˙˚ʚ 𝐀𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ᰔᩚ.ᐟ.ᐟ
─── ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ───
In the bustling corridors of a lively Indian high school, amidst the chaos of classes we find Meera Sharma, is the kind of girl who seems ordinar...
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Me and Rani were seated at our desks, As Rani continued narrating the plot of the movie, her gestures animated and her voice filled with excitement, I found myself getting drawn into her storytelling. Preeti, always eager for entertainment, listened intently from her seat behind us, occasionally interjecting with exclamations of agreement or amusement.
The absence of our chemistry teacher meant an unexpected break from the usual routine, and the classroom had erupted into a hubbub of conversation. Students exchanged anecdotes, discussed weekend plans, and shared gossip, their voices blending into a steady hum of noise that filled the air.
Amidst the chatter, I noticed a sudden shift in the atmosphere, as though a heavy blanket had been thrown over the room, muffling the sounds around us. Sensing the change, I turned towards the door, my gaze meeting the intense stare of our Hindi teacher. Known for her strict demeanor and high expectations, she had a reputation that preceded her, earning her the nickname "Hitler mam" among the students. As her eyes scanned the room, her expression conveyed displeasure, and a wave of apprehension rippled through the class.
As she strode into our classroom, the atmosphere shifted instantly. We rose to our feet in unison, greeting her with a respectful "suprabhat mahodaya." With a stern expression, she scanned the room, her gaze piercing through each one of us.
(Good morning, respected teacher)
Then, in her distinctive tone, she questioned, "Tumlog itna halla kyu rahe ho? Kaun sa period hai abhi?" We responded in unison, "Chemistry, mam."
(Why is there so much noise? Which period is it now?)
She arched an eyebrow, clearly displeased. "Jab teacher anupastith hota hai, to kisi aur teacher ki duty lagi hogi na? Kaun hai class monitor?" Her gaze settled on Lakhsya, who reluctantly rose to his feet. My heart sank for him; he would bear the brunt of our collective mistake.
(When the teacher is absent, another teacher must have taken charge, right? Who is the class monitor?)
With a tone laced with disappointment, our Hindi mam fixed her gaze on Lakhsya, who stood before her with a look of remorse etched on his face. "Lakhsya, tu toh padhne wala baccha hai," she began, her voice carrying a hint of reproach. "Tujhe apni jimmedari pata honi chahiye. Mujhe tumse yeh umeed nahi thi."
(Lakhsya, you're a studious student. You should be aware of your responsibilities. I didn't expect this from you.)
Her words hung heavy in the air, conveying not just her disappointment in his oversight, but also her expectation for better from a student like him.
"Mam," Lakhsya began, his voice tinged with remorse, "hume maaf kar dejiye. Maine check kiya tha, lekin kisi bhi teacher ki duty nahi lagi thi." His apology was genuine, but I could sense the weight of disappointment in his words.
(Please forgive us, mam. I checked, but no other teacher had taken duty.)
Lakhsya, though visibly crestfallen, maintained his composure, offering a sincere apology as he explained the circumstances. Despite his explanation, the weight of her disappointment lingered, casting a shadow over the classroom.
