Chapter 4: Turning the Tables

Five minutes passed. Still no reply.

The longest five minutes of my life. I kept staring at the ‘typing…’ indicator, but nothing. The unread message count climbed: 50… 60… 75…

But the unread messages kept piling up.

It felt like I was watching a train derail in slow motion, unable to stop it. My hands itched to throw my phone out the window.

Even Kunal, who usually just lurked, chimed in:

[You took ₹5000 from the class fund in one go? That’s too much.]

[If it were only ₹500, maybe people would’ve let it slide.]

[But ₹5000? How could you?]

Kunal never spoke unless there was free food involved. The fact that even he had an opinion meant things were really spiralling.

Then, the study committee member Meera sent a new message:

[Reimbursing Sneha’s travel expenses from the class fund was approved by the faculty advisor. Everyone, please stop discussing.]

The tone was so official, as if that alone would close the matter. Instead, it only fanned the flames. Approval or not, people wanted answers.

That one sentence made everyone even angrier.

People started replying to her message with laughing emojis, GIFs of politicians dodging questions, and one person even sent a clip of a soap opera villain glaring dramatically. The chat exploded like Diwali crackers—GIFs of Saas-Bahu showdowns, memes of politicians dodging questions, and a rain of angry red emojis.

The criticism didn’t stop. More and more people joined in:

[Why use our money for your travel?]

[Yesterday you said we’d get ₹1660 each, now we have to pay more?]

[@Sneha, return the money!]

My phone vibrated so much it almost buzzed off the bed. I wondered if the hostel warden would come in and confiscate it.

Seeing row after row of “return the money” messages, I was wide awake. I threw off my blanket and started typing furiously:

[Don’t worry, everyone. I haven’t received that ₹5000 either. When the prefect gives it to me, we can talk about returning it.]

It was a risky reply, but what else could I do? My palms were sweaty, and my mind was racing, thinking of all the ways this could get worse.

But no one listened. The demands continued.

Each message felt heavier than the last. It was as if I was standing in the middle of a market, everyone shouting for answers, and me with nothing to offer.

At that moment, my study committee roommate thoughtfully muted the group and deleted the messages accusing me of embezzlement. She comforted me:

"Tomorrow I’ll ask the prefect to explain."

Her words were gentle, but the exhaustion in her voice said it all. She was as tired of this as I was. She patted my hand softly, a silent ‘don’t worry,’ before turning away.

But the next morning, the prefect casually replied:

[Every expense is accurately recorded. There can’t be a mistake.]

His nonchalance was infuriating. No apology, no explanation—just a curt dismissal, as if we were all just being dramatic for nothing. Typical ‘main toh sahi hoon’ attitude.

That only made things worse.

The group chat went from angry to outright volcanic. People started threatening to bring it up with the faculty advisor. Someone mentioned calling their parents. The ‘log kya kahenge’ pressure was mounting.

Now everyone was convinced I’d taken their ₹5000.

Even my closest friends started sending me private messages: ‘Bata na, tu sach mein liya kya?’ My throat tightened, the unfairness of it all hitting me hard.

Even if they stopped demanding repayment, they’d always believe I’d pocketed the money.

That was the real pain—once your image is spoiled, especially in an Indian college, no amount of truth will save you. ‘Reputation is like a mirror, beta. Once it cracks, the line shows forever,’ my nani used to say.

My reputation, ruined over ₹5000? No way.

The sum might not have been a fortune, but my dignity was priceless. This was about izzat, not paisa.

I was already annoyed that my dream of eating biryani with the class fund was shattered. Now this? I might as well figure out where the money really went.

If I was going down, I wasn’t going alone. Let’s see how deep this rabbit hole went.

So I stirred the pot in the group chat:

[Yesterday, it was calculated that everyone could get ₹1660. ₹1660 times 50 is ₹83,000. Today the prefect wants us to pay another ₹1000 each—₹1000 times 50 is ₹50,000.]

[Overnight, there’s a ₹1,33,000 difference in the class fund.]

[My item is only ₹5000. Isn’t anyone curious where the other ₹1,28,000 went?]

My thumb hovered over send, sweat prickling my neck. Once I pressed it, there was no going back.

After posting, I immediately turned off my phone.

I took a deep breath, tossed my phone aside, and tried to calm my pounding heart. The hostel lights flickered as if sensing the storm I’d just unleashed. I wasn’t the only one with a problem now.