Chapter 1: The 443rd Day

My name is Rohan. The name scribbled in blue Reynolds ink on every school register, shouted across cricket fields, whispered by mothers at dusk. It’s a name as ordinary as any other in a thousand small towns across India. Yet, my life is anything but ordinary. I hunched over a desk so old it had names carved in three different handwritings—probably from boys who failed before me. Dust motes swirled in a shaft of sunlight from the cracked window, and I counted silently: this was my 443rd day repeating my final year of school.

A ceiling fan creaked overhead, lazily stirring the sticky air, and I stare at the nearly completed monthly test paper on my desk. I let out a sigh and toss my pen onto it. The loud clatter startles the teacher at the front. The sound slices through the low buzz of exam nerves; heads swivel in my direction, some curious, some annoyed.

"Rohan, what happened?" the teacher asks, peering over her glasses. Her tone carries that unique blend of concern and exasperation only an Indian teacher can muster after seeing you in her class for what feels like lifetimes.

"I suddenly forgot a question. What a pity—just a little bit more," I reply, sighing for no real reason. I manage a sheepish half-smile, as if to say, 'Bas, ho gaya.'

My hand moved on its own. There was no fear, only a dull ache. The kind that comes after too many silent dinners. I reached into my bag, took out a paper cutter, and drove it from my right eyeball straight into my brain.

A gasp came from one corner, then shrill screams erupted. Someone knocked over a steel water bottle, its clatter echoing off the tiles. The teacher rushed forward, but her dupatta caught on a desk, yanking her back for a second. Someone screamed, the sound bouncing off the dusty walls. In that chaos, I was transported back to a week ago.