I watched my trembling feet step cautiously onto the red, betel-stained staircase of Gurukripa Complex. This was where my new coaching institute was located—the place that was supposedly going to guide me through JEE and other competitive exams for engineering. My heart was pounding as I approached the massive labyrinth of an office, unsure of what to do, where to go, or who to ask.
“Radhika! I see you’ve come to attend your first lecture.”
It was Arif Zuberi, the HR Manager and student counselor at FCE—Forum for Competitive Exams. He had helped me during admission, when I’d first collected brochures. It was the first time I’d ever felt welcomed by an institute, unlike my old school, where my father had to approach every authority from top to bottom just to get me a seat.
The only downside was the fee: ₹1.5 lakh—almost double what other institutes charged. Even with a 10% scholarship for my board results, I still had to pay ₹1.35 lakh.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t arrange a backup class for today,” he said, snapping me out of my thoughts. “But you can attend today’s lecture and get to know your new classmates.”
He led me down a narrow aisle. It was dark, probably due to the regular 4 to 6 PM power cuts. I hoped the classrooms weren’t as gloomy as the passage. He stopped at a door with a small glass window and peeked inside. I did the same, scanning for familiar faces. None. I silently wished Avni and Ruchi were here. They had promised they would be.
“This is your class for today. Welcome to FCE,” Arif Sir said, before vanishing back into the maze.
I gripped the handle of the classroom door—it was jammed. With a little extra push, it flew open and slammed into the bench behind it. Cold, unwelcoming eyes turned in my direction. Embarrassed, I let go of the door, and it swung back sharply—crashing into the glass pane that was already hanging loose.
The sound of shattering glass shot my pulse into overdrive. I stared at the sparkling shards now scattered across the floor, trying to ignore the goosebumps rising on my arms. I reminded myself: making a noticeable blunder everywhere I go is practically my USP.
“Just ignore it. Happens,” said a girl in a pink laced shirt. She wore rimless specs that gave her a typical ‘studious’ look. The girl next to her looked similar—slimmer and darker.
“I’m Kirti, and this is Pooja,” she said, introducing her friend.
“I’m Radhika.”
“Which school are you from?”
“Symphony High School. And you?”
“Oh, I’m from Kerala—Bal Bharti School.”
Our teacher entered the room next—Hussain Ahmed. He was of average height with a broad build, and walked in with the attitude of a celebrity in a bad mood.
“So… you people messed up again?” he snapped.
Everyone fell silent. No one knew which "mess-up" he was referring to. I could feel multiple eyeballs trained on me.
“And what happened to the glass pane?” he asked, staring at the broken door.
I shrank into my seat. Some students stole glances at me, but no one said a word.
“Sir, the pane was already loose,” a guy with an athletic build and glasses started explaining. “It used to shake every time someone opened the door. It probably just came off today. I saw it broken two minutes ago.”
“I’m not asking how it broke, Sachin. I’m asking who broke it.”
“That I don’t know, Sir.”
“Fine. Forget it. Call Chaman and have him clean up the mess.”
Sachin shot me a look and left. As the door slammed again, another piece of glass dropped from the frame to the floor.
“Hmph. Sachin again. Can’t mind his surroundings. I’m sure it was his doing.”
“No, Sir,” came the chorus.
“Don’t ‘No Sir’ me. In fact, you people can’t even focus on your studies. I’ve got your phase test results. The highest marks anyone got were 114. And that’s Kartik.” He paused just as the class began to clap. “No need to applaud. His performance was no better.”
I looked at Kartik. He didn’t seem like the bookworm type—more like the chocolate-boy heartthrob every girl in class had noticed (judging by their blushing faces).
“May we come in, Sir?” Five girls stood outside, waiting.
“Come in. Why so late? You people can’t even follow time properly.”
Hussain began distributing the test papers.
“Kirti – 96. Pooja – 97. Nikita – 104…”
I recognized Nikita—another Symphony High alum.
“Hey, you’re a Symphonite too!” I said.
“Was. I hated Symphony High. Had a rough time with snob Symphonites,” she replied with enough attitude to burn.
“Prachi – 86…” A short, stout girl stepped forward. She smiled at me—seemed nice, probably a friend of Nikita.
I remained the loner. I never had much appeal to people with high opinions of themselves—like Ruchi’s little sister, Mini, a devil-child I avoided at all costs.
“May I come in, Sir?” Sachin returned. He exchanged a glance with a short, lean boy beside him—someone who looked like he belonged in 7th grade.
“Come in. Your OMR sheet has been evaluated.”
“Arjun – 98…” Hussain announced.
Sachin, clearly clueless about the earlier drama, started clapping—alone.
“Sachin, you missed the first half of the movie. No need to clap,” Hussain snapped.
The same boy next to him explained what he had missed. Hussain resumed distributing the results. After a few more stern comments, he turned to me.
“Radhika, since you’re new, I’ll be teaching you Physics. You may not understand today’s lecture, but try to make sense of it.”
He dove into the topic: Kinematics.
“No matter the weight, if you drop two objects from the same height, they’ll hit the ground at the same time. Who can prove this?”
“Sir, from the equation s = ut + ½gt², if u = 0, s is the same, and g is a constant (10 m/s²), then time is the same,” said a boy with curly hair—Animesh.
“Very good, Animesh.”
He sat down, casually stretching out like Amitabh Bachchan closing the shutters in Deewar, full of pride.
Mid-lecture, I felt something move near my feet. I bent down to investigate.
“What’s the matter, Radhika?” Hussain caught me. “Looking for answers under the bench?”
A light laugh spread through the room.
“No, Sir.”
“Then focus.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
But something was moving near my bag. A soft, hairy object brushed against my leg. I opened the bag and—
“AAAAAHHHHHHH!”
“IT’S A MOUSE!”
“MUMMYYYYYY!”
Half the class ran out. Girls jumped onto benches, screaming.
“SACHIN! CALL CHAMAN! QUICK!”
A skinny, skeleton-like fellow—Chaman—entered holding a napkin.
“Chaman, you idiot. How are you going to catch a mouse with that?”
But to everyone’s surprise, he did. Like a mouse whisperer, he caught the creature in the napkin and threw it out the window.
“Everyone, come back inside! Girls on the table—please get down.”
Then he turned to me.
“Everyone except Radhika may sit. Radhika, you stay on the bench. Unless you’d like to tell us who broke the glass pane—then they can replace you and take the punishment.”
Wow.
From frying pan to fire. What a start.
