An Inconvenient Flame

Chapter 59

Words: 10.2k

I have written a long chapter. I want your comments guys. Makes me happy.

If you care *shrug* 💁‍♀️

🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁

The ballpoint refuses to cooperate, smudging right when I'm finally building momentum. 

I groan under my breath and grab another pen from the glass jar. Three minutes wasted, but fine. Deep breath.

"Critically examine the role of regional movements in shaping Indian national identity." The question glares at me from the test booklet. 

I tap the pen on the margin. Where do I even begin? Cultural examples? Political? Economic? 

I draw a tiny arrow: Intro – Historical context. Body – 3 dimensions. Conclusion – Integration yet diversity. Okay. Okay. That sounds respectable.

I start writing. Words spill, then stall.

what if in the real exam hall my mind just goes blank? What if I freeze and everyone else writes pages and pages while I stare at the question like a lost tourist? 

I shake my head, whisper, "Shut up, Ishika. Not today."

The clock ticks. Ten minutes gone, and I still haven't made my point sharp enough. I scratch out a sentence, rewrite it. My handwriting looks like ants rioting on the page. 

My hand cramps. I flex my fingers, roll my neck. "This is mains prep, not a war, Ishika," I mutter, then correct myself. "Actually, no, it's exactly a war."

The shrill beep of the timer makes me jump, pen scratching an ugly line across the margin. I slap it quiet, heart hammering. Time's up.

Two questions still blank. Two whole answers.

My chest tightens. This is exactly what I fear. In the exam hall there won't be "extra five minutes," no pause button. Just the paper snatched away and me walking out like a failure.

I rub my forehead hard. "Calm down, Ishika," I whisper. "This is practice. Practice, not doomsday."

My fingers are trembling a little. I force myself to put the pen down, push the answer booklet aside, and close my eyes. Inhale, exhale. Deep and slow. Building stamina is as important as content. Fine. Stamina break, then.

When I open my eyes again, the study looks less suffocating. The clock ticks to six. Six. Which means...I've been here since noon. Six hours and still a mountain left.

A sigh escapes before I can stop it. Bas, enough for now. If I keep pushing, I'll only burn myself out. Ivaan's laughter floats faintly from the garden.

I gather the scattered pens, stack the answer sheets in one messy pile, and stretch till my spine pops. 

"Twenty minutes," I tell myself, "and then back to PSIR. Revision plus sectional test. Non-negotiable."

The thought steadies me. Political theory, international relations...at least they feel a little like storytelling, unlike GS which sometimes feels too mundane.

I glance at Abhiraj's books, one last time, his half of the room looking regal and composed, mine a battlefield.

A grin tugs at my lips. "Chaos is also strategy," I mutter, and head out toward the sound of my son.

The air smells faintly of damp grass and wild flowers. Evening light paints everything in golden, the sky blushing pink at the edges. I step onto the pathway barefoot, relishing the cool stone under my soles, and scan the lawn.