Chapter 5: Breaking Point

He raised his arms, gesturing to the whole class. “Sab log taali bajao, kya mast acting ki hai!” The class, unsure but obedient, broke into hesitant applause. The sound was hollow, mockery hidden in every clap.

The applause grew louder, some boys whistled, the girls just stared. I stood in the middle, drowning in fake appreciation, feeling like a circus animal.

His words dripped with sarcasm. “Tumhe lagta hai main murkh hoon? Phone le lo, naya screen lagwa lo, phir firse aajaoge na? Kitna chatur hai tu!” My stomach twisted with helplessness.

A collective murmur went around, everyone nodding as if a great secret had been revealed. “Arey, samajh gaya ab!” someone whispered. I felt the floor slipping beneath me.

A few students clicked their tongues, some even laughed under their breath. “Dekho, kitna chalak hai!” I felt smaller than ever, my voice lost in the crowd.

His eyes bored into me, full of venom. I could almost feel the anger radiating from him, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. It was as if I had actually wished something terrible on his family.

His tone was final, judgement passed. “Fayda lene ke liye, tum kisi ki maa ko bhi nahi chhodte! Main aaj tak itna ghatia student nahi dekha.” It hurt more than any punishment.

He spat the words out, “Sir, Redmi ka phone hai, naya aata hai do-teen hazaar mein. Screen toh ek sau-dedh sau mein milta hai online.” He made it sound like I’d sell my soul for pocket change.

His voice softened for a second, but only to twist the knife. “Tere paas khud maa nahi hai kya? Itne paise ke liye kisi ki maa ko bad-dua deta hai?” Some students looked down, pretending to be busy.

It was the kind of sympathy you get when someone’s dog dies, not when they’re accused of something serious. I saw a few girls exchange pitying glances, a boy in the last row shook his head sadly.

It was almost worse than anger. I wanted someone to shout, to break the silence, to believe me for just a second.

It was like I had written her fate on the blackboard for everyone to see. That unspoken rule about phones and mothers was suddenly not so funny.

Their sympathy felt empty. Not a single person stood up to say, ‘Maybe he’s telling the truth?’ I felt like a stranger in my own class.

It was all so transactional in their eyes—get phone, fix screen, all good. No one cared about what was actually at stake.

He pointed to the back, voice cold and final. “Jao, piche khade raho. Next week apne maa-baap ko leke aana. Dikhata hoon kitni gareebi hai tumhare ghar mein. Business bhi karte ho, upar se bad-dua bhi dete ho.” My legs felt heavy as I trudged to the back.

The air felt too thick to breathe. My heart thudded, a slow ache building in my chest. The walls seemed to close in, the ceiling fan spinning uselessly above.

I replayed every word in my mind, wishing I could shout loud enough to make them see sense. But the classroom was a different world—truth had no place here.