Chapter 4: Screenshots and Scandals

Early the next morning,

I barely slept, tossing and turning. The hostel corridor echoed with early footsteps and the smell of chai brewing in someone’s electric kettle. The city outside was just beginning to wake up; the distant sound of a temple bell mingled with the cawing of crows.

I rushed to find the faculty advisor.

Draping a shawl hastily around my shoulders, I hurried past the sleepy security guard, my hospital file clutched tightly to my chest.

I explained that I’d just had my appendix removed and absolutely could not run the 800-metre test.

"Ma’am, I was in the hospital only two days ago. The doctor said no running, please."

Unexpectedly, the faculty advisor called me three times in a row,

Her voice grew sharper with each call, echoing through the quiet staffroom like a reprimand from childhood.

scolding me for not being a team player and for always wanting special treatment.

She reminded me of my strict school principal, peering over her glasses: “You students always want to escape responsibility. Don’t you have any sense of duty?”

"The class prefect already told me about your situation, Neha. The class prefect drew lots for the test. It was all fair, just, and open. If you don’t cooperate with the class committee, that’s your problem."

"If our class fails the fitness test and the college’s pass rate drops, you’ll have to bear the consequences."

"Don’t try to slack off with these little tricks. Nine out of ten students who ask for leave say they’re getting their appendix removed. That excuse is way too overused."

She shook her head, almost smiling at her own joke, as if I was part of some grand student conspiracy.

I quickly took a photo of my hospital discharge papers and sent them to her.

I highlighted the doctor’s signature, hoping that would make her pause and think twice.

She still didn’t buy it.

"I’ve seen that photo a hundred times. Don’t think you can get away with it."

"The college takes this fitness test very seriously. No last-minute leave for any reason."

I wanted to scream, “Am I the only one who thinks this is mad?” But years of Indian schooling had trained me to bite my tongue in front of authority.

My anger was about to explode.

I could feel my ears burning, the way they always did when Dadi scolded me for something I hadn’t done. My fists clenched around the edge of my dupatta.

This faculty advisor is notoriously strict about approving leave—you need a handwritten signature from the chief surgeon at a top hospital to get it.

Everyone on campus knew her reputation. Some said she even wanted to see an X-ray before approving sick leave. She was like the Amitabh Bachchan of college bureaucracy.

This time, when my appendix flared up, I went straight to an off-campus hospital. If I’d waited for her to approve my leave, I probably would’ve fainted from the pain.

The memory of that pain sent a shudder through me. I remembered clutching my side in the cab, praying we’d reach the hospital before I blacked out.

Seeing that the faculty advisor route was hopeless, I had no choice but to expose the class prefect’s tricks in the class WhatsApp group.

I gritted my teeth and opened the app, my hands trembling with righteous fury.

"@Rohan, there’s no record of any lottery in the group. Did you dream about drawing my number for the fitness test?"

I added a laughing emoji, hoping someone would see the joke and back me up.

About two minutes later, Rohan posted a new picture in the group chat.

It was a crumpled scrap of paper, with 0089 scrawled on it in crooked handwriting.

He didn’t even bother to use a fresh sheet. I imagined him hurriedly scribbling my number in the corridor, glancing over his shoulder for witnesses.

Obviously, this paper was made up after the fact and proves nothing about who was actually picked yesterday.

But the class prefect still announced confidently:

"The roll number was drawn at random, fair and just. If you have any issues, message me privately."

He wrote as if he was conducting national elections, not a college sports event.

Cultural committee Ananya chimed in quickly:

"This is one of the few chances to contribute to the class. Please cooperate with the class committee’s work."

She typed so fast it was almost as if her hands were shaking with irritation.

Changing her own number to mine in the middle of the night—this is peak ridiculousness.

Only in India could committee drama reach such creative heights.

So outrageous it’s practically a meme.

If I wasn’t so angry, I might’ve laughed out loud and sent a meme of my own.

The group chat exploded—laughing emojis, popcorn GIFs, and someone even sent the classic 'Kya drama hai, yaar!' sticker.