Chapter 5: New Beginnings and Old Lessons

The incident caused a huge stir at the time.

PTA meetings were tense. The staffroom buzzed with debate—some defending Prakash for his ‘results,’ others calling for his suspension.

I laughed. Sometimes, laughter is all you have when logic leaves the building. "Arrey, sun na, kal to poora staffroom hil gaya jab pata chala Prakash Sir aa rahe hain," someone whispered in Hinglish.

My friends said, "Arrey, kya karein, yahan to aisa hi hota hai." When half the class drops out, of course the top admission rate looks good!

The debate raged for days. In the end, Prakash was allowed to stay—just not as a class teacher.

I don’t know how parents found out about him. Maybe from tuition centres or alumni WhatsApp groups. But one thing’s certain: the students would never have asked for Prakash—only parents blinded by numbers did.

Meeting the principal’s gaze, I curled my lips in a half-smile, half-sigh.

"If that’s what parents want, I have no objection."

I folded my hands in my lap—a respectful, final gesture. Har bartaan ka dhakkan hota hai.

If Prakash takes over, I truly won’t have a place in this year’s graduating class. For a moment, I felt lost. The classroom had always been my world.

The principal said, "Not officially decided yet. Academic office just had Prakash substitute a few classes to see if students can adjust..."

He sounded like he already knew the answer. "Let’s hope there are fewer students with depression this year..."

I smiled and nodded, making no comment. The principal left, looking worried. I closed the door, took a sip of cold coffee, and returned to my comedy show—but my mind was still in the classroom.

Lunch time arrived. The aroma of tiffin—paneer sabzi, lemon rice, home-made pickle—wafted in from the corridor.

Humming an old Kishore Kumar tune, I headed to the canteen. The air was thick with fried potatoes and chutney. For a moment, I almost felt light-hearted.

Passing by Class 12C, I saw Prakash Sir at the podium, spitting as he lectured, slapping the blackboard with his scale, glaring over his glasses. The students’ faces were ashen. Kabir’s eyes were red, defiant—a look that said, "This is what you wanted, right?"

He insisted on coming out, finally letting off steam. "Dekhiye, kaun talent samajhta hai, parents aur students ko pata hai. Sorry, Sir, maine nahi socha tha parents mujhe itna trust karenge."

His words were a dig, but I could see the uncertainty beneath. Some lessons can only be learned the hard way. I prayed they wouldn’t come at too great a cost.