Chapter 6: Board Year Battle

In my previous life, I wasted too much energy on Ananya.

Every late-night call, every missed study session, every desperate attempt to make her smile had come at a cost. My marks suffered, my confidence wavered. I realised too late that you can’t build a future on someone else’s dreams.

The board exam is like a thousand people trying to squeeze through a single door—you can’t afford distractions.

My teachers would always say, 'Beta, abhi padhai pe dhyan do. Pyaar-vyaar baad mein.' But when you’re seventeen, love feels more urgent than any exam. Now, I finally understood the wisdom in their words.

In the end, I only got into a so-so government college. I could have done better.

My relatives would cluck their tongues at family functions—'Woh Ananya ke chakkar mein gaya beta, varna IIT pakka tha.' I’d smile sheepishly, but inside, the regret festered.

Now, with less than four months until the exam, I’m determined to give it my all.

I set up a study timetable, hung a calendar over my desk, and blocked out distractions. My mother would peek in, murmuring a quiet prayer to Ganesha before I left for tuition. The world felt full of possibility again.

But Ananya sought me out herself.

She arrived at my classroom door, hair in a loose braid, her dupatta draped carelessly around her shoulders. Heads turned as she walked in—the collective sigh of the boys almost audible. She was a comet, impossible to ignore.

Her appearance always drew attention.

Even the teachers would pause, asking if she needed help. My friends elbowed each other, grinning, 'Bhai, teri to lottery lag gayi.' She carried herself with an effortless grace that made even the plain blue uniform look like designer wear.

Even the loose, oversized blue school uniform couldn’t hide her beauty—if anything, it made her look even more youthful and charming.

She stood out in every crowd, her eyes bright, her smile infectious. I felt a familiar flutter in my chest, but I quickly tamped it down, reminding myself to stay focused.

My deskmate nudged me, winking. "She’s definitely here for you."

He grinned, eyebrows waggling suggestively. The others snickered, whispering their theories. I rolled my eyes, pretending not to care.

Sure enough, Ananya came right over and handed me a paper bag. "Mummy asked me to bring this for you—it’s a special mithai she brought back from her business trip to Lucknow."

The aroma of fresh peda wafted up as she held out the bag, her eyes hopeful. I could almost hear her mother’s voice—'Give this to Rohan beta, he studies so hard.' The small kindness made my resolve waver for a moment.

I didn’t even look up, still working on my rough work. "Hmm, just leave it there. Tell Aunty thanks for me."

My pencil scratched across the page, the numbers blurring together. I forced myself not to look up, focusing on the lines of algebra instead of the ache in my chest.

Ananya didn’t move.

She hovered, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment. Her shoes tapped against the floor, an impatient rhythm. I could feel the weight of her gaze on me.

I glanced up and saw her frowning, complaining, "Rohan, I carried it all the way here for you. Aren’t you going to thank me?"

Her lower lip jutted out in a pout, arms crossed, as if daring me to keep ignoring her. She looked so much like the little girl I’d grown up with, I almost smiled.

I kept it short. "Thank you."

I let the words hang in the air, measured and emotionless. Her face fell, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d gone too far.

She glared at me, hesitated, then finally walked away.

The air between us crackled with things unsaid. I turned back to my work, willing myself not to care.

My deskmate tried to talk sense into me. "Did you two have a fight? I was wondering why you haven’t been together lately. Hey, the goddess is making the first move—don’t be stubborn. Give her a chance."

He clapped me on the back, whispering, 'Aisi ladki fir nahi milegi, bhai.' I shook my head, forcing a smile, but my thoughts were elsewhere.

I denied it. "It’s nothing like that."

I kept my voice even, not wanting to invite more questions. The classroom buzzed with speculation anyway—news travelled faster than gossip in our school.

Soon, word got to Kabir that Ananya had come to see me.

Within the hour, the whole school seemed to know. I could feel Kabir’s eyes on me during PT, his jaw set in a hard line. I braced myself for the fallout.

After PT class that afternoon, a basketball hit the back of my head.

The thud echoed in my skull, and I spun around, rubbing the sore spot. Laughter rippled through the crowd, but I knew it was no accident.

I turned around to see Kabir glaring at me. "Aaja, dekh le kaun sacha dost hai. If you lose, stay away from Ananya—samjha?"

His fists were clenched, knuckles white. The other boys gathered, eager for a show. I felt a surge of annoyance—this was the last thing I needed.

I said, "Get your facts straight."

I stood my ground, refusing to be bullied. My voice was steady, but my heart raced. I could see the anger flaring in his eyes.

I didn’t want to waste time arguing—I still had studying to do.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, turning away. But Kabir wasn’t done.

But he got angrier. "Are you saying Ananya is the one pestering you? Don’t think that just because you grew up with her, she’ll ever like you. Look at yourself. Ananya would never fall for a loser like you."

The word 'loser' cut deeper than I cared to admit. The boys snickered, and I clenched my fists, willing myself to stay calm.

‘Loser’ is a serious insult to any guy—especially to me, who’s actually a grown man inside.

I swallowed the urge to retaliate, reminding myself of the years I’d spent learning to control my temper. But Kabir wasn’t finished.

Kabir punched me, taunting, "Loser. Come on."

His fist connected with my jaw, sending a jolt of pain through my face. The crowd egged us on, and I realised there was no walking away.

My glasses were knocked off, and my vision blurred.

The world turned fuzzy, shapes and colours blending together. I crouched, feeling for the frames, but Kabir pressed his advantage.

Kabir’s punches were fast and wild, but I wasn’t weak.

Years of karate classes kicked in. I dodged, parried, landed a quick jab to his shoulder. The boys circled us, chanting “Maaro! Maaro!” while a few girls peeked from behind their textbooks, half-shocked, half-entertained. The boys’ shouts faded into the background—I was in survival mode.

When I was young, I was frail, so my mum made me learn karate.

Every weekend, she’d drag me to the dojo, making sure I could defend myself. I used to resent it, but now I silently thanked her.

Kabir fought with brute force, no technique.

He swung wildly, relying on strength instead of skill. I kept my guard up, waiting for an opening.

We traded blows, neither gaining the upper hand.

Sweat dripped into my eyes, my knuckles ached, but I refused to back down. The fight felt endless, each second stretching into eternity.

Until Ananya screamed and rushed over to slap me.

Her voice rang out, shrill and furious. The crowd parted, and suddenly she was there, her palm connecting with my cheek in a flash of anger.

My cheek stung with pain.

The world seemed to slow down—the red imprint of her hand, the gasp from the onlookers, the raw hurt in her eyes.

It was the first time in my life anyone had slapped me.

I stood frozen, unable to process what had just happened. The shame burned hotter than the pain.

Ananya used all her strength—her palm was red, her arm trembling.

She glared at me, voice trembling with emotion. The force of her anger shook me to my core.

She yelled at me, "Rohan, are you mad? Why are you bullying Kabir?"

The hatred in her eyes was enough to cut me to pieces.

Her voice was ragged, her words sharp as knives. I searched her face for a trace of the friend I’d known, but all I saw was contempt.

Kabir got completely different treatment.

Ananya gently helped him up, her face full of concern.

She fussed over him, brushing the dust from his shirt, cooing soft reassurances. The crowd watched, half-envious, half-admiring.

She stood on tiptoe, softly blowing on his face.

It was a gesture she’d once reserved for me—when I’d fall off my bicycle or scrape my knee. Now, it belonged to someone else.

I had to admit, they looked good together—a beautiful couple. Anyone who saw them would say so.

Their chemistry was undeniable. Even the teachers, peering out from the staff room, seemed to accept it as fate.

Ananya anxiously asked, "Does it hurt?"

Kabir replied coolly, "I’m used to it."

He shrugged, playing the martyr. The boys around us exchanged knowing glances.

Ananya felt even sorrier for him.

She bit her lip, eyes shining with unshed tears. Her hands fluttered nervously, as if trying to smooth away his pain.

To vent for Kabir, she crushed my fallen glasses under her foot, right in front of me.

The snap of plastic echoed in the silence, a final insult. For a second, the memory of her shyly handing them to me outside the optician’s shop flickered and died. She didn’t even look at me as she ground her heel into the frame.

Those glasses were a gift from Ananya. When she was sixteen, she won a prize in a violin competition and used the money to buy them for me.

Her mother said she’d picked them out so carefully, choosing over and over, guessing which kind I’d like and what would suit me.

'That girl never put that much thought into picking gifts for me or her dad.'

Ananya would blush and protest, 'Mummy, stop it.'

Those days seemed a lifetime ago—back when love was simple, and gifts were tokens of friendship, not weapons of war.

Back then, I cherished everything she gave me.

I’d polish those glasses every night, careful not to scratch the lenses. I thought they were proof that I mattered to her.

In my previous life, I even kept those glasses, wanting to tell our future child the story of our love.

I imagined sitting with my son or daughter, spinning tales of childhood sweethearts and the magic of first love. Now, those dreams felt hollow.

Looking back now, it’s just laughable.

Love makes fools of us all. The things we cling to—gifts, promises, old memories—become burdens when the person behind them changes.

Ananya pointed at me and cursed, "Rohan, you’re a complete jerk. A heartless monster."

She hurled the words like stones, her face contorted with fury. The crowd tensed, unsure what to do.

"I’m telling you, we’re done. We’re not friends anymore."

She turned her back, taking Kabir’s hand in hers. The break was clean, absolute. There would be no going back.

Strangely, I didn’t feel sad—just annoyed.

Instead of heartbreak, there was only a dull irritation, like when you step on a Lego in the dark. I realised I’d outgrown the fantasy.

I stood up and brushed myself off. "Those glasses were from you, so it’s fine you broke them. I’ll let that slap go—I don’t hit girls. But if there’s a next time, I won’t be so forgiving."

My voice was cold, measured. I’d learned that self-respect is more important than pride.

"Tell your Kabir to stay away from me. I’m busy—I don’t have time for your college drama."

I straightened my shirt, gathered my books, and walked away. The crowd parted, some nodding in approval, others shaking their heads.

Kabir is just a lost cause. Only Ananya is naive enough to think she can save him in our crucial board year.

The teachers whispered in the staff room, 'She’s ruining her future for that boy.' But Ananya didn’t care. She believed in her cause, blind to the cost.

If she wants to play saviour, fine—it’s none of my business anymore.

The world was bigger than our small school dramas. I finally understood that letting go is sometimes the kindest thing you can do—for yourself and for those you love.

As I walked away, the echo of her laughter followed me, but for once, it couldn’t touch me.