Chapter 3: The Drawer’s Secret

With that, the two of them hurried me to the surveillance room. We moved briskly down the corridor, shoes squeaking on the mosaic floor, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the ancient generator. The CCTV room was cramped, filled with dusty files and the flicker of an old monitor fighting the afternoon heat.

After watching the CCTV footage more than ten times, their faces grew longer, sweat beading on their foreheads. Even the peon who brought chai slowed his sweeping, peered at the monitor, and later muttered to another staff, 'Aaj toh kuch badi baat lagti hai.' The footage was clear: one moment, my desk was empty; the next, an answer sheet appeared as if by magic, like some divine prank.

'Sir, what should we do now?' The invigilator’s voice trembled, as if he’d seen a ghost. His hand gripped the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.

'You're asking me? I've been invigilating for over twenty years, and I've never seen anything like this.' The chief invigilator shook his head, sweat trickling down his temple, glasses slipping. In India, twenty years of experience is supposed to mean you’ve seen it all—but this was different.

'Maybe... we should call the police?' There was a nervous chuckle, quickly fading. No one wanted police trouble; everyone knew that brought a different kind of disaster.

'Call the police? Are you mad?' The chief glared at his colleague, then turned to me. 'Alright, go back and finish your exam.' He spoke in a low hiss, as if the very idea of police at school would invite nosy reporters and angry parents wielding chappals.

I pressed my lips together, swallowing the urge to protest. After wasting so much time, what could I possibly write now? But I didn’t want to make a scene, so I followed the invigilator back.

Inside, every pair of eyes darted up at me, then quickly away. It was as if I’d returned from a parallel universe, not just the corridor. I felt like the kid caught eating samosas during fasting season—every eye on me, none friendly.

As soon as I sat and reached for my pen, I noticed the edge of a white sheet poking from the drawer. I pulled it out—another answer sheet. My pulse thudded in my ears, louder each time the drawer revealed another sheet. The answer sheet looked identical to the first, crisp and fresh, answers neatly written. Sweat trickled down my spine, cold and insistent.

I raised my hand again. The invigilator, almost expecting it, hurried over. Seeing yet another answer sheet, he nearly lost his balance.

He gripped my desk, muttering, 'Ye kya ho raha hai, bhagwan?' under his breath. The students around me began whispering, exchanging glances. Some stifled nervous giggles; the tension was as thick as Mumbai’s monsoon air.

He looked at me, eyes wide with disbelief: 'How is there another one?'

I shrugged helplessly, palms up, eyebrows raised—a classic Indian gesture for 'Don’t ask me!' My pulse hammered in my ears.

He stuffed the paper into his bag, lips pressed together so tightly they turned white. He gave me a half-hearted nod, silently begging me to just get on with it.

I nodded and was about to resume writing, but again, another sheet full of answers appeared inside the drawer. My heart lurched. By now, it felt like I was the main character in a wild Hindi serial, the kind my dadi loves—one twist after another, all in one episode.