There was wailing next door. Not muffled sobs but full-throated, guttural wailing. My wife looked up from her tea, her eyebrows knitted in worry. “Something’s happened,” she said.

I nodded. “Death in the family,” I whispered with the air of someone who watches too many crime shows.

“Worse,” she said, eyes wide. “High school results are out. ICSE and ISC.”

I dropped my teacup.

“Oh no,” I said, already planning my speech. “We must go over. That poor little boy, what’s his name,  must’ve failed. I should tell him failure is not the end. Look at me—I’ve failed more times than a Wi-Fi connection in a thunderstorm.”

She looked contemplative. “I’ll tell him about my failures in love,” she said nobly.

I stared at her and whispered, “What failures in love?”

“Never mind,” she said quickly.

We walked over like veterans on a condolence call. My wife had that supportive hug ready—shoulders squared, tissues in hand. I adjusted my voice to a gentle, fatherly tone. I even practiced my lines: “Son, success isn’t everything. Thomas Edison failed 999 times before inventing the light bulb. And I failed algebra four times before they invented calculators.”

The wailing increased as we rang the doorbell. Inside, it was a scene straight out of a Greek tragedy. The mother clung to her son, hugging him like she’d lost him to war. The father sat with his head in his hands, muttering something about how much the coaching classes had cost him.

My wife moved in with surgical precision, arms extended for a sympathy hug. I made for the father, patted his slumped shoulders and said in my best elder-brother voice, “It’s okay. Let me talk to your son. I’ve failed at a lot of things—mathematics, sports, entrepreneurship, marriage..”

“Marriage?” my wife snapped from across the room, suddenly dropping her hand which had been round the mother.

“Not mine,” I said quickly. “Other people. Remember Shyam and Renuka, how their marriage failed?”

The father looked up, eyes rimmed with tears. “Failed?” he asked hoarsely. “Who failed?”

I straightened up, suddenly unsure. “Your son…?”

“He didn’t fail,” the man said, his voice breaking. “He got… only 99%!”

“Excuse me?” I blinked.

“Only 99!” he wailed louder. My dreams, gone!”

I nearly called an ambulance for myself.

Across the room, I could feel my wife clearing her throat, possibly about to offer stories of heartbreak. I knew what was coming.

I coughed discreetly. “We should… probably let the family grieve,” I muttered, tugging at her sleeve.

“But I haven’t told them about my…”

“Let it be,” I hissed. “Let them suffer in peace.”

As we reached our gate, I turned to my wife and said, “Next year, let’s just send flowers.”

She nodded. “And maybe a congratulatory card that says: ‘It’s okay to be human…!”

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