Chapter 4: Showdown at Rainbow Residency

We spent the next few days calling every public school in the city. Sitting at the dining table, surrounded by a mountain of prospectuses, we drank chai that had gone stone cold. Meera watched cartoons, unaware of the storm swirling around her.

Every call was the same: “Sorry, seats full.” Even the school near the temple had a waiting list. My wife’s eyes grew redder with each rejection. I watched her wipe away tears with the end of her dupatta, her gaze fixed on Meera’s untouched homework.

In the end, I had to say it: “There’s only one way left, Meera waits another year. We fight for the quota, come what may.”

The words tasted like poison. But what choice did we have?

Just then, Suresh called. “Bhai, found them. Amit Sharma’s dad—Rajeev Sharma. Flat 301, Block 5, Rainbow Residency.”

I nearly dropped the phone. Rainbow Residency was right next to us. Destiny, maybe. This was my chance.

Without changing, I stormed out, gripping the paper with their address. The building’s lift had a "Use Stairs" sign taped over the buttons, so I climbed, breath ragged. As I reached the third floor, a kid riding a cycle in the corridor skidded to a stop to watch the drama. Neighbours peeked through half-open doors, eyes glinting with curiosity.

I hammered on the door. A woman with curly hair, sari pallu tucked tight, opened up, TV blasting a saas-bahu serial behind her. “Who is it? Knocking like that! Do you know what time it is?”

I kept my voice even. “Are you Amit Sharma’s parent?”

She folded her arms. “Who are you? What do you want?”

I let it all out: “Your kid is using my flat’s school quota. Don’t you have any shame?”

Her face turned to stone. She slammed the door in my face.

My blood was boiling. I kicked the door. “Come out! You think you can hide and get away with this? Karma will get you!”

The corridor filled with whispers. An old uncle in vest muttered, “Arrey, kya ho raha hai?” I didn’t care. Justice, that’s all that mattered.

I called them harami, chor, and a few words my mother would’ve washed my mouth for. But enough was enough.

Finally, the door opened again. Rajeev Sharma appeared—fat, gold chain swinging, smirk plastered on his face. “What are you all looking at?” he barked at the neighbours. They vanished, doors shutting one by one.

I faced him. “You’re Rajeev Sharma? Don’t you have any shame? Using my quota for your son?”

He just leaned against the frame, picking at his teeth. “I paid someone. Not my problem. Don’t bother me.”

I clenched my fists. “Your son’s name is on my ration card and you still pretend you don’t know?”

A flash of guilt, then back to arrogance. “So what do you want?”

“Transfer your son’s name out of my ration card. Return my quota.”

“Impossible. My son can’t be without a school.”

Amit Sharma himself appeared, superhero T-shirt, cheeks smeared with chocolate. “Papa, I’ll help you shoot the bad uncle!” he shouted, aiming a toy gun at me.

Before I could react, a hard plastic bullet smacked the corner of my eye. “Arrey, baccha bhi gunda ban gaya hai,” I muttered, rubbing my eye, cheeks burning as the corridor kid and neighbours watched.

Amit shrieked, “Got you! Killed you!”

The corridor rang with his laughter, louder than the slam of the door that followed.

I stood there, breathing hard, pressure cooker whistle echoing from a nearby flat. Life went on, indifferent. My anger simmered, isolation complete.