Chapter 3: Broken at Home

Ananya tried many times to reach out to me, kept calling, sent me long WhatsApp messages.

Her messages would pop up, long paragraphs full of worry, sometimes with silly GIFs or forwarded good morning quotes—'Smile, it's a new day!' But I couldn't muster a reply, not even a thumbs-up emoji.

She said she noticed something was wrong with me, but didn’t know why I had changed so much.

Her voice on the phone was softer than usual, almost trembling. 'Tu theek hai na?' she asked. 'Did I do something wrong?' I heard the pain in her words, but couldn't find it in me to answer honestly.

Hai Ram, she didn’t even know why I had become like this. A crushing loneliness swept over me, making me feel as if I no longer belonged in this world.

I would lie awake at night, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering if anyone would notice if I just disappeared. My heart ached with a loneliness only silence could explain.

It wasn’t until a week later that my mother found me. Seeing her, I felt a pang of guilt. She must have been exhausted these past few days—her hair messy and greasy, dark circles under her eyes, her voice hoarse.

She stormed into my room, her dupatta slipping from one shoulder, scolding and hugging me at the same time. 'Beta, what have you done to yourself?' she whispered, voice cracking, as she checked my forehead for fever.

Mr. Sharma, as if he’d found ammunition, said I had been absent for too long without reason and wanted to persuade me to drop out.

He called my mother to school, making sure everyone knew. He waved a pink form in front of us, his eyes stern. 'We cannot have indiscipline here, madam. Either he explains himself, or he considers other options.'

My mother was terrified at the mention of expulsion. To her, being persuaded to leave meant being expelled, meant losing any chance at education.

She clutched my arm tightly, as if afraid I'd vanish again. I could see her hands shaking, lips pressed into a thin line. I had never seen her so afraid.

In front of everyone, she suddenly clutched Sharma-ji’s hand and touched his feet, her voice breaking: 'Sharma-ji, please. Mera beta hai, sir. Don’t ruin his life.'

In that moment, I saw my always strong, capable mother humble herself before others, showing her most desperate side. I knew it wasn’t that she had lost her strength or shrewdness, but that her weakness was now in someone else’s hands—and that weakness was me.

I looked away, ashamed to meet anyone's eyes. I remembered how she fought the landlord for repairs, how she bargained with the sabziwala, always unflinching. Today, her only weapon was her tears.

Many people stood around, watching the spectacle, pointing at me, saying I deserved it, that I was unfilial, that I deserved whatever happened to me…

The office staff whispered, some with pity, others with judgment. 'Aaj kal ke bachche... No sanskaar at all,' I heard someone mutter. I kept my head bowed, wishing I could shrink into nothingness.

Seeing Mr. Sharma unmoved, my mother ran to the car and grabbed a few live chickens, shoving them into his hands: 'These are our own desi chickens, they taste great, please try them… please, withdraw the expulsion, let him keep his student status. Even if you make him move his desk outside the classroom, that’s fine. I promise, he’ll behave…'

She thrust the chickens at his feet, desperate. 'Apna hi paltu hai, Sharma-ji. Sirf ek mauka dijiye. Main kasam khati hoon, aapko shikayat ka moka nahi dungi.' It was the kind of plea only a mother could make, swallowing her pride for her child.

But maybe the rope wasn’t tied well—a few chickens suddenly broke free and flapped and ran everywhere.

One chicken flapped onto the principal’s desk, scattering exam papers. Shyamlal bhaiya chased it with a jhadu, while the office peon muttered, 'Aaj toh circus ho gaya!'

Feathers flew everywhere as the chickens clucked and darted through the staffroom, dodging the peon's broom and students' laughter. For a second, even the principal was speechless, mouth agape as one chicken jumped onto his desk.

More and more teachers and classmates gathered to watch the scene.

Some giggled behind their hands, others just shook their heads. I felt their eyes burning holes in my skin, their laughter sharper than any scolding.

All of them, with their cold eyes and superior attitudes, crushed me beneath their feet, all to protect the true couple they supported in their hearts.

I could almost hear them whisper, 'Serves him right,' as if I was nothing more than a villain in their favourite serial.

In the end, Mr. Sharma, perhaps fearing things would get out of hand, finally agreed to my mother’s plea.

He muttered something about 'last warning' and 'strict supervision,' finally signing the form to let me stay. My mother folded her hands in gratitude, tears glistening in her eyes.

I returned to that classroom—the one that had brought me endless pain, the one I had tried to escape so many times. But for my mother’s sake, I had to go back, even if it meant dying in that classroom.

As I stepped through the door, the silence was suffocating. No one met my gaze. I took my usual seat at the back, feeling like an outcast.

In a rush of anger, I ran up to the podium, looked around at everyone, and folded my hands and bent my head, tears falling as I whispered, 'Maaf kijiye, sir. Sab meri galti hai.'

My voice shook, echoing off the blackboard. My knees nearly gave way as I bowed again and again.

As I bowed again and again, tears splattered onto the floor.

I could feel the weight of every eye on me, the floor beneath me blurring with each salty drop. I could hear my mother's soft sob in the corridor.

I knew, deep down, these tears were not only for regret and apology, but even more for humiliation and inferiority.

My self-respect was crushed, but I had no other choice. For my mother, I would endure anything.