Chapter 2: The Reunion and the Trap

01

I got the message that my old high school in Lucknow would be demolished and rebuilt. Arjun, the class prefect, told me I was the only one left to agree to return.

It had been three years since I’d left, but the memory of those corridors—muddy shoe prints, teachers’ scoldings echoing off the walls—was still sharp. Mishraji, the head peon, would shout if you lingered after the last bell. When the message came, signed by Arjun, something inside me twisted. Nostalgia, maybe, or guilt.

Arjun was always the enthusiastic, responsible one—I couldn’t refuse any longer.

He’d organised every picnic, kept attendance, mediated fights, and even planned the samosa party after Board exams. If he’d reached out, it had to be serious.

At the reunion, everyone drank too much—cheap whisky, cola, and mountains of paneer tikka and samosas.

We gathered in the old canteen. The aunty at the counter wiped sweat from her brow, serving chai in steel tumblers. Someone called for extra chutney. Ritu wore her favourite blue salwar, Amit cracked jokes. The sticky sweetness of gulab jamun filled the air, mixing with the oily scent of fried food. Laughter danced nervously above the clink of glasses and the slow hum of the ceiling fan.

In my sleep, words flashed before my eyes: "Only honesty can save your life."

It was as if someone had chalked the words on the inside of my eyelids. I tossed and turned, the message looping like a Bollywood chorus I couldn’t escape.

When I woke, the cold wind from the ceiling fan brushed my face.

The rickety fan squeaked with every turn, stirring up the stale air. I pulled my shawl tighter, trying to ground myself. The metallic taste of fear was already on my tongue.

All my classmates were sprawled around me, confused and groggy.

Ritu rubbed her eyes, mumbling, "Yeh kya ho raha hai?" Amit snored in the corner, Kunal sat up, bewildered. It was as if we’d woken in the middle of a never-ending exam.

"Isn’t this our old biology lab?"

Glass jars with faded labels, the overwhelming smell of formaldehyde, and the sight of the two-headed snake in its jar—there was no mistaking it. Someone tapped on the glass, half-expecting the snake to blink.

"What happened to us?"

Ramesh stared at his palms, as if checking for signs of some elaborate prank. The confusion in the room deepened, panic rising.

"Why won’t the door open?"

Fatima rattled the iron door, bangles jangling. The lock held fast. Someone shouted, "Principal Sir! Koi hai?" but only silence answered.

The noise swelled, panic bubbling over—girls clinging to each other, tears and screams blending together.

It felt like Lucknow railway station at rush hour. Someone started chanting Hanuman Chalisa, voice shaky. Boys argued over what to do next. Fear hung in the air, sharp and salty.

A few classmates kept coughing.

The air was already thick, dust motes swirling in the weak sunlight. A faint acrid smell made us wrinkle our noses. Someone fanned herself with her notebook, desperate for relief.

"Quiet!" A cold, sharp voice blared from the loudspeaker.

It felt as if the school itself was scolding us. Instantly, all chatter stopped. You could hear the faint click of a pen dropping to the floor.

It was Arjun, the class prefect.

His tone was unchanged—calm, slightly superior, just like when he read out exam toppers’ names at assembly. But now there was something else: something hard, unyielding.

"Hello, classmates. We already met last night, so I won’t waste time with pleasantries. After all, this building will—collapse tomorrow morning. Hahaha..."

The laugh echoed, unnatural and chilling. Girls huddled closer. Someone whispered, "Pagal ho gaya hai yeh ladka."

"Arjun, what do you want? Let us out!"

The demand rang out—half-brave, half-broken—like when someone finally stands up to a strict teacher.

"Good question. Let me applaud this classmate."

The clap that followed was off-beat, slow, the kind that drags on at a boring college play. The room’s tension thickened like kheer.

Some of the more timid girls began to sob, trembling: "What does the class prefect want to do?"

One girl buried her face in her dupatta. Another stared at the floor, lips moving in a silent prayer.

"Don’t cry, don’t cry, or the class prefect will feel guilty."

The voice softened suddenly—gentle, almost tender.

It was unsettling, like the way teachers switch from scolding to sweet-talking when parents enter the room.

"I just want to know..."

He let the words hang, tasting each one for bitterness.

"Which one of you, back then... forced Sneha Mukherjee to her death?"

A shiver ran through the room. Sneha Mukherjee’s name landed like a stone in a still pond, rippling through memory and guilt.