Chapter 3: The Cost of Defiance

"What are you showing off for, Meera?"

Ananya’s sneer was icy, her voice dripping with the venom of old grudges. "Don’t think you can run from me here. Yeh abhi khatam nahi hua."

"Yaad hai washroom ka scene? Jab maine tujhe dirty water pilaya tha? Tu bhool gayi?"

Since school began, Ananya had always targeted me. She stuffed cockroaches in my bag, blamed me for stolen money, turned the class against me, and even at PTA meetings, poisoned teachers’ ears.

Before, I’d have caved—lent her the points, just to avoid trouble. My parents’ words echoed in my mind: 'Choti si baat hai, compromise kar lo.'

But now, everything was too strange. This wasn’t a classroom drama—it was survival. I couldn’t risk it. My heart hammered painfully as I stared at the cracked floor, wishing to disappear.

Everyone else eyed me coldly, faces shuttered. That old suffocating loneliness crept in, like being trapped inside a tiffin box with no escape.

I kept my head down, silent, hoping the ground would swallow me.

Not satisfied, Ananya kicked me a few more times, her juttis thudding into my side. I curled up, clutching my stomach, sweat running down my face, breaths coming in shallow bursts. The taste of iron filled my mouth.

Only then did Rohan step in, voice steady but eyes darting:

"It’s too risky for one person to lend 5 points. Why not have everyone lend 1 point each?"

Ananya stopped, glaring at me, then raised her voice above the murmurs:

"Whoever lends me points now, I’ll pay back double. Pakka. Promise on my head!"

In the end, Ananya borrowed 10 points. Some hesitated, but under her glare, they gave in—peer pressure winning as always.

She spent 15 points for the beauty mark, another 5 to sneak into the kotha—everything gone in one go.

Her plan worked perfectly.

That night, the kotha was thick with rose petals and incense. Her dance dazzled, and she demurely revealed the beauty mark to the nawab. The musicians exchanged glances; the madam, lips stained with paan, smiled approvingly.

The nawab was pleased, clapping as servants hurried behind, trays of sweets and sharbat in hand.

The rest of us, in ragged clothes, were stopped at the kotha’s door by guards. The guard’s mustache twitched as he blocked the doorway, a thick paan stain at the corner of his mouth. We could only message Ananya in the group chat, the blue ticks mocking our helplessness.

Rohan created a WhatsApp group—[Class 14 Safe Return Home]—with a diya emoji for luck.

Ananya sent a flurry of messages:

[Met the nawab, got 5 points. He’s super handsome 😍]

[Poured wine for him, got 10 more points!]

[Nawab touched my beauty mark, another 10 points 💃]

[Those who lent me points, already paid back double.]

She even @’d me:

[@Meera, ab pachtayegi? Hehe.]

The chat filled with banter:

[Ab toh Ananya ko hi bonus milega. Lucky girl!]

[Bas yaar, mujhe bhi koi aisa nawab mil jaaye! 🙄]

A few minutes later, Ananya sent a voice message—her scream echoing with agony:

[Ah ah ah ah—]