15 Slaps, a Diary, and a Rejection

Didn’t burn this one xD

Imagine a small, 11-year-old, 6th-grade kid (I know, it sounds weird, just do it) in a school where he had spent most of his life. His mother was a senior teacher there, respected, known by everyone.

The kid used to fight a lot. Often got into trouble and used his mother’s reputation as a shield (thinking he was untouchable). The mother then made a crazy play of moving him from section E to section A (the topper’s section).

I walked in thinking I could still play the same card. “My mom is a teacher.”

That was when I understood where I stood on the food chain.

One kid (Wick), who was the grandson of the Principal and the Chairman. Others were relatives, close friends, or just rich.

This was my first “bitch be humble” moment.

I did not belong there. I knew a few faces. Nothing more. Everyone else already had their groups, their equations. And, I was the extra variable no one needed.

For a week, I struggled to get along with the other kids. It was way too quiet. I wasn’t talking much. But I was writing.

My mother and I used to watch this show, Bade Achhe Lagte Hain. One of the characters, Priya Sharma, used to write a diary every day. I didn’t fully understand it back then, but something about it stayed with me. So my mother got me one.

And for the first time, I had somewhere to say things I couldn’t say out loud.

One day, right after a class test, I heard someone ask, “Oye, kaisa gaya test?” (Hey, how was the test?) I looked back.

There she was. Bhavi. Cute, pretty, conversations with her felt refreshing, and a smile, the kind that didn’t make you feel out of place.

We spoke. Then we spoke again.

Slowly, between those conversations, she and I became good friends. I used to sit with Karsh, who also became a good friend.

Suddenly, I was not sitting alone during break. I was not going to the washroom to waste time alone.

Half a year went by, along with the half-yearly exams.

Enters the exhibition.

We had to choose a project, and a few of us chose a poem called “The Seven Ages of a Man” by William Shakespeare. That day, I had taken my diary to school by mistake.

A few days before, I had written in that diary:

• “I like Bhavi.” “I like Karsh as a friend.”*

Yes, I liked them both, but I liked Bhavi a bit more. I had a crush on her.

I trusted Karsh with this and asked him to keep an eye on it.

He told Wick and a few others. They distracted me.

While I wasn’t looking, Karsh opened my diary. Read it. And told Bhavi.

And just like that, it wasn’t mine anymore. I didn’t know where to look. I didn’t know if she knew. Or if everyone knew.

I just knew one thing: something had changed.

After trying and failing to find them, I returned to class. My diary… was in Bhavi’s hands. That was the end of me.

Her then best friend, Piyu, walked up to me and slapped the fuck out of me. This did not affect me much, as what was coming next. (Piyu is now my best friend/sworn sister.)

I could not speak. I did not know what to do. In that moment, Bhavi confronted me.

She said, “Nishit, I didn’t expect this from you!!!” with tears in her eyes.

A slap on my left cheek.

And, she left.

Karsh was standing next to me. I grabbed his collar in anger. He said nothing. I was crying.

Then something clicked.

I tore the page from the diary. And threw it out of the window, into the parking lot. I was alone again. Everyone was looking at me. I was the outsider again.

5 minutes later, someone shouted my name from outside. A few guys from Section B. Apparently, Bhavi’s brother and his friends. (I’m still not sure if it was actually him.)

They wanted to fight. So I went.

And we did. Some guys from my class joined in.

Of course, the Section A v/s Section B rivalry had been going on even before Christ. Anyways, that ended in a draw.

Karsh and I were called by the substitute teacher regarding what had happened.

Of course, she had complained. We saw Lavi, the substitute teacher, and Anas, the HOD, waiting for us as we walked towards them.

Lavi knew my mother and my family. They knew who I was.

Guess I couldn’t play the card here.

They slapped me more times than I could count.

Lavi also slapped Karsh for invading my privacy. I won’t lie, it felt satisfying.

We were sent back with a warning. And a promise not to tell my mom (obviously, I had begged them not to).

Next was the Music and Dance period. On the way, Anit (classmate) ran to the parking lot. Came back with the torn page. My page. And handed it to the teacher.

That was enough. I was slapped and yelled at again. Many times.

Then I was let go.

Back in class, the kids were making fun of me. The session went by with teasing and passing comments. After a while, it became normal.

For them.

But Bhavi never spoke to me. She changed her section soon after.

And that was that.

It was very strange when I think about it now.

A kid had been slapped, embarrassed, and shamed in front of so many people: just for writing what he felt in his own fucking diary.

It took me a while to get out of it. Honestly, I didn’t even remember how I moved on, not a single thing. For the next 5 years, I did not write anything.

Eventually, I burnt that first diary.

5 years later, Bhavi and I ended up in the same place again. The student council. After the investiture ceremony, she walked up to me.

“I am sorry,” she said. “For that day. I was a little impulsive.”

Little impulsive? After everything that happened, that’s what it was? After five years?

I didn’t know what to say. So, I said it was okay. And somehow, it just turned into a fun banter. We spoke a couple of times after that. That was it.

We never became friends again. Just people who knew each other. Classmates.

Still, I won’t lie. That “sorry” did feel nice.

But by then, I had already learnt what happens When what you write… doesn’t stay yours.

So why am I writing about this now, after almost 13 years?

Maybe because for a long time, I didn’t.

(Her smile was a lil unfair. Still is.)

Ciao. Khairiyat

-Nishu.

P.S. Hope I don’t get slapped for this now. Fingers crossed.