Chapter 1: WhatsApp Wars

I led the students of Class 3 to achieve the best results, yet the parents in the WhatsApp group started complaining about me.

Even after such good results, when I sipped my cutting chai during break—the rim of the steel glass still warm against my lips—my phone vibrated with another WhatsApp ping. The parent group was buzzing with fresh complaints. The tea had barely cooled, but the messages were pouring in as if I'd fed their kids poison instead of letting them rest.

"Hamare bachchon ka future kyu khatre mein daal rahe ho, madam? Baaki teachers to ek din ki chhutti dete hain. Aap to Saturday ko bhi so-ne bol deti ho!"

"Aapko kya lagta hai? Aise hi relax karne se IIT mil jayega? Dil pe haath rakh ke batao, teaching kar bhi paati ho ya bas timepass chal raha hai?"

"Madam, aap ke wajah se humare bachchon ka career barbaad ho raha hai. Prakash Sir to pura hafte class lete hain. Bacchon ko high-pressure education chahiye!"

Each message was a volley of anxiety, the kind you could almost hear—restless fingers typing, probably while sitting cross-legged with chai and Parle-G beside them. It felt like, by letting the children breathe, I'd done something sinful.

"Teacher badlo! Aap jaisi teacher se kuch nahi hoga. Prakash Sir ko lao, wohi sahi hai!"

The constant comparison with Prakash Sir made me sigh. As if making kids study all seven days would turn them into toppers overnight. Did these parents really see their children as kids—or just machines?

I rubbed my forehead, adjusting my dupatta over my shoulder, a habit when stress crept in. I had nothing to say, so I let them vent. I knew replying on WhatsApp at night would only give me acidity. Let them have their say, I thought, gazing out at the city lights shimmering beyond the half-open curtain. Sometimes, silence is the only answer you can give to a storm.

The WhatsApp group DP—a generic trophy, shining gold—stared up at me from the phone screen, a little irony that wasn’t lost on me as I placed the phone face-down on the table.