Chapter 6: Fights and Friendship

He wiped his nose angrily, glaring at me. “Sir, main complaint karunga iski!” The teacher didn’t even blink.

Sir sounded almost amused, “Kya report karega?” It was like he was watching a street play, not a real crisis.

He said it like it was the final nail in my coffin. “Sir, inke ghar mein koi paise ki kami nahi hai. Yeh school mein dhandha karte hain PUBG khelne ke liye.”

Sir’s brow furrowed, “PUBG kya hai? Kuch naya game hai?” The class snickered at his ignorance.

He rolled his eyes, “Game hai, Sir. Lekin paise lagte hain. Sab din bhar isi mein lage rehte hain.”

I stared at him, disbelief washing over me. Out of everything, he chose now to bring up games? What next, would he blame me for the school’s power cuts?

Sir’s lips curled in disgust, as if I was a cockroach on his plate. I wanted to disappear.

He thundered, “12th ke time pe bhi game khelte ho? Maa-baap ka naam roshan karoge ya doobaoge?” His voice rose, making the window panes vibrate. Everyone’s heads went down.

My mind whirled. Why did relaxing for a few minutes mean I was a bad son? What about all the pressure, the endless expectations?

I wanted to say, “Sir, main bhi insaan hoon, robot nahi!” But I kept silent, swallowing my frustration like I’d swallowed so many things before.

My voice cracked, “Bas kar na, please. Teri maa shayad intezaar kar rahi hai. Itna hungama mat kar, varna late ho jayega.” I hoped some part of him would listen.

Sir barked, “Chup ho ja!” but my classmate just shouted over him, voice hoarse with emotion. The classroom felt on the verge of bursting.

His fist connected with my jaw, sending a jolt through my skull. He pinned me to the ground, spit flying, repeating over and over, “Teri maa maregi, samjha? Main sau baar bolunga!” I tasted blood and salt, my anger finally boiling over.

The slap rang out, sharp as a cracker during Diwali. My palm stung, but I didn’t care. The class gasped, the shockwave rippling through everyone.

I said, breathing hard, “Hosh mein aa! Kaun mazaak karega aise baat pe? Dosti hoti toh samajh mein aata, par tu toh prank karta hai phone se. Kaun rakhta hai dosti aise insaan se?” The words were raw, stripped of any pretence.

I tried to explain, my voice low but steady. “Dost mazaak samajh lete hain, par kuchh baatein mazaak nahi hoti.”

He lunged again, fists flying. It was chaos, books falling, chairs scraping. Someone shouted, “Arrey, ruk jao!” The room felt small, claustrophobic.

A few brave souls jumped in, pulling us apart. “Bas karo, yaar!” one girl yelled. Another pleaded, “Sir, please stop them!”

He didn’t even bother to move. “Maar raha hai? Sahi kar raha hai. Tujhe isi ki zarurat hai.” His indifference stung deeper than the fight.

He just dusted chalk off his kurta and went back to his chair, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

He cleared his throat, addressing the class as if lecturing at a parent-teacher meeting. “Dekho bachho, dosti-dosti mein mazaak theek hai, par maa-baap ke naam pe mazaak nahi. Yeh bahut badi badtameezi hai.”

A hush fell over the class. Some nodded seriously, a few looked down, pretending to repent. It was like a scene from a moral science lesson.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The anger faded, replaced by a wounded, childlike vulnerability. Someone passed him a hanky.

In our age, tears come easily—sometimes from pain, sometimes from relief. The teacher’s words, the tension, everything was too much.

It happens—one moment, you’re shouting; the next, you’re crying. Maybe it’s the hormones, maybe it’s just being sixteen in India.

He clung to the teacher’s words, thinking for once someone was on his side. It’s funny how we all look for that one adult who will take our side.

He stood tall, like a judge delivering a verdict. “Kuchh bhi kar lo, par maa-baap ke naam pe mazaak nahi! Repeat after me, sab log!” It felt forced, almost surreal.

I watched, numb, as the class responded like robots. My head felt heavy, heart heavier.

“Jitna khelna hai khelo, jitna mazaak karna hai karo, par maa-baap ke naam pe nahi!” The chorus echoed, some voices shaky, others loud and clear.

I felt like an outsider, as if the floor might open and swallow me. Was this justice? Was this the lesson we were supposed to learn?

This couldn’t be real. It was as if we’d all been cast in some absurd play, each of us forgetting our lines, trapped in a tragedy disguised as a farce.

Everything I thought I knew—about right and wrong, truth and lies—cracked like the screen of my phone.