The farewell lunch was simple but filled with love.
One by one, students lined up with steel plates. The aroma of poori with chole, ghee rice, white rice with sambar and rasam, and a soft laddu filled the air.
No grand buffet. No decorations.
But it was enough.
Banni sat cross-legged under a tree, plate in hand, quietly eating beside Kriti.
"You look nice in this saree," Kriti said between bites. "Simple but… clean. You look like one of those calm, mature girls in old serials."
Banni laughed softly. "Means I look old, huh?"
Kriti grinned. "No! Just... different from all of us."
Banni didn't reply.
She just took another bite of rasam rice and stared at the sky.
Later, during the farewell speeches, one teacher stood and said something that stuck with Banni:
"No matter what marks you get… remember how you behaved. That will follow you longer than your report card."
It echoed in her mind all evening.
That night, back in her room, Banni gently folded the saree and returned it to Amma's cupboard.
Tomorrow was her first exam.
She hadn't forgotten the chaos around her—her uncle, her cousin, the quiet storm inside the house.
But today, for a few hours, it had all disappeared.
Today wasn't just any day — it was the beginning of her board exams. The moment her entire year had been leading toward.
And tomorrow… was English.
She bathed early, lit a small agarbatti in front of the house deity, and stood still for a second.
Not praying for marks.
Just for calmness.
By 8:00 a.m., she was ready — hair neatly tied, pens packed, hall ticket tucked safely into a transparent folder.
She sat on her bed for a moment and closed her eyes.
A soft warmth began to fill the room.
The Magical Space had opened — not outside her, but inside.
A familiar soft hum. A breeze that didn't move the curtains, but brushed her heart.
A calm, clear voice — gentle as moonlight — spoke within her:
"You've read these chapters. You've practiced. Now let the words flow through you. I'll stay with you till the last line."
Banni smiled faintly, opened her eyes, and stood up.
Her father came out silently, wiping his hands on a towel.
He didn't say anything dramatic.
He just looked at her once and said:
"Ready, Banni?"
She nodded.
He took the bike keys off the wall. The familiar black Pulsar—their old but sturdy two-wheeler—was parked under the shade, slightly dusty, loyal as ever.
She sat behind him, holding the side rail lightly.
He didn't speak during the ride.
But he didn't have to.
The wind was cool. The road quiet. His back was straight, his grip strong. And Banni knew — this was his way of standing beside her.
Not with speeches.
But with presence.
They reached the exam center — a different school building about 3 kilometers away. Students and parents were everywhere. Nervous faces. Whispered revisions. Mothers giving curd-sugar. Fathers adjusting pens in shirts.
Her father parked the bike near the gate and looked at her.
Still no big words.
Just a soft, "Do well. No pressure."
Banni gave a half-smile. "I'll try, Appa."
He placed a hand lightly on her head — not dramatic, just enough.
Then he stepped back.
As she walked through the exam gate, her heart beat faster. Not from fear.
But from something else.
A quiet promise.
Not to top.
Not to impress.
But to do justice to everything her family had silently given her.
Her father's sacrifices.
Her mother's silent support.
Her own late nights and early mornings.
Inside the exam hall, she sat at her assigned bench, rolled out her pens, and took a deep breath.
Then, she whispered to herself:
"Activate Focus Mode."
Just like in the Magical Space.
And in her mind, the calm voice returned:
"You know the difference between a simile and a metaphor.
You've written essays in your dreams.
Trust your mind. Let your hand follow."
The bell rang.
The question papers were passed.
And Banni began to write her English exam.
Three hours passed in a blink — a calm blink, not the kind laced with panic.
She wrote a heartfelt letter, corrected a grammar passage, and finished her essay with a quiet smile.
The Magical Space stayed with her. Not loudly. Just like a friend who watches without speaking.
When it was time to stop, Banni placed her pen down slowly. Her handwriting steady. Her thoughts clear.
She hadn't struggled. She hadn't guessed.
She had written what she knew.
And more importantly… she had written with confidence.
Her father was waiting outside near the gate, sitting on the black Pulsar, sipping water from a bottle he had carried in his sling bag.
He looked up when he saw her.
Not with questions. Not with expectations.
Just that familiar nod.
"Done?" he asked.
Banni smiled softly. "Hmm. It went okay."
He started the bike, and they merged into the thin wave of students and parents heading back into the city's morning noise.
But midway through the ride, he slowed down near a small familiar juice stall — the one they often passed on the way back home.
"Let's stop for a minute," he said. "You deserve something cool."
He parked the bike near the shaded area beside the shop. A few benches were placed casually around the counter.
"One lemon masala, less ice, fresh," he told the vendor.
The smell of nimbu, black salt, and crushed mint filled the air.
Just as Banni took the first sip of her lemon masala juice, she heard a soft voice nearby:
"Hey, Banni!"
She turned.
It was Hamsa, her classmate — tall, well-dressed, always graceful, usually quiet. She stood there with a rose milkshake in her hand, smiling politely.
Her father was beside her — a man in formal wear, clean-shaven, holding a mango juice bottle.
Banni straightened slightly. "Hi, Hamsa."
Both fathers looked at each other and nodded. A spark of familiarity.
"You're from Modern School too?" Hamsa's father asked politely.
Banni's father responded, "Yes, yes. She just finished her English exam today."
"So did Hamsa," he said, patting his daughter's back. "She said it went well."
Banni smiled faintly. "Same here. Paper was decent."
The two girls stood side by side — not best friends, not close — but with mutual respect in their eyes.
Something about exams made everyone feel like part of the same boat.
Meanwhile, the two fathers began to chat—light talk, positive tone.
"No confusion in the questions," Banni's father said.
"Same here," Hamsa's father replied. "Hamsa said the same. One or two tricky ones, but overall, good."
They spoke like fathers do — with a calm front, hiding all their worries and prayers behind simple words.
After a few more sips and a short goodbye, Banni and her father climbed back onto the Pulsar.
As the engine hummed and the road unwound before them, Banni looked at the sky, feeling something shift gently inside her.
The Magical Space was quiet now. But she knew it was still there.