Chapter 1: The Whistle and the Window

Somewhere below, a pressure cooker whistled. We all jumped, nerves stretched tighter than the window grills.

The night before the school’s demolition, all 49 of us were trapped in the classroom on the top floor.

Outside, the moon hung like a pale witness, peeking through the grimy window grills. Dust settled on the battered old desks, their surfaces carved with years of adolescent graffiti—'Mona loves Rohit', 'Exam ka paper leak karo, bhagwan ji!' The air was heavy with the sour-salty tang of sweat, fifty hearts hammering faster than the dhols at Ganpati visarjan. Somewhere below, stray dogs barked in chorus, their voices floating up through the open louvre windows. The chalky scent of old textbooks and blackboard dust clung to everything, oddly familiar in the midst of chaos.

Class prefect Arjun stepped up to the teacher's desk, his voice echoing with that unique authority Indians grant a class monitor. "Those who know the truth, stand by the window. Those who don’t, stand by the door." His words landed with the weight of an exam result posted on the morning notice board.

He repeated, "Those who know the truth, stand by the window. Those who don’t, stand by the door."

As he spoke, a girl clutched her dupatta to her chest, a boy fiddled nervously with his school ID card, and someone’s phone buzzed with a WhatsApp notification they dared not check. Some classmates hesitated, while others made their choice right away.

A ripple of uncertainty ran through the room—furtive glances, old tuition alliances reigniting, the silent ones shrinking closer together. Sarita adjusted her dupatta, casting a desperate look at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. The tension was so thick, it was as if you could almost hear a pressure cooker whistling from someone’s memory of home.

Twenty-one people made for the classroom door.

Their footsteps echoed on the terrazzo floor, slippers scraping, boys exchanging anxious glances. Someone muttered, "Ab kya hoga, yaar?" but the question hung unanswered in the air.

The class prefect’s voice came through, muffled: "You may leave the classroom now."

I stood by the window, lost and overwhelmed by a wave of panic.

My heart thudded against my ribs, loud as the dhols during Ganpati visarjan, palms slick with sweat. Through the barred window, the distant glow of Lucknow's city lights shimmered, making everything feel at once close and impossibly distant.

I remembered the words that flashed before my eyes in last night’s uneasy sleep: "Only honesty can save your life."

I tugged at a loose thread on my kurta, my eyes stinging as Amma’s voice echoed in my head: "Sach bol, beta. Bhagwan sab dekh raha hai." It was more than a warning—it was every story of paap and karma she’d ever whispered at bedtime, all the weight of inherited guilt pressing down on me.

Could dreams and reality really be opposites?

My mind raced, replaying every old Hindi film where the hero gets a sign from God in a dream. But this felt darker, heavier, and far too real. "Bas, stop overthinking, Priya," I told myself, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Suddenly, agonised screams erupted outside the classroom.

The sound sliced through the room like a butcher’s knife. Someone gasped, "Arre baap re!" while another clapped their hands over their ears, faces contorted with terror. The familiar corridor was now a stage for nightmares.

A burst of white smoke, sharp with the stench of blood, billowed through the entire floor.

The smell was so metallic, so raw, it clawed at the back of my throat. It was nothing like the usual chemistry lab stench—this was something ancient, vengeful. Boys started coughing, girls yanked their dupattas over their faces, some wetting handkerchiefs in desperation. A boy banged on the window grill, frantic for air, as sweat dripped down his brow. The heat pressed in, and somewhere outside, a temple bell rang, its echo swallowed by the rising panic.