Chapter 8: The Truth on the Line

The sound of my shoes squeaking against the terrazzo floor was the only thing I heard before someone stood in front of me. My classmate.

His face was twisted with anger, eyes bloodshot. I tried to sidestep, but he stood firm.

His leg shot out, catching me off guard. Pain flared in my gut, forcing the air out of my lungs.

He was faster than he looked, rage giving him strength. I doubled over, clutching my stomach.

My knees hit the ground hard, the broken phone skidding across the floor, coming to rest near the cupboard.

He loomed over me, voice icy. “Kahin bhi jaane ki soch mat. Yahin baith.”

The words slipped out, half in pain, half in disbelief. “Tu pagal ho gaya hai kya?”

His voice cracked. “Aaj April Fool’s hai. Bas mazaak kar raha tha. Pata nahi tha Sir phone le lenge. Sorry bolne wala tha, par tu toh hadd kar diya.” He wiped his face roughly, struggling to hold back fresh tears.

My head pounded. “Kya bol raha hai tu? Kuch samajh mein nahi aa raha.”

He shouted, “Phone gaya, main de dunga paise. Par maa ko bad-dua diya, wo nahi chalega. Maafi mang!” His hands trembled, voice rough.

Sir stormed over, grabbing me by the arm. “Kitni door leke jaoge tum log isko? Kabhi toh socho!” He shoved me under the blackboard, his grip leaving marks on my skin.

My back thudded against the wall, the shock making me gasp. I bit back a cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

His words were spat more than spoken. “Mujhe phone todte hue problem hai na, isliye drama kar rahe ho? Bulao apne maa-baap ko, dekhte hain kaun jeetega.”

Desperation made my words tumble out. “Sir, yakeen nahi hai toh uske ghar pe call kar lijiye.”

He rolled his eyes. “Theek hai, main call kar deta hoon. Tumhe toh sabak sikha ke rahunga.”

He unlocked his old Nokia, looking at my classmate expectantly. “Batao, tumhare papa ka number kya hai?”

He mumbled, “Mujhe sirf maa ka yaad hai.” It was true—hardly anyone our age remembers more than one number these days.

Sir grumbled, already dialling, “Toh main maa ko hi call karta hoon.”

He listened, then scowled. “Koi nahi uthaya. Band hai kya phone?”

My words were half a whisper, half a plea. “Ab obvious hai na, accident hua hai toh kaun uthayega?”

He shot back instantly, voice choked, “Teri maa ko hi hua accident!” The insult cut deep, but I didn’t care anymore.

For the first time, doubt flickered in Sir’s eyes. His grip on his phone loosened, and he glanced at me uneasily.

He muttered, “Record room se nikaloonga number ab—”

My classmate jumped in, voice high and shaky. “Sir, yeh sab jaanta hai! Mummy night shift karti hai, abhi so rahi hongi, phone silent pe rehta hai.”

Sir’s eyes widened, as if he’d uncovered some grand conspiracy.

He smirked. “Agar itni akal padhai mein lagaata toh board topper hota.” The class tittered, some even clapped.

I snapped, “Aap theek ho? Kuchh bhi bol rahe ho!” My patience had finally run out.

He stared at me, as if unable to believe a student could dare talk back. The class sucked in a collective breath.

He stood there, dumbstruck, for a full five seconds. You could’ve heard a pin drop.

My words came out in a rush. “Thoda sochiye, Sir! Accident ke baad hospital le gaye, papa ne pehle phone nahi kiya—padhai ka tension tha. Lekin ab lag raha hai serious hai, isliye message kiya. Kya galat hai ismein?” I was pleading with every word.

He clenched his jaw, visibly restraining himself. A vein throbbed in his temple, but he stayed silent, letting the tension simmer.

He gritted his teeth. “Sab log gawah hain. Agar jhoot bola hai toh main school se nikalwa doonga.” My chest tightened. The class watched, silent as a graveyard.

“Sir, baad mein kyun? Abhi time nahi hai, phone de do please!” My voice was barely above a whisper, but desperate.

Sir snapped, “Key principal ke paas hai, meeting mein gaye hain. Abhi kuch nahi ho sakta.” He sounded triumphant, as if he’d won a debate.

A new voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. Someone slapped the desk, making everyone jump.