. That you're lazy, disrespectful, and unwilling to try. How do you think that will go for you?"
Rama said nothing. They both knew he had no cards to play.
"Good. Now, since you don't have your old papers, we'll start with a basic assessment. I need to see exactly how much you don't know."
She pulled out sheets of paper covered in questions—mathematics, science, social studies, languages. "You have two hours. No phone, no talking. Just write whatever you can."
"Two hours for all this?"
"In the real exam, you'll have less time per subject. Start now."
Rama looked down at the papers and felt panic rise. He didn't know most of this. He'd never paid attention in class, never done homework, never studied properly.
"Problem?" Kiran asked, seeing his hesitation.
"I... don't know where to start."
"Start anywhere. Write what you know. Leave blank what you don't. I need to see the damage before I can fix it." She pulled out her own books—thick engineering entrance preparation materials. "I'll study while you work. Silent study time starts now."
And just like that, she was absorbed in differential calculus, her pen moving steadily across her notebook, while Rama sat paralyzed with anxiety and shame.
This was going to be hell.
Two hours later, Kiran collected his papers. She spent fifteen minutes reviewing them in silence while Rama squirmed.
Finally, she looked up. "You scored approximately 23%."
Rama's stomach sank.
"The pass mark is 35%," Kiran continued. "You're twelve percentage points away from even passing, forget scoring well. You have fundamental gaps in basic mathematics. Your science is memorized words without understanding. Your language skills are barely functional."
She set the papers down. "This is worse than I expected. We'll need at least eight months of intensive work to get you to passing level. A year to get you to 60% or above."
"A whole year?" Rama said.
"You wasted two already," Kiran shot back. "Be grateful I think you CAN pass with a year of work. Many couldn't come back from this level of ignorance."
Ignorant. Failure. Useless. Every word was a slap, but Rama couldn't argue because they were true.
"Tomorrow," Kiran said, "you'll arrive at 5:30 AM."
"But you said 6!"
"That was before I saw how much work we have. 5:30 to 6, you'll do chores for my mother. Sweeping, cleaning dishes from breakfast, basic housework."
"What? Why?"
"Because," Kiran said, her voice hard, "you need to learn that work—any work—builds discipline. You'll do chores, then study. Think of it as payment for my time, since we're not charging you money."
It was humiliating. Being treated like a servant. But what choice did he have?
"Also," Kiran added, "cut your hair. It's dirty and distracting."
Rama's hand went protectively to his long hair. "No."
"No?" Kiran raised an eyebrow.
"My hair is... it's the one thing..." Rama couldn't explain why this mattered so much. His hair was his identity. The one thing that made him feel cool, like someone who mattered.
Kiran studied him for a long moment. "Fine. Keep the hair. But if I see it dirty or tangled again, you'll lose it. Understood?"
Rama nodded.
"Say it."
"Understood."
"Understood, WHAT?"
Rama gritted his teeth. "Understood... Kiran."
"Better. Now go home. Study the first three chapters of your math textbook. Tomorrow I'll quiz you. Every wrong answer means extra chores."
Rama gathered his things and fled.
Outside, the morning had fully arrived. The neighborhood was alive with activity. He walked home in a daze, his shoulder still aching from where Kiran had pinned him.
She was strong. Really strong. And completely in control.
For the first time in years, Rama felt genuinely afraid of someone his own age.
When he got home, Shailaja looked up from her sewing machine hopefully. "How did it go?"
Rama thought about lying. Then thought about Kiran finding out, Kiran telling his mother the truth.
"She's... strict," he said finally. "Really strict. But she says I can pass. If I work hard."
Shailaja's face crumpled with relief. "Oh thank Ganesha. Thank you, Rama, for trying. Please, please try."
"I will, Amma."
And for the first time, he meant it.
Not because he suddenly cared about education. But because he was more afraid of Kiran than he was lazy.
It was a start.
Another story in progress in Wattpad
https://www.wattpad.com/story/403122678?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details&wp_uname=chandini3110
