Chapter 29
The examination hall echoed with silence.
Divya stood at the podium, her thesis bound in formal navy blue lying open before her. Two years of work on authentic documentary storytelling spread across nearly two hundred pages.
She'd prepared for this moment. Rehearsed responses. Memorized key passages until they flowed without hesitation. The confidence that had carried her through the presentation remained steady as she concluded.
"Documentary filmmaking at its purest isn't about imposing narrative. It's about creating space for truth to reveal itself naturally." She met the eyes of each committee member, her voice clear. "Thank you."
Three faces looked back at her from the long examination table. Mrs. Menon nodded with the slightest smile. The department head maintained his typical neutral expression. And then Professor Kashyap, the external examiner, regarded her with a cool assessment, pen tapping against his notepad.
"Well presented, Ms. Mathur," Mrs. Menon said, beginning the questioning. "You've made some interesting connections between traditional documentary methods and social media. Can you explain how you think these will evolve in the next decade?"
Divya felt ready. This was familiar ground. "The boundary between professional and amateur documentation is fading. We're seeing a fusion. Traditional filmmakers are adopting the immediacy of social media while maintaining their storytelling craft."
Mrs. Menon asked two more questions that built on her answers. The department head inquired about research methods and case study selection. Standard questions, professionally framed. Divya responded smoothly, navigating the familiar rhythm she'd practiced.
Then Professor Kashyap straightened in his chair.
"Your framework is well constructed," he said, adjusting his glasses. "However, your conclusions parallel Banerjee's 2018 work rather closely. Something you've only briefly acknowledged."
The comment felt fair. Criticism was part of the process. She nodded. "I see Banerjee's influence differently, particularly regarding subject ethics. My approach builds on his foundation but diverges on..."
"Yes, yes," Kashyap waved his hand dismissively, cutting her off. "Let's move to your fieldwork."
Something in his tone shifted. The temperature in the room dropped.
"Your research included access to professional film sets." He flipped through her thesis, pages rustling with unnecessary force. "Quite unusual access for a typical MA student." His eyes lifted, pinning her with unmistakable meaning. "Though I suppose being Mrs. Vikram Khanna opens certain doors."
The air stilled. Mrs. Menon's posture stiffened. The department head's gaze shifted sharply to Kashyap. Students watching from the back froze.
"Sir," Divya kept her voice level, "my research and fieldwork began well before my personal circumstances changed. The initial interviews and observations were conducted during my internship at..."
"Yes, your internship." He cut her off again, flipping back through pages. "Which led to employment, which rather conveniently led to marriage." He glanced at his watch. "Quite the progression."
Divya's fingers pressed against the podium edge. "My personal life has no bearing on the academic merit of my work."
"Doesn't it?" Kashyap raised his eyebrows as if surprised.
He closed her thesis, then reopened it to the methodology section.
"Your entire argument centers on authentic storytelling, yet you haven't addressed how your position and connections might influence what you observe and how you interpret it. "
"Professor," Mrs. Menon interjected, warning in her voice, "we should focus on academic content, not personal circumstances."
Kashyap dismissed her with a quick glance. "This is academic content, Mrs. Menon. Researcher positionality affects methodology." His attention returned to Divya, eyes cold behind his glasses. "What we have here is, frankly, opportunism dressed in academic language."
The accusation hung in the air. Divya's knuckles turned white against the wood.
"My research stands on its own merit," she said, each word measured despite the heat rising to her face. "The methodological approach was established long before..."
"Let's be honest, Ms. Mathur. Or should I say, Mrs. Khanna?" Kashyap continued, speaking over her as if she hadn't spoken at all. "This degree is merely decoration, isn't it? A credential to justify your rather meteoric social climb."
Silence dropped like a stone. Complete, suffocating silence.
Mrs. Menon's chair scraped loudly as she straightened. "Professor Kashyap, this is entirely inappropriate and irrelevant to evaluating the candidate's work."
"I disagree." He didn't raise his voice. The quiet disdain carried perfectly through the stillness. "When assessing research on authentic storytelling, the researcher's own authenticity is absolutely relevant."
Divya stood frozen. The room tilted slightly, her vision narrowing to the navy blue thesis in Kashyap's hands. Two years of work. Hundreds of hours. Countless late nights, all reduced to an accessory in his narrative of her life.
"Continue with academic questions, Professor," Mrs. Menon insisted, "or I'll call a recess to discuss this breach of protocol."
Kashyap's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Very well." He reopened the thesis to the conclusion. "Let's discuss what you found regarding subject agency in documentary storytelling."
The examination continued. Divya answered mechanically, her voice steady despite the tremor building beneath. Academic terms flowed from her lips while something fundamental cracked inside. Each question, each response, felt distant, happening to someone else while she observed from behind glass.
Forty minutes later, her viva ended. She stepped down from the podium, legs steady only because she forced them to be. A faint tremor ran through her fingers as she gathered her papers.
The next candidate was called. Then the next.
She took a seat at the back, spine straight, eyes fixed somewhere ahead. Questions floated through the room. Answers followed. Chairs scraped. Pens moved.
She registered none of it.
Time passed, but she felt suspended, caught in the space between what had just happened and whatever it meant.
One by one, the candidates finished. Bags were packed. Whispered conversations began. Someone laughed too loudly.
Divya didn't move.
The heavy wooden door finally shut with a sharp snap.
The sound jolted her back.
◆◆◆
The front door of Khanna Sadan closed behind her with a solid thud.
Divya stood in the foyer, warm light washing over her after the sterile chill of the examination hall. Voices paused mid-conversation in the living room. Then footsteps approached as the family emerged to greet her.
Vikram reached her first, his face breaking into a smile. Pride shone in his eyes. He'd been waiting hours for this moment.
"There she is," he said, moving to take her hands. "How did it go?"
The brightness in his expression died the instant he truly saw her face.
She looked through him rather than at him. Her eyes were dry but distant, focused on some point beyond the present moment. Her skin seemed drained of color beneath the warm lights.
His hands fell back to his sides. "Divya?"
"Good," she replied, the word empty. "It was good."
The statement should have carried triumph. Should have been the opening to excited details about questions asked and answered. Instead, it landed between them like a stone. Factual. Heavy. Final.
Kavita stepped forward. "Divya, beta..."
"I'm tired." Divya stepped back slightly, creating distance from the warmth trying to reach her. "Going to lie down."
She moved past them all, her steps measured despite their heaviness. No eye contact. No acknowledgment of the champagne chilling on the side table or the gathered family. She climbed the stairs with careful movements, like someone carrying something fragile.
Perhaps herself.
The family watched her disappear. When her footsteps faded down the hallway, Vikram pulled his phone from his pocket. "Mrs. Menon would know. She was on the committee."
Harshit's hand settled on his son's shoulder. Not squeezing. Just present. A wordless instruction to put the call on speaker.
The family gathered closer as Vikram hit dial.
"Vikram?" Mrs. Menon's voice carried tension. She'd been expecting this call.
"What happened?"
A pause stretched across the line. When she spoke again, her words came carefully.
"Professor Kashyap used the examination to make personal attacks.
He questioned Divya's integrity. Suggested her research access came solely from her connection to you.
" Her tone hardened with remembered anger.
"He called her work 'opportunism dressed in academic language.
' Said her degree was merely 'decoration' for her climb up the social ladder. "
Vikram went completely still. The kind of stillness that precedes something dangerous.
"He said this publicly? During her examination?"
"Yes. In front of the entire committee and observers." Frustration carried through the line. "I tried to redirect him, but the damage was done. Her thesis was excellent. He couldn't deny her academic work, so he attacked her character instead."
"I understand." Two words, delivered with absolute certainty. "Thank you."
He ended the call without further pleasantries.
The family remained silent. This wasn't just academic politics. This was an attack on a Khanna. On Vikram's wife.
Vikram's thumb moved across his phone screen. When he raised it again, his expression had shifted completely. Gone was the concerned husband. In his place stood the Khanna heir. Controlled. Focused. Deadly in his certainty.
The call connected after one ring.
"Mr. Bansal. Defamation suit against Professor Sunil Kashyap. Public humiliation of my wife during her thesis examination. Maximum damages. Papers filed by morning."
A brief pause for the lawyer's acknowledgment.
"Good." He ended the call.
Immediately, he dialed again.
"Rahul. Everything on Professor Sunil Kashyap from Mithibai College. Academic history. Personal life. Financial records. Every skeleton. By morning."
A pause.
“Finish him.”
Another connection ended.
He looked up at his family. Fury banked in his eyes but not extinguished.
No one spoke. No one needed to. Harshit's hand remained on his son's shoulder, a gesture of approval. Kavita's expression had hardened to stone. Raghav released a slow breath, understanding completely. His brother rarely unleashed this side of himself. But when he did, it was devastating.
Vikram moved toward the stairs, steps measured and purposeful.
The family watched him climb toward the bedroom where Divya had retreated.
He rarely got angry. But when he did, it was always for those he loved with all his heart.