Chapter 1: Midnight Messages and Hostel Machinations

At two in the morning, the class prefect pinged me in the WhatsApp group to inform me about the 800-metre physical fitness test.

The fan above my head was whirring softly in the sticky stillness of the hostel night. Mosquitoes hovered just out of reach, and the distant sound of someone giggling in the corridor leaked through the door. My phone buzzed on the thin mattress beside me, its harsh white glow stabbing through the darkness, brighter than the hostel night watchman’s torch. I nearly dropped my phone, heart thumping like Amma had just caught me sneaking in late.

"The student whose roll number ends with 0089 must attend the fitness test on time. Absence will be treated as bunking."

I squinted at the screen, blinking away sleep, rereading the message just to make sure my groggy mind wasn’t playing tricks. In India, being marked as 'bunking' was almost like inviting a tsunami of questions from teachers, family, and even those nosy aunties back home who kept a running tally of every student’s achievements and failures.

I was instantly wide awake. I could already imagine the WhatsApp forwards spreading back home: NEHA BUNKED COLLEGE, headlines courtesy of my aunties. Just yesterday, it was clearly my roommate from the cultural committee who had been chosen.

My mind raced back to the evening before—Ananya, my roommate, was the one everyone had been talking about, her name practically declared in the corridor over cups of chai and Parle-G. Even the chaiwala outside had teased her about warming up for the run. So how did my number come up today? I sat up, rubbing my eyes, the sharp scent of pain balm wafting from my neighbour’s bed.

How did it become my roll number today?

Somewhere, the universe—or more likely, human jugaad—had flipped the script. I could feel that familiar itch of Indian college politics at work.

I told the class prefect that I’d just been discharged from the hospital and couldn’t possibly run 800 metres.

Tapping out my reply with shaky fingers, I tried to sound calm, as if I hadn’t just emerged from the trauma ward. “Bhai, I was literally in the hospital yesterday. Running 800 metres now—impossible yaar. Please, can you put someone else’s name?”

Unexpectedly, the class prefect thought I was simply trying to escape:

He replied almost instantly, as if he had been waiting for my protest: "Well, you’re the one selected. If you don’t show up, be prepared to be marked absent and face disciplinary action."

My phone buzzed again, his words all sharp edges and no empathy. Typical. As if I was the type to fake an illness just to get out of running, while the entire building could hear my wheezing and see the hospital band still dangling from my wrist. In India, no one really believed in 'sick leave' unless you looked half dead.

So, on the day of the physical test, I collapsed, foaming at the mouth.

Right in front of the district education officials—with a dramatic thud.

And what a spectacle it was—dust swirling up from the ground, teachers gasping, students pausing mid-run, the PE teacher’s whistle falling silent. The sound of my body hitting the track echoed through the ground. Even the birds seemed to stop chirping, and somewhere in the crowd, someone muttered, “Arrey, what’s happening, yaar?”

The next day, the class prefect, the principal, and even the education officer were all running around in a panic.

My story spread like wildfire, from the hostel mess to the chai shop outside campus, every detail growing a little more dramatic in each retelling—"Did you hear? Neha collapsed in front of everyone, full filmi style! Even the principal looked like she’d seen a ghost."