“Now we come to Devika’s sister. Tell me, what’s the full form of BODMAS?” sir asked, leaning slightly forward. The room was closed tight—door shut, windows sealed against the January cold. Winter light pressed faintly through the glass, dull and pale. The air inside smelled faintly of markers and textbooks, mixed with the faint chill of frost seeping through the walls.
“Bracket… of… division, multiplication, addition, subtraction,” I said. My voice was uneven, shaking slightly, my fingers gripping the marker tighter than necessary.
“And the spelling of subtraction?” he asked, glancing down at my notebook, expression neutral.
I spelled it. One letter wrong.
“Wrong.”
The word dropped like a stone. No pause. No correction. No explanation. The sound of it lingered in the cold, still room longer than the error itself.
Sir didn’t look at me again. I felt my stomach tighten, my fingers stiffen around the marker. The walls seemed to shrink closer. The desk under my palms was harder than usual. My shoes, pressed to the cold floor, felt like they had frozen in place.
“You know,” sir continued, turning to the class and gesturing vaguely, “Devika—Niharika’s elder sister—is very talented. She has her tenth board exams coming up soon, and still she manages everything so well. She doesn’t even study that much.”
He paused, letting the words settle like dust in the dim light. “Some students are naturally gifted,” he added, scanning the room as if stating an unarguable law. “They just understand things. They don’t need to try so hard.”
A few students nodded. Someone murmured agreement. The faint scrape of chairs on the floor punctuated the silence. The classroom, normally a neutral space, felt confined, heavy, compressed by expectation and observation.
I stayed frozen, marker poised over the page. The whiteboard gleamed too brightly in the winter light. The air around me felt dense, almost viscous. I gritted my teeth.
I started calculating.
Not numbers. Outcomes.
How to beat Devika—not by inheritance or praise, but by proof. By being undeniable. By making my name stand without explanation. By crafting answers that left no room for dismissal.
How to become his pride instead of a reference point. How to navigate each glance, each tone, each shift in expression. How to know when to speak, when to pause, when to disappear.
And at the same time, how not to cry.
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I focused on the chill creeping through my shoes, the stiffness in my fingers, the faint hum of the overhead light. I counted breaths, tried to stay invisible, and concentrated on nothing but maintaining control.
I tried harder than the mistake deserved. Harder than the moment required. I tried to remain intact.
That night, I practiced talking in the mirror.
I dissected every hesitation, every quiver, every twitch that might betray uncertainty. I repeated sentences until they sounded steady. I adjusted the tilt of my head, the way my eyes fell. I studied the shape of my mouth, the cadence of my speech, the small gestures I might make in conversation. Each motion, each word, was tested, repeated, corrected.
Three days later, the reflection was no longer timid. The eyes were steady. The shoulders squared. The voice had its own rhythm, measured and deliberate. Confidence wasn’t loud; it was calculated.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.