Chapter 5: Hungama and Aftermath

Sure enough, when I checked the group chat in the afternoon, the focus had shifted to the missing ₹1,28,000.

I opened my phone cautiously, half-expecting more accusations. Instead, the chat was buzzing with outrage of a different flavour. The tide had finally turned.

The students who needed the money most pressed the prefect:

[Yesterday you said we’d each get ₹1660.]

[How did it turn into owing another ₹1000 overnight?]

[Where did the class fund actually go?]

Their tone was sharper, more pointed. Some even threatened to go to the principal’s office and make a formal complaint. ‘Yeh sab upar tak jayega,’ someone warned.

I posted a screenshot of the class’s scholarship awards:

[Everyone, look. This ₹6000 Outstanding Management Award for the prefect—doesn’t that seem like our missing class fund?]

[And this ₹8000 Best Organization Award for the study committee’s cultural performance—looks familiar, right?]

...

The ellipsis said it all. There was more, but I wanted people to do their own digging. Sometimes you have to light the match and let the fire spread.

After I posted those, everyone except the class committee was stunned.

‘Silence speaks louder than words,’ my dad always says. The group went quiet for a few seconds, then the floodgates opened. People were shocked, then furious. It was as if someone had turned on the main switch in a dark room.

[They used the class fund to give the prefect and study committee scholarships? Whose idea was that?]

[Wow, I thought it was bad enough when school teachers used class funds to reward good students. Now our class is doing it too?]

[Are class funds supposed to be used for scholarships for the committee? I want all my fees back!]

[@Prefect Rohan Sharma, return the money!]

The tone was bitter, betrayed. It wasn’t just about money anymore; it was about fairness, about trust.

At first, I thought those were college-issued awards. But later, passing by the faculty advisor’s office, I found out all those bonuses came from our own class fund. They just didn’t tell us—just handed all the awards to the prefect and study committee in one go.

That was the final blow. The truth always comes out in an Indian college, usually via overheard conversations near the notice board or a chai break outside the staff room. The betrayal stung all the more.

Ananya, who’d first led the charge against me, was even more upset:

[Wow, they’re actually using everyone’s money to reward the prefect and study committee?]

[Shouldn’t everyone have to approve using the class fund for scholarships?]

[What’s the standard for giving out scholarships? Is it just to pad the committee’s wallets?]

She was relentless now, typing with the ferocity of someone whose faith had been shattered. Even those who had ignored the chat before were now up in arms, demanding transparency.

Seeing everyone finally get the point, I contentedly turned off my screen and tucked myself in.

I curled up under my faded bedsheet, letting the cool night air wash over me. I smiled, not out of malice, but relief. For once, the blame was not mine alone.

But my study committee roommate couldn’t nap anymore. Not only that, she dragged me out from under my blanket:

"Sneha, you’re disrupting class order and harming unity, you know?"

Her voice was a mix of irritation and genuine worry. She tugged at my foot, trying to pull me out of bed. The unity argument—always the last resort when someone’s been exposed.

I just laughed and pulled the blanket back over myself:

"I don’t know. I’ve been busy all day and I’m really tired. Go ask the prefect yourself."

I muffled my voice in the pillow, but the satisfaction lingered. Unity? Maybe. But sometimes, a little hungama is the only way to make people listen in our desi world.