In the Same Office Where the Wife Was a Clerk, the Divorced Husband Became an IAS Officer — What Happened Next Made Humanity Weep
Friends, this is a true story from Patna, Bihar.
Abhimanyu lived in a small rented room and spent his days preparing relentlessly for the UPSC exam. His wife, Supriya, worked as a clerk in a government office in the same city. Slowly, she began drifting away from him—just as close as she had once been during the early days of their marriage, she now became distant.
They had been married only six months, but in those six months, Abhimanyu’s life had shrunk to just three things: books, notes, and failures.
Before marriage, he had failed the UPSC exam twice. After marriage, he attempted it for the third time—but the result was the same. That day, a heavy silence filled the house, broken only by Supriya’s bitter voice.
“How long am I supposed to answer relatives? How long do I keep saying my husband is still preparing? Don’t you feel ashamed after failing three times?”
Abhimanyu replied softly, “I’m trying. I just need a little more time.”
He hoped Supriya would understand—but the look on her face made it clear she now saw the marriage as a burden. Her tone grew irritated. Her eyes changed. Conversations turned into taunts. And most painfully, she stopped seeing Abhimanyu as her husband—she saw him as a failure.
Every day Supriya went to her office, where she found a different world. A world where people praised her, respected her—where no one mocked her husband’s failures. That contrast slowly pulled her toward the glitter outside and away from the peace of home.
She started returning late. Put passwords on her phone. Became tense over small things.
One evening she said casually,
“Today the ASO said I’m so smart I should’ve been promoted long ago. He said my files are the cleanest.”
Abhimanyu smiled faintly. “That’s good. But you don’t seem happy.”
She replied sharply, “I’d be happy if you achieved something too.”
Those words cut like a knife. But Abhimanyu didn’t argue. He knew his failures were consuming her patience.
Complaints turned into comparisons.
“My friends’ husbands are inspectors, engineers, bank officers. What do I tell people? That my husband is still preparing?”
Abhimanyu’s silence became weakness in her eyes—but inside him, that silence was turning into strength.
At Supriya’s office was a man named Vikram, an Assistant Section Officer. He had a habit of being overly friendly, especially with women who looked lonely.
“Madam, your handwriting is so neat.”
“No one works like you.”
“When you smile, the whole office feels brighter.”
These small compliments felt good—because at home, she only heard taunts.
Soon, she started hiding her phone. Conversations at home reduced, while office chats increased.
One night, Abhimanyu woke up to drink water and saw messages flash on her phone:
“Vikram: Let’s meet after office tomorrow.”
“Vikram: When you smile, my day becomes beautiful.”
Abhimanyu froze. His heart stopped for a moment—but he said nothing. He simply turned off the light.
The next morning, Supriya said while making tea,
“Marriage runs on respect—but there’s no respect left in this house.”
Abhimanyu replied calmly,
“Respect lives in the heart, not just the house.”
She fell silent—but it was the silence before a storm.
A few weeks later, she walked in and said plainly,
“I want a divorce. I can’t live this life anymore.”
Abhimanyu looked into her eyes. There was no love. No regret. Just a decision.
“Alright,” he said softly.
Within months, the marriage ended.
Supriya moved fully into her new world—office friends and surface-level shine.
Abhimanyu was alone—but not broken.
He filled the UPSC form for the fourth time. This time, something burned differently inside him. When he opened his books again, his fingers trembled—but his eyes held a light that turns failures into legends.
One sentence echoed in his room:
“This time, only for myself.”
He switched off his phone. Quit social media. Wrote just three words in an old diary:
Heart. Mind. Discipline.
Waking up at 4 a.m.
Studying for hours.
Weekly tests.
Understanding mistakes instead of crying over them.
Neighbors said, “Divorce must’ve broken him.”
They didn’t know—some people shine only after breaking.
Supriya’s life changed too—but not the way she expected.
Vikram’s attention first felt sweet, then habitual, and finally burdensome. When she asked him directly, “Will you marry me?” he laughed.
“Are you joking? You’re divorced. What will my family say?”
That night, Supriya realized she was never loved—only used.
Soon, office rumors spread. Whispers followed her. Taunts crushed her spirit. She stopped going to work and eventually disappeared from the city.
No one knew where she went.
Meanwhile, Abhimanyu cleared Prelims.
Then Mains.
Then the Interview.
And one day—he became an IAS officer.
But the story didn’t end there.
His posting letter brought him to the Patna Secretariat—the same office where Supriya once worked as a clerk.
As he walked in, people stood up.
“Good morning, sir.”
Among them stood Vikram—nervous, shaken.
Abhimanyu showed no anger. No revenge. Only calm dignity.
Later that night, during heavy rain, a knock came at his door.
It was Supriya.
Broken. Soaked. Defeated.
“I have nowhere left to go,” she whispered.
Abhimanyu let her in. Gave her water. A towel.
She cried and confessed everything.
“I was wrong. I lost a good man.”
She asked, trembling,
“Is there nothing left between us?”
Abhimanyu replied gently,
“A relationship where respect dies can never become a home again.”
He had forgiven—but he would not repeat the mistake.
She left quietly.
No one knows where she went.
Abhimanyu moved on—with work, service, and peace.
Because sometimes, life gives us victory in the very places where we once lost everything.
Forgiveness is strength.
But accepting wrong again is an insult to character.
Fate may deliver justice late—but it never forgets.
You reap exactly what you sow—love or betrayal.
And in the end, life teaches this:
Relationships don’t weaken.
We weaken them.
And when character is strong—
the world bows.