"Expulsion."
That was the last word Sid heard from the principal. It landed like a hammer, blunt and heavy, leaving no space for reply. No explanations, no arguments. Just a door shut on him, with silence pressed into the cracks.
Even at home, there was no storm. No shouting. No scolding. His parents were calm. And that calmness scared him more than anything else.
The drive back was soundless. His father's eyes stayed on the road, his mother's hands folded tightly in her lap. Sid sat in the back seat, trying not to blink too much, because every blink risked letting a tear fall.
When they reached home, his mother touched his cheek softly, as though afraid he might break if she pressed too hard. "Go to your room, Sid. Rest a little."
He nodded, wordless, and slipped away.
His room felt different that day. The same shelves, the same toys, the same little study table by the window — yet everything seemed sharpened by silence. The toy cars stood frozen in their line, their bright colors suddenly childish. His sketchbook lay on the table, open to a page of half-finished doodles. Even the ceiling fan, usually his companion in long afternoons, hummed too steadily, too perfectly, like it had nothing to say.
Sid dropped onto the bed, face first into the pillow. The cotton smelled faintly of detergent and sun — his mother had changed the covers only yesterday. She always tried to keep his world neat, safe, predictable. But now, the neatness only made the shame burn sharper.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Faint cracks spread like rivers across the plaster, rivers that led nowhere. Maybe that was what he was now — a crack. Something people pretended not to see, but couldn't patch.
In the quiet, he could hear his parents talking in the next room. Not loud enough for words, just the murmur of two voices trying not to break. That was worse than anger. Anger at least was hot, alive. This was cold, final.
Sid hugged his pillow. His small body felt even smaller, folded into itself.
The smell of rasam drifted into his room long before his mother called him. Usually that smell made his stomach growl. Tonight it only knotted it tighter.
He dragged himself to the dining table. The plates were already set. His father was scrolling through his phone but not really looking at it; his mother adjusted her sari pleats again and again, though they didn't need adjusting.
Sid sat. The steel plate reflected his face — pale, eyes rimmed red. He looked like a stranger.
No one spoke while the first ladles of rice and dal were served. The only sound was the spoon clinking against steel. Sid pushed his rice around, sculpting it into a small hill he didn't want to climb.
Finally, his mother cleared her throat. Softly. Too softly."Sid… you'll be going to your grandfather's tomorrow."
The spoon slipped from his hand. It clanged against the plate like a shout in the quiet."To Thatha's house?" His voice came out small.
She nodded. "Just for a while. Until… until things settle."
Sid glanced at his father, hoping for a contradiction. But his father's face was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the untouched pickle jar."No school will take you now," he said at last, matter-of-fact, like he was reading out a weather report. "Not in the middle of the year. Not after…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Sid's chest tightened. His throat ached. He wanted to shout it wasn't my fault! but the words stayed locked, like a bird refusing to fly.
His mother reached across and touched his wrist. Her hand was warm, trembling. "It's not forever. Just until the next admission season. And Thatha's place…" She tried to smile, but it broke halfway. "It's… different. You'll like it there."
Sid didn't reply. He looked down at the rice, now cold, and wished the earth would just open under the table and swallow him whole.
After dinner, Sid slipped back into his room. His mother had folded some clothes into a neat stack on the chair. A backpack lay open beside it, half-filled. He avoided looking at it.
Instead, he curled into his blanket, eyes open in the dark. His mind buzzed with wild, stubborn ideas.
Maybe if I apologize tomorrow… maybe if I write a letter to the principal… maybe if I promise to never touch anything again… maybe if I say I'll study harder than anyone else…
His chest ached, but his imagination kept racing.What if I go back and show them I'm sorry? What if I tell the whole class I made a mistake? They'll understand. They'll let me in. They have to. They can't just throw me away.
The more impossible it seemed, the more fiercely he believed it.
At last his eyes grew heavy. The fan hummed its steady circle above, and Sid drifted into uneasy sleep, still clutching the hope that tomorrow might undo everything.
The classroom came first. Rows of desks stretched longer than he remembered, endless, as if the room had no walls. His friends sat there, but their faces were blurred, like chalk smudged by rain.
The blackboard glowed with writing he couldn't read. Letters rearranged themselves, slipping into numbers, numbers into shapes, shapes into smoke. The principal stood at the front, but when Sid tried to look directly at him, the figure kept turning into someone else — teacher, guard, stranger.
"Let me back," Sid whispered. His voice cracked. "Please. I'm sorry."
No one answered. The desks shuffled farther away. His friends turned their faces from him. The blackboard filled with the word again, heavy and final: EXPULSION.
Sid clutched his desk. "I can fix it. I'll do everything right. Just let me—"
A hand touched his shoulder.
For a moment, he thought it was the principal's hand, heavy with judgment. But then he opened his eyes.
It was his mother. Her face close, her palm warm. Morning light spilled across the room, chasing the dream away.
"Sid," she said softly. "Wake up."
His eyes darted to the chair by the desk. Not a uniform waiting, not a water bottle, not books. Only a backpack, zipped and ready.
Not for school.
His mother smoothed his hair as if nothing had changed, but her eyes were swollen. "Get dressed. We have to go. Your grandfather will be waiting."
The hope Sid had built all night, brick by fragile brick, collapsed in silence.
Breakfast was quick, almost too careful. His mother pressed an extra idli onto his plate, but no one spoke of school. The backpack waited by the door like an uninvited guest.
When it was time, his father took the keys. "I'll drive," he said.
🚗 Rewritten Car Ride Section (patched in):
The car smelled faintly of petrol and the leather polish his father always used. Sid slid into the back seat, backpack beside him. The engine growled to life, steady and low, like it already knew where they were going — even if Sid didn't want to.
For a while, no one spoke. His father's hands clung to the wheel as though loosening them might let the car drift into places it shouldn't. His mother gazed out the window, but Sid could tell she wasn't watching the shops and people pass; she was watching something inside herself.
Sid leaned his forehead against the glass. The city rolled past in fragments — shuttered shops yawning awake, children in crisp uniforms hurrying to bus stops, a faint school bell ringing somewhere in the distance. Each glimpse stabbed sharper than words. That should have been him. That should still be his world.
As the city thinned, concrete gave way to stretches of fields. Tamarind and mango trees lined the road, their branches reaching like arms — not to welcome, but to block, to keep him moving forward whether he wanted or not. A flock of parakeets burst from a tree, flashing green over the wires, and he thought bitterly: even they have somewhere to return.
Monkeys leapt between branches, egrets picked carefully through paddy fields, but Sid couldn't find the wonder in it. To him, each creature only marked how far he was being carried away. The more life the road showed, the smaller his own felt.
"Two hours," his father said at one point, still staring straight ahead. His voice was calm, but it dropped like a stone. "That's all. Not so far."
Two hours. But to Sid, it was the measure of a door closing forever.
The road narrowed, then widened again, humming with cicadas. Heat shimmered on the tar. Sid's eyelids grew heavy from the rhythm of wheels and engine, yet he dared not close them. If he slept, he feared he might wake up in another world entirely.
And then — just when it felt like days had passed instead of hours — his father slowed.
"There," he said quietly.
Sid lifted his head.
Beyond the gate stretched Arjun's estate. Fifty acres of trees leaning close, birds calling in overlapping notes, shadows pooling like secrets. Somewhere inside that wildness stood the house — sprawling, patched together, half-palace, half-workshop. A place that seemed alive in its own strange way.
And on the porch, waving both arms like this was a festival instead of an exile, stood Arjun.
"Sid!" His voice cracked with joy. "Welcome!"
Sid swallowed hard. The world he knew had ended. But another one was opening in front of him.