The main gate of the West Delhi Vocational Training Institute did not look like the entrance to a place of learning. It looked like the mouth of a prison that had learned to pretend it was a school.
Thick iron bars rose from the cracked concrete, their once-black paint eaten away by rust into a permanent red-brown stain. The gate was tall enough to kill the idea of climbing and heavy enough to kill the idea of escape. A faded government board hung crookedly on one side, its lettering peeling, its emblem dulled by years of dust and neglect.
Ramesh, the private security guard hired through a third-party agency, stood in the shade of his narrow booth and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. It was barely ten in the morning, but the Delhi heat had already begun its slow, merciless assault. His uniform clung to his back, and the baton in his hand felt heavier than it should have.
Another pair approached the gate.
An older man in a modest kurta-pyjama walked beside a teenage boy. The boy kept glancing at the iron bars as if measuring them, unsure whether they were meant to keep people out—or in. What caught Ramesh's attention, however, was not the boy's nervousness.
It was the plastic bag swinging gently from the father's hand.
Bright yellow. Red lettering.
Bikanervala. (famous bakery near college)
Ramesh straightened instinctively.
"Stop," he said, stepping forward. "Entry pass?"
The father halted immediately. His face broke into a respectful smile—soft, grateful, the kind Ramesh rarely saw at this gate.
"We have come to meet Sir Varun," the man said. "We brought mithai (sweets)."
Ramesh exhaled through his nose. He took the register, flipped a page, and scribbled their names without much interest. This was the sixth bag he had seen today.
As the father and son passed through the rusted bars and walked toward the aging computer block, Ramesh turned toward the other man seated inside the guard booth.
Mishra-ji, the college chaprasi(peon).
Mishra held a permanent government post, a paan-stained mouth, and a stomach that strained permanently against his uniform buttons. He sat on a wooden stool like a man who had settled into life and had no intention of moving again.
"Mishra-ji," Ramesh asked, nodding toward the retreating pair, "who is this Varun?"
Mishra spat a thin stream of red paan onto the dust near the gate and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Nobody," he said flatly. "Just visiting faculty."
Ramesh frowned. "Visiting faculty? Then why are people coming like he is some guru? That mithai isn't cheap."
Mishra's lips curled—not quite into a smile.
"Visiting," he repeated. "Daily wager. No office. No staff room chair worth respecting. Teaches some short computer course in the lab."
Ramesh leaned against the booth, confused. "Then why today? This is the sixth bag."
Mishra's expression darkened.
"I don't know what magic he does inside," he muttered. "And he doesn't share. In this college, when sweets come, they go to the staff room. Principal, senior professors, inspection committees—everyone gets their piece."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"But this Varun… the sweets go in, and they stay in. Not a single laddu comes out."
Before Ramesh could reply, the rattling sound of a rickshaw broke their conversation.
Another family had arrived.
A man stepped down first, followed by a young woman in a crisp, new salwar suit. She carried a leather handbag and walked with a confidence that stood out against the tired campus walls. Her father held the same familiar yellow bag.
Bikanervala.
This time, Ramesh didn't even ask for the entry pass. Curiosity pulled him forward.
"Brother," he asked gently, "admission?"
The father laughed, shaking his head. "No, no. My daughter finished her course last month."
He gestured proudly toward the girl.
"Today she got her first salary. Eighteen thousand rupees."
Ramesh blinked. "Already?"
"Yes," the man said. "Sir Varun called the company himself. He trained her for interviews after class hours. Two weeks straight. Without him, who would hire a girl from a government ITI?"
The father looked down at the bag as if it carried something sacred.
"This is shagun," he said softly. "For him."
They passed through the gate.
Ramesh watched them disappear into the campus, then slowly turned back to Mishra.
"Mishra-ji," he asked, lowering his voice, "don't the permanent professors also handle placements? I see the banners outside. 'Hundred Percent Placement.' Big letters."
Mishra shifted on his stool and swatted at a fly buzzing near his face. He glanced toward the administrative building, where air-conditioners hummed steadily behind closed windows.
"Placements," he scoffed. "Those are file placements."
Ramesh didn't understand.
"Names written in registers," Mishra continued bitterly. "Companies owned by someone's cousin. Signatures for audits. Certificates for students."
He spat again.
"No jobs. Just paper."
Mishra's gaze followed the yellow bag until it vanished from sight.
"The students know," he said quietly. "Other teachers care until their salary hits the bank on the first of the month. After that, the student becomes a burden."
He paused.
"But this Varun…" Mishra shook his head. "He hasn't learned when to stop caring."
Ramesh looked back at the iron gate—the rust, the weight, the way it closed behind every visitor with a dull finality.
For the first time, it did not look like a prison.
It looked like a place where someone had found a way out.
And places like this were never kind to the man who showed others the door.