The Second Refresh

By Dharmpal Singh

The silence of the Sunday morning was a thick, velvety blanket over the small town of Mahendragarh. It was a silence so profound it had a sound of its own—the distant, rhythmic crowing of a rooster, the

faint, melodic chanting from the old temple three lanes away, and the gentle rustle of the neem tree outside the window. Inside the modest, whitewashed house of the Sharmas, however, a tempest was raging. Not one of sound, but of anticipation.  Inside Anil’s chest, a storm of hope and fear was brewing, each wave crashing against his ribs with a deafening internal roar.

Today was the day. The Graduate Aptitude Test in Engineering (GATE)

results were to be announced.

For Anil, the last 365 days had not been just a year; they had been a single, elongated day of relentless pursuit. A year’s worth of hope, etched into the margins of countless notebooks; a year’s worth of sweat, staining the pages of standard textbooks; and a year’s worth of silent prayers, whispered into the still air of his small study room, had all funneled into this single, defining morning.

He had woken up at 4:30 AM, long before the first sliver of orange would dare to touch the horizon. Sleep had been a fickle friend these past few weeks, and tonight, it had abandoned him completely. His body was taut with a nervous energy that made his fingers tremble slightly. He had performed his morning ablutions with a ritualistic solemnity, the cold water a sharp, bracing shock that did little to calm the feverish buzz in his mind.

He then walked to the small altar in the corner of the living room. It was a simple wooden shelf housing a few brass idols—Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, and Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge. His mother had arranged fresh marigolds and a small diya the previous night. Anil struck a match, the flare momentarily illuminating his anxious face. He lit the incense stick, watching the thin trail of smoke curl upwards, carrying his aspirations to the heavens. He closed his eyes, his hands folded tightly.

“Bas iss baar ho jaaye,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath, a confidential plea to the divine. “Sab kuch theek ho jaaye.” He wasn’t asking for a miracle, for a rank he didn’t deserve. He was only asking for a chance—a fair reward for his labor.  A validation that the immense sacrifice, the self-imposed exile from a normal life, was not in vain.

The path that led him here was unlike that of many of his B.Tech classmates. While they had scrambled to join M.Tech programs in private colleges with hefty fees, or taken up jobs in IT firms in Bengaluru and Pune, Anil had made a quiet, resolute decision. Sitting on his hostel bed on the last day of college, watching his friends celebrate with laughter and promises to stay in touch, he had felt a profound clarity. He would not add to the financial burden that had already stooped his father’s shoulders and silvered his mother’s hair. His father, a school teacher, and his mother, a homemaker, had poured their life’s savings into his engineering education.  An M.Tech from a premier government institute like IIT or IISc wasn’t just a degree; it was a key. A key to a respectable scholarship, to a world-class education that wouldn’t cost his family a rupee, and to a future where he could finally be the provider, not the beneficiary.

He had come home and announced his plan. There had been no opposition, only a quiet, worried support. “Beta, tumhara mann hai to karo,” his father had said, his voice calm but his eyes betraying his concern about a year’s “wastage.” His mother had simply started putting an extra spoon of ghee in his food, her silent language of love and strength.

And so, the year began. It was a year of monastic discipline. His world shrank to the four walls of his room. The old wooden desk, its surface scarred with equations etched in moments of frustration, became his command center. Towers of books—C.L. Liu for Discrete Math, Korth for DBMS, Galvin for OS etc., Made Easy manuals—formed a fortress around him. The social outings, the festivals, the cousin’s wedding in Jaipur—he declined them all with a rehearsed excuse. “Gate ka preparation hai, yaar. Nahi aa sakta.” His friends’ calls became less frequent, their invitations eventually ceasing. He was on an island of his own making, and the bridge to the mainland was this one exam.

He remembered the long nights, the only light being the amber glow of his table lamp, the only sound the frantic scratching of his pen and the hypnotic chirping of crickets. He remembered the days when a particular concept in Digital Logic or Thermodynamics would refuse to be understood, and a wave of despair would threaten to drown him. He would stand by that very window, looking out at the unchanging neem tree, gathering the resolve to go back and attack the problem one more time. His father would often walk in on these moments, never offering advice, just placing a cup of steaming chai on his desk, his hand resting on Anil’s shoulder for a brief, solid second before leaving. That touch was a battery, recharging his depleting willpower. Every solved question paper, every mock test, was a battle.  His scores improved, slowly, painstakingly.  He had felt ready. The actual exam day was a blur of focused intensity. Walking out of the examination hall, he had felt a cautious optimism. He had attempted most of the questions. Some were tricky, but he was confident he had done enough. The two-month wait for the results had been its own special kind of torture, a slow drip of anxiety that colored every waking moment.

And now, the wait was over. It was 9:17 AM. The results were supposed to be live.

He sat in front of the family’s old desktop computer, a bulky CRT monitor that hummed with a low, steady warmth. The computer took its time to wake up, each creak and whirring sound amplified in the tense silence of the room. The pièce de résistance was the BSNL broadband modem, a beige box with a constellation of blinking red and green lights. It emitted a familiar screech and gurgle—the sound of the 1990s dialing into the 21st century—before settling into a rhythmic, whirring chatter.  To Anil, it sounded like a slow, dramatic drumroll preceding a verdict of destiny.

His fingers, cold and slightly clammy, navigated the mouse to open the browser. He typed the GATE results portal URL with meticulous care, as if a single typo could alter his fate.  The page began to load.  The progress bar inched forward  with agonizing slowness, a testament  to the town’s sluggish internet infrastructure.  The wheel on the browser kept circling, a mesmerizing, taunting loop of anticipation.

His heart was a frantic drum against his sternum. He could feel a single bead of sweat trace a path down his temple. He pressed the F5 key, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

Refresh.

The wheel again.

Come on, come on.

He pressed F5 again, this time with more force, a silent plea to the digital gods.

And then, it happened. The page loaded. The fancy header, the logos of the IITs, all rendered completely. His eyes, wide with a mixture of terror and hope, darted across the screen, bypassing all graphics, searching for the one piece of information that mattered.

And then he saw it.

A single line of text, in a plain, unadorned font, positioned unceremoniously in the middle of the screen.

“You are not selected.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. They were just black marks on a white screen. Then, their meaning slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.  The air rushed out of his lungs. His world, so carefully constructed over the past year, shattered into a million silent pieces.

Not selected?

The words echoed in the hollow emptiness of his mind.

How?

His preparation  was honest, disciplined to the point of obsession.  He hadn’t wasted a single day. He had given up outings, festivals, family trips, laughter, leisure—everything on the altar of this one goal. He had calculated his probable score a hundred times; it should have been enough. It had to be enough.

And yet, here it was. Failure.  Cold, blunt, and absolute.  It didn’t offer an explanation. It didn’t show a score or a rank. It was just a stark, digital rejection.  The four words seemed to pulse on the screen, growing larger, mocking him. The whirring of the modem now sounded like a jeering crowd. The room felt suddenly cold.

He didn’t cry. He felt numb, a hollowed-out shell. All the energy, the hope, the fight—it had just evaporated, leaving behind a vast, desolate emptiness. He pushed himself away from the desk, the chair screeching against the floor. The sound was jarring. He needed to get away from that screen, from those words.

He walked out of the room on unsteady legs, his vision blurry.  He just needed a moment alone, to process this, to build a wall around this raw pain before he had to face his parents. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in their eyes, the disappointment he had worked so hard to prevent.

He walked into the next room, the small drawing-room, and stood by the window, staring out without seeing. The bright Sunday sun outside felt like an insult.

His father, Ramnath Sharma, had been reading the newspaper on the veranda.   A man of routine, he had noticed the cessation of the frantic keyboard tapping and the ominous screech of the chair.  He folded his newspaper and walked inside. He saw Anil’s back, the slump of his shoulders, the defeated posture. In one hand, his father held a small steel plate with the prasad from the morning puja—a few pieces of sweet ladoo. On his face was a hopeful, tentative smile, a shield against the bad news he feared.

“Result aaya?” he asked, his voice deliberately calm, a teacher’s voice used to soothing nervous students.

Anil didn’t turn around. He kept staring out at the impossibly bright day. “Haan… dekh liya,” he said quietly, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion.

“Kya hua?” his father probed gently, taking a step closer.

Anil took a deep, shuddering breath. The words were like shards of glass in his throat. He forced them out. “Select nahi hua.” His voice broke on the last syllable, the carefully constructed dam of his composure beginning to crack. His father paused. The hopeful smile didn’t quite vanish but froze into a strange, confused mask. “Arey, tu mazak kar raha hai na?” he said, a forced chuckle escaping his lips. “Mujhe pata hai tu bohot mehnat kiya hai. Itni mehnat ka phal kharab nahi ho sakta. Tu zaroor select hua hoga. Galat padh liya hoga.”

The denial, the unwavering belief, was somehow more painful than the failure itself. It underscored the magnitude of the let-down.

“Sach keh raha hoon, Papa,” Anil said, finally turning around. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry. There was a flare of almost irritation in his voice. Why wouldn’t his father believe him? “Dekha maine result… saaf saaf likha hai

‘not selected.’” He gestured vaguely towards the other room, as if the cruel message was hovering in the air.

His father’s face fell, the last vestige of the smile dissolving. He placed the plate of prasad on the center table. He stood silent for a long moment, absorbing the blow, not for himself, but for his son. He looked at Anil’s face, the face of the little boy who used to run to him with a perfect report card, now etched with a pain he wished he could absorb himself.

Then he did something strange. He looked at Anil, his eyes full of something Anil couldn’t quite define—it wasn’t just hope, it was a profound, unshakeable faith. A certainty that defied logic.

“Ek baar aur dekh le beta,” he said softly. “Mere liye. Ek baar aur refresh kar.”

Anil stared at him, bewildered. Was his father refusing to accept reality? Was this his way of coping?

“Papa, aap kya keh rahe ho? Main dekh chuka hoon. Sab clear hai. ‘Not selected.’ Four words. That’s it. Refresh karne se kya hi badlega?” he replied, his voice laced with a frustration born of utter helplessness.

“Phir bhi…” his father insisted, his voice gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. “Mere liye ek baar aur try kar. Bas ek baar. Please.”

It was the “please” that did it. The soft, almost pleading tone from a man who was usually so stoic. Anil sighed, a deep, weary exhalation. What was the point? It was like being asked to check if a locked door was still locked.

 But if it gave his father a moment of peace, a gradual acceptance, he would do it. He owed him that much for this disastrous year.

Reluctantly, his shoulders slumped in resignation, Anil walked back into the study. The browser was still open, that damning sentence still on the screen. He felt a fresh wave of nausea. His father stood behind him, a silent, solid presence.

With a sense of profound futility, his finger hovered over the F5 key. He looked back at his father, who gave him a small, encouraging nod.  Anil pressed the key, the click echoing in the quiet room.

The screen flickered.   The dreaded  words  vanished, replaced by the infuriatingly slow-loading animation of the wheel. It circled once, twice. Anil looked away, unable to bear the sight. He was just going through the motions.

And then, the page loaded. It was different.

The layout was the same, but the text in the center was different. It was longer. Bolder.

His eyes, almost against their will, snapped towards the screen. And this time…

“Congratulations! You are selected. All India Rank: 417.”

His breath hitched. His eyes widened, unbelieving. He blinked, once, twice, three times, convinced his mind, addled with grief, was playing a cruel trick on him. He leaned forward, his nose almost touching the warm glass of the monitor.

He read it again, slowly, mouthing each word.

Congratulations! You are selected.

All India Rank: 417.

It was there. In black and white. It was real. He had cleared GATE. Not just cleared it, but with a stellar rank. A rank that would get him into any IIT of his choice.

A sound escaped his lips, a half-gasp, half-sob. He spun around in his chair, his eyes wide with shock and dawning, disbelieving joy. He looked at his father, his mouth agape, no words coming out.

“P-Papa… ye… ye kaise…” he mumbled, stammering, pointing a trembling finger at the screen. “Yeh… congratulations likha hai! Rank hai! 417! Yeh kaise possible hai? Mainey toh abhi…”

His father didn’t look surprised. A deep, profound smile spread across his face, reaching his eyes, crinkling the corners. He put a steadying hand on Anil’s trembling shoulder.  The weight of it was familiar, comforting, and now, miraculous.

“Beta,” his father said, his voice thick with emotion. “Kuch cheezein samajh se nahi, vishwas se hoti hain.” Some things happen not by logic, but by faith.

He squeezed Anil’s shoulder. “Yeh internet, yeh machine… inki bhi apni limitations hoti hain. Kabhi-kabhi yeh sahi jaankari dene mein der kar dete hain. Lekin insaan ka vishwas… uska intuition… woh kabhi dhokha nahi deta. Mujhe pata tha,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Mujhe pata tha ki mere bete ne jitni mehnat ki hai, usse zyada usko milna chahiye. Jab koi poori imaandari se mehnat karta hai, uska phal milta hi hai. Bas kabhi kabhi samay lagta hai, ya…” he paused, looking at the altar in the next room, “…ya kisi apne ki awaaz sunni padti hai.” Or sometimes, you have to listen to the voice of a loved one.

The reality of it finally crashed over Anil. The relief was so immense it was physical. He felt light-headed, as if he might float away. The year of sacrifice, the loneliness, the doubt—it all melted away, redeemed by that one line on the screen. He hadn’t failed. His father’s faith had literally refreshed his reality.

The rest of the day passed in a beautiful, tearful blur. His mother, hearing the commotion, had come in and burst into happy tears, hugging him tightly before rushing to the kitchen to prepare his favorite aloo parathas. The news spread to a few relatives over crackling phone lines. His phone, silent for so long, began to buzz with messages from a few old friends who had checked the list and seen his name.

But that evening, after the euphoria had settled into a warm, glowing ember in his chest, Anil needed solitude. He climbed the narrow staircase to the terrace of their two-story house.

The sky was a masterpiece, painted in sweeping strokes of orange, crimson,and deep violet as the sun dipped below the horizon. The air was cool and carried the scent of woodsmoke and earth. He sat on the parapet, leaning against the warm concrete, and replayed the morning’s events in his mind.

His mind kept snagging on that single, devastating moment. The moment he had read “not selected” and accepted it without a second thought. He had been so ready to internalize that failure, to wear it as his identity. He had been prepared to spend the next days, weeks, maybe months, grappling with the shame, fielding the unspoken “I told you so” glances, and figuring out a bleak Plan B.

If his father hadn’t been so perceptive…

If his father had accepted the news at face value…

If he hadn’t insisted, with that quiet, unshakeable faith, on one more refresh…

If Anil, in his despair, had stubbornly refused…

He would have shut down the computer. He would have walked away. He might never have checked again. He would have lived the rest of his life believing, with absolute certainty, that he had failed. That his best was not good enough. The truth—his brilliant rank, his success—would have been sitting on that server, waiting, but he would have never known. His entire life’s trajectory would have been altered by a single, erroneous page load.

The thought was terrifying. It spoke to the fragility of destiny. How a single moment, a single click, a single word of faith, could change everything.

He heard footsteps on the stairs.  His father emerged onto the terrace, holding two cups of chai.  He handed one to Anil and stood beside him, sipping his own, looking out at the dying embers of the day.

“Socha tha yahan mil jaoge,” his father said quietly. I thought I’d find you here.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the first stars appear.

“Papa,” Anil said, his voice soft. “Aaj aapne mera life badal diya. Seriously. Woh refresh button… agar aap na kehte…”

His father shook his head, cutting him off. “Nahi, beta. Mainne kuch nahi kiya. Mainne bas wahi kiya jo har maa-baap karta. Humein apne bacchon pe doubt nahi, sirf vishwas hota hai. Tumhari mehnat ne tumhe select karaya. Mainne to bas… thoda sa signal receive karne mein help kar di.” I just helped receive the signal a little.

Anil smiled, understanding the metaphor. He looked at his father, not as a parent, but as a man. A man of quiet strength and profound faith. His wasn’t a blind faith; it was a faith earned by watching his son’s silent struggle every single day for a year.

As darkness enveloped the town, the lights in the houses below began to twinkle on, each one a story, a life, a set of struggles and hopes. Anil realized that sometimes, the biggest obstacles aren’t the difficult questions in an exam, but the moments of doubt in our own minds. And sometimes, the greatest force in the universe isn’t luck or talent, but the unwavering faith of someone who loves you.

Destiny, he thought, sometimes waits just one click away. And a father’s faith, a quiet, persistent force, can travel farther than any internet signal and bridge the gap between a perceived failure and a magnificent truth.

By Dharmpal Singh