Chapter 2: The Roll Number Racket

At two in the morning, I was jolted awake by a message in the class WhatsApp group.

Somehow, the hush of the night was shattered. I blinked, the room bathed in the ghostly blue of my phone screen. The air was thick with the scent of old bedsheets and Dettol—classic hostel life. A couple of lizards chased each other across the ceiling as I scrolled down.

Class prefect Rohan tagged me, asking me to participate in the 800-metre physical test.

Rohan, with his signature long-winded messages, never missed a chance to flex his prefect status. Even at this hour, his texts were all business, peppered with exclamation marks and, for some reason, motivational emojis.

I stared at my phone, reading the message in disbelief—twice.

I could almost hear my mother’s voice in my head: “Beta, don’t ignore such messages. Anything can happen!”

"The student whose roll number ends with 0089 must attend the fitness test on time. If you’re absent, you’ll have to bear the consequences yourself."

The wording was typical—formal but laced with the threat only an Indian class prefect could pull off. In my sleepy haze, the words 'bear the consequences' felt more like a curse than a warning.

I wiped my phone screen, double-checked my roll number, and fell into deep thought.

The screen was sticky from the coconut oil my roommate had spilled earlier. I flicked it off with my dupatta and counted the digits slowly, one by one. My mind whirled. Was this some new prank?

Because 0089 really are the last four digits of my roll number.

It was like fate itself had turned against me. I looked at the faded ID card hanging on the wall, the digits glaring back at me, as if mocking my helplessness.

But I clearly remember: yesterday, the one selected for the 800-metre run was my roommate from the cultural committee, Ananya.

She had even borrowed my hair tie, saying she’d need it to keep her hair out of her face while running. Now, the tie was lying unused on her table, glinting under the hostel’s yellow tube light.

How did it suddenly switch to me?

This was no simple mistake—this was the handiwork of late-night committee politics, the kind that turned best friends into suspicious rivals for the silliest reasons.

I tried to calm down and scrolled through yesterday’s group chat history.

The messages felt endless, interspersed with memes and last night’s dinner menu complaints. Still, I scrolled, searching for evidence.

But, unfortunately, every message about the fitness test had been deleted by the cultural committee.

Only the latest one remained:

"The student whose roll number ends with 0089 must attend the 800-metre fitness test."

My suspicion only grew stronger. Who deletes messages unless they have something to hide? This was like those family WhatsApp groups where embarrassing photos mysteriously vanish before relatives can see them.

Absolutely impossible for me to participate.

Just the thought of running brought a sharp pain to my side. The hospital’s antiseptic smell still lingered on my skin, making my body remember every prick and poke.

Just two days ago, I had my appendix removed in the hospital.

The bandage under my kurta was still stiff, a silent reminder of my recent ordeal. The nurses had fussed over me, and Amma had brought hot rasam in a steel dabba to the ward.

The doctor warned me repeatedly not to do any strenuous exercise.

He had looked me straight in the eye and said, “Beta, no running or heavy work for at least a month. Don’t take risks—this is not the time for heroics.”

Forget 800 metres—even 50 metres would be enough to count as self-harm.

Honestly, at this point, walking to the mess felt like a trek up Nandi Hills.

I don’t want the class prefect to end up with a police case at such a young age.

If something happened, my parents would first blame me, then blame the college, and by evening, the story would reach our relatives in Lucknow with added masala. Nobody wanted that scene.

So I hurried to message the class prefect privately:

"Rohan, Rohan, I just got out of the hospital and really can’t do the 800-metre test. Can you pick someone else?"

I added a folded hands emoji and a sad face for good measure—sometimes, only emotional blackmail worked in our college.

But, as soon as I sent the message, Rohan made a big show of posting a new notice in the group chat.

He even switched to a flashy VIP chat background, just to make it stand out.

The notification came with a shower of golden confetti and the kind of dramatic emphasis only Rohan knew how to use.

"The 800-metre test list has already been reported to the college. No substitutions or leave allowed."

After posting that in the group, he even sent me a private reminder:

"Anyway, you’re the one who was picked. If you don’t show up, get ready to be marked absent and disciplined."

I clenched my fists in frustration.

I muttered under my breath, “Yeh log samajhte kya hain apne aap ko?” My hands shook with helpless rage as I watched the blue ticks appear on my message and then disappear into nothingness.

But I still calmly turned to my cultural committee roommate in the hostel:

"Ananya, yesterday it was you who was picked for the fitness test, right? Did your boyfriend mix up the roll numbers?"