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"Bigg Boss, Jugnu ne mujhe maara hai. Aap please isse confession room mein bulaye." [Bigg Boss, Jugnu hit me. Please call him to the confession room.]

It is just past 7 a.m. at Saint Soldiers School, and the classroom still carries that early-morning stillness—the kind that clings to the cold floor tiles and floats in the air between yawns and rustling schoolbags.

The sunlight, soft and slanted, slips in through the dusty windows and spills across the desks in long, quiet stripes. The day hasn't quite begun yet.

The teacher hasn't arrived. The blackboard still shows yesterday's half-erased fraction sums.

Shubman is standing at the back of the room, close to the red-and-yellow soft board, where faded science charts—hand-drawn diagrams of the water cycle and layers of soil—still hang a little crooked on their drawing pins.

He's not looking at the door, not looking at Jugnu, and definitely not at Abhishek, who is slumped over his desk with a pencil in his mouth.

No—his gaze is fixed high on the black, glossy dome of the CCTV camera nestled in the top corner of the wall, right above the chalkboard, where the plaster is chipped and the wall paint is a shade lighter from years of dust.

Most kids barely notice the camera anymore; some even forget it's there. But Shubman looks at it like it's more than plastic. Like it's an eye. An ear. A witness.

Like someone might actually be inside that dark little globe, watching quietly, listening carefully, keeping track of who did what and when and why.

He holds his school ID card tightly in one hand, gripping it like a microphone in front of his mouth, the edge of his thumb smudging his own photograph.

His other hand hangs loose at his side, but the fingers twitch every now and then—tiny, nervous movements, like they're thinking of raising themselves but haven't made up their mind yet.

There's no anger in his face, no loud emotion, but there's something else there. A kind of stillness that feels serious. Like the kind of stillness a kid wears when he's pretending to be okay, but he's not. Not really.

Across the room, Jugnu is sprawled across two benches, the way he always sits when there's no teacher to tell him not to—his legs stretched out, back resting against the wall, like he's riding in the sleeper class of a very boring train.

When Shubman speaks, Jugnu lifts his head, slow and squinting, like he's not sure he heard the words right. His eyebrows knit together. His mouth opens just a little.

It takes a moment to land.

But then something in the room shifts—a tiny change, like a thread being tugged—and you can almost see the realization spread across Jugnu's face as he connects the dots between "maara" and his own name and the quiet, unwavering way Shubman is looking at the camera, not even at him.

Jugnu turns toward Abhishek, who's drawing tiny fighter jets in his rough notebook, and opens his mouth to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a breathy chuckle.

Then another.

And then, like a dam breaking, the laughter pours out in small, shaking waves. His head drops. His shoulders bounce. He presses his sleeve to his face, but it doesn't help.

It's not loud laughter. Not the kind that fills the room. It's the kind that sneaks up and stays—makes your stomach cramp and your nose run, the kind you can't stop once it starts because everything suddenly feels too funny, too much.

Abhishek lifts his eyes, sees Jugnu halfway folded over his desk like he's hiding from the seriousness of it all, and gives in almost immediately. He drops his pencil.

He slaps his desk—not hard, just enough to mark the moment—and lets his head fall into the crook of his elbow, shaking with helpless, defeated laughter.

But Shubman doesn't move. Not even a twitch. He doesn't look at them. Doesn't smile. Doesn't roll his eyes. His gaze never leaves the camera, and his grip on the ID card only tightens.

He lifts it closer to his mouth now, like he's about to say something very important and the card is the only thing connecting him to the one person he believes might actually listen.

"Bigg Boss," he says again, his voice thinner this time, stretched out over each syllable like it's trying not to break.

The words don't rise, don't announce themselves—they slip out, soft and hesitant, as if he's worried someone might actually be listening. "Hum yahan atyachar sah rahe hain. Har din naya drama. Har din naya dukh. Hum sirf itna chahte hain... thoda sa insaaf." [We're enduring cruelty here. Every day, a new drama. Every day, a new sadness. All we want is... a little justice.]

Jugnu stirs. Not all at once, but in pieces. First a small breath through the nose, then a twitch of his shoulders. A sound escapes him—half a chuckle, half a cough—and he presses his palm to his mouth like he's trying to shove the laugh back in.

He rubs his face hard, the way someone does when they're trying to reset the moment, and straightens up by a few inches, blinking rapidly like he's wiping something off the inside of his eyes.

"Abe bhai..." [Bro..] he manages, finally, the words slipping between sigh and smile, "tu serious hai? Tu sach mein keh raha hai maine tujhe maara? Kya? Kab? Kahan? Aur CCTV ke saamne bhi acting nahi chhodega kya?" [you're serious? You're actually saying I hit you? What? When? Where? And even in front of CCTV, you're still acting?]

Shubman turns toward him now, slowly, like each vertebra in his neck has to think about it first. His body doesn't snap or jerk or flinch—it just pivots, calm and quiet, like this whole thing is rehearsed. His face is unreadable, but not blank.

There's something behind the eyes, something like patience gone stale.

Not rage, not sadness. Just the heavy wait of someone who once hoped things would change, and has learned—quietly—that they probably won't.

"Baat mat kar mujhse. Tune bole tha ki last bite meri hogi. Aur phir... poori Dairy Milk khatam kar gaya. Ek tukda bhi nahi chhoda." [Don't talk to me. That day, I'd get the last bite. And then... you finished the whole Dairy Milk. Didn't leave a single piece.] he says, the tone clipped but even.

Jugnu opens his mouth like he's about to defend himself—but the words don't come. His hands rise slowly, fingers spread, palms up, like someone showing they've got nothing left to hide.

He exhales through his nose, long and soft, and the smile that had been clinging to the corners of his lips loses its grip.

"Us din mood off tha," [That day I was in a bad mood] he says, and it's hard to tell if it's an excuse or the truth or both at once. "Socha... tu khush hoga agar main last bite enjoy karun. Dosti mein thoda sacrifice toh banta hai." [Thought... maybe you'd be happy if I enjoyed the last bite. Some sacrifice is part of friendship, right?]

Shubman tilts his head just slightly, not in disbelief, but in something quieter—something closer to resignation. He doesn't blink. His voice drops, not for drama, but for precision.

"Tu toh chaba bhi nahi raha tha," [You weren't even chewing it,] he says, and each word feels slower than the last. "Seedha nigal gaya. Mere saamne. Main dekh raha tha. Tu dekh raha tha ke main dekh raha hoon. Aur phir bhi... nigal gaya." [You swallowed it. Right in front of me. I was watching. You saw me watching. And still... you swallowed it.]

There's a pause, and it's thick.

From his desk, Abhishek lifts his head like he's been underwater and just surfaced. He lets out a whistle—low, long, like steam releasing from a pressure cooker—and reaches for his pencil like a judge preparing a verdict.

"Bhai," [Bro] he says, tapping twice on the wooden surface like a gavel, "yeh toh emotional betrayal hai. Tiffin trust ka issue hai." [this is emotional betrayal. A serious breach of tiffin trust.]

Shubman turns his head again, slowly, until his eyes meet the black orb of the camera in the corner. He stares at it like it owes him something. Like it's the last witness in a room full of silent bystanders.

"Yeh wahi dost hai," [This is that same friend,] he says, more to the dome than the class, "jo apne Parle-G ka extra packet kabhi nahi deta. Jisne bina puchhe mere tiffin ka aloo paratha le liya. Aur ab bolta hai ki usne Dairy Milk 'emotionally' khaya." [who never shares his extra packet of Parle-G. Who took my aloo paratha without asking. And now says he ate the Dairy Milk... 'emotionally.']

Jugnu stays quiet, his shoulders a little lower now, as if something inside him has quietly shifted. He looks down at his pencil box like it's the only thing left in the room worth noticing.

There's no sound as he opens it—just the soft click of plastic against plastic, familiar, unremarkable, but oddly loud in the stillness that's settled over the benches.

Inside the box, everything is in its usual place: a pencil with bite marks near the top, an eraser worn down to a stub, a half-used glue stick that hasn't been touched in weeks.

But his fingers reach for the small, blue sharpener, the one he's had since Class 3, the one with the tiny crack on the side that only he seems to notice.

He lifts it out gently, holding it with both hands, turning it over once, then again, as if he's waiting for it to feel like something more than just a piece of stationery.

There's no urgency in the movement, no purpose behind it that he explains, just a quiet need to be doing something, anything, that doesn't involve meeting anyone's eyes.

He keeps his gaze low, focused on the sharpener in his palm, like it might anchor him if he stares at it long enough.

He doesn't use it, doesn't say why he took it out, and after a while, he places it back just as carefully as he lifted it, closing the box with the same soft click as before.

When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than it's been all morning, barely rising above the hum of the ceiling fan, and it sounds less like he's talking to anyone around him and more like he's trying to say something out loud just to hear how it feels in the air.

"Simran ne break up kar liya," [Simran broke up with me,] he says, not looking up, not expecting a reaction, and certainly not trying to get sympathy from anyone.

The words don't hang in the room like an announcement or fall like a punchline. They simply settle—quietly and fully—between the three boys, thick as monsoon air, not asking for anything, just existing.

There is no laughter this time, not even from Abhishek, whose head stays still against his folded arms, eyes open now, watching Jugnu without a trace of his usual grin.

And Shubman, who only moments ago had stood so tall and righteous before the camera in the corner, doesn't say a word either.

He just stands there, ID card still in hand, looking not at Jugnu, not at the sharpener, not even at the camera anymore, but somewhere in between, like he's trying to figure out if maybe the story was bigger than the stolen chocolate after all.

Jugnu, meanwhile, still hasn't looked up. He's hunched over his pencil box like it's some kind of crime scene, just sitting there poking at his eraser like it might give him answers if he stares at it long enough.

And then, out of nowhere, in the kind of voice that sounds like someone narrating their own downfall, he finally speaks.

"Bol rahi thi," [She was saying,] he starts, not loud, not quiet—just tired in the most dramatic way possible, "ki 'tumhe Lays aur cartoons mein zyada interest hai.'" ['You care more about Lays and cartoons.'] He says the line like it personally ruined his entire bloodline.

"Ab class 5 mein kya main adhar card ka forms bhar raha hota agar mujhe cartoons mein interest nahi hoga?" [Like come on, I'm in class 5. Was I supposed to be filling out Aadhaar card forms instead of liking cartoons?]

He finally glances up—not to look at anyone, but just to dramatically stare into space like he's doing some slow-motion ad for sad kids.

"Aur jaate jaate," [And before leaving,] he continues, voice rising just enough for the class to hear, "MERI BEN 10 wali sticker bottle bhi le gayi. Woh green wali jisme maine khud sticker chipkaaya tha. Woh bhi woh nahi laayi thi, mere mamu ne Diwali pe di thi. Limited edition tha. Tiffin ke side mein perfectly fit hoti thi." [she took my Ben 10 sticker bottle. The green one—the one I put the sticker on myself. She didn't even bring it, uncle gave it to me on Diwali. It was limited edition. It fit perfectly next to my tiffin.]

There's a small pause, like even his brain has to take a second to absorb how unfair the situation truly is.

"Ab mummy ko kya hi bataata main," [And what could I even tell my mom?] he says, shoulders slumping even further. "Unhone dekha bottle nahi hai, bas ek thappad lagaya aur bola 'ab cartoon dekh dekh ke dimaag kharaab ho gaya hai.' Matlab mujhe maara bhi gaya... aur bottle bhi gayi. Double loss. Upar se mummy ko lagta hai main bottle ko jaan bujh ke kho ke aaya hoon jaise woh koi chhoti cheez thi." [She saw the bottle was missing, slapped me, and said, 'All these cartoons have messed up your brain.' So not only did I lose the bottle, I got hit too. Double loss. And on top of that, my mom thinks I lost it on purpose, like it was some random bottle.]

He turns now to finally look at Shubman, expression completely flat. "Aur tu toh bol raha tha ki teri Dairy Milk gayi toh life khatam ho gayi. Bhai, teri chocolate toh digest ho gayi hogi. Meri bottle ka toh postmortem bhi nahi hua. Mujhe toh last time woh bottle properly dekhne bhi nahi mila. Aakhri baar woh bench ke neeche rakhi thi, aur ab..." [And you were saying your life ended because your Dairy Milk got stolen? Bro, your chocolate's probably digested by now. My bottle hasn't even had a proper postmortem. I didn't even get to look at it one last time. Last I saw it, it was under the bench... and now...] He waves vaguely at the dusty floor. "Bas yaadein reh gayi hain." [Only memories remain.]

Shubman lets out a small whistle, then slowly shakes his head like he's seen this exact stupidity unfold a hundred times before. "Bola tha maine ki pyar-vyar ke chakkar mein mat pad. Par nahi, tujhe toh full Shahrukh Khan banna tha. Bhosdike, abhi toh spelling test bhi pass nahi hota tujhse. Aur serious relationship ki baate kar raha tha." [I told you, man—don't get into this love crap. But no, you had to go full Shah Rukh Khan. Bhosdike, you still can't pass a spelling test, and you're out here talking about serious relationships.]

Jugnu turns to Shubman with a done look, the kind that says he's already lived three extra lives in the past twenty minutes. "Chutiye, main kya karoon?" [What do you want me to do, chutiye?] he says, voice heavy with mock wisdom, like some retired uncle from the colony who's seen it all.

"Itni sundar bandi thi, haath se chali gayi, aur tu yahan baithe baithe lecture de raha hai. Koi na, main toh keh raha hoon, jis din tujhe pyaar hoga na—woh bhi aisa wala, jismein tu apna sab kuch de dega—uss din baat karenge. Tab tu aake bolega, 'Jugnu bhai, tu sahi tha. Dil tootne ka dard alag hi hota hai.'" [She was so pretty. And now she's gone. And here you are giving me lectures. It's okay. One day you'll fall in love too—real love, the kind where you give your whole heart. And then you'll come to me and say, 'Jugnu bro, you were right. A broken heart really hits different.']

He leans back in his chair now, arms folded, like he's made a point that should honestly be written in the moral science textbook.

There's no actual pain on his face, though, no real heartbreak hiding under the surface.

In fact, he seems more interested in how long it'll take before Tiwari Sir walks in and starts yelling about someone stealing chalk again.

Honestly, he looks like he forgot Simran's existence halfway through his own monologue and is now just enjoying the sound of his own voice.

Shubman rolls his eyes, shakes his head once like he's resetting a glitch, and exhales like he's dealing with someone who genuinely believes WWE is real. "Jaa na. Mujhe nahi hoga pyaar vyaar. Mere paas time hi nahi hai. Main koi tum logon jaisa thodi hoon. Mujhe toh Virat bhai jaisa cricketer banna hai. Bhai kya player hai, kya cover drive maarte hai, full confidence. Aur abhi toh vice-captain bhi ban gaya hai RCB ke liye, bhai. Ek din main bhi waisi jersey pehenunga, aur jab main pitch pe aunga na, poora stadium bolega, 'Shubman! Shubman!' Toh tu soch, mujhe kahan time milega Simran-shimran jaise distractions ke liye?" [Get out of here. I don't have time for love and all that. I'm not like you people. I want to be a cricketer like Virat bhai. Man, what a player. What a cover drive. Full confidence. And now he's vice-captain for RCB too, bro. One day I'll wear that jersey. And when I walk onto the pitch, the whole stadium will chant, 'Shubman! Shubman!' So just think—where do I even have time for Simran and her nonsense?]

"Jaa naa, Kings XI Punjab hi jeetega. Unke paas Yuvi Paji hai," [Get lost, Kings XI Punjab's gonna win anyway. They've got Yuvi Paji.] Abhishek says with the kind of confidence only someone who hasn't checked a single point table all season can have.

"Aur kya style hai bhai unka. Tu dekhna. Tum RCB waale toh bas ground pe picnic manane aate ho. Har saal bolte ho ki jeetenge, aur har baar ghar pe hi baith jaate hain." [You RCB people just go for a picnic on the ground every year. Every season you say you'll win, and every season you end up watching from home.]

Shubman scoffs, makes a face like he just smelled expired cheese, and snaps back, "Tu cricket dekhne ke laayak bhi nahi hai. Bhai, RCB ka waqt aayega. Virat bhai, Kallis bhai, Rahul Dravid, Ross Taylor, Bhuvi bhai, sab hai. Tu dekhte ja." [You're not even worthy of watching cricket. RCB's time will come. Virat bhai, Kallis bhai, Rahul Dravid, Ross Taylor, Bhuvi bhai—we've got a squad. Just watch.]

"Main toh dekh hi raha hoon," [I am watching,] Abhishek mutters, now poking holes into his eraser with a pencil like he's conducting a science experiment.

"Bhai galti kis se nahi hoti?" [Bro, who doesn't make mistakes?] Shubman fires back, face heating up just a little. "Tum Kings XI waale log sirf drama karte ho, trophy toh kabhi aa nahi paayi Punjab ke pass." [You Kings XI guys are all drama, no trophy. Punjab's never even seen a title.]

"Sharam karle. Khud Punjab ka hoke RCB ka jhanda leke ghoomta hai," [Have some shame. You're from Punjab and walking around with an RCB flag?] Abhishek says, eyebrows raised like he's personally offended on behalf of the entire state.

"Kal ko tu Himachal chale jaayega aur bolega Delhi Daredevils ka fan hoon. Loyalty naam ki bhi koi cheez hoti hai, bhai." [Tomorrow you'll go to Himachal and say you're a Delhi Daredevils fan. Ever heard of loyalty?]

Jugnu, who's been silently watching this back-and-forth like he's the third judge on Dance India Dance, finally stretches his legs under the bench and says, "Tum dono serious ho gaye ho. Ek to pyaar pe debate chal raha tha, ab cricket pe world war ho gaya. Tiwari Sir agar abhi aa gaye na, toh dono team suspend ho jaayegi. Na pyaar bachega, na IPL." [You guys got way too serious. We started with love, now it's turned into World War Cricket. If Tiwari Sir walks in now, both teams are getting suspended. No love, no IPL.]

Shubman looks like he wants to say something, maybe even something wise, but then just sighs dramatically and opens his pencil box like he's revealing a secret weapon. "Main toh keh raha hoon, ye sab chhodo. Test pe dhyaan do. Mujhe toh lagta hai Tiwari Sir ne extra tough paper banaya hoga, kyunki pichli baar kisi ne unki scooter ke tyre ki hawa nikaal di thi." [Forget all this. Focus on the test. I bet Tiwari Sir made it extra hard this time 'cause someone let the air out of his scooter tires last week.]

"Kisi ne nahi, tune kiya tha," [It wasn't 'someone,' it was you,] Abhishek says, without even looking up, like he's casually pointing out that the sky is blue.

"Aur fir agle din innocent billa ban ke bol raha tha, 'Sir, aapka scooter flat tha? Oh no, yeh kaise ho gaya?' Bhai, tujhe Oscar milna chahiye, best actor in a school uniform." [And then the next day, you're standing there all innocent like, 'Sir, your scooter had a flat? Oh no, how did this happen?' Bro, you deserve an Oscar. Best actor in a school uniform.]

Shubman doesn't deny it, just gives a small shrug, the kind that says haan, kiya tha, so what, [Yeah, I did it. So what?] like a villain in a cartoon who's still proud of his failed plan.

"Unhone toh mujhe poora din class ke bahar rakha tha," [He made me stand outside the whole day,] he adds, stretching his legs under the desk like he's settling in for a good storytelling session.

"Woh bhi haath upar karke, jaise main koi criminal hoon aur woh police inspector. Doosre period tak toh haath numb ho gaya tha, aur uske baad toh main khud bhi bhool gaya tha ki galti kya thi." [With my hands up in the air like I was some criminal and he was the cop. By second period my arms were numb. After that, I even forgot what my crime was.]

Jugnu snickers into his sleeve, trying not to laugh too loud, because even though the corridor's quiet right now, Tiwari Sir had a weird habit of appearing exactly when he was being roasted by students.

"Tu toh waisi punishment bhi style mein le raha tha. Mujhe yaad hai, tu ek haath upar rakhke doosre se chips kha raha tha. Riya ko dekhke wink bhi kiya tha—double punishment ke saath flirting, bhai kya multitasking hai." [You were even doing the punishment in style, I remember—you had one hand up, and were eating chips with the other. You even winked at Riya—flirting while getting punished, bro, what kind of multitasking is that?]

"Tere bhai ka swag hi aisa hai toh main kya karoon," [What can I say, when your boy's got swag, your boy's got swag.] Shubman says, with a grin so smug it could probably be seen from the school gate.

He stretches his arms like he's warming up for a cricket match instead of just bracing for another yawningly slow first period, the kind where even the wall clock seems to tick louder than the teacher speaks.

His chair creaks slightly as he leans back, chin tilted up like he's already picturing himself walking out to bat at Eden Gardens.

"Swag toh beta main tera baad mein nikaloonga." [I'll show you your swag later.]

A voice cuts through the classroom like a sudden gust of wind on a still day—sharp, familiar, and immediately capable of turning blood to ice.

The boys freeze. Even the ceiling fan, which had been making a steady ghrr-ghrr sound for the past twenty minutes, seems to hesitate mid-spin.

Shubman's neck moves slower than the second hand on the wall clock as he turns toward the door, trying to figure out if there's still a way to pretend he hadn't been the one talking.

His grin disappears in stages, like a power cut during a storm—one flicker at a time—until it's replaced with the kind of straight face only fifth graders think looks innocent.

Jugnu lowers his head and suddenly finds the corner of his table extremely interesting. Abhishek, caught mid-fold with the aeroplane wing half-creased, just lets the paper slip from his fingers and fall quietly to the floor.

Tiwari Sir steps into the classroom, his Bata shoes making that dull, hard thump against the mosaic floor that every student in Class 5-A has learned to fear over the months.

His hands are still folded, but there's a wooden scale peeking slightly from under his left arm, and somehow its presence feels louder than his voice.

He walks past the first row without saying a word, his eyes scanning like he's running a system check, and stops right in front of the chalkboard.

Then, slowly, he turns toward Shubman and company. His moustache twitches once—just enough to signal incoming doom.

"Tum logon ko dekh ke lagta hai ki school nahi, Lanka ka darbar ho gaya hai," [Looking at you boys, it feels like this isn't a school, it's the court of Lanka] Tiwari Sir muttered, his voice low but cutting through the classroom like a chalk screech on a blackboard.

"Padhai ke alawa sab kuch kara lo tum teeno se—naatak, nautanki, tamasha, sab mein gold medal le aayenge. Bas jab kitab kholne ka time aata hai, tab ya toh bathroom jaana hota hai ya pen hi gayab ho jaata hai." [You can do everything except study—drama, acting, nonsense—you'd win gold medals in all of it. But when it's time to open a book, suddenly it's either a bathroom emergency or your pen disappears.]

He took a step closer now, the wooden scale under his arm shifting slightly, as if even it was getting ready to participate.

Jugnu kept his eyes firmly on the desk, trying his best to look like he was in the middle of deep, silent regret—even though his brain was very much replaying the last thing Shubman had said before disaster struck.

Abhishek sat so still, he could've been a model for the "before" picture in a posture correction ad. Shubman, the initiator of all things chaos, was now somehow looking older, like one of those mythological heroes who started a war thinking it'd be fun and was now waiting for the arrows to land.

"Pichle hafte bhi tum log staff room ke samne cricket khel rahe the," [Last week too, you were playing cricket in front of the staff room,] Tiwari Sir continued, beginning his slow, devastating walk along their row.

No one dared to answer. Jugnu gave a tiny, almost invisible shake of his head—not as a denial, but more like someone respectfully accepting that yes, the crime was real and yes, the punishment is well-deserved.

Then he turns to Shubman, eyes twitching at the edges like he's physically restraining himself from throwing the wooden scale across the room.

His voice drops even lower now—calmer, but somehow heavier, like a storm that's no longer shouting but still hasn't passed.

"Aur tu? Hero. Saari class ko toh tune bigaada hua hai. Abhi do minute baith, mujhe ek naya vidharthi ka parchai de doon, phir tu apne haath lekar chalkboard ke paas apne haath lekar chalkboard ke paas khada hoga." [And you? The hero. You've corrupted the whole class. Sit down for two minutes, let me welcome a new student, and then you—bring your hands and stand near the blackboard.]

Tiwari Sir wasn't yelling. He didn't need to.

His voice had that quiet kind of weight to it—the kind that made the walls listen, that made even the backbenchers sit up straighter, that made the wooden scale under his arm feel like it had its own heartbeat.

The classroom, which just moments ago had felt like a stage for jokes, now felt more like a waiting room outside a principal's office.

Heavy. Airless.

Then, with a kind of grace no one in Class 5-A had ever associated with Tiwari Sir—the same man who could silence an entire corridor with the sound of his wooden scale against a desk—he turned toward the door.

His back straightened, not with authority, but with something quieter, as though making space for something that shouldn't be rushed, something that didn't belong to the noise of everyday school chaos.

And then, as though his voice had remembered how to be gentle, he spoke with a rhythm none of the boys had heard from him before.

"Siya beta. Aap andar aao," [Siya beta. Come in,] he said, the words landing soft, like the way first rain touches earth that hasn't seen clouds in weeks.

Every face turned, slowly, curiously, the usual smirks and fidgeting fingers now replaced by something quieter. Even Abhishek, who usually couldn't sit still for more than three seconds, had forgotten all about his fallen paper plane.

And then she stepped in.

Siya.

Everything else slowed. Not in the filmy, birds-chirping kind of way, but in that real way where one moment stretches just a little longer than the rest and somehow stays with you.

She stood there at the front, holding her bag close to her side, her shoulders not stiff but still, her face calm like she'd been taught never to look lost, even in new places.

Her cheeks were round and full, the kind you imagined her massi must pull gently and say, "humari laddoo jaise bachi." [Our sweet little girl, round and adorable like a laddoo]

Her eyes, wide and soft, were the pale green of those just-ripe apples that came in the middle of October, with a kind of shine that made you think she noticed everything but said very little.

Her lips were full and quiet, turned into a line that was neither a smile nor a frown—just the expression of someone used to watching before speaking.

Her hair was long and straight, black like the inside of a switched-off television, neatly parted and pulled into one thick braid that rested on her shoulder, tied at the end with a white ribbon knotted into a perfect bow.

Not a single strand out of place.

It was the kind of braid that said someone at home had taken time that morning. The kind that came with patience, with oil warmed in a small steel katori and careful fingers.

She wore the school uniform just like everyone else—the crisp white shirt tucked into the pleated bottle-green skirt, the striped belt sitting straight on her waist, the green tie pulled up neatly, not tight, not loose.

Her socks reached just below the knee, folded once with quiet precision, and her shoes looked like they still remembered being polished before the sun was up.

When his Biji had narrated the story of Heer and Ranjha—always during long, sleepy power cuts when the only light in the room came from the soft flicker of a lantern and the only sound was the shelling of peanuts in her lap—Shubman never really listened with his heart.

He sat close, yes, and sometimes even nodded like he understood, but inside, he'd roll his eyes.

Ranjha sounded like a fool to him, roaming around without slippers, turning into a jogi, singing songs about love like his life depended on it.

And Heer?

Heer didn't even seem that nice in the beginning. She didn't smile, didn't talk sweetly, and worst of all, she didn't seem to notice how much Ranjha loved her until it was already too late.

It had all seems a little too much for Shubman.

And yet, as he stands here now in the second row of Class 5-A, his hands resting on the desk, his fingers wrapped around the edge of his seat as if trying to hold the moment still, something shifts.

This new girl hasn't said a word. She hasn't smiled. She hasn't even looked at Shubman, not really.

But she has entered the classroom like someone who didn't need the world to notice him to know he belongs in it.

Her aura is quiet, her uniform is perfectly pressed, her long hair was tied with such care that even Shubman's ten-year-old mind knew—someone loves her deeply at home.

The new girl's presence doesn't ask for attention, but it makes you feel like you want to sit a little straighter.

Like you don't want to be the kind of boy who makes jokes all day and never finishes his cursive writing homework in front of this new girl.

And as Tiwari Sir guides the girl to the front of the classroom, she peers up at the class with her eyes, and a faint smile on her lips, and Shubman doesn't know what he feels something strange settle in his chest.

Not like butterflies, no. That was the word Jugnu used last month when he had a crush on the new English teacher and claimed his stomach hurt every time she said "verb."

This is something quieter. Something still. Like a sound you didn't know you were missing until it stopped. Like a breath you'd forgotten to take.

Heer de tere samne aa, Ranjhe, saa kidha aave. [Heer stands before you, Ranjhe. So how can you breathe normally?]

Shubman doesn't know who whispers those words in his mind.

It sounds old, wise, almost like a man reminiscing and sharing his heart, not in a loud way, but in the low, thoughtful tone people use when they're sitting alone under a tree after years of running.

It doesn't sound like something from a textbook or a story meant to impress.

It sounds lived. Like Ranjha himself has leaned in gently, resting his hand on Shubman's shoulder, and said—

Mera jo haal hoya si,
[What occured with me,]

Oh tera haal vi hovega.
[It will happen with you as well.]

The line doesn't hit Shubman like a cricket ball or a slap or a loud noise. It slips into him slowly, like a whisper he wasn't supposed to hear, like a secret Ranjha tucked under his tongue and forgot to keep.

He sits still, pretending to look at the blackboard, but his eyes keep drifting back to Siya—her quiet way of being, her calm, how she is standing so confidently.

And he wonders, not for the first time, if Heer ever knew she was being watched like this.

Not in a creepy way. Just... noticed. Noticed so much it makes your chest feel too small.

Ishq ch yakeen kar le, Ranjhe,
[Believe in love, Ranjhe,]

Jidha main roya, tu vi rovega.
[The way I cried, You will too.]

He doesn't know what this line means exactly, but it feels like when his dadi would run her fingers through his hair while he was pretending not to cry after a bad dream.

Like comfort wrapped in warning. Like someone saying, yes, this will hurt—but it's yours to feel, and that's okay.

And maybe that's what love is, in Class 5, in 2010, with chalk dust in the air and wooden desks that creak if you lean on them too hard—it's noticing someone until you can't help but carry a little bit of them with you, even after school ends.

Abhishek is whispering something behind him, probably a joke about how boring Hindi period is, but Shubman doesn't turn. He's caught in this strange, gentle tide of something he can't name. Not yet.

Pal-pal ch badlega rang mohabbat da, [Love will change color with time,]
Aj hassa a, kal dard v hoega. [Today there's laughter, Tomorrow, it will be pain]

Ranjha is not speaking like a grown-up. He's not warning or scolding. He's not asking Shubman to stop or be smart or wait till he's older. He's just talking, like a friend sitting beside him, like someone who's been here before.

Someone who knows that hearts don't work on timetables. They don't care about age or reason or spelling mistakes.

Shubman rests his hand on his pencil box, lightly brushing the edge of the sticker that's coming off.

Jis dil ch tu aj phullan wargi khushboo paayi, [The heart where today you've planted a fragrance like flowers—]

Oh dil ik din khaak v hoega. [One day, that same heart will turn to ash.]

He breathes in, slow. His chest feels strange, warm in the middle. Not sad exactly, but like something has shifted inside him, like a page turning on its own.

His mind drifts to a day that hasn't happened yet—a day where maybe Siya won't be in his class, or won't look at him the way she sometimes does when he answers a hard question right.

And that thought—it shouldn't matter, but it does.

And still, there's something in him that leans forward. Something that wants to feel, even if it means someday he'll miss this.

Even if one day all of this—her neat handwriting, her humming, the way she gently untangles her eraser from her bag's zip—will only live in his memory.

He doesn't know if he's Ranjha, but maybe he's learning to listen like him.

Maybe he's learning that love, the kind he doesn't yet know how to spell properly, isn't always fireworks and roses and filmi background songs.

Maybe it's just this—sitting still, feeling everything all at once, while the fan spins above and the world keeps going.

There's a strange stillness inside Shubman today, not the kind that comes when he's sleepy or bored, but the kind that makes everything feel a little quieter.

Yet, somewhere behind all that noise, it feels like the world has dropped a soft curtain just for him, like it's asking him to listen closely, not with his ears, but with something deeper.

He sits perfectly still in his wooden bench, the one that creaks whenever he leans too far back, his eyes on the blackboard like they're supposed to be, but his mind—his mind has wandered far from math problems and Hindi dictation.

Floating towards a feeling he doesn't have a name for yet, something gentle and wide and almost too quiet to notice if you weren't really paying attention.

The fan spins lazily overhead, pushing warm air around like it's tired too, and he watches a speck of dust drift slowly down past his desk, glowing like a firefly in the sunlight that spills through the windows.

The voice feels like it belongs to someone who's walked this path before, someone who's carried something heavy in their heart but kept going anyway.

Par fir vi, ishq ton na darrin putt,
[But even then, son, don't be afraid of love.]

Zakhm hi ne jo banda bana dinde ne. [It's the wounds that shape who we become.]

The words don't come from any poem he's learned in class or any song he's heard on the radio, but they settle inside him like they were waiting to be remembered.

Like they've been etched quietly into the corners of his heart since before he even knew what they meant.

And in that moment, as the sun stretches longer shadows across the floor and the teacher's voice becomes a faraway hum he barely hears, another line slips through his mind like a secret passed between two hearts that have never met but somehow know each other anyway.

Jis raah te main pair rakhe si kadi,
[On the path where I once walked,]

Aj ohte tere nishaan nazar aunde ne.
[Today I see your footprints.]

He doesn't move.  He doesn't need to.

It's not the kind of moment you chase with your feet—it's the kind you carry with your breath, soft and steady, like a tune you don't even know you're humming.

The feeling doesn't rush. It just rests there, calm and steady, like a river under moonlight, and Shubman finds himself wondering if maybe this is how stories begin.

Not with grand gestures or loud confessions, but with a simple shift in the air, a tiny ripple in the chest, a soft knowing that the heart has started listening to something new.

Gallan vich mithas hovegi ajj,
[There'll be sweetness in your words today—]

Kal shayar ban ke raula paavega. [Tomorrow, you'll shout your poems to the world.]

He doesn't know what he'll write in his notebook when he gets home, if he'll even remember the lines word for word, but the feeling—this slow, golden, glowing feeling—will stay with him, tucked between the pages of his thoughts like a pressed flower, fragile but forever.

And suddenly, he understands why some people write poetry, why some songs feel like they were meant just for you, because when something moves you from the inside out.

When something touches a part of you even your best friend doesn't know exists, you want to hold it, name it, save it, even if you don't fully understand it yet.

Ishq asal ch dariya ae,
[Love, in its truest form, is a river.]

Jo vi langhe, oh khud nu bhula paavega. [Whoever crosses it, forgets who they used to be.]

He doesn't know who will walk beside him in the days to come, doesn't know what will happen next or if this gentle ache will grow into something bigger, louder, harder to hide.

Though, right now, in this little pocket of time carved between Tiwari Sir's instructions and the smell of ink on fresh paper, he feels like he's standing at the beginning of something that will change him.

Not all at once.

But slowly, like the way a river smooths a stone.

Mera jo haal hoya si,
[What occured with me,]

Oh tera haal vi hovega.
[It will happen with you as well.]

And even though he's only ten, even though he doesn't have all the words yet, Shubman leans back just a little in his seat, lets the sun warm the back of his neck, and thinks that maybe—just maybe—he's not too young to understand what it means to feel something beautiful and not want to let it go.

He sees nothing. But he feels everything.

Maybe this is what Ranjha meant.

Maybe you don't need someone to look at you for your heart to know it's been called.

He isn't the class clown in this moment.

He isn't the cricket champ.

He isn't even Shubman Gill.

He is Ranjha.

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FLASHBACK!!!!! SURPRISE!!!! I hope you enjoyed it?

DID YOU LIKE THE POEM?? It is my original work. I wrote it myself.

Please let me know if you enjoyed the chapter. 😊

bowledover18, Esmahiranursultan77, shubmanpaglu, dagabaazreeeee, ogcuphid

Aur prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻