By the time I woke up and finished my usual routine—brushing, folding my blanket, getting refreshed, and doing my yoga routine—I noticed something unusual: I still had a whole hour left before the school block opened.
It felt like a rare, golden hour that belonged only to me.
I pulled out the embroidery kit I had packed last night and sat cross-legged on my bed. The pale pink dupatta lay softly in my lap, and I threaded the needle with practiced ease. There was something deeply meditative about it—the way the thread pulled through the cloth, the slight resistance, the tiny loops forming slowly under my fingers. It was as if I had entered a different time zone where nothing else existed—just me, the needle, the thread, and the hope that this small effort would tie everything—and everyone—together.
Around me, chaos bloomed like wildflowers in a thunderstorm.
Someone was running around with one shoe in her hand. Another girl yelled, "Where's my ID card?" from the corridor. Buckets clanged, cupboards opened and slammed shut, and hairbrushes were fought over. Someone sprayed deodorant so generously that it reached three beds away. It was the classic hostel morning rush.
And in the middle of that storm, there I was—calm and unmoving. I probably looked like some sage meditating over a sacred cloth instead of a school girl trying to finish a dance costume hack.
It felt like I had only just begun when I glanced at the wall clock and noticed it was already ten minutes to seven.
"Time slipped away," I whispered to myself and packed the embroidery kit carefully. I placed the dupatta on top of my books inside the school bag, locked my cupboard, and stepped out, blending into the current of girls moving briskly towards the school block.
By the time I reached the class, as usual, it was just me and Nishanth inside. He was already seated near the window, tapping his pen against his notebook rhythmically and scanning the corridor every few seconds like he was expecting someone or something to arrive.
He grinned the moment he saw me.
"Any plans yet?" he asked, his eyes lighting up like I'd just walked into an important meeting.
I blinked, still halfway between embroidery mode and classroom reality. "Plans?"
"Don't say you forgot already," he said, dramatically clutching his chest like I'd betrayed some sacred oath.
I raised an eyebrow. "Forgot what?"
"I'm the vice captain of it!" he declared proudly.
"Vice captain of what?"
"Whatever you're going to do to make school life less boring," he said with a smirk. "You can't just stir things up, say we'll change things, and then act like a regular student the next day. That's illegal."
I laughed. "I didn't know I'd been promoted to school life president already."
He tapped his notebook twice. "Seriously, though, we started something during the discussion with the class teacher, remember? If we're doing this, we need to follow through."
I nodded slowly. "I haven't come up with anything concrete yet."
"What do you think about a school newspaper or magazine?" he asked, sitting up straighter. "I was thinking about it last night. Doesn't our school have anything like that already?"
"I don't think I've seen anything like it here," I admitted. "No wall magazine. No monthly circular. Not even a noticeboard where students can write something. Only announcements and punishment lists."
"Exactly," he said. "If we do this right, we could pull in a lot of students. Interview freshers, write about events, doodles, comics, teacher gossip—ok, maybe not gossip," he corrected himself quickly, "but fun stuff! Useful stuff! And it uses both our skills—writing and organizing. Win-win."
I grinned. "It is a great idea. But we can't just tell the teachers we want to start a school newspaper. We're new kids. We don't have credibility yet. We need to show them that it works."
"Show, not tell," he agreed. "So… what's your brilliant plan?"
I paused for a second, then smiled. "Perfect timing actually. Fresher's Day is coming up. That'll be our pilot project."
His eyes widened. "Ooooh. That's smart. So will that be like a newspaper issue or a mini magazine?"
"I'm not sure yet," I admitted. "We'll figure that part out tomorrow. First, today, we collect everything we can about Fresher's Day. Events, participants, quotes, preparations… even behind-the-scenes drama."
He rubbed his hands together. "I love behind-the-scenes drama."
"Be subtle," I warned. "We're documenting, not gossiping. Let's not get kicked out before the first page gets printed."
"Fine, fine," he said with mock seriousness. "So, do we have roles? Like, am I the photographer-slash-interviewer and you're the editor-in-chief?"
"We're just two people right now," I reminded him. "Let's start by asking around during breaks and see who's involved in the planning. We'll act like we're helping—but secretly we're building our secret paper empire."
Nishanth chuckled. "Operation Fresher Scoop begins."
As the rest of the class slowly began trickling in, we lowered our voices, already slipping into co-conspirator mode. I felt that familiar spark again—like I was part of something that mattered, something fun. Something more than just surviving school.
By the time the bell rang, we had jotted down a list of people to talk to and events to attend. Our notebooks, which looked like innocent class notes on the outside, were already filled with mission plans.
And just like that, the idea was no longer just a random suggestion. It had a pulse. A direction.
Mahathi came around during break, waving a small sticky note like a flag. "Don't forget about the mirrors for the DIY project," she reminded, slipping into the seat beside mine.
"Right," I said, shutting my notebook and stretching. "Let's go now before I get pulled into something else."
We made our way to Sastika's class, dodging a few juniors running with half-eaten samosas and a supervisor who thankfully didn't notice we weren't in our own block. When we reached, her class was still going on, so we stood outside, pretending to read the posters pinned on the corridor wall—some old science project reports, some motivational quotes, and one half-torn notice about a lost ID card.
Finally, when the bell rang and the class was dismissed, Sastika spotted us and came over. "Nila, I spoke to my friend," she said. "He said okay. But I told him you'll explain it directly."
We followed her inside quickly. Her class was still buzzing with students packing their bags and rushing to the corridor. I stayed near her table, my eyes darting around for any teachers.
Because here's the thing: if any staff spotted us talking to boys inside the classroom—or worse, in the corridor—it'd automatically turn into an indirect sermon about "values," "boundaries," and the infamous "distractions at this age."
Sometimes I genuinely wonder why they didn't just divide the school into two blocks—one for girls, one for boys—with a wall and a moat in between. At least then, we wouldn't have to keep tiptoeing around this invisible line.
No one says it out loud, of course. But the message is clear—if you're seen with a boy, people assume it's "puppy love," and not just two humans exchanging words. The stares alone are enough to write a whole judgment letter. It's like a veil—thin but firm—draped across all our interactions. An unspoken agreement we've all been trained not to challenge.
Inside the classroom, Sastika pointed to a guy leaning casually on the back bench, flipping through a textbook. "This is Pranav, my friend. He said he can get the stuff from the town shops."
I smiled. "Hi, thanks for agreeing to help at such short notice." I took out the little list I had scribbled and started explaining. "We need these for our embroidery workshop. First, one large bottle of fabric glue. Then—" I handed him the note, "—round-shaped 9mm mirrors, 100 grams. Diamond-shaped mirrors, 18 by 12 mm, also 100 grams. And oval mirrors, 16mm, same quantity."
He glanced at the note and then looked up. "So if I show this at the shop and say exactly what you said, that's enough?"
"Yep," I nodded. "These are the tiny mirrors they stick on dresses—one side is a proper mirror, and the other side usually has a blue or colored base."
I pulled out ₹300 and handed it to him. "The total might not cross ₹200, but I'm giving extra just in case. You can return the balance tomorrow when you bring the items."
Pranav grinned. "You should actually thank Sastika. She said she'd show me her notes for two subjects in exchange."
Sastika rolled her eyes. "I said assignments, not notes. And only if you actually get the right stuff."
We all laughed, and soon Mahathi and I left, weaving our way back to our own classroom through the now-buzzing corridor.
Back in our seats, I tucked away the sticky note duplicate and stretched out my legs. That was one thing off the list.
Now, time to figure out how to turn all these tiny mirrors and fabric glue into something worth eyecatching.