Chapter 1
It is the annual day, just after the tenth-grade results, and the school feels loud and heavy at the same time. The courtyard is filled with voices that clash into each other—laughter, claps, half-finished arguments, teachers calling names through microphones that screech before settling down. Bright banners hang from the walls, their new cloth still holding the sharp smell of fresh paint and plastic strings. That smell mixes with sweat from crowded bodies and the dry, familiar chalk dust that clings to the corridors no matter how many times they are cleaned. Shoes scrape against the floor as students move restlessly, and the ground vibrates slightly with every drumbeat from the stage. Somewhere near the classrooms, a teacher snaps, “Stand in a line,” while another laughs and says, “Today, no scolding—only smiles.” The air feels warm on the skin, thick enough to press against the chest, as if the school itself is breathing too fast, holding too many emotions inside its old walls.
Darsh stands near the edge of the crowd, a thin boy lost inside a uniform that no longer looks white but has turned a tired cream from too many careless washes. His shirt is never fully tucked in, one corner always escaping, the collar slightly bent as if it gave up long ago. Dust clings to his sleeves, and a loose thread hangs near his pocket, swaying when he moves. His hair is uneven, pressed flat in some places and sticking out in others, as though his hands ran through it again and again without thinking.
He has scored two A+ grades, three A’s, and the rest B+. The marks are printed neatly on paper, calm and silent, but inside him they feel loud. It feels like a long breath finally released after being held underwater for years. His fingers still carry a dull soreness, remembering the pressure of the pen during exams, the cramped hours of writing without pause. His head holds a faint ache, a leftover pain from nights spent staring at books, forcing his eyes to stay open while his mind begged to drift away.
He rubs his thumb against his forefinger, feeling the dry skin there, and whispers to himself, “I didn’t fail.” There is no excitement in his face, only relief that sits heavy and warm in his chest. For Darsh, these results are not about rank or pride. They are proof that he endured, that he stayed afloat when everything inside him was sinking.
But survival is not celebration at home. Even before he reaches the gate, Darsh already knows how the evening will sound. In his mind, the house is quiet at first, the kind of quiet that waits before a question is asked. His mother will take the mark sheet in her hand, her eyes moving fast over the grades, skipping the effort and stopping at what is missing. His father will lean forward slightly and say, not angry but tight, “Only two A+?” The words will fall like weight, not like praise.
No one will ask how tired he was or how hard it felt to sit and study. The room will smell of tea and warm food, but his mouth will taste dry. His mother’s voice will carry worry instead of joy. “Science needs at least four A+,” she will say, more to herself than to him. His father will nod and add, “Otherwise, what future is there?” The word science will hang between them, heavy and sharp, like a rule carved into the walls of the house. Four A+ required. Anything less feels like failure.
Darsh will stand there, fingers cold, eyes fixed on the floor, already feeling smaller. He will ask himself, quietly, whether he even wants the science stream. The answer does not come with anger or fear. It comes as emptiness. A blank space where a dream is supposed to be. He simply does not know.
What he knows is this: sitting in a classroom feels like fighting his own mind. The sound of a teacher’s voice turns into noise. Words slide past his ears without staying. His body sits still, but inside, everything struggles to breathe. This is the truth he carries, even as the house fills with worried voices and unspoken disappointment.
His memory drifts back to a tenth-grade mathematics class. The room is bright, too bright, with sunlight hitting the walls and bouncing straight into his eyes. The ceiling fan turns again and again, making a dull, steady noise that slowly drills into his ears. Chalk moves across the blackboard, scraping and cracking, each stroke sharp enough to make his shoulders tense. The smell of chalk dust is strong, dry, and bitter, settling in his nose and on his tongue.
Darsh sits still on the wooden bench, its hard edge pressing into his legs. The harder he tries to listen, the tighter his head becomes, as if something is being pulled from the inside. Pressure builds behind his eyes, slow and heavy. A headache forms, not sudden, but certain, growing minute by minute. The teacher’s voice continues, numbers and formulas piling up, but none of them stay. They pass through him without meaning.
At some point, his mind does what his body cannot. It leaves. Not out of choice, but out of need. The sounds fade, the board disappears, and a quiet space opens inside him. He slips into imagination, into stillness, into thoughts that feel safer than the classroom.
Why should I study?
Why should I listen when I don’t understand anything being said?
The questions rise without answers, floating in the silence where no teacher ever reaches.
To Darsh, the logic feels simple and honest. If a movie is boring, you stop watching it. You change the channel or walk away. No one shouts at you. No one calls you useless for losing interest. Boredom is allowed there. It is normal.
But inside a classroom, the same thing turns into a crime. The moment his mind disconnects, the world seems to turn against him. A teacher’s voice sharpens, saying, “Pay attention.” Parents sigh and say, “You never try.” Society is always ready with labels—lazy, careless, good for nothing. The words stick like dust on skin, hard to wash away.
Inside him, thoughts move fast and loud, colliding with each other, searching for a place to rest. His chest feels tight, and his head feels full. Outside, his body does not move. He sits straight, hands folded, eyes facing forward. His face holds no feeling, frozen like a statue acting interested, pretending to listen while everything inside him keeps running.
Then the chalk hits him out of nowhere.
A small white piece strikes his shoulder, cold and sudden, snapping him back into the room. The sound is soft, but the shock is sharp. For a second, everything freezes. Then laughter breaks out somewhere behind him, quick and careless. The teacher’s voice cuts through it, loud and annoyed. “Darsh! Are you in this class or somewhere else?” The words hit harder than the chalk.
Heat rushes to his face, spreading to his ears. His skin remembers the sting long after the chalk falls to the floor and breaks into powder. The smell of chalk grows stronger, and his fingers curl tight against the bench. “Stand up,” the teacher shouts, pointing at the board. “If you don’t want to study, don’t waste my time.”
Darsh stands, eyes lowered, heart beating fast. The lesson continues, but now it feels heavier. Once again, he forces himself to listen, to struggle, to hold his mind in place. He nods when needed, looks at the board, pretends to understand. Inside, he is tired. Outside, he performs, because pretending hurts less than being noticed.
Now, on annual day, the school celebrates Akash. Akash has scored A+ in every subject. At the entrance, a huge poster stands tall, tied tightly with ropes. Akash’s smiling face fills it completely, blown up larger than life, teeth bright, eyes confident. Fresh flowers are fixed around the edges, and the smell of them mixes with the scent of new paint and dust from the ground.
Darsh stops for a moment and looks at it. Beneath the photo, bold letters shine under the light: “THE VICTORY OF THE SCHOOL.” Not Akash’s victory. The school’s. Darsh reads the line again and again, his eyes tracing each word slowly. Something feels wrong, like a stone sitting in his chest.
If this truly is the school’s victory, then shouldn’t the school also carry responsibility for students like him? For those who struggled silently, who tried and still fell short? The thought presses hard inside his head, but it never reaches his lips. He already knows the answer waiting for him.
If he speaks, voices will rise around him, all saying the same thing, calm and sharp at once: “You should have worked hard like Akash.”
Darsh does not deny Akash’s effort. He respects it. He knows hard work when he sees it. But a question keeps scratching at him from the inside, restless and sharp, refusing to stay quiet.
If Akash had to work so hard at home, then why are parents paying so much money to the school? The thought circles again and again. Isn’t school supposed to teach? The classroom is meant to explain, to guide, to make things clear. Learning stories never felt this painful to him. No one struggled to understand Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. No one paused it to read the same scene again and again. The story simply flowed, carrying feelings, faces, music, and meaning together.
Even Inception, complex and layered, made sense without forcing it. It asked questions, but it also gave answers. When something speaks your language, understanding comes naturally. The mind follows without being dragged. So why does education feel like punishment? Why does learning here feel like pain instead of discovery?
As his parents pull him away from the school, their grip tight on his arm, their words sharp and hurried, Darsh’s feet move without protest. The noise of the annual day fades behind him, replaced by anger spoken in low voices. “What will people think?” his father says. “We trusted you Darsh,” his mother adds, disappointment cutting through every word.
Near the entrance, Darsh’s eyes fall once more on the poster. A few outsiders stand there—parents from other schools, strangers with curious faces. They point at Akash’s smiling photo and speak among themselves. “This school must be very good,” one of them says. “Our children should study here.” No one mentions Akash’s nights of effort or his tired eyes. The praise does not belong to him.
In that moment, clarity reaches Darsh quietly, without noise or anger. Akash believes he worked hard for himself. He believes the success is his alone. But standing there, being pulled away, Darsh understands something painful and clear. Akash believes he worked hard for himself. He does not realize he worked hard for the school.
Inside the auditorium, applause fills the space. It is loud, echoing off the walls, clapping again and again until it loses meaning. The sound feels empty, mechanical, like a machine doing its job. Lights shine hard on the stage, warming the skin and blinding the eyes.
Akash stands there, straight and proud, a medal hanging against his chest. He feels honored. He smiles, bowing slightly as his name is announced once more. The claps grow louder.
Darsh watches from a distance, and a strange image slowly forms in his mind. The hall begins to feel like a circus. The bright lights, the noise, the careful show. Akash becomes the joker at the center, dressed in success instead of colors. People clap and smile, enjoying the performance, not knowing the cost behind it, not caring to ask.
The thought settles heavy inside Darsh. Without the joker, the circus cannot exist.
In the car, the silence is thick and suffocating. The windows are rolled up, trapping the smell of heat, dust, and frustration inside. The engine hums softly, but it does nothing to ease the tension. Darsh sits in the back seat, the worn fabric scratching lightly against his skin, his hands resting still on his lap.
His father breaks the silence first. “You should learn something from Akash,” he says, gripping the steering wheel harder. “Such a lazy brat.” The words cut deep, sharp and familiar. His mother turns slightly, her bangles clinking. “See how other children study? We failed as parents,” she says, her voice heavy with blame.
This time, Darsh speaks. His voice comes out calm, but tired, as if it has already said these words many times inside his head. “It’s just the school’s advertising technique,” he says quietly. “They are showing Akash to bring more students.”
The truth, once spoken, tastes bitter in his mouth. His father laughs once, harsh and loud. “Advertising? Don’t talk nonsense,” he snaps. “You always have excuses.” His mother joins in, her voice rising. “Instead of talking like this, you should open your books. Look at your marks.”
His father adds, “We pay fees on time, we give everything. What do we get back?” His mother shakes her head. “Talking back now? Is this what school taught you?”
Their voices overlap, filling the car, bouncing off the glass and metal. Accusations, comparisons, disappointment—everything spills out at once. Darsh leans back and stares at the passing road through the window. The shouting continues, loud and sharp, but he feels oddly distant, as if the noise belongs to another place, another life, and not to him anymore.
Inside him, something settles. It is not anger. It is not pride. It feels like a quiet understanding sinking into place. The shouting fades into the background, and even the road noise becomes distant. His chest feels heavy, but steady.
He becomes aware of a simple truth. The world claps for results, not for struggle. It cheers for numbers, faces on posters, medals under bright lights. It does not look at tired eyes, aching heads, or silent battles fought on wooden benches and sleepless nights.
Some of the hardest work stays invisible. It passes without applause, without flowers, without posters. It is misunderstood, often judged, and easily forgotten. Sitting there, Darsh does not fight this truth anymore. He only carries it, quietly, as the car moves forward and the noise slowly dies behind him.
Chapter 2
Two years pass along with the science stream, but for Darsh, time does not move forward. It presses down. Each day feels heavy, stacked on top of the previous one, leaving him little space to breathe. Morning comes too soon, and night offers no rest. The uniform feels tighter, the books feel thicker, and the walls of the classroom feel closer than before.
He does get into the science stream. Not by merit. Not by choice. By force, wrapped in love and pride. His parents say, “We are doing this for you,” and their voices sound confident, almost kind. But the kindness feels heavy, like a hand that never lets go. Darsh nods, because nodding is easier than explaining a pain no one wants to hear.
Behind that admission lies a quiet transaction. No celebration. No honesty. Just money changing hands in a small office with closed doors. Papers slide across a desk. A signature is taken. A donation is paid. The fan hums above, slow and tired, while his future is decided in minutes.
Darsh sits outside, waiting. The plastic chair is hard and warm against his legs. He listens to muffled voices from inside, feels sweat gather at his neck, and stares at the floor. No one asks him what he wants. No one looks at his face. When the door opens, the decision is already made.
As he walks out, something tightens inside his chest. Not anger. Not tears. Just frustration, deep and silent. Two years stretch ahead of him like a long, narrow road, and he knows, even before stepping onto it, that it will not be kind.
His father, Manohar, is an engineer. In his hometown, long ago, he was the first. That single fact still lives inside him like a medal permanently pinned to his chest, shining even when no one is looking.
When Manohar was a child, suffering was not loud. It was everyday. Quiet. Normalized.
In his village, his name came before his face. The moment people heard which family he belonged to, their tone changed. He was not beaten often—but he was reminded daily that he did not belong. That reminder was more painful than blows.
At school, he sat on the last bench, not by rule, but by habit. Teachers did not say it openly. They didn’t have to. When his notebook fell, no one picked it up. When he answered correctly, the class stayed silent. Praise was rare, suspicion common. If something went missing, eyes turned toward boys like him first.
Water was never simple. He remembers standing near the hand pump, waiting. Upper-caste children drank freely, splashing water on their faces, laughing. Manohar waited until everyone left. If he touched the pump too early, someone would shout, “Don’t spoil it.” Once, an older boy pushed him away and said, “You people should know your limits.” The words burned longer than the thirst.
Festivals were the worst. When the village gathered, Manohar’s family stood at the edge. Food was given separately, sometimes thrown onto a leaf from a distance. Not hatred—just practice. As if it was normal. As if dignity had categories.
He saw his father lower his head while speaking to men who had done nothing to earn respect except be born into it. He saw his mother wash vessels twice if someone from a higher caste had touched them. He learned early that silence kept you safe.
Once, as a boy, he dared to walk on a street considered “not for people like him.” He was stopped, not beaten, but surrounded. “Do you want trouble?” someone asked calmly. That calm scared him more than anger. He turned back, heart racing, shame crawling up his skin.
In that world, Manohar understood one thing very clearly: hard work alone was not enough. Talent alone was not enough. You needed a title that forced people to shut up.
Then he became an engineer.
The change was sudden and shocking. The same people who once ignored him now nodded with approval. Voices softened when they spoke to him. Chairs were offered. Advice was asked. A single job lifted not just him, but his entire family. His parents walked straighter. His house felt bigger. Engineering did what kindness never did—it forced respect. It replaced shame with pride, fear with power.
That feeling never left Manohar.
Even now, he believes that truth has not expired. To him, engineering is not just a career. It is survival. It is dignity. It is proof that life can be controlled if you choose the right path. He tells the story again and again, polishing it with time, until struggle becomes strength and strength slowly hardens into certainty.
Over the years, something shifts. The pain that once made him humble turns into confidence, then into arrogance. The pride that saved him begins to demand obedience. His past suffering becomes his proof, his weapon. He stops seeing choice and starts seeing only one road. Anyone who does not walk it, in his eyes, is wasting life.
And without realizing it, the man who once hated being controlled by society begins to control his own son in the same way—through fear, pride, and the belief that he alone knows what is right.
That pride slowly turns into an addiction. Manohar does not want to lose it. The respect, the fear, the way people listen when he speaks—it has become part of his breath. Without it, he feels exposed again, like the boy who once stood at the edge of rooms. So he holds on tighter.
He wants to pass it on. A legacy must continue. The title must survive. The proof must repeat itself. He tells himself it is love, that a father knows best, that sacrifice is necessary. He does not see how heavy that pride has become, or how sharp its edges are.
Darsh is his only son. There is no second chance, no other path. All the hopes, all the fears, all the unfinished fights from Manohar’s past settle onto one pair of shoulders. Science stream stops being a choice. It turns into destiny, decided long before Darsh is ready to carry it.
And even if the one carrying it feels crushed by the weight, the legacy must go on.
Inside the classroom, Darsh feels the same coldness as before, only stronger now. The benches feel harder, the walls closer. Physics and chemistry sit in front of him like locked doors, covered in symbols and words written in a language he never learned. Equations stare back at him without meaning. He looks at the board, then at his notebook, and feels the familiar weight pressing down on his head.
He is not lazy. When something truly interests him, his mind moves fast—sharp, curious, alive. Thoughts connect easily. Questions rise naturally. But this place never sparks interest. It only demands obedience. Sit straight. Be quiet. Copy. Memorize. Obey.
Teachers do not try to understand him. They don’t ask why he struggles. They only notice when he fails. One teacher slams the chalk on the desk and shouts, “Are you dumb or what?” Another laughs lightly and says, “Science is not for everyone. Some people are born useless.” The class snickers. Darsh feels the sound crawl over his skin.
During one lesson, a teacher stops mid-sentence, looks straight at him, and says loudly, “See, this is why donations exist.” The room goes silent for a second, then fills with laughter. Darsh’s ears burn. His chest tightens. He stares at his book, the letters blurring together.
Another day, a teacher points at him while explaining a mistake on the board. “This is what happens when you don’t use your brain,” he says. “Don’t become like Darsh.” The words hang in the room like a warning sign.
His name slowly stops being a name. It turns into an example. A threat. A lesson meant to scare others into obedience. Darsh sits still, barely breathing, feeling suffocated by voices, by eyes, by the silence that follows every insult. He does not speak. He learns instead how to disappear while still sitting in his seat.
Each time his name is spoken that way, it scratches his skin. His ears burn hot, as if someone whispered fire into them. His jaw tightens without permission. At first there is confusion—Why me? What did I do?—but slowly that confusion rots into something else. Anger takes its place. Shame no longer bends him inward; it hardens, turns sharp, becomes armor.
Darsh changes. His replies grow short. His patience disappears. The word “idiot” feels like a matchstick thrown onto petrol. It does not need meaning anymore. Just the sound is enough.
One day in class, it happens again.
A teacher laughs lightly while correcting a mistake and says, “See? Even Darsh can understand this.” The class chuckles. Someone from the back adds, jokingly, “Sir, don’t insult the equation like that.”
Something snaps.
Darsh does not think and says , “As if you know about that fucking equation! ASSHOLE.” His body moves before his mind can stop it. His hand slams down on the wooden desk, once, hard. The sound cracks through the room. Before anyone can react, he grips the edge of the bench and shoves it forward. The table screeches, one leg giving way with a sharp break. Books fall. A bottle rolls. The class gasps.
“Enough!” the teacher shouts, stepping back.
Darsh is standing now, chest rising fast, fists clenched, eyes burning. The room smells of dust and old wood. Silence presses in, thick and stunned. Someone whispers his name, not as a joke this time, but as fear.
“What are you doing?” the teacher yells.
Darsh does not answer. He cannot. His heart is pounding too loudly. His hands are shaking. All he knows is that something inside him finally exploded after being poked again and again.
After that, it becomes easier to lose control.
If anyone says ‘idiot’ even humorously, even casually, his body reacts. A shove. A shout. A swing. Fights break out before he understands how they started. Desks shake. Voices rise. Teachers rush in. He is dragged away, blamed, warned.
Darsh does not know how to protect himself except by attacking first. No one taught him another way.
At home, the air is always tense. It sits thick in the rooms, clinging to the walls. His father’s silence is the heaviest thing there. Manohar does not shout much anymore. He doesn’t need to. His quiet disappointment fills the house more completely than anger ever could.
His mother, Malathi, moves around softly. A housewife who has spent her life fixing things with routine and patience, she tries to help in the only way she knows. “Study,” she says while placing food on his plate. “Study,” she says when he walks past her. “Study,” she says even when he is tying his shoelaces. To her, studying is medicine. One word. One solution. The cure for every problem.
To Darsh, it feels like being poked again and again on an open wound.
One evening, he sits at the table, books spread out in front of him, eyes blank. The numbers refuse to stay still. His head throbs. Malathi stands behind him, watching quietly for a moment. Then she speaks, softly but firmly, “Why are you sitting like this? Study.”
Something tight twists inside him.
He clenches his jaw.
A minute later, she says it again. “At least read something.”
When she passes by once more, she stops and repeats it, tired now, worried. “If you don’t study, what will happen to your life?”
That is when it breaks.
“STOP IT!…..BITCH” Darsh shouts, pushing his chair back so hard it bangs against the wall. His voice is loud, raw, unfamiliar even to himself. Malathi freezes.
“Every time—study, study, FUCKING STUDY!” he yells, his hands shaking. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I’m a fucking crap?” The words spill out fast, messy, uncontrolled. “You think one word will fix everything? You think I’m fucking useless, right?”
Malathi opens her mouth, startled. “I’m only saying for your good—”
“For my good? MY ASS” he snaps, laughing bitterly. “You don’t know anything about me!” His voice cracks, then hardens again. “Just leave me alone! You’re driving me crazy!”
The next words come out darker, uglier, words he never thought he would use on her. “Shut up! I hate hearing your fucking voice! Stop acting like this will save me! THAT’S JUST BULLSHIT”
The room goes silent.
Malathi stands still, her hands gripping the edge of her saree. Her eyes fill, but she says nothing. The fan keeps spinning above them, slow and careless. Darsh breathes hard, chest rising and falling, the echo of his own voice ringing in his ears.
The moment passes, leaving behind a bitter taste. He turns away, ashamed but still burning, knowing he has hurt the one person who was trying, even if she never knew how.
In his room, the anger does not stop. It follows him inside and grows louder. He starts shouting back at the walls, at the air, at himself. Whatever is near his hand becomes a weapon. A book flies first, hitting the wall with a dull thud. A plate follows, shattering into sharp sounds that cut the silence. Pens scatter. A chair scrapes and falls. Each noise feels heavy, final, like something breaking for good.
The room smells of dust and sweat. His throat burns from yelling. His hands shake as he grabs and throws, again and again, until there is nothing left to reach. The walls take the blows without answering. The floor fills with pieces of his life—paper, glass, plastic—spread out like proof of a storm.
Outside the room, his parents stand still. They do not rush in. They do not shout. They watch through the half-open door, fear written on their faces. Manohar’s jaw tightens. Malathi presses her hand to her mouth. This anger is new. This violence is unfamiliar. This is not the quiet boy who once sat with his head down. This is not the son they thought they knew.
The shouting slowly fades. The room goes quiet again, broken only by Darsh’s rough breathing. His parents remain where they are, unsure of what to do next, realizing too late that something inside their son has changed—and they do not know how to bring him back.
The house, once a place of rest, now tastes bitter. Even food feels dull on the tongue. Silence feels safer than conversation, because every word risks becoming a spark. Love feels like control, wrapped tightly in worry and expectation. Pride feels like a cage, strong and unbreakable, with no room to breathe.
Manohar and Malathi look at their son and struggle to recognize him. The boy who once stayed quiet, who avoided trouble, who listened even when he didn’t understand, now moves with anger under his skin. His eyes are sharper. His replies are harsh. His silence feels dangerous. They are scared—not of society, not of marks—but of what he is becoming inside their own home.
Late one night, when the house is finally quiet, Manohar speaks. His voice is low, unsure. “This is not normal,” he says. Malathi nods slowly, her eyes tired and swollen. “He needs help,” she whispers, more to herself than to him.
The decision is made not out of cruelty, but out of helplessness. They decide to take Darsh to a Psychiatrist. Not because they believe something is wrong with the system that broke him. Not because they question the path they forced him into. But because the boy is breaking—and they do not know how to hold the pieces in their hands anymore.
