Chapter 2: Leave Rejected, Dignity Denied

When it comes to leave requests, our counselor is truly something else. Her reputation had spread faster than college canteen gossip—everyone from juniors to final years had their own horror story about leave applications with her. It was almost a rite of passage.

At the very first fresher’s orientation, she’d announced, "Let me make this clear: don’t come to me for leave over every little thing. If I approve your leave, then the next person’s, then the next—what, do you want the whole college to fall apart?"

She made sure to say it in both English and Hindi, so even the guys from small towns understood. The seniors exchanged knowing looks; I just thought, “Arrey, strict teacher, so what?”

Back then, we all thought she was just strict. Who knew she meant every word?

No one believed it at first. But soon enough, the stories started piling up like rainwater on campus after the first monsoon downpour.

Big things, small things, personal leave, sick leave—none of it got approved.

For us, walking into her office with a leave application was like volunteering to get scolded for fun.

Someone wanted leave to attend his elder sister’s wedding—she refused. She said, "It’s your sister getting married, not you. What does it have to do with you? Is she going to disappear after she gets married? Wait until it’s your own wedding before you ask for leave."

The poor guy was almost in tears outside her office. "Didi, mummy bole toh family ka function hai, aana zaroori hai," he whispered. But Sharma Ma’am didn’t even blink.

Someone wanted to go home to get a new Aadhaar card—she refused. "You’re already grown up and you can still lose your Aadhaar? Why not just lose your izzat while you’re at it? So you came here just to embarrass yourself, is it?"

The whole class burst out laughing, but you could see he wanted the earth to swallow him. In a country where paperwork rules everything, losing your Aadhaar is worse than losing your wallet!

Someone got food poisoning and asked for leave—she refused. "I’ve said it before, sick leave must be requested a day in advance and you need a hospital certificate. You say you have loose motions in the hostel—why not just say your kidney got stolen and you have to lie in bed for a month?"

Everyone in the hostel remembers when Raghav threw up in the corridor and still had to drag himself to class, thanks to Ma’am’s legendary lack of sympathy.

The most outrageous was when a girl asked for leave due to severe period pain. In her own Value Education class, in front of everyone, the counselor called her out by name and mocked, "As a girl, you should pay more attention to your health."

That day, you could’ve heard a pin drop. We all glared, but what could we do? In our college, dignity comes cheap, but leave is priceless.

Stuff like this happens all the time.

People started making memes about her—"Leave Application Rejected" stamped over her face, going around on secret Instagram pages.

Getting her to approve leave is harder than getting the Indian football team into the World Cup—basically impossible.

We used to joke that even ISRO scientists would have an easier time getting a rocket off the ground than us getting a signature from her.

Of course, if anyone dares challenge her "authority" by leaving without approval or bunking class, the consequences are serious. At the very least, you’ll get blasted in the WhatsApp group and have to write a 3,000-word apology letter. At worst, your parents get called and you get a warning on your record.

And God forbid your parents are summoned to college. Then the whole colony gets to know about your "badmaashi," and you have to answer questions from chachis and aunties for months.

But I can’t care about any of that now. Let the counselor do what she wants—I’m going home today, no matter what.

Sometimes, you have to choose family over formality, no matter how many threats hang over your head like a transfer notice hanging over a government clerk’s head.