Thursday, 14th December 2023
The evening carried its usual rhythm as we settled in for our English lecture at AOS. These evening sessions always held a unique atmosphere—balancing focused learning with occasional light-hearted conversations and unplanned detours. That day, however, the discussion veered toward something more exciting: the Annual Day.
We had already received an official message about it in the AOS group. When Disha ma'am confirmed during the lecture that this year's Annual Day was likely to be held at the Vishwajeet school ground, my enthusiasm quietly intensified.
A question that immediately caught my attention was anchoring. As soon as she brought it up, I expressed my interest without hesitation. I had anchored the previous year, and the experience had left a lasting impression on me. There was a certain satisfaction in holding the microphone, engaging the audience, and ensuring they remained connected to the event throughout. It was a responsibility I truly enjoyed.
Ma'am mentioned that some juniors from the eleventh grade had also shown interest. She specifically named Prisha, someone I was already familiar with, and asked me to coordinate with her and form a WhatsApp group for the anchors so that further planning could begin.
Fortunately, I already had Prisha's contact, and there was a basic level of acquaintance between us. That said, the mention of her name often became a subject of light teasing from Ayaan. His remarks stemmed from a past incident at the doubt counter.
On one occasion, Prisha had posted a query in the doubt group, which I responded to. In an attempt to encourage more juniors to ask questions, I wanted to put a general note, but instead, I tagged her message directly, which gave it a slightly unintended tone and made the situation awkward.
Since then, Ayaan found humour in connecting my name with hers and would often refer to the moment in jest. While it was a minor incident, the repeated teasing ensured that it lingered far longer than it should have.
After the lecture, I texted Prisha and asked her to add the remaining members to the group I would create later. Once created, both Prisha and the teachers began adding the other names, and it gradually became clear that participation wasn't limited to just the 11th and 12th-grade students. Even juniors—from Class 10 CBSE and ICSE to as early as Class 9—were eager to join in.
As the names continued to pour in, I found myself wondering about the kind of atmosphere this diverse team would create on stage. The previous year, there had been only three anchors. This time, the number was significantly higher.
With so many voices, perspectives, and personalities coming together, it was evident that this Annual Day would unfold very differently—perhaps in ways none of us could yet anticipate.
********
The next day, we were called together for a discussion with Disha ma'am. I had prepared only a brief, last-minute draft conclusion to share, hoping it would reflect my writing style. Seated around the table were mostly juniors; among them, I recognised Prisha and another student named Kish.
Ma'am began outlining her expectations for us as anchors. She explained that our role wasn't limited to simply announcing performances; instead, we were to craft introductions and transitions using references that would resonate with the audience—modern-day memes, relatable examples, and touches of humour. It was clear that she envisioned something more lively and engaging than the previous year.
Last time, the anchors had merely stepped on stage, delivered their lines, and left. Having been one of them, I knew exactly what she meant.
Yet, listening to her that day, I could sense the sincerity behind her words. She genuinely wanted this year's event to be different—more memorable, more vibrant. And sitting there, I realised just how much responsibility and creative freedom we had been entrusted with.
I was determined to give it my best—to put in all the effort required and step onto that stage with confidence as an anchor. Yet, at the back of my mind, there was an undercurrent of worry I couldn't ignore.
Practical submissions were proving to be unexpectedly troublesome. We had overlooked certain details, and a few crucial pages were still missing signatures. Because of this, I had to make yet another trip to BS College—once with Lizz, and then once again on my own.
Adding to it all, the first attempt at JEE Main was now less than forty days away. Deep down, I also knew that Maa wouldn't really allow me to get too deeply involved in it, considering how crucial the upcoming months were.
********
Thursday, 21st December 2023
Over the past few nights, I had sat down and drafted scripts for seven to eight performances, all in a single sitting. I shared the script with Nidhi—a close school friend and, in my eyes, an excellent editor. She suggested a few changes, and after incorporating them, my script felt almost ready, nearly final.
On the other hand, I had been discussing practical-related stuff with Sanjana for the past couple of days, and it occurred to me—why not consult our own AOS miss dictionary as well? After all, if Nidhi excelled at keeping the content relevant, Sanjana could easily take on the role of grammar advisor.
That day was going to be unusually busy for me. For the first time, I had to visit AOS twice in a single day—once in the afternoon for a maths lecture meant for state board students, and again in the evening for the anchoring rehearsal.
In the maths lecture, Ramesh and Lizz were seated near me—one behind, the other in front. Lizz arrived first and took the seat just behind me. A little later, she sent me a hilarious reel on Instagram, which had me laughing uncontrollably.
By the time Sunny sir entered the class, I had sprawled across the bench, half-lying down without realising it. The moment he saw me, he remarked, "Rajai chhod de," which made me burst out laughing once again. His words instantly brought back memories of the biting cold of December—a chill we never truly got to experience in Mumbai's mild winter.
The lecture had word problems on applications of derivatives—a chapter that had always been close to my heart for its interesting and layered concepts.
My mind kept drifting between the equations on the board and the anchoring script waiting in my phone. Even as I solved problems, a part of me kept thinking about the upcoming Annual Day—how the lines would sound on stage, whether the audience would connect with them, and how it would all look when brought to life.
In that moment, it felt as if two very different worlds—maths and anchoring—were quietly running side by side in my thoughts, each carrying its own excitement and weight.
And when the class finally ended, as we stepped out of the academy, I noticed that Sanjana had at last found the time to look at my message. Her reply had come, and with it, a document—what seemed to be an edited version of my script, along with a few notes.
Sanjana 3: tune bohot sahi likha hai
i loved it
very well written
meri zarurat toh nahi lagti lekin mujhe laga kuch
change better sound karega toh
I didn't even open the document. Instead, I showed the chat straight to Lizz and mentioned the same thing that The Sanjana J had finally got the time to check my message.
She had added a few tips and highlighted certain parts in the script, so I could easily compare them with the original and decide what to keep. Sanjana even made sure to mark things I might have already learned, saving me the trouble of searching for them.
A moment later, Ramesh too came over from behind and started peeking into my phone. It felt a little uncomfortable—almost intrusive—but I chose not to say anything, afraid he might feel bad.
Outside the academy, we eventually split ways. I walked off towards Lizz's side, mostly because somewhere in the back of my mind, I'd already made plans for a samosa. Alongside, there was this quiet happiness too—knowing Sanjana had helped so much, far more than I'd even asked for.
Caught up in that moment of gratitude and emotion, I completely forgot to open the file and texted her:
Me: Dude...
Sanjana 3: ha?
Me: I have no words
Sanjana 3: matlab?
Me: Ek baar padh leta hu..
Sanjana 3: bina padhe words nahi hai?
I laughed softly at her reply. By then, Lizz had left, and I, too, headed towards Neelkanth, still debating whether to actually buy the samosa—knowing full well that Maa had made matar paranthe for lunch at home. And after all this, there was still the rehearsal waiting at AOS in the evening.
I opened the document and saw that Sanjana had suggested a few edits here and there, with some lines highlighted in yellow. In my original draft, I had closed the opening paragraph with a question for the audience—asking them how they felt about the turf of Vishwajeet. After all, it was something not every school could boast of, and I had always felt a quiet pride in mentioning it.
Right as I was scrolling through and stepping into Neelkanth, what really caught my eye, though, was how she had slipped in an extra line right after that:
"But, honestly speaking Fr. Angelo School ka best hai."
It was clearly intentional—a playful nod to her own school, whose turf was famously even larger than ours.
The moment I read it, I couldn't help it—I laughed out loud, almost stumbling over my own feet. Without thinking, I did a half-turn and walked right back out onto the footpath, still grinning and trying to catch my breath.
Switching apps to WhatsApp, I saw that the madam editor had already followed up, explaining that she'd meant to put that line in brackets but had forgotten. She offered a quick, half-apologetic note, then doubled down anyway, writing,
"It's the best turf anyways."
I couldn't resist teasing back—telling her she should have just written "Faraday" instead. That was what I jokingly called her school anyway.
And just like that, the samosa I'd been craving slipped clean out of my mind. If the very first highlighted line could make me laugh this much, I couldn't wait to see what else she'd slipped in. Almost impatient now, I hopped onto the bus, phone in hand, eager to read the entire script.
The rest of the script was just careful polishing here and there. Still, I was glad to see she'd found my 'Prashant' reference funny enough to actually burst out laughing.
I typed out a short paragraph thanking her for the edits and the effort she'd put in as I reached home.
Munching on the parathas, I let myself rest for a while. Despite having to head back to AOS for the second time that day, I didn't really feel tired. Maybe it was the excitement, maybe just the thought of anchoring itself that kept the energy alive.
Then, bag on my shoulder, I stepped out once more into the December evening—ready for the rehearsals ahead.
Sitting in the bus, earphones plugged in, I was scrolling through my script—reading and re-reading the edits. Somewhere between those lines, the thought crossed my mind: maybe this could be another moment to ask Sanjana to read my book, too.
It wasn't the first time I'd tried to get her involved. I'd already mentioned it to her twice before, but both times she'd ended up forgetting. And it did matter since she was actually one of the main characters in it.
Naira had started reading it almost a month ago, and Ramesh and Lizz had both already finished the first part. Sitting there, swaying slightly with the movement of the bus, I thought: Why not try once more?
We were still chatting then, about our respective schools—both of us unmistakably, proud of where we had come from. And just as the bus slowed near my stop, I got up from my seat, stepped toward the door, and in those brief minutes before getting down, words came almost unbidden: a quick paragraph, typed out in a couple of minutes as I walked towards the academy.
"J was that one who was beside Naira. Both the girls with a glowing face sat behind me for months.
Around 800 odd texts of nothing other than me reminding her of Sumit sir's homework and to prepare for the oral, that too only when she was in my team… and a few crying emojis from her. And sharing notes whenever she missed a class. We never exchanged a laughing emoji in those 800 odd msgs.
And then suddenly I received three from her in the last three days…"
"oh bhai"
Her reply came barely a minute later, followed by two more crying emojis. I asked her how it was—mentioning that I had this strange ability to describe people in just a few lines, sometimes in mere seconds.
"Very bookish indeed," she texted back.
I paused, trying to make sense of it. Was that a compliment? Or did she mean it sounded stiff, perhaps too formal to feel real? I told myself I'd still include it in the book.
By then, my script was getting printed by Raj sir, and carrying the freshly printed sheet, I settled on a sofa to try again. The classrooms of our batch were occupied, so we crossed the road to the PNCF branch, where Harshwardhan sir was busy giving anchoring tips to Prisha and Anshita. As we searched for a free room to rehearse, I wrote my second attempt—this time taking about seven minutes before hitting send:
"That one thing which protected us from what shook the world covered her face as well. But that one thing it could never cover were the eyes. Big and pretty ones—what I once heard being mentioned as a topic of discussion in B2.
She was always on a call, whispering in the most suppressed voice. Or I'd find her half-asleep at the bus stop whenever I had to take printouts of PYQs and happened to pass by. Her face always turned to the right, probably waiting for the bus.
Kindness was that one thing I always respected her for..
Especially when she at least saw texts—unlike Naira…"
I didn't pause to review it carefully before sending, but almost as soon as I did, I realised it wasn't all that different from the first one—still sounding a bit too "bookish", which I mentioned to her, adding a crying emoji.
"oml I'll cry now," she replied almost instantly. This time, at least, I knew what "oml" meant—I had googled it in the afternoon when she'd used it earlier.
"sounds so nice," she added next.
"Hmmhmm," I nodded to myself, glancing at her text on the screen as Prisha and Anshita began rehearsing on the other side of the room.
On the other hand, the rehearsals were going quite well. Both the girls who began the anchoring seemed prepared and confident; it showed that they had worked on their lines.
In the middle of all this, my phone buzzed with a message:
"my lehenga was orange and pink, not red with an ochre skirt
obviously I needed support with itna bada skirt and heels"
Reading those lines from Sanjana, I realised she had finally begun reading the second chapter of my book. And there was something quietly special in watching her review the lines I had written about her.
I couldn't help but remember how, months earlier, I had sent the picture of Batch 1 during the Ganesh celebrations of the previous year to Nidhi to confirm the colour of Sanjana's lehenga for that very scene.
Back then, she had guessed it to be a warm red with a cream skirt—and now, here I was, being corrected by the lehenga girl herself.
What really mattered was that she didn't judge me for it — in fact, she liked it. She was amazed to read about herself, and even more so to see my perspective not just on her, but on others as well.
"elite writing," she said, requesting even more. I sent her the next chapter, giving her a short outline in a few lines.
The rehearsals went well that day. We talked a lot, and by the time we were leaving, it was already dark. Back home, after dinner, I had just settled down when Sanjana's messages popped up again.
And then… the very thing I'd been dreading happened.
[12/21, 21:51]
Sanjana 3:what who says about me?
who had a crush on me?
and i look like a duck!?
"Oh, fuck"
I muttered to myself, heading to the bedroom. What was I even supposed to say to her? I was embarrassed about that duck remark — and she had clearly noticed it. She asked me to explain. At first, I tried to respond respectfully, but then… I started dodging.
She didn't let it go. Not until the words slipped out of my mouth, that it was Paresh who had a crush on her.
But even that wasn't enough. Now she wanted to know exactly what Paresh had said. She really wanted to know what it was that, if she ever found out, she would remove him from her Instagram.
There was no way I was going to tell her that. I lied — said I honestly didn't remember what Paresh had said. And in the end, she had no choice but to believe me. I was grateful that it didn't turn out to be a big thing.
On the other hand, the script I had sent to ma'am was a hit.
She said I was a superstar—and even added that she was betting on me.
Hearing that felt like an instant shot of happiness.
I quickly shared her response with both Nidhi and Sanjana, since both of them had helped me with the polishing and the editing.
********
Friday, 22nd December 2023
The morning began with the lingering weight of a JEE test, but my mind was already leaning towards the afternoon. Rehearsals had been planned well in advance, set neatly between the morning's academic grind and the juniors' treasure hunt in the evening. I carried my laptop along for the script, my steps quickening as I reached the academy. Pushing the door open, I found the corridor almost empty—only Naira and Karan were sitting on different sofas, and Dipali mam was at the reception.
I took out my laptop from the bag and walked over to Karan. His face lit up the moment he saw it, and without hesitation, he took it from me. Within seconds, he was clicking away, downloading something in the background.
Just then, Piyush joined us, settling in beside Karan. I watched as he opened YouTube, played a random video, and, in the extension menu, switched on a volume booster. Only then did I realise what he had been downloading all along.
Their little bout of timepass was amusing at first, but after a few minutes, I reclaimed the laptop and drifted towards the sofa where Naira was sitting, taking the empty spot beside her.
I first opened Spotify, slid in my earphones, and pulled up the document of my script. In another tab, I kept the file for my next chapter ready. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Naira stealing glances—not at me, but at my laptop, her gaze angled with quiet curiosity.
We sat like that for a while—me typing away, her half-absorbed in whatever was playing through her Bluetooth earphones—until she suddenly stood up. There was a faint smile playing on her lips.
From the glass panel of the classroom door opposite us, I could see the reflection of the main academy entrance. And in that instant, I understood exactly what had brought that smile.
Through the door walked a tall girl, hair loose, bag slung over one shoulder. Sanjana. She was stepping into the academy after more than two weeks, and with her arrival, the silence almost vanished as the two girls started chatting. I greeted her with a polite "Namaste."
At first, she and Naira remained standing, talking about the recent test's rank list and the schedule for the upcoming board exams. Then Sanjana's attention shifted—her eyes landed on my laptop. I told her about the script and mentioned that a few people had dropped out of anchoring.
"Matlab… they backed off?" she asked, settling into the seat beside me. I nodded, still wondering if the phrase should have been "backed out" instead. I passed her the laptop, and she began scrolling through my script once again—only stopping when Dipali ma'am called us in for the test.
My test was completed sooner than I had expected. I had walked in with my mind still half-occupied by the last few lines I had edited in my script. The paper in front of me felt more like an interlude than the main act of the day. I answered what little I knew— no desperate attempts—just quietly wrote and marked down what I could.
I handed in my sheet, stepped back into the corridor, and felt the shift from the classroom's exam hush to the mild buzz of the lobby. The sofa by the wall was empty again. I sat down, pulled the laptop onto my knees, and let the screen's glow take over my attention once more.
Before long, one of the teachers came and sat down beside me. She was among those in charge of the annual day anchoring, along with Disha ma'am, and her eyes inevitably wandered to the open document on my laptop. I could feel her curiosity resting there for a moment before she looked away.
Not long after she left, Sunny Sir appeared and took the same seat. The change in company made me a little conscious; he sat there quietly scrolling through his phone while I fixed my gaze on the laptop screen, feigning complete absorption in the words in front of me. Part of it was deliberate—I was hoping he wouldn't remember to ask about the test. If he did, I would have no defence, for there was nothing remarkable I had written in it.
When he too got up and left, I returned to my work with ease, shifting between the two open tabs—one holding my script, the other the draft of the next chapter of my book.
A few minutes later, the door of the classroom from which I had stepped out earlier opened, and Sanjana emerged. I greeted her with another "Namaste," and she smiled in acknowledgement as she reached for her bag.
She was the third person to take the seat beside me; I moved my bottle aside to make space.
"How was it?" she asked, her tone casual.
"Uhh… when we come out of our board exam hall, and you ask me how it went, then I'll tell you how today's test went," I replied, not entirely sure if the parallel landed with her, but from my side, the meaning was clear. My confidence in the boards still held steady; it was only JEE that kept me uncertain.
A few moments later, Naira came in.
As I had guessed, she asked if I could shift so she could sit with Sanjana. But the sofa had space for only two, and I said no straightaway. It wasn't the first time her group had asked me to give up my seat, so I wasn't in the mood to move this time.
Naira discussed the answer to a question about a diabetic patient. Coincidentally, both she and I had marked the same option, whereas Sanjana's answer differed. We were confident about ours, until Sanjana pulled out her phone and showed us the correct answer — which, as it turned out, was hers. She added that several members of her family had diabetes, including her father. That's when I learned he was an engineer, and for some reason, that little detail left me oddly impressed, since my father was not one.
Soon, Karan, Piyush, and the others also finished their test and sat down on the bigger sofa nearby.
On the other side, Sanjana quietly got up and, without saying much, made Naira sit beside me while she herself perched on the sofa's armrest.
Hamare liye toh scene set tha—Naira beside me, courtesy of Sanjana. Everyone was busy with their own stuff, and soon, Sanjana and Naira's gossip session kicked off—Sanjana, as always, talking about the different K-dramas she'd watched or was still watching, and Naira listening. I was partly focused on the script, but also tuned into their conversation. Out of the many K-dramas she mentioned, one sounded like the 'Blue Whale game,' and we ended up talking about that.
Then, the topic shifted to the annual day, which was the next day. That was when it became clear Sanjana wouldn't be coming—she was heading somewhere near Lonavala, jokingly calling it a "kidnapping."
Naira, on the other hand, said her mom wasn't letting her attend. I still tried, in my own light way, to convince Naira to come, even though I knew that without Sanjana, she probably wouldn't go anywhere.
I then handed my laptop to Naira, and Sanjana and I made her read my script, which she did while laughing the entire time. I told them that during the previous evening's rehearsal, Disha ma'am had told me she wanted me to stay on as an anchor mentor for AOS next year as well.
"How much do you people talk?" Dipali ma'am suddenly interrupted.
"Let us talk, ma'am… this is our last year anyway. We won't be here next year," I replied.
"This is your last year?" she asked.
"Yes, I mean, it's my last year… these two girls might still be around next year—who knows," I said, looking at both the girls and laughing.
Both of them burst out laughing too and immediately
shot back, saying I'd be there next year too, since I'd already been asked to stay on as a mentor.
The academy door opened, and right behind Sameer sir entered Abhay sir and a few other staff members. We were still caught up in our conversation when, interestingly, Sameer sir walked straight towards us.
In the middle of our talk, he looked at Sanjana and said,
"Dekha… ek pep talk se tu third rank pe aa gayi."
Sanjana smiled at his words, while I instinctively turned my face away—hoping he wouldn't notice me, because I had scored zero in that very same test. Those few seconds felt unusually long, and I only breathed a sigh of relief once he moved on without glancing in my direction.
We ended up drifting into all sorts of topics, and somehow, cricket found its way into the mix. We were all loyal to different players—Naira was a Dhoni supporter, Sanjana was a proud Kohlian, and I had always been a Rohit fan.
"Dhoni's jersey has expired, right?" Naira suddenly asked.
I blinked, caught between laughter and disbelief. "Abe, expire nahi… retired," I corrected, shaking my head.
She grinned, shrugging as if it was all the same to her.
While Naira asked another question, about whether jersey numbers were assigned to players or chosen by them, Sanjana had already effortlessly told the jersey numbers of one player after another.
"Acha, tell me—whose jersey number is 45?"
I asked Sanjana, leaning back on the sofa and waiting for her to guess it wrong.
"Wait… wait… who is it?" She paused and thought for a moment before giving up.
"Mere bhagwan ka jersey number hai," I hinted.
There was a half-second pause—and then she gasped. "ROHITTTTTTTT!" she yelled, her voice bouncing off the walls, before breaking into a wide, unrestrained laugh.
I couldn't help smirking, slowly nodding in approval.
"Correct," I said, but I doubt she even heard me over her own laughter.
The last thing we had been talking about was birthdays. Sanjana had teased Naira about hers, calling it 'the most common date in the world,' saying half the world seemed to be born on that day. The irony was that Sanjana herself was among the rare handful of people I knew whose birthdays fell on the first of the month, that too in September.
Somewhere in the middle of that exchange, a thought crossed my mind—why not ask Naira if she remembered mine?
It hadn't even been a month since my birthday party, and yet, for reasons I couldn't explain, I had a strange feeling she might not remember the exact date. That tiny doubt was enough for me to decide it was better not to ask at all.
Both the girls finally got up and left. I bid goodbye to Naira and greeted Sanjana with another polite namaste.
I took out my tiffin — I had brought cutlets — and started eating. Even after they left, I didn't really feel alone, because soon our junior anchors' lectures ended, and all of us gathered in Classroom Nine for rehearsal.
Kish used my laptop to finish her script, and until he was done, I just sat and watched. My new laptop was barely two months old, so naturally, I was quite conscious about it.
Interestingly, among the anchors there, one of them was from Vishwajeet and happened to be my junior. Once Kish completed his script, we began running through our lines.
The classroom was buzzing with voices as everyone practiced their parts, discussed changes, and helped each other out.
It was shaping up to be a productive session before the big day. Sameer sir too noticed me from outside, and waved me a hand in appreciation.
It had not been even one full round of rehearsal, and most of us started feeling hungry. I didn't have much money on me, but I still wanted everyone to have something to eat.
So, with whatever cash I had, I ordered vada pav for everyone. We sat together, eating and discussing our script.
********
Saturday, 23rd December 2024
AOS Day 2023
That morning, my mother, following my father's instructions relayed over the phone, had made it clear that I was not to wear a suit and pants, but instead a blazer with jeans. She even insisted I get a neat haircut and shave to look presentable for the occasion.
The dress code had always been a source of mild irritation for me, for it seemed to draw out a different opinion from everyone. Some lacked one thing, while others were short of another; some were comfortable in one attire, others in something entirely different. A white shirt was something I didn't own at the time, and so I quietly hoped it wouldn't be finalized for the boys. After much back-and-forth—between formals and traditional—it was eventually settled: black with a coat or a blazer for the boys, and a white top for the girls, with blazers optional.
The excitement was already brimming within me, yet it carried a quiet ache—the knowledge that Naira wouldn't be there. Still, she had asked me to record every performance and every fleeting moment, as though my eyes would serve as hers for the evening. What surprised me most was that not a single student from the entire 12th-grade batch of the Kharghar branch—who owned the stage last year with their electrifying performances—was coming, not even to witness the event, let alone to perform.
Everyone seemed buried in their studies. Even among my own friends, Lizz and Sushant had no plans to attend, and Ramesh had gone to the airport to drop off a relative, leaving it uncertain whether he would make it back in time at all.
One relief, though, was that Maa hadn't once asked me to study that day—a rarity in itself. She could see my excitement too for the occasion and respected it.
I spent the late morning aimlessly wandering around the house, studying in bits here and there until the afternoon crept in. The event was still hours away, but we anchors had been asked to arrive two hours early—for some final rehearsals and a proper look at the stage.
The moment the clock struck one, I got up and asked Mom to take out Dad's blazer. I tried it on while Dad watched me over a video call from Gwalior. Maa suggested I wear a T-shirt inside the blazer, but I had my mind set on one of my favourite black shirts. Just in case, I also packed a shirt and jeans, though I planned to leave home wearing my AOS T-shirt.
Meanwhile, Mom had prepared delicious pav bhaji, so I munched on it quickly before leaving. Keeping the occasion in mind, I carefully took out the perfume set Lizz had gifted me on my birthday and placed it in my bag. And finally, with the blazer in my hand, the bag slung over my shoulder, and a cap on my head, I headed for the bus stop.
Bus number 52 arrived within minutes—I had already seen its live location on the app. The bus was almost empty, so I kept my blazer on the seat beside me, set my bag down, and leaned back comfortably. Staring at myself on the phone screen, I suddenly realised that, thanks to my fresh haircut and the cap, I looked nearly bald. Amused, I posted a story with the caption: new look loading.
When I got off, the first thing I did was click a snap of the school building and upload it to my WhatsApp status. Outside, Sameer sir's car was parked, and inside, he was busy with the other faculty members, arranging the preparations. The sun was blazing mercilessly, and to my surprise, hardly anything seemed ready for the event.
I walked across the turf and spotted all the anchors near the basketball court—Prisha and Anshita in white tops, while the juniors wore their black blazers. As soon as I reached them, Kish asked me to exchange coats with him, but I flatly refused, which even to me felt a little rude. My mind, however, was occupied by a bigger worry: I still hadn't memorised my script.
By then, students from the Nerul and Panvel branches had arrived too. Everyone was wandering around under the harsh sunlight, while the performers sat closer to the stage, busy with their rehearsals. I made a quick reel, killed some time strolling here and there, and eventually just lay down for a bit. Meanwhile, a group of boys had started playing football on the turf.
A little later, Sameer Sir explained that the delay had been due to expected rain. Some forecast must have warned him, but instead of showers, the sun only blazed down harder, as if determined to test everyone's patience.
By then, more faces began to appear. Ramesh—who until that moment hadn't even decided whether he would come—finally showed up, along with Neil and a few other boys. Soon after, Sunny Sir and Bhavesh Sir arrived, both looking sharp in their blazers. The moment they stepped in, a small crowd gathered around them. Questions started flying, most of them playful, circling their plans.
But the undertone was obvious—it was drifting toward marriage. Both of them only laughed, waving it off with the same line again and again: no personal questions.
As the evening settled, my phone buzzed. Kavya wanted to know what the girls wandering on the ground were wearing, a question that left me blank. Still, I sent her a few pictures of the evening to help, and she replied that she'd be there in an hour.
Not long after, Sanjana D asked me the same. Feeling restless, I walked over to her society—it was only a short distance away—and we returned together. After dropping her off with her friends, I picked up my bag and went to change.
When I came back, the transformation felt complete. The gaps I had noticed earlier were gone, replaced by a sense of readiness. The stage stood out most of all, gleaming under the lights, as if waiting for the night to begin.
Anshita and Prisha opened the Annual Day with their conversation. Soon after, it was my turn. The crowd greeted me with cheers as I introduced myself, trying to carry as much confidence as I could.
Among all the faces, I could almost spot Naira, sitting with her saheli, Sanjana, as always. I could picture her looking at me, offering a small smile—nothing extraordinary, just the kind of smile friends exchange casually. And yet, in that imagined moment, it felt like more than enough, the sort of gesture that lingers long after the crowd and the noise fade.
I knew it was only a thought, a possibility that would never unfold that evening. Still, the idea of it was enough to make me pause. Perhaps my own smile would have grown wider, my heart lighter, as if a silent reassurance had reached me without a single word spoken.
From the audience, Sunny Sir raised a hand in a namaste. That small gesture steadied me. I had already dropped Sanjana's 'Father Angelo' line, but I made sure not to forget praising the turf of my own school—it felt necessary, almost personal.
My first performance call came with Chelena beside me. But when it was her turn, she forgot her paragraph entirely and insisted that I carry on. For a few seconds, silence hung in the air. I had no choice but to improvise, stitching together something of my own. It worked, but it felt clumsy, even a little absurd.
The show found its rhythm from there. One by one, dazzling performances rolled in. From backstage, we laughed, cheered, and sometimes joined in the dancing ourselves. The crowd erupted whenever "Jamal Kudu" from Animal played—half the acts seemed to ride on its fever. Still, it was the achievers' batch of NEET girls who truly lit up the stage, their dance nothing short of explosive.
In the middle of the show, a message from Lizz popped up on my phone. She was unknowingly echoing the role Sushant had played the year before—checking in to ask how the show was going, and whether I was managing to set the stage on fire with my anchoring.
It was a small thing, but it felt good to know she cared.
Soon, hunger had begun to creep in. My bottle was empty too, so I decided to fill it from the school building. On the way, I crossed a group of girls, stopped briefly to ask how they were, and then moved ahead.
The paved road gave way to the rough track, and across the turf I noticed two girls dancing, stopping every so often to check their phones for the next step. At first, I couldn't recognize them. But when they spun mid-step, it struck me—Mia and Aayushi, my batchmates from eleventh grade last year.
I was glad to see them. Even better, they told me they'd be performing—the only twelfth graders from the Kharghar branch to do so. Mia was the one who stood out in my memory. The clearest flashback I had of her from the previous Annual Day was her shouting "Sanjanaa, Sanjanaa!" from the audience while I mimicked Sanjana D. And now, here she was, preparing to dance.
Memories from the last Annual Day came rushing back. With a laugh, they asked if their performance fell under my slot of anchoring and insisted I announce them with full energy when their turn came. That small reunion, right there in the middle of the evening, lifted my mood in ways I hadn't expected.
Anchoring almost slipped from my mind, and I found myself wandering here and there. Sometimes I circled back to the other anchors; at other times, I slipped into the audience, sitting with Tejas, Sammy, Prashant, Mayanti, and Sanjana D—enjoying the show like any other spectator.
Among all of them, I could almost imagine Naira sitting with Sanjana J, the two of them gossiping. If they had noticed me drifting around, Naira would probably have called me over—maybe to talk, maybe to discuss something.
And honestly, I would have welcomed even the smallest compliment from her about my anchoring. But that was just something that couldn't happen that evening.
When I took a round near the dinner section, I spotted Ramesh, Kavya, and Arjun. The sight of the three of them together instantly lifted my spirits. I joined them for a while, and we talked casually. Arjun, as always, looked every bit the hero—good-looking and confident.
Just then, Sai Sir, our Organic Chemistry faculty, happened to pass by. He noticed me, came over, and praised my anchoring generously. Hearing that from him felt wonderful. On the other hand, the food spread left him slightly displeased—he was diabetic, and the options didn't sit well with him.
From there, I got up to finish the remaining rounds of anchoring. Mia and Aayushi's performance wasn't in my script, but it turned out to be one of the most memorable acts of the night. Every bit of their hard work in rehearsals showed on stage, and I couldn't help but feel proud watching them.
Gradually, the crowd began to thin. People were leaving, and the energy that had filled the turf all day was starting to settle. Before wrapping up, we took some final pictures with the faculty. One by one, Sameer Sir shook hands with each anchor. When my turn came, that handshake felt like a moment of pride etched into memory.
Finally, all of us sat down with our dinner plates. I even took a photo of my plate before eating—pav bhaji, noodles, Manchurian, and a single gulab jamun. The food, honestly, was disappointing, especially when I learned we could only take one serving.
Later, when I sent the pictures of the meal to Naira along with all the performances and moments I'd recorded for her, she too laughed and pointed out that the menu was the same as last year.
On my way out of school, I slipped inside the main building for a moment. The circular structure inside caught my eye, and I clicked a photo, which I later sent to Sanjana J. I also took a few pictures of myself before rushing toward the bus stop. Luckily, I caught the bus just in time.
As the bus moved, I saw Nidhi's reply to one of my statuses, asking how the event had gone. On one hand, memories and flashbacks from the evening kept replaying in my mind.
On the other hand, my mother's calls had already come in two or three times. By the time I finally picked up, she was furious, repeating that I had been at the event for almost nine hours, when JEE was just a month away.
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