Chapter 1: Arrival and Old Wounds

I pulled up to the Sea Pearl Hotel in my trusty Maruti Suzuki Ciaz, the dashboard still playing Kishore Kumar’s voice, as if to steady my nerves. My hands lingered on the worn steering wheel, fingers twitching around my car keys. Almost unconsciously, I found myself rubbing the lucky coin in my pocket—an old habit that always crept back whenever I felt out of place. The security guard in his slightly faded khaki uniform gave my car only a cursory glance, barely nodding, as if my Ciaz blended into the background among all the imported sedans. The air was heavy with the aroma of fried samosas and the constant beep of valet boys backing up more glamorous cars.

As I stepped out, the parking lot was already buzzing with classmates. Familiar faces—some rounder, some with a little less hair—stood in tight circles, laughter bouncing across the tarmac. Satish was there, adjusting his Ray-Bans; Meena waved at someone from inside a shiny Honda City; and by the entrance, a group had gathered around a white Mercedes, eyes glued to the man leaning against it. Even from afar, I could feel the old school pecking order vibrating beneath the surface, jostling with new ambitions. The air crackled with tension—alliances and rivalries still alive after all these years.

No sooner had I locked my car than Rohan Singh—the class prefect, Mercedes owner, and master of swagger—strode over with a smirk. He flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve, gold chain glinting in the sunlight. 'Arrey yaar, ten saal ho gaye, aur tu abhi bhi yeh purani gaadi leke aaya? Boss ko dikh nahi raha kya?' His cologne was as strong as his attitude, almost enough to knock out a small town. The Mercedes badge shone in the Mumbai sun like a maharaja’s seal. I managed a polite smile, but his words stung. My fingers tightened around the keys, the old habit of rubbing my lucky coin coming back as Rohan’s taunt echoed. Behind him, his loyal gang exchanged glances, as if the old rules still applied.