Chapter 1: The Hand That Raised Doubt

In the silent exam hall, I hesitated before raising my hand to call the invigilator. For a split second, Amma’s warning echoed in my mind: 'Beta, don’t bring shame to the family. Remember, board exams are not just about marks—they’re about our izzat.' My heart pounded, the weight of her words pressing down on me as I wondered what would happen if everyone thought I’d done something wrong.

All around me, the tick-tick of old wall clocks mingled with the soft scraping of pens, and the summer ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, barely shifting the thick, humid air. My sweaty palms left faint marks on the desk as I slowly lifted my hand—a small act that felt enormous in this strict, pin-drop silent board exam atmosphere.

The invigilator approached, his steps echoing in the stillness, and asked softly, 'Kya hua, beta? Sab theek hai na?'

He was a middle-aged man, impatience showing in the set of his jaw, spectacles perched precariously on his nose. His voice carried the authority that every Indian student instinctively fears. A few students looked up, curiosity flickering in their eyes, but quickly returned to their papers, not daring to invite trouble.

Looking up at the teacher, I tried to appear as sincere as possible, eyes wide with obedience and just a hint of grievance. 'There's an answer sheet in my desk drawer,' I said, voice wavering between fear and shock. I folded my hands politely under the desk—my fingers twisting the edge of my ID card, the plastic cool and slippery against my clammy skin—hoping it wouldn’t look like I was being disrespectful.

'Arrey...' The invigilator looked startled, clearly at a loss. He glanced helplessly at another invigilator nearby.

He scratched his head, muttering under his breath in Hindi about bad luck, and signaled to his colleague with wide eyes. Somewhere at the back, someone whispered, and within seconds, the whole row knew something was up. The classic exam hall gossip network had sprung to life.

Very soon, I became the centre of attention in the exam hall.

A couple of girls from the back rows craned their necks to see, and one boy near the window gave me a sympathetic glance, as if to say, 'Bhai, tu toh gaya!' I felt like the kid caught eating samosas during fasting season—every eye on me, none friendly. For a moment, the collective judgement and pity of Indian schoolchildren washed over me, and I could already hear Amma’s scolding in my head.

To avoid disturbing the other students, one of the invigilators took me outside.

He guided me out with a gentle but firm hand on my shoulder, just as teachers do when they’re unsure if you’re innocent or a troublemaker. As I stepped into the empty corridor, the distant ring of a cycle bell drifted in from outside the school gate, mingling with the faint shouts of PT sir scolding boys near the garden.

Outside, the invigilator questioned me, 'Is this answer sheet yours?'

He held it up gingerly, two fingers pinching the edge like it was contaminated, and gave me a look that only teachers and angry aunties at weddings can manage—half suspicion, half disappointment.

'It’s not mine. It just appeared in my drawer out of nowhere.'

I tried to look as earnest as possible, my heart hammering in my chest. I remembered Amma’s voice: always tell the truth to teachers, or karma will catch you during results. I kept my eyes lowered, like Papa taught me when elders are angry.

'If it’s not yours, then how did it end up in your drawer? Didn’t we ask everyone to check their desks before the exam?'

His tone was sharp, but genuine confusion flickered in his eyes. Down the corridor, the school peon swept the floor, pausing to listen. He slowed his sweeping, glanced up at us, and later muttered to another staff, 'Aaj toh kuch badi baat lagti hai.'

'I really did check. This thing just appeared out of thin air. And if it was really mine, why would I raise my hand and tell you about it?' I tried to appeal to his sense of logic, adding softly, 'Sir, agar mera hota toh main bataata hi kyun?' I felt a nervous itch in my throat but kept my hands still, resisting the urge to fiddle with my school tie.

The invigilator stared at me, momentarily speechless.

He looked from the answer sheet to my face, trying to decide if I was a master criminal or just the unluckiest kid in school. The bell chimed again, a reminder that time was slipping away.