Chapter 1: The Trap Reopens

After school, the college beauty lured me into an empty classroom.

The bell had barely finished echoing through the dusty corridors, mixing with the distant clang of the school bell and the shouts of boys running for samosas at the canteen. I could feel the sticky sweat running down my back, and the air was thick with the faint scent of chalk dust. Even the ancient ceiling fan overhead creaked and moaned, swirling hot air as if it too was bracing for some impending drama.

My heart pounded, not with excitement, but with something darker—resentment, bitterness. I stayed back, alone, as the corridor outside buzzed with life. The smell of old books mingled with the distant aroma of chai from the chaiwala in the lane below. Everything felt too real, too close.

I thought she wanted to talk to me. But as soon as I stepped inside, she started shouting that I was harassing her.

Her voice rang out through the open windows, drowning even the blaring horns of autos and the chaiwala's bell in the lane below. For a moment, I stood frozen, wedged between the cracked blackboard and the half-broken benches. My mind went blank, as if someone had doused me in cold water. I entered that room with hope, but her sudden shriek turned that hope into icy dread.

Her notorious boyfriend from the seniors rushed in and knocked out my teeth.

He was like one of those filmi goons—Amit Malhotra, son of some builder, muscles straining against his white shirt. He thundered across the room, gold chain bouncing on his chest, shouting like a filmi villain. Before I could even speak, his fist slammed into my mouth. I tasted blood mixed with the gritty air, felt my teeth loosen, and slumped to the ground. Outside, someone giggled; inside, my world crumbled bit by bit.

The discipline in-charge would bring up this incident again and again during morning assembly, humiliating me in front of everyone.

Every morning, as the sun climbed behind the red brick building, the heat pressing on the back of my neck, Mr. Shukla, our discipline in-charge, would seize the mic on the scratchy loudspeaker. "Such behaviour is unacceptable! For the sake of our college's izzat, we must not tolerate such shameful acts." Girls whispered behind their dupattas, and boys snickered, their eyes burning holes through my back as I stood in the last line, pretending not to hear. I felt utterly alone, a stray in a pack.

He even said that, for the sake of the college’s reputation, they had persuaded the college beauty not to go to the police, and that I should be grateful for the college’s handling of the matter and for her forgiveness.

Mr. Shukla’s words were like hot oil on my wounds. "We have convinced Priya ji to forgive and not take this matter to the police. Rohit, you should feel grateful for the college’s protection!" My fists clenched, but I kept my eyes on the ground. A group of girls giggled, the boys smirked. The shame was unbearable, and my mother’s warning echoed in my mind—never trust modern girls, beta, or you'll bring ruin to our name. Being called out in front of my batchmates stung deeper than any slap. My parents' faces haunted my nights, silent and defeated.

I became like a stray dog—everyone spat on me wherever I went.

After that, even the peon who handed me exam forms eyed me with contempt. Friends stopped picking my calls. Neighbours started whispering. My mother kept the door bolted and spoke in hushed tones, afraid of the society aunties gossiping in the stairwell. The stain on my name was like a tilak that would never wash away.

Before long, my mental state broke down—I couldn’t even sit for the board exams and had to drop out on my own.

Each day weighed heavier, the air itself suffocating. My textbooks gathered dust, untouched. Even the familiar whistle of the pressure cooker in the kitchen sounded distant, as if belonging to another life. Eventually, I stopped going to college. One night, I tore up my hall ticket—the sound echoing in our one-bedroom flat. My parents didn’t ask why; they already knew.

A few years later, I heard devastating news:

The bully inherited his family’s real estate empire, the college beauty became a Page 3 socialite in Mumbai, and the discipline in-charge retired with honour.

I saw their faces smiling from a newspaper cutting left by my father on the dining table. Amit with a garland around his neck at a ribbon-cutting, Priya dazzling in a Page 3 photo, Mr. Shukla being felicitated by the education minister, a shawl draped across his shoulders. The world moves on, but it never forgets to crush people like me.

I died full of resentment, coughing up blood.

They say some deaths are peaceful, but mine was slow—a cough that wouldn’t leave, until one day my palm came away red. My mother wept quietly; my father stared at the TV, refusing to change the news channel. My spirit lingered, angry and helpless, even as my body stiffened on the old iron cot.

When I opened my eyes again:

I had actually returned to the day when the college beauty lured me into the classroom.

I stared at the yellowing tube light, hardly believing my luck. The wooden desks, the half-open window letting in a whiff of fried pakoras from the canteen—everything just as before. The weight of memory and rage burned inside my chest, hotter than any fever.

This time, I had no intention of explaining myself.

A new resolve settled in me, as heavy as my father’s battered briefcase. There would be no pleading, no desperate explanations. My lips curled into a bitter smile. Let them come, let them play their games. I was no longer the naïve boy from before.

First, lock the door—then we talk.

My heart thudded louder than the approaching footsteps outside. My hands shook, but not with fear. This time, I would write my own story. But outside, footsteps thundered closer—this time, I was ready for them.