Chapter 2: Tu Samajh Nahi Aata Kya?

Between classes—

Ananya strides up to my desk, each step dripping with Delhi attitude. That wicked grin—she’s loving every second.

“Ritika, second place again, haan? Samajh nahi aata kya? Chahiye tuition from the topper herself?”

Ritika—that name Maa gave me. Plain, solid, the kind of name that gets you blamed for every broken pickle jar in TV serials.

I once groaned, “Maa, everyone teases me about this name.”

She just kept chopping onions, eyes never meeting mine:

“Kya, ab naam se bhi problem? Tu toh sirf bojh hai na. Tera baap bhi chala gaya the day you came. Shukar kar, Ritika naam diya. Nakhre mat dikha.”

That name was my ticket to the bathroom bullies. Manicured hands shoving me near the stinking steel tap, laughter echoing off the tiled walls. My reflection in the cracked mirror—eyes red, face blotchy, all shame.

Ananya’s smirk in those moments? It’s the same one I see now.

I glance down—my shoes, scuffed and dusty. Ananya’s? Spotless white, not a speck. That’s how it’s always been.

Fidgeting with the torn edge of my notebook, I pretend to check my cheap steel watch.

“No need, Miss Ananya. Your time’s precious. Focus on your own studies, na.”

“Oh? Ritika, tu itna care karti hai mere liye?”

She’s convinced I’m dying to swap marks, and is happy to string me along for the final blow.

The classroom buzzes—tiffins opening, aloo paratha, Maggi smells mixing in the air. But Ananya’s eyes are only for me.

“Tomorrow onwards, I’m not coming to school. Teachers here? Slow, yaar. Mere liye, five top tutors at home—full one-on-one. Weak spots? Khatam.”

She flashes her phone, WhatsApp pings lighting up. “See, my Harvard counsellor is messaging—‘Ready for your profile call?’ Life set.”

“By board exams, gap will be even wider. Catch up if you can.”

She wears her pride like a designer jacket, and the WhatsApp barrage cheers her on:

[Ananya is too clever, yaar! Teasing supporting character with five tutors, just to make her jealous!]

[But asli mein, Ananya’s just doing masti—no padhai, only party. Supporting character ko kuch nahi milega!]

[Rich kids toh admission kharid lete hain, that’s real heroine life!]

And just like that, Ananya stopped coming to school.

Following the barrage’s hints, I once trailed her to a Connaught Place lounge. CP at night—branded sneakers, blaring horns, neon everywhere. The bouncer barely glanced at Ananya and her gang, but looked me up and down, as if my Bata sandals didn’t belong here. Ananya? Surrounded by boys with gold watches, sipping a fancy mocktail, laughing loud, phone flashing Insta stories. When the music got wild, they slipped off to a hotel, giggling under the city lights.

I didn’t judge. Their world, their rules. I clutched my dupatta, faded and thin, melting into the shadows, mind already on tomorrow’s revision.

Me? Still in oversized uniform, thick glasses, no perfume—just the lingering scent of agarbatti from our colony temple.

Without Ananya’s drama, I suddenly had time—time to breathe, to study. Still, her spies watched, so I acted lazy in public, always first to run after class. But really? I hid in old classrooms, studying by tube light, tiffin box by my side.

If Ananya wants to act, I’ll play along.

But honestly, I can’t wait—

When Ananya realises the marks weren’t swapped, what face will she make?