Andheri, Mumbai.

Cafe coffee day.

“If there’s no issue with the divorce agreement, sign it,” Meera said, sliding the papers across the table to Arjun Sharma.

Meera, in her forties, flaunted a Vero Moda bag, a Forever 21 knit dress, and MANGO heels hugging her curvy legs. Her polished look screamed money—money Arjun had earned.

Arjun, opposite her, sported stubble, cheap clothes, and messy hair. At 1.85 meters, his slightly balding head betrayed his 45 years. He muttered, “I’ve got ₹500,000 in cash. You can take it all. Leave me the flat and the Maruti 800.”

“You want that junk car? Fine, take it. What else do you want? Don’t push it!” Meera shot him a disdainful glare, her voice dripping with contempt. Twenty years with this loser, she thought, fuming. He wasted my youth!

Arjun signed the papers, exhaling heavily. His marriage was over, his money gone. Born in 1980, part of Mumbai’s first ’80s generation, he’d barely caught the economic boom’s tail. His daughter, Priya, now 20 and just entering college, had recently submitted her admission forms. Over the years, Arjun’s ₹50,000 monthly salary went straight to Meera. Want a beer, a cigarette, or dinner with friends? He had to check Meera’s mood first.

The ₹500,000, his layoff compensation, now sat with Meera. Arjun had just ₹3,000 left. But damn, it felt good to be free!

He’d slaved away while Meera stayed home, “managing the household.” Priya, meanwhile, didn’t care about their divorce—she was focused on her new college life.

Meera snatched the papers, stuffing them into her bag. “Let’s go! civil court, final step.”

Arjun offered to drive her one last time, but Meera, without a word, flagged an auto-rickshaw and vanished. She never loved me, he thought. I was just a wallet when I had a job. Now I’m jobless, I’m nothing to her.

Dark clouds loomed over Mumbai, but Arjun’s weather app promised no rain. At the civil court, the divorce took a minute, though the queue ate up half an hour. As they left, Arjun thought of Priya. “Will Priya stay with me or you?”

“You got the flat, and you want me to raise her too?” Meera snapped. Twenty years ago, she was a struggling clerk, bullied at work, and financially helpless. Now, she was ruthless, her cruelty a stark contrast to her old vulnerability.

“I gave you all the money. How do I pay Priya’s college fees?” Arjun pressed.

Rain poured suddenly, a perfect backdrop to Meera’s roar. “You’re useless! Figure it out!”

“Drive me back!” she demanded, as if they were still married.

Arjun laughed. “Fifty bucks for the ride.”

Meera’s face twisted in rage. “You dare charge me? You’re unbelievable!”

“It’s less than five kilometers to your place. Why should I drive you for free?”

“This car…” Meera froze, remembering the Maruti 800 was his in the agreement.

Arjun slid into the driver’s seat and peeled away, leaving Meera cursing in the rain. “Arjun , you heartless dog!” she screamed, slipping in a puddle as she tried to kick the car.

Exploit me after the divorce? No chance, Arjun thought.

At 45, his life had been grim. His role at home? A wallet. His job? Earn ₹50,000 a month, hand it over. Meera spent ₹10,000 on herself—designer clothes, luxury bags—while most of the rest went to Priya. Household expenses? A few thousand. Arjun? He got less than their pet dog, eating whatever scraps remained.

He’d endured for a “complete family.” But with social media’s rise, Meera’s spending skyrocketed—luxury purchases draining their savings. She posted glamorous photos online, her curvy figure drawing 99+ DMs, calling herself a “thirty-something girl” at 43. Their fights grew constant.

This year, Arjun’s company downsized, replacing him with younger, hungrier workers. With no income, Meera saw no future with him. She pushed for divorce, but Arjun waited until Priya’s college forms were done. On July 7, it was final.

Online, people raved about women’s “awakening.” Arjun felt he was the one waking up.

At 18, he’d entered Mumbai University. At 22, he pursued a master’s there. At 24, he joined a tech firm, earning ₹20,000 a month. At 25, he met Meera, a junior employee at a subsidiary, and married her. At 26, Priya was born; Meera stayed home, and Arjun worked harder. By 35, his salary hit ₹50,000, but Meera’s spending stressed him out. At 45, he was laid off, giving all his compensation to Meera.

His phone buzzed: “Midlife Mastery System activated. With just ₹3000, you’ll become healthy and wealthy.”

System Benefits: Wealth Without Chains. No exploitation—every job you do yields 100% profit.

Temporary Task: You’re driving a Maruti 800. Run a few Ola orders. Complete 25 rides for ₹10,000.

Current Task Progress: 0/25

Maruti, you beauty! Arjun grinned.

Arjun Sharma gripped the steering wheel of his Maruti 800, parked on a bustling Bandra side street. The Mumbai sun beat down, but his phone’s glow held his attention: the Ola driver app, open and ready. After 20 minutes of waiting, his first order had finally pinged—a ride from Hill Road to Khar West, 5 kilometers away. A standard ₹200 fare, but with the Midlife Mastery System’s promise, he’d pocket every rupee, no 30% commission cut. This is it, he thought, heart racing. My first step to clawing back my life.

He drove through Bandra’s chaotic traffic, dodging rickshaws and honking scooters, to reach Hill Road. The passenger, a young woman in a kurti with a laptop bag, waved him down. “Khar West, near the station,” she said, sliding into the back seat. Arjun nodded, his nerves easing as he pulled into the flow of Mumbai’s streets. The Midlife Mastery System’s words echoed in his mind: “Be your own boss. No job will exploit you.”

The ride took 15 minutes, weaving past street vendors selling vada pav and cutting through narrow lanes. At Khar West, the passenger paid via the app, and Arjun’s phone buzzed: ₹200 credited. Midlife Mastery System: Full amount retained. Task Progress: 1/25 rides for ₹10,000 bonus. He grinned. Normally, Ola would’ve taken ₹60, leaving him ₹140. This was real money—his money.

Back in his Andheri flat, Arjun had only ₹3,000 left after giving Meera, his ex-wife, the ₹500,000 layoff compensation. Meera, with her “psycho” tantrums—screaming over a late chai or tossing his shirts for being unironed—had drained him for 20 years. Now, at 45, born in Mumbai’s first ’80s batch, he was jobless, but the Midlife Mastery System was his lifeline. Priya, his 20-year-old daughter, was just starting college, her admission forms submitted. Meera wouldn’t pay a paisa for her fees, leaving Arjun to figure it out.

He checked the app for another order. Noon was slow, but the Midlife Mastery System kept him hopeful. Another ping: a ride from Bandra to Santacruz, 3 kilometers, ₹120 fare. Full ₹120 mine, he thought, accepting it. As he drove, memories of Meera’s cruelty surfaced—her online posts bragging about her “thirty-something” looks, her ₹10,000 monthly splurges on designer bags while he scraped by, less valued than their pet dog. No more, he vowed.

The second passenger, a middle-aged man in a polo shirt, chatted about Mumbai’s traffic. Arjun, practicing the “service-oriented” vibe from the app’s requirements, kept it friendly. At Santacruz, another ₹120 hit his account. Task Progress: 2/25. Eight more rides today, and he’d hit ₹3,000–₹4,000, his daily goal. The ₹10,000 bonus for 25 rides felt within reach.

Arjun parked near a chai stall, sipping a cutting chai for ₹10. His phone buzzed—not an order, but a text from Priya: “Papa, need ₹2,000 for college books. Okay?” His heart sank. With ₹3,000 left, he couldn’t say no like Meera would. I’ll make it work, he thought, replying, “Will send soon.” The Midlife Mastery System’s next task flashed: “Run 1 km tomorrow, earn ₹1,000. Stay fit, live to 100.” A jog along Juhu Beach could cover Priya’s books.

As the afternoon rolled on, orders picked up. A ride to Dadar, then back to Bandra—₹300, ₹160, all his. Each fare felt like a small victory, a step away from Meera’s chaos and his old life as a wallet. At 45, Arjun wasn’t done. The Midlife Mastery System was his second chance, and Mumbai’s streets were his new battlefield.

“Hey, where are you? I’m at the pickup spot,” Arjun Sharma said into his phone, scanning the crowded Bandra street from his Maruti 800. No passenger in sight.

“Wait a sec, I’m coming down,” a woman’s voice replied, sounding young and pleasant.

Arjun leaned back, checking the Ola app. His first ride of the day, and he needed 25 to hit the Midlife Mastery System’s ₹10,000 bonus. Just get through this, he thought, still buzzing from yesterday’s ₹3,000 haul, every rupee his thanks to the system’s no-commission perk.

Five minutes passed. Arjun’s patience thinned. He called again. “I’m here,” he said.

“Ugh, wait a bit, I’m almost there! Stop rushing me!” the woman snapped, her tone now sharp.

You make me wait on a sweaty Mumbai road, and I can’t rush you? Arjun fumed. He’d driven 10 minutes to get here, waited five more. Five more minutes, then I cancel. Too many cancellations could limit his orders, so he held on for his first ride.

At 15 minutes, a woman in her mid-thirties appeared, holding a Corgi on a leash. The dog, decked out in a tiny collar, looked pampered. It reminded Arjun of the Corgi Meera, his “psycho” ex-wife, had doted on, spending more on its food than on him. That dog ran off a year ago, and Arjun had secretly celebrated.

“I’m here!” the woman said into her phone, then glared at Arjun. “You can’t wait 15 minutes? The last driver waited 20 and didn’t complain!”

She opened the back door, plopping onto the seat with the Corgi. “I was bathing Brownie upstairs, okay? That’s why I’m late.”

“No dogs in my car,” Arjun said firmly.

“What kind of driver are you? No patience, no pets—this is a first!” she shot back, her voice like a machine gun. “Brownie’s cleaner than you, eats better than you! Just drive, you’re getting paid.”

Arjun, 45 and too tired for this, bit his tongue. Finish this order, get rid of her. Priya, his 20-year-old daughter just starting college, needed ₹2,000 for books, and Meera wouldn’t contribute a paisa. He couldn’t afford to argue.

“Passenger aboard, navigation started,” the app announced. “To reach Linking Road, proceed via Hill Road.”

“Two hundred meters, turn left onto Hill Road.”

The woman, Anjali, scrolled her phone while Brownie yipped. Arjun, eager to drop her off, pushed the Maruti to 60 km/h—fast for Mumbai’s cramped streets.

“What’s that smell?” Arjun asked, wrinkling his nose. A fresh, warm stench hit him.

“No smell! Slow down, you’re driving like a maniac!” Anjali barked.

Unable to pinpoint it, Arjun cracked the window. The Mumbai breeze cleared the odor. In the rearview, Brownie sat upright, Anjali petting its head, even kissing its snout. Arjun’s stomach turned. What kind of hobby is this? Meera used to kiss their Corgi, too, spending thousands while he got scraps.

“Arriving at Linking Road. Remind passengers to take belongings and check traffic before exiting,” the app chimed.

Arjun stopped at the busy Linking Road intersection. The stench returned, stronger. It started when she got in, he realized.

Anjali scooped up Brownie and opened the door, letting the dog hop out. She shot Arjun a glare, clearly planning a bad review. “Ma’am, you smell that?” he asked.

Her eyes darted away. “What smell? You’re the weird one!” She turned to leave.

Arjun stepped out and checked the back seat. His heart sank—two steaming piles of dog poop sat where Brownie had been. That’s the smell.

“Ma’am, hold on!” he shouted, chasing her.

Anjali, clutching Brownie, sped up, avoiding his gaze. But Arjun, 1.85 meters and long-legged despite his middle-aged bulk, caught up quickly. “Explain why your dog’s poop is in my car.”

“What nonsense! Brownie’s a good boy, he wouldn’t do that! Move, I’m meeting a friend!” Anjali snapped.

Arjun blocked her path. “Clean it up, or you’re not leaving.”

Anjali dropped to the ground, clutching Brownie and yelling, “Help! He’s bullying a woman! Restricting my freedom!”

Arjun braced for a mob, but Mumbai’s passersby barely glanced over. A few curious ones approached. “What’s going on?” a man asked.

Anjali, seizing the moment, wailed, “This driver won’t let me go for no reason! Help me!”

Arjun stayed calm. He grabbed Brownie’s leash and placed a foot lightly on it, keeping the dog still. “Clean the poop in my car, or pay for it.”

The crowd murmured. “Her dog pooped in his car and she’s running?” one said. “Shameless!” another added. “Make her pay, bhai!”

Anjali, seeing the crowd side with Arjun, panicked. “What do you want?”

“Pay for the car wash,” Arjun said, his foot still on the leash as Brownie whimpered.

“₹200, fine?” she offered.

Arjun pressed slightly harder, his 100 kg frame making the Corgi yowl. “₹1,000.”

“₹1,000, okay!” Anjali cried, fumbling for her phone. She transferred the money via UPI, the app pinging: ₹1,000 credited.

Arjun released the leash and returned to his Maruti. The Midlife Mastery System buzzed: ₹200 credited for Linking Road ride. Full amount retained. Task Progress: 8/25 rides for ₹10,000 bonus. Between the fare and the car wash, he’d made ₹1,200 on one ride. Not bad, he thought, cleaning the seat with a rag from the trunk. Meera’s chaos was behind him, and Mumbai’s streets were his new start.