Chapter 5: A Pact in the Canteen

On the canteen table were four dishes and a soup: paneer butter masala, steamed egg curry, masala chicken wings, stir-fried beans, and dal with lauki.

The clang of steel plates, the smell of fried bhindi, and the distant shout of the canteen uncle—‘Haan, next!’—made the place feel alive. The aromas were familiar—reminding me of community lunch days, steel thalis, and the heady mix of spices that could only mean a good Indian mess.

No wonder it’s the best school in Mumbai—the canteen food is truly something to be proud of.

Even the spoons were heavy and shiny. The serving did not look like school food, but a miniature wedding buffet. I wondered if the Kapoors had sponsored the menu.

I scratched my head again. ‘Oops, I accidentally ordered too much.’

I grinned sheepishly, pushing the extra bowl towards her.

‘It’s a shame to waste food. You probably haven’t had dinner either, right? Let’s eat together?’

Priya Sharma was silent for a moment, then finally picked up her spoon and began to eat in small bites.

She kept her eyes on her plate, taking only the smallest portions, her back as straight as a ruler.

I looked at her wrist peeking out from her uniform sleeve—thin and bony.

You could see the veins, the skin stretched tight. I remembered stories from the slum next to our old orphanage—girls whose lunches were always just a piece of bread and water.

Actually, girls like the prefect are the ones who truly need help. But they aren’t pretty, they don’t cry out in pain, so they become nothing more than the weeds in our memories of youth, not even qualified to be the heroine of a TV serial.

The world looks away from their suffering, as if their silence makes their pain invisible. But I knew better now.

In this life, I want to save not just myself, but her too.

I swore it quietly, between spoonfuls of dal and bits of lauki. This time, the weeds would bloom.

With my mind made up, I said:

‘Arrey, conic sections are so hard. I just can’t understand them.’

I made a face, crossing my eyes for effect, hoping to draw out a smile.

‘Prefect, you’re good at studies. How about tutoring me?’

I could see her cheeks redden, a rare smile flickering across her lips.

Priya Sharma, a piece of paneer in her mouth, looked at me in shock, as if to say, ‘Are we really that close?’

Her spoon paused mid-air, eyebrows raised.

I didn’t give her a chance to refuse.

I slid my plate closer to hers and put my arm around her shoulder, grinning, ‘It’s settled then. I’ll pay you for tutoring.’

She laughed, the sound bright and unsure, like a sparrow discovering a patch of sunlight after days of rain.