Chapter 2: Spreadsheet Scandal

At two-thirty in the morning, class prefect Rohan Sharma sent a new message:

[After checking, the class committee found that the previous class fund has been used up. Each person needs to pay ₹1030. Just round it to ₹1000, and the committee will cover the rest.]

The timing alone was sus, as if bad news was best delivered when no one could argue face to face. I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the reply button, wondering if this was some late-night prank. The hostel was silent except for the faint barking of stray dogs from the street below, and the distant clang of someone’s pressure cooker lid falling in the next block.

Just yesterday, the prefect had promised that each of us would get ₹1660 back from the class fund.

It had sounded too good to be true, but honestly, for a moment we’d all believed it. In my mind, I’d already begun dividing the imaginary windfall—half to my Swiggy wallet, half to clearing my canteen dues, maybe even a movie night at the mall. ‘Logon ka paisa, logon ke sapne,’ as my father always says.

I’d even planned to treat myself to a biryani buffet with the refund.

The thought alone made my mouth water. Hyderabadi dum biryani, double masala, extra raita—after weeks of bland mess food, it was all I could think about. My friends had started calling me “Biryani Queen” for my obsession.

Now, not only was there no refund, but we were being asked to pay another ₹1000 each?

I felt like someone had promised me laddoos and handed me karela instead. The disappointment stung, but there was no time to sulk—WhatsApp was lighting up like Diwali crackers.

I scrolled through the group chat history.

My eyes darted between the blue ticks and typing indicators. Even the silent types had come alive—names I hadn’t seen since orientation were suddenly full of opinions.

As soon as the prefect sent the notice, the group chat exploded with more than 99 messages.

It was like the group woke up from hibernation. Everyone had something to say, and not a single message was positive. The only person silent was, ironically, the prefect himself.

He probably thought rounding down the amount would make everyone grateful.

But instead, the group was full of complaints:

[Prefect, the class next door refunded more than ₹2000 per person. Why are you asking us to pay more?]

[We were hoping for a small windfall from the class fund. Don’t collect more money, prefect.]

[Prefect, please check again. There must be a mistake.]

The messages scrolled faster than I could read. Some people were half-joking, others were dead serious. The tone was classic Indian sarcasm mixed with real anger.

It seemed the prefect expected to be accused of embezzling the fund, so he immediately posted an Excel spreadsheet listing every class fund expense—135 items in total.

Excel sheets are sacred in our colleges—if it’s on Excel, it must be true, right? Wrong. People started zooming in, scrutinizing every line, their phones overheating in their hands.

I opened the spreadsheet and was stunned.

The very first line read: Sneha’s travel expenses reimbursed from the class fund, ₹5000.

My ears started ringing, like when Amma scolds me in front of relatives. I wanted to disappear into my blanket and never come out. Why would he put my name right at the top? Dosti ka yehi reward hai?

But I had never asked to have my travel expenses reimbursed!

If I’d really done something like that, half the class would’ve known by now. After all, secrets don’t last long in a campus where even the canteen aunty knows who failed in Maths.

Everyone knows—having your name on the class fund expense sheet is dangerous. It’s a fast track to being accused of embezzlement.

The moment your name pops up, your reputation is gone, yaar. People will whisper about you from chai stall to library. My mother always says, ‘Naam pe daag lag gaya toh zindagi bhar ke liye hai.’

Wide-eyed, I quickly sent my go-to meme: a Mumbai local uncle glaring at his phone, lips pursed in pure Mumbaiya judgement. Within seconds, the meme was everywhere—my digital shield against the blame. ‘Aaj toh Sneha phas gayi!’ someone wrote. Typical.

Lying in bed, and suddenly a pot of blame falls from the sky.

Who’s trying to set me up?

I pulled the bedsheet over my face and stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all. My heart thumped loudly, a strange mix of anger and panic building inside me. Sab kuch theek tha, then out of nowhere, this?