Chapter 2: Accusations and Misunderstandings

My voice cracked, almost pleading. “Bhai, please believe me, I’ll talk to Sir right now. I have to get the phone back, it’s urgent!” I was almost ready to run after the teacher, not caring if everyone stared at me.

He got a bit angry and said coldly, “It’s your mother who was in a car accident. If you think my prank went too far, just say so, but don’t drag parents into April Fool’s jokes.”

His words hit like a slap. His face turned cold, his eyes hard, voice sharp and accusing. “Apni maa pe le le, theek hai? Don’t drag my family. You want to fight? Say directly!” The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

My eyes stung. I felt as if the whole class was staring, waiting to see who would break first. My lips trembled, but I couldn’t muster any more words. Some girls at the back exchanged nervous glances, while one of the boys muttered, “Bas karo, yaar.”

I understood why my classmate didn’t believe me.

It was always the same logic in school: there’s an unwritten code, almost like a superstition. Everyone knows the rule—if you mess with someone’s phone, ‘your mother will die’ is the standard curse, always thrown around like a cricket ball during tiffin break. It’s a joke, but not really. When things go wrong, people expect you to take the blame with folded hands.

Every batch has its own set of rules. You lose a friend’s phone to the teacher? ‘Abe, tera kaam khatam. Teri maa gayi!’ It sounds ridiculous, but everyone laughs—until something like this happens.

Whenever someone gets a classmate’s phone confiscated, people say that person is finished, that their mother will die.

It’s half superstition, half teenage drama. But this time, the joke wasn’t a joke. The air in the class was heavy, as if even the walls were listening.

He glared at me, arms crossed, jaw set. Even our benchmate looked awkward, pretending to scribble in his rough book. I wanted to scream, but in our school, shouting at a teacher is like signing your own suspension letter. All I managed was a hoarse whisper.

Inside, my heart pounded like a dhol during Ganesh Chaturthi. No point talking. Only proof would work. I started moving towards the staff room, determined to get my phone back—log kya kahenge be damned.

I barely got to the corridor before I saw Sir striding back in, face set like a thundercloud. A few students quickly straightened in their seats, and someone at the back whispered, “Lag gayi!”