I wasn't present that evening, but afterwards… Krishanu briefed me on everything.
And how he spoke of it now resonates in my mind.
His house was less rowdy than any other evening. The distant hum of the television set echoed through the living room, the aroma of food wafted around, and yet, when Krishanu entered, his heart raced like he had entered the exam hall.
His father sat reading the newspaper. His mother was folding clothes.
"The principal… asked me to bring you tomorrow," he whispered.
His father glanced up. "Why?"
His mother's voice snapped into a sharp edge. "What did you do this time?"
He tried to tell him, the words spilling out—how Roshan had swung at him, how he'd intervened, how it had blown up way bigger than he'd meant.
But before he could get it all out—
SLAP.
The noise resonated in the room.
"Why did you do this?" his father bellowed. "You have to study, not brawl like some street urchin!"
Krishanu stood stock-still, head dropped, burning cheek.
His mother said nothing initially, her face contorted between rage and fear.
"I… I didn't want to fight," he whispered. "He punched Mayank. Everyone just looked on. I couldn't—"
"Stop it!" his father Yelled. "You might have raised your hand and called in a teacher! You might have turned away!"
Tears fell from Krishanu's eyes before he knew it.
"I was right," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I just didn't know when to quit."
That was when the noise attracted the others.
It was a big household — a joint family, with voices and footsteps.
His grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins — all of them stood waiting at the doorway, faces puzzled and worried.
"What's the matter?" one of his uncles inquired.
His father took a deep breath. "He's been having a tough time in school. The principal invited us for a conference tomorrow."
The room fell quiet.
It was the first time ever that Krishanu had been in trouble.
His grandmother's eyes grew wide. His younger cousin peeked out from behind a curtain. Even his older sister did not know what to say.
Krishanu stood frozen with fear.
He wanted to tell them, to yell that it wasn't his fault—but the words stuck in his throat.
His father held up his hand again, but this time his mother blocked his way.
"That's enough," she said sternly. "He's already frightened."
Then she turned to Krishanu. "When's the meeting?"
"Tomorrow morning…" he breathed.
"Fine," she replied, composed now. "We'll go. But listen—no more of this. You don't need to fight for everybody. Learn to walk away."
He nodded, head down.
"Yes, Ma."
When finally everybody had left, the house began once more to wriggle with its normal noise—TV babble, footsteps, plates clattering—but in Krishanu's room there was cold silence.
He sat at the window, looking up at the night sky.
He said afterwards he wasn't angry.
He wasn't even sad.
Just… tired.
Before going to bed, his mother came in, sitting beside him.
"Remorse what you've done," she said softly, brushing his hair aside. "But don't let this break you. Promise me this won't happen again."
He nodded, eyes glistening. "Thank you, Ma. It won't."
And that was all. No more scolding, no more shouting.
A mere quiet vow between a lad who'd witnessed too much too soon, and a mum who could only hope he'd still navigate.
To be continued