Being a student is not hard even in eyes of some students but it can be tough when you get a class teacher like Ms. Poonam Pandey, all you can do is hide out of her sight. Why? you ask, you will know soon.
"You there in the back, stand up and start reading the first paragraph," Ms. Poonam said to the boy of the last row.
Ever since Ms. Poonam looking at him, he knew she will pick her so he prepared his book in advance "Yes, the author wishes good luck to the future readers in..." Good thing he was an old student and know of Ms. Poonam's way of teaching but not everyone will be lucky as him.
"Stop," Ms. Poonam commanded. The reader collapsed into his seat with a sigh of relief.
Ms. Poonam's eyes scanned the room like a heat-seeking missile. They locked onto the boy in the middle row, who was currently staring at a smudge on his desk with the intensity of a diamond appraiser.
"You," she said, her voice dropping an octave into the 'Danger Zone.' "Pick up where he left off."
"...Me?" The boy's soul snapped back into his body so hard he nearly got whiplash. He scrambled to his feet, his fingers fumbling with the pages.
'Okay. Where was he?' He looked at the sea of black ink. It all looked the same. Panic, the great deceiver, pointed his finger toward the start of the second paragraph.
He cleared his throat, channeling a confidence he absolutely did not possess. "The farmer was at home when the thief came—"
Ms. Poonam stopped mid-stride. She began walking toward his desk, her heels clicking against the floor like a countdown timer. "Is that where he left off?"
The boy looked at the paragraph. Then he looked at Ms. Poonam's raised eyebrow. He felt the eyes of the entire class on him. Surely, if he just sounded certain enough, the laws of physics would bend to his will.
"Yes, Ma'am," he said, puffing out his chest. "Exactly there."
SLAP.
The sound echoed off in the hallway. The boy's head didn't just turn; it performed a graceful pirouette[1]. The class held its breath.
"He was on the second-to-last line of the first paragraph, you daydreaming architect," Ms. Poonam hissed, leaning over his desk until he could smell the fragrance of her perfume. "Next time you decide to take a mental vacation, leave a forwarding address."
She turned away as if nothing had happened. "Sit down. And pay attention before I decide your grades need a vacation, too."
She pointed a lethal finger toward the front of the room. "You with the red hairband, start from 'The crops is the field'"
"Yes, the crops in the field were dying without water..." The girl stood up and started reading.
The class dragged on for another ten minutes as Ms. Poonam dissected the text the three students had read. Her voice acted like a slow-moving steamroller, flattening any remaining excitement in the room.
TRING—TANG.
The sound of the bell was like a heartbeat. Hearing it, Parveen thought to himself, Thank God this is only the zero period. If this were a regular 40-minute period, I'd have to start a new life under a different name.
"Read the first chapter in your own time," Ms. Poonam commanded, her eyes never leaving the room as she marched toward the back. "And you—Red Hairband—you are the new class monitor. Bring me the attendance on a slip of paper within two minutes."
The girl with the red hairband froze for a second before scrambling into action. Ms. Poonam reached the notice board at the back and pinned a crisp sheet of paper to the bottom of the board.
"Copy the new timetable from here," she announced over her shoulder. "And be prepared—your I-card photos will be taken right after lunch."
The girl with the red hairband darted her eyes across the rows, counting heads, then counting them again just to be safe. After a final, frantic re-check of the total, she handed the slip to Ms. Poonam.
Ms. Poonam snatched the paper, gave it a single, sharp nod, and exited the room.
The moment the hem of her clothes disappeared past the doorframe, the entire class exhaled at once—a massive, synchronized breath of relief that sounded like a tire deflating.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly from "cemetery silence" to "market square chaos" the moment the door closed. Parveen joined the swarm of students hovering around the notice board, elbowing his way through to get a glimpse of the new timetable.
"Look, the second and third period is of library!"
"Look, we have 2 new teachers."
"The 1st period is mathematics."
"What? Only one games period."
He scanned the grid, his face falling almost immediately. "Only one games period a week?" he muttered, heart sinking. "That's not a school schedule; that's a prison sentence."
He ran his eyes down the list of faculty, nodding at familiar names—the usual suspects of the staff room. Then, his eyes hit the slot right after lunch: Hindi – Ms. Poonam. His stomach did a nervous somersault until he remembered her parting words. The I-card photos. A slow, triumphant grin spread across his face. He whispered a silent prayer to every deity he could think of; if the photographers were taking over the period, Ms. Poonam couldn't lecture.
"Take your seats, everyone. The class will start now," said the math teacher, Mr Ravi, while entering the classroom. Unlike Ms. Poonam, he was a friendly and easy-going teacher.
.........
The day proceeded in a blur of three standard, 40-minute periods. By the time the lunch bell rang, it sounded like a victory siren. The students didn't just walk; they rushed to the playground like a dam had burst.
"Let's go, let's go."
"Out of my way!!!!"
"Last one will pay for the dessert."
Instead of sitting with the others in the open, Parveen veered off toward the dense cluster of trees at the edge of the property. He found Kavi waiting in the shadows, looking uncharacteristically shifty.
"You got it?" Parveen asked, keeping his voice low.
"Two hundred rupees," Kavi replied, barely moving his lips.
Parveen handed over the crumpled notes, and in exchange, a small, 15 cm packet was slid into his hand. As soon as he passed the packet, Kavi put the money in his pocket and left Parveen alone.
"Just like always, he left even before I could check the product," said Parveen while looking at the packet in his hand.
The weight of it felt significant, a secret prize won in the middle of a school day. Parveen's heart hammered against his ribs as he began to peel back the corner of the packaging, desperate to see the product.
CLICK
He stopped dead.
His fingers froze on the seal. There, standing just a few meters away, a girl from the morning with her phone in her hand was watching him. She wasn't moving or talking; she was just staring, her eyes locked onto him and the illegal transaction he had just completed.
Parveen felt a cold sweat break out. Of all the people to be standing in the shadows, it had to be this uncivilized girl from the morning.
[1] A pirouette is a French term (literally meaning "whirl") used primarily in ballet. It describes the act of spinning or whirling around on one foot.