Chapter 1: The Counselor’s Desk

Grandma was fighting for her life, and I stood in front of the counselor’s desk, my hands nervously clutching the leave application form. I kept smoothing the edge of the paper, like Ma always does with her saree pallu when she’s anxious. The whir of the ceiling fan above was drowned by the sharp whistle of the pressure cooker from the staff room next door. My voice shook as I tried, “Ma’am, my dadi is not well at all. I need to go home.”

She looked up, barely interested, and fired back in that dry, clipped tone, "Why are you coming for chhutti when nothing has even happened yet? When she’s gone, then see, but what’s the point now?"

Her words hit me hard—each one colder than the last, as if my family’s pain was just another headline she’d skim through in the morning paper. I stood there, caught between pleading and just storming out. Aren’t elders supposed to have some understanding, especially in our society?

The counselor flung my leave application aside like it was an old receipt and snapped, "Get out. I’m not approving it." She didn’t even glance at me again, just lowered her head and continued scribbling. Her pen scratched across the register, ignoring me as if I was just one more name in the attendance sheet. I couldn’t believe how heartless she was. I blurted out, "Ma’am, that’s my real grandmother."

Somewhere behind her, the landline phone rang faintly, but she was lost in her own irritation. My voice was barely a whisper, but my heart was thumping like the dhol during Ganpati visarjan.

She slid her glasses up her nose and shot me a look. "Who doesn’t have a dadi or nani? Are you the only one? Are you some special case? So what if she’s your real grandmother—she’s not dead yet, is she?"

It was as if she thought grandparents were as disposable as last week’s tiffin. I bit my tongue, swallowing all the words that wanted to burst out. My fingers dug into my palm, nails leaving little half-moons, but Amma’s old warning echoed—never disrespect elders, no matter how much they hurt you. Beta, don’t talk back to teachers.

Anger surged through me, blood rushing to my head in a hot wave.

My cheeks burned, fists clenched by my sides. That old school habit—never raise your voice at elders—was battling with the urge to just shout. There was a knot in my chest that wouldn’t loosen.

How could someone who’s meant to be a role model, an educated teacher, act so cold?

Is this what they call professionalism now? All those lectures about empathy and student welfare felt like cruel jokes. The floor beneath my feet felt like it was shifting.

I couldn’t stop myself. "She’s in the ICU right now. This could be the last time I ever see her!" My voice echoed in the tiny office, bouncing off faded family photos taped to her wall. I didn’t care if the peon outside heard me. At that moment, nothing else mattered.

THUD!

The counselor slammed her pen down, her face growing stern. "Why are you shouting? I’m already being polite to you, you know that?"

She leaned forward, dupatta slipping off one shoulder, eyes hard as glass. I caught the shuffle of a junior peering in from the corridor, quickly ducking away.

"Do you know how many students I manage? Five classes from Electrical Engineering, two from Electronics—nearly two hundred people. Today this one wants leave, tomorrow someone else—what do you expect me to do?"

She started counting on her fingers, rattling off numbers like we were just inventory in a storeroom. From the way she spoke, you’d think she was running the Kumbh Mela single-handedly.

"The sports meet is about to start and you want leave now? What, is your brain full of mush? You’re an adult—where’s your sense of responsibility to the college?"

She even muttered under her breath, “Dimaag kharaab ho gaya hai kya?” Her tone made it sound like I’d insulted her entire family tree.

"You’d better get this straight: college isn’t a playground for you to do whatever you want..."

Her voice droned on, filling the cramped room like the never-ending hum of a neighbour’s mixer-grinder. My anxiety twisted my stomach in knots, sweat prickling at my hairline.

She kept going, while my nerves just kept unraveling.

Every word felt like a slap. I tried to zone out, staring at the dusty pile of files behind her, thinking how tiny my problems looked in this office, but how huge they felt at home.

Her words made me furious, but this wasn’t the time to argue. I forced myself to calm down and tried once more.

Taking a shaky breath, I pleaded again, my voice softer, almost desperate. My palms were clammy. “Ma’am, I’m really in a hurry, I have to get home as soon as possible. If you don’t believe me, I can call my parents.”

I took out my phone, but she waved me off. "Don’t bother. And don’t even think about using your parents to pressure me—I don’t care. Bottom line, no matter what happens to your grandmother, I absolutely will not approve this leave. Just give it up."

She said it like a judge passing sentence. Her bangles clinked as she gestured me away, her face like stone. There was no point arguing further.

To hell with it...

If she weren’t a teacher, I would have given her a piece of my mind the moment she said, "Even if she dies, it’s useless for you to go back."

Fine, I don’t need your stupid leave slip.

You can control the paperwork, but can you control my two legs?

I walked out, the corridor echoing with the sound of my own rebellion.

For the first time, I felt a strange sense of freedom in my own rebellion. It was like telling the world, "Chalo, dekh lenge!"