Chapter 6: Showdown in the Hostel

Just as I was about to fall asleep, tossing and turning, the curtains were suddenly yanked open, and harsh tube light flooded in.

My eyes snapped open, blinded by the sudden glare. Ananya’s bangles clattered as she bustled about, her irritation filling the small room.

From under the bed came the anxious voice of cultural committee Ananya:

She sounded like a mother hen, fussing over her chicks before a storm.

"It’s almost our class’s turn—how can you still be sleeping?"

Her voice grew shriller, bouncing off the concrete walls. Someone in the next room banged on the wall in protest.

"If you don’t go, our class will get a zero, and you’ll be dragging everyone down!"

She stood there, hands on hips, the picture of righteous indignation.

I stared at this culprit for two seconds, then finally raised my hand, pulled the curtain shut, and yawned.

In that moment, all the exhaustion and exasperation of the past few days crashed over me.

"If we fail, we fail."

"Bas, ab chup ho ja."

My Hindi was sharp, meant to cut through her drama. I buried my head under the pillow, blocking her out.

The cultural committee turned red with anger, stomping her five-inch heels on the floor.

The sound echoed, threatening to wake up the entire floor. I smirked, a little satisfied at her frustration.

Five seconds later, she yanked her chair out from under the desk with a screech, sat down with a sour face, and snapped:

"If you skip the 800-metre test, that’s a major violation. It’ll go on your disciplinary record."

"You’ll be the first in the class this semester to get written up."

Her threats bounced off me like chalk on the blackboard—loud but harmless.

Hearing this, I nearly burst out laughing.

The absurdity of it all was overwhelming. My mind flashed to the time my cousin got a warning for not wearing the right shoes to PT class—hardly the end of the world.

This is the class prefect and cultural committee’s favourite scare tactic.

Their signature move. They wielded the threat of a disciplinary record like a lathi in a Bollywood police chase.

At the start of the semester, “Not participating in group activities means a disciplinary record!” was the class prefect’s catchphrase.

He had repeated it so often that even the mess staff could recite it by heart.

After they started dating, it became their go-to line for bossing everyone around.

Now, it was almost comical—like a husband-wife duo running a local business, scolding everyone for not paying their dues.

There was even a classmate who was suddenly picked to attend a three-hour lecture by some visiting professor, but she’d already booked a train ticket to Pune.

Poor Ritu. Her ticket was non-refundable, and she had been so excited for her cousin’s wedding.

When she tried to ask for leave, the class prefect threatened her with “internal marks deduction” and “disciplinary action” for not participating.

So she had to pay hundreds in cancellation fees and quietly go sit through that so-called lecture.

She came back, still in her travel kurta, bags under her eyes and cursing her fate.

But in the end, tons of people were absent, and not attending had nothing to do with marks or disciplinary records.

She was mad and anxious, but could only swallow her bad luck.

The college grapevine hummed with her story for days. But no justice was ever served, just like in most Indian hostel tales.

If the choice is between the disciplinary record the cultural committee threatened and me passing out from pain, of course I’d rather value my own life and steer clear of their manipulative tricks.

At least if I fainted, I’d have a solid case for sympathy—and maybe even go viral.

If the class prefect had picked someone more obedient, maybe they’d grit their teeth and run 800 metres even while sick. But he just had to get clever and switch the number to me, letting me single-handedly drag the whole class’s test score to rock bottom.

Actually, it’s kind of thrilling.

A strange defiance bubbled up inside me. For once, I was in charge of my fate—and theirs.

After all, isn’t last place still a kind of first?

I smiled to myself, remembering Dadaji’s old joke: "Aakhir, pehla ya aakhri, dono hi news mein aate hain."

Someday, I’ll brag: “I single-handedly led all 50 students in my class to first place—as a group!”

Our batch would become a legend—at least in the annual alumni meet gossip sessions. But just as I began to relax, my phone buzzed again—this time, it was a message from home: “Beta, is everything alright at college?”