Chapter 4: Hostel Showdown

My roommate, Kabir, saw me come back and shouted, "You're finally back! You should've seen Old Sharma Ma'am that day—she nearly tore our hostel apart! Four guys over 6 feet tall, all scared half to death by her 5-foot aura!"

Kabir’s laughter bounced off the cracked walls, and someone’s phone started playing a Bhojpuri ringtone in the background. I could see everyone’s tension lift a little. In that moment, I felt a bit lighter too.

I picked at my ear. "What are you afraid of? Is she going to punish all of us?"

It was bravado, but my heart was pounding as fast as anyone else’s.

The hostel leader, who's also the Youth Club Secretary, looked worried: "You'd better go see Sharma Ma'am tomorrow and say something nice. She's really mad this time—watch out she doesn't give you a warning."

He twiddled with his keychain, his forehead creased with worry. “Bhaiya, thoda sambhal ke. She’s not in a forgiving mood.”

Say something nice? What a joke—it's already polite that I didn't curse her out.

I rolled my eyes. Kabir tried to stifle a snort, but failed.

Suddenly, the youngest shouted, "Bhaiya, check the big group chat—Old Sharma's speaking!"

His phone was vibrating like crazy, and his eyes were wide with excitement.

Oh? It's almost midnight—what's she up to?

Kabir muttered, “Midnight drama, yaar. This college is better than Netflix!”

We all hurried to open WhatsApp. Sure enough, the counselor who'd ignored me all day was now publicly shaming me in the 200-person department group.

The notification sound was a chorus across the hostel. I took a deep breath and braced myself for what was coming next.

"Arjun Kumar from Class 02, Electrical Engineering, left college without approval for a week, failed to participate in college-organised activities, and bunked class without reason—this is a serious violation of college discipline. According to the student handbook, the following punishment is imposed: one-week suspension from class for self-reflection; a formal warning; all awards, honours, and club memberships for this year are cancelled; disciplinary materials will be added to the student record. Further violations during the punishment period will result in escalated penalties, up to expulsion."

The text was so long, it filled half my phone screen. Everyone was reading, holding their breath.

"@everyone Take a good look—this is what happens if you leave college without my approval! If you think you can handle it, go ahead and try!"

There was a pause, then the pings started as people forwarded screenshots to other groups. It was the kind of public shaming you only see in school assemblies or those neighbourhood WhatsApp groups where every uncle is an admin.

Finally, she tagged me: "Write a 5,000-word apology and hand it in by 9 a.m. tomorrow. One minute late and the punishment will be increased."

5,000 words! That’s longer than my entire Engineering Drawing notes. I almost wanted to laugh out of sheer disbelief.

Good grief. I couldn't help but blurt it out.

“Arrey, yeh toh hadd ho gayi!” I muttered under my breath. Even Kabir whistled in sympathy.

Suspension, cancelling all awards and honours, cancelling club membership, even threatening expulsion—the counselor really pulled out all the stops.

I’d seen strict teachers before, but this was next-level. I could almost picture my poor name, ‘Arjun Kumar,’ getting bolded in the college records with a giant red cross.

The guys in the hostel didn’t even dare to breathe. Someone started muttering a Hanuman Chalisa under his breath—standard ritual for warding off disaster.

Kabir’s eyes were huge, the youngest was clutching his pillow, and the hostel leader’s face had gone pale. Even the lizard on the wall seemed to be staring at me.

Everyone knows what these punishments mean—especially if they're recorded in my file. It could affect my future if I want to take UPSC or teacher exams.

My mind flashed to images of my parents’ proud faces, the relatives at weddings boasting about my studies, all of it threatened by a single entry in my “file.”

The hostel leader frowned, more anxious than me: "What should we do, Bhaiya? Maybe call her now and see if you can get the punishment reduced?"

He looked genuinely worried, pacing the room. “You want me to come with you? We can try pleading together.”

"How can a woman be this ruthless?"

Kabir whispered, “Yeh toh Hitler ki choti behen hai, I swear.”

"Are you mad? Didn't you know what she's like? She's always been like this."

The youngest piped up, “Bhaiya, panga mat lo, please!”

"Bhaiya, maybe just give in. Sure, it's her fault for not approving your leave, but she's the counselor—our graduation and future are in her hands."

His words echoed what every Indian student fears: the power of the teacher’s pen.

I didn't say anything, just replied in the group:

"I won't write the apology, and I don't accept your punishment."

I typed it with steady hands, feeling oddly calm. My heart thudded, but my fingers didn’t shake—maybe this is what real courage feels like. The words hung in the chat, a small rebellion against the system.

After sending the message, the other three in the hostel gasped in unison.

Kabir nearly dropped his phone. The youngest covered his mouth with his hands. The hostel leader just stared at me, eyes wide.

"Bhaiya, are you out of your mind?!"

Even I was surprised at my own courage—or was it just sheer exhaustion?