Chapter 1: Roll Number 51

The smell of incense from the mandir still clung to my fingers as I clutched the entrance list, searching for one name—Rohan. My heart was thumping, louder than the morning aarti bell, as I scanned the sheet, praying to Ganeshji for a miracle.

It’s such a typical thing, na? The best section means the toughest cut-off. Mummy kept saying, “Beta, top section ka environment hi alag hota hai, you’ll improve.” But honestly, all I cared about was getting a seat behind Rohan. I’d even bribed Ganeshji with extra laddoos before the board results—aur kya chahiye, bhagwan ko?

But for him, there was only that pretty girl sitting next to him. The one everyone noticed—the kind who was always fair, silky hair bouncing, smelling like some imported cream. Even teachers smiled more at her. For Rohan, it was like Ananya’s world, and nothing else.

Half a year passed, and the only thing he ever said to me was: "Can you lend Ananya a sanitary pad?"

That’s it! Bas. Months of practicing what I’d say if Rohan ever noticed me—and this was it. If only life worked like those serials where one big dramatic twist changes everything, na?

So I tore up my diary, the one filled with all my secret crushes, and stopped trailing after him like some lost puppy!

That night, I ripped each page, flushing some down the commode, stuffing the rest into the kitchen bin before Amma could catch me. Tried to distract myself with Maggi, but the ache wouldn’t leave. My schoolbag felt heavy, like it was stuffed with all my rejected feelings.

Years later, at a school reunion in Mumbai, I talked about my first love. The posh banquet hall near Dadar smelled of fried samosas and perfume, old friends laughing, the DJ playing ‘Channa Mereya’ for the hundredth time. Everyone shared silly stories, and when my turn came, my voice wobbled, but I smiled. “First love is always silly, na?” I said, the nostalgia biting sharper than Imli candy.

I told everyone he was a fierce, rough guy! Someone hooted, and from the back, someone teased, “Arrey, Sneha, who broke your heart?” I grinned, adding extra masala to make them laugh.

But before I could finish, Rohan appeared, holding a diary that had been carefully pieced back together, page by page. His hands trembled as he demanded: "Sneha, you're lying. Your first love was me! I've been waiting all this time—waiting for your confession!"

For a moment, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The room fell silent. The old pages, now taped and yellowed, fluttered in his hands. Suddenly, the laughter faded—a soft, collective gasp. Like we were all schoolkids again, hoping for some magic.