Chapter 7: Standing My Ground

His voice left no room for argument. “Dono jhuk ke maafi mango. Zor se bolo—sorry, I was wrong.” The class watched, hungry for drama.

My mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. I searched his face for any sign of understanding, found none.

I tried to remember if I’d broken any real rule. Was it a crime to care about someone’s mother?

My pride burned. I had done nothing wrong. Why should I bow?

He drew a line in the sand. “Maafi nahi mangoge toh school chhod do. Aise students ka main kuch nahi kar sakta. Character sabse important hai.” His voice was final. My ears rang.

I couldn’t help it. “Sir, aap bas kijiye. Itna bhi mat kijiye ki kal ko aapki naukri pe baat aa jaye. Board ko pata chalega toh…?” The class gasped. Some students covered their mouths, shocked that I’d dare talk back.

The chalk hit my forehead, a tiny cloud of white dust falling on my eyebrows. It stung, but not as much as his words.

Something snapped inside me. If no one else would do the right thing, I would.

The pain jolted me into action. I darted to the teacher’s table, determination burning in my chest.

His eyes widened, hand instinctively going to his pocket. “Pagal ho gaya hai kya? Kya kar raha hai?” The class stared, waiting for the next explosion.

Without thinking, I snatched my phone, shards of glass digging into my palm, and sprinted for the door. Someone yelled, “Arrey, pakdo usko!”

My only focus was that message, that number. Nothing else mattered. I didn’t care if I got suspended, expelled, whatever. This was bigger than any school rule.

My own Amma’s image flashed before my eyes, the fear of losing her tightening my chest. I couldn’t let someone else’s mother wait alone.

I remembered my father’s words—“Insaan apne zameer se pehchaana jaata hai.” I clung to that, pushing through the crowd at the door.

In India, 12th boards are like a passport to life. Every parent, every teacher, every neighbour makes sure you know it. But what use is it if you forget what it means to be human?

I remembered stories—so many times, a friend would come to school, not knowing his Dadi had passed, because family didn’t want to break him before the exams. It was always, “Pehle paper khatam karo, beta.”

If only someone else in the room had put two and two together. The urgency was written in that message.

It would be a black mark on my soul. No rank, no marksheet could ever wipe it away.

My father’s words echoed in my mind—never compromise your soul for someone else’s ignorance.

A collective gasp went up. “Rebellion!” Sir thundered, face red. “Bagaawat kar raha hai! Ab dekh loonga main!”