Chapter 3: Bullying and Reputation

Just as I had felt the first time I saw Priya, she disliked me intensely. She brought her little followers and bullied me constantly.

They’d trip me in the corridor, make jokes about my ‘orphan’ status, and scribble rude things on my desk. Sometimes they’d ‘accidentally’ knock my tiffin over, leaving my paratha and sabzi ruined on the floor. Once, a classmate hesitated, bending to help me, but after glancing at Priya, she straightened up and looked away. I never reacted. It became a sort of game: how long could I go without breaking?

I never argued back, but a week before the Inter-School Joint Exam, I deliberately skipped school.

Kaveripur Public School had long been overshadowed by the neighbouring St. Xavier’s, and my grades were steadily at the top. The school would never want me to miss the exam.

When my class teacher called, I mustered up some timidity: "Ma’am, can I transfer to another section?"

"Transfer sections?" She quickly caught the note of distress in my voice.

She softened: "Is someone in your class bothering you? Don’t be afraid, I’ll stand up for you."

Her voice turned gentle, as if she was speaking to her own daughter. I could hear her shuffle papers on her desk, the familiar scent of her jasmine oil filling the staff room. Teachers in our school liked to act strict, but deep down, they cared—especially when it came to girls who reminded them of their own children.

"N-no. I just don’t fit in," I stammered.

After hanging up, I dropped the act of nervousness.

I’d mastered the art of acting, switching emotions on and off like a light. It was easier than letting anyone see the real me. The only thing that mattered was getting the result I wanted.

I knew I was never a good person.

I always paid people back.

I never forgave or forgot. If someone tried to hurt me, I made sure they remembered it. Sometimes, I wondered if that made me like my mother.

Two days later, my class teacher called me to school.

Every school has CCTV. She spent a whole day reviewing the footage.

After discovering that Priya had been targeting me, both openly and in secret, for two months, she reported it to the principal immediately.

The school took it seriously.

Priya stood under the Indian flag, eyes red, choking out her apology. The hot sun beat down on the assembly ground, sweat trickling down the backs of students lined up in neat rows. Priya’s dupatta slipped off her shoulder as she stammered out her apology, the principal’s stern gaze boring into her. A few students whispered behind cupped hands, their eyes darting between Priya and me.

She lost all face at school, and from then on hated me even more.

The assembly ground was silent except for the cawing of crows. The whole school watched as Priya, usually so poised, broke down. Her stepfather’s car was parked outside, but no one came to help her. The girls in the front row giggled behind their hands, and the boys in the back exchanged glances. She muttered, “I’m sorry, Meera. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

"It’s all her fault. If she weren’t so good at studying, the teachers wouldn’t protect her."

"Fake. What a typical drama queen."

"Arjun, are you going to help me or not?"

Outside a CCD, Priya cried and clung to a boy.

He comforted her in a low voice, "Don’t cry. Rohan and I will help you."

"Really?" Priya looked up, her nose red from crying. "What do you want me to do?"

The glass window reflected their faces—Priya’s desperate eyes, Arjun’s sly grin. It was a scene straight out of a TV serial, the city’s chaos muted behind the café’s glass. She reached for his hand as if it was her last lifeline.

"Find someone to ruin her reputation, then send the photos to the group. I want to see what right that girl has to act so high and mighty."

Priya’s voice was full of venom.

The boy was tall and strong, pulling her into his arms, laughing carelessly:

"She’s just a middle-class nobody. Is she worth making you cry, madam? Wait until I teach her a lesson. I’ll have her crawling on the ground, begging for your forgiveness."

His words, said with a swagger only the truly privileged possess, were like a slap in the face. Priya wiped her nose and nodded, determination hardening her features. This was war, and she wouldn’t lose.