The morning sunlight slipped through the broken slats of Arjun Sharma's bedroom window, painting glowing stripes across his battered study table. His alarm buzzed—from a phone so old even the snooze button sometimes needed a slap—waking him from a muddled dream of maths paper chaos and cricket heroics. He groaned, eyes still heavy. "Another day, another chance to be tragically average," he thought, but a grin curled on his lips.Papa's baritone voice was already barking from the kitchen, mixing with the symphony of pressure cooker whistles and the hiss of bus horns. "Arjun, late ho jayega! Miss Malhotra will make you recite Shakespeare as punishment again!" The threat should have worked, but Arjun just rolled over and let his thoughts wander—the best part of the morning.He imagined strolling past the library, where the portraits of stern British principals watched all who entered, and pretending to be a rockstar as he air-guitared his way through assembly, backed by his ever-embarrassed friends: Rohit, the mischief king who could charm the devil out of detention, and Priya, whose stare could vaporize your confidence, but who always brought him extra idlis when Ma made them at home.His fingers found the notebook under his pillow, flipped open to last night's scribbles. He'd written: "Maybe the school's ghost is just the spirit of unfinished homework. Maybe today, I'll finish something." It wasn't a resolution, but it felt less heavy than thinking about his last disastrous chemistry test, his parents' silent sighs.Getting out of bed, he changed quickly—uniform half-ironed, shoes mis-matched, and hair refusing any discipline. He found Ma in the kitchen, already deep in "just five minutes more" negotiations with his little sister over breakfast. She handed him his tiffin, kissed his forehead, and, as every day, whispered: "Beta, be careful. Listen to your heart, but not too much, haan?" He wanted to ask what that meant, but there was never time.Jogging to the bus stop, Arjun crammed for a history quiz, only half-focused—the other half of his brain replayed yesterday's viral video of a school boy dancing to item songs in the principal's office. It had blown up on every WhatsApp group, and the teachers had interrogated dozens of students. Arjun wondered, "What's the worst they'd do if they ever found out I filmed it?"The bus arrived, rusted sides decorated with doodles older than his memories. As always, Rohit occupied the back seat, headphones in, foot tapping an imaginary drum. "Sir Sharma," Rohit saluted, "is your TikTok account secretly funding the Illuminati now?" Arjun snorted, "Only if you share your chips."The bus rattled to school. St. Xavier's loomed, grand but faded—a fortress built in colonial times, its bones groaning under generations of adolescent energy. The gates stood open, ironwork bent into fanciful shapes, thick roots of the ancient banyan encroaching on cracked flagstones. Rumor had it the security guard talked to himself at night, but Arjun thought he simply needed company."Today's going to be different," Arjun told himself. "Today, I'll ask Priya for her science notes. Not like last time, when I froze and asked about—gods, what did I say? Solar eclipses affecting WiFi?" He winced at the memory. Rohit caught the look and grinned. "Still dreaming up ways to get Priya's notes or her number?""I'll settle for one," he replied, heart thumping. He didn't actually know why Priya let him, of all people, tag along in her study group. Maybe she pitied his lackluster academic record, or maybe she liked his sarcastic commentary on world history—probably the first.First period was English Literature, and Mrs. Malhotra commanded the class like a pirate queen, sail of her sari fluttering, gleaming spectacles catching every yawn or whispered insult. "Mr. Sharma," she called, "why don't you explain to the class what Macbeth's ambition teaches us about teenage boys in board exams?" Arjun blushed. "That some of us are doomed before we even start?" Laughter rippled, but Mrs. Malhotra only smiled. "A tragic hero, you mean?"His inner voice was always running: "Why do I joke when she puts me on the spot? Why can't I just answer right, for once?" But the class is laughing, tension dissolves. Maybe he did something right, for once.During lunch break, Rohit staged the usual spectacle—slipping samosas into friends' bags, faking a fainting spell for attention. "One day they'll send you to the principal's office for real," Priya hissed, secretly amused as always. Arjun took out his phone, filming the chaos, quietly cataloging each moment like evidence for a future nostalgia he hoped would be happier than his memories.The banyan beckoned. Its roots crept up brick walls; its shade was the unofficial "safe zone" from teachers and responsibilities. Today, though, a sticky red stain marked the bark. "Did the art kids get creative again?" he wondered aloud. Rohit poked it with a stick; the sap clung, dark and metallic, far thicker than any schoolboy prank paint. "Is this blood or what?" a junior joked, but his laugh was strained.Arjun pulled his notebook, scribbling: "Banyan tree's bleeding. Should I google 'urban legends plus Mumbai plus haunted trees?'" He winked at Priya, who rolled her eyes, "You're wasting time when you should be revising, Mr. Paranormal Investigator."But something about the mark tugged at Arjun's curiosity. He remembered his grandmother's stories about trees that trapped restless souls. "Stop being ridiculous," he told himself. Still, he found his mind cycling: "Red on trees means nothing. Science says it's probably anthocyanins. Or iron. Or just paint. Not a message. Not a sign." But a shudder made him rub his arms.As the day stretched on, classes blurred together. Between Math's endless derivatives and History's war dates, Arjun's mind drifted. The clock hands seemed to lag, hallways felt longer. During Chemistry, the periodic table poster fluttered in an unfelt wind. A classmate, Anil, asked if anyone felt like the school was "breathing." Everyone laughed, except Arjun, who shivered a little.His thoughts: "If places can have moods, today's mood is... off. Like the school's keeping a secret, and we're being tested, not on formulas but on who'll notice something's changed."By mid-afternoon, Arjun's energy faded. Priya passed him a note—her handwriting tight, even rows—a mock quiz for tomorrow. "You'll ace it if you bother studying," she teased, but her eyes lingered on him longer than usual. He wondered if she saw how he watched the sunlight slip from the windows as if escaping, or how he hugged his backpack just a little too tightly. "Or maybe she's just worried I'll drag my grades—and her—down," he thought, bitterness quickening his pulse.The last bell rang—sharp, metallic, echoing strangely. Arjun gathered his bag, checked twice for his notebook, and stuffed his phone away, heart oddly heavy. Rohit tried to sneak a handful of chalk out as a trophy. Priya stalked off, waving her revision tips, already lost in tomorrow's anxieties.Outside, the sky pulsed with a humid haze. Arjun stood by the banyan, staring as the red patch seemed to have crept lower. His thoughts raced: "Did it move? Am I imagining things? If I ask, will everyone laugh?" He pressed a palm to the bark. The sap stuck, cold and almost... alive.A sudden noise behind him—a locker slamming too hard, echoes bouncing farther than they should. He spun—no one there. "Maybe sleep deprivation is making me hear things. That's what Priya would say." But he pressed on, fingers gripping the notebook. "Document everything. Maybe if I write enough, it'll make sense. Or at least I'll have an alibi when things get weird."The school emptied quickly once classes ended. The corridors thrummed with old electricity, the sound of shuffling feet fading into nothing. He paused under the faded portrait of the founding principal, gaze drawn to the stern eyes, thinking: "If he could see us now—would he be proud? Or just confused that WiFi passwords mattered more than moral science?"The bus ride home was quieter—Rohit stared at his phone, not pranking anyone; Priya lost in her notes, headphones on. Shadows grew long in the fading light, and Arjun watched his school blur past the dusty window, the banyan's limbs reaching up like begging fingers.At home, dinner was a blur of reheated dal, Papa's talk of deadlines at work, Ma complaining about rising electricity bills. "You okay, beta?" Ma asked, brow furrowed."Just tired," he lied. He wished he could explain the discomfort, the prickling between his shoulder blades, but he knew it would sound foolish.Night crept in quietly. In his room, Arjun spread out his notes but found himself doodling the banyan, roots twisting into impossible shapes. He drew the red stain, growing larger, until the page was almost filled with crimson.His last thoughts before sleep: "School is supposed to be ordinary, predictable—a place for marks, memories, and headaches. So why does it feel like something's waiting for us this year? Like the bell isn't ringing to dismiss us, but to call something up."That night, his dreams churned with whispers in empty classrooms, a cold hand grasping his as he fled shadowed corridors, and the endless echo… of the bell never quite ringing.
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The morning sun bled past thin curtains, painting pale yellow stripes across the cramped room where Arjun Sharma battled his alarm clock for dominance. A single slap of his palm bought him silence, but not reprieve—already, Papa was calling from the kitchen, voice full of urgency and underlying affection. "Arjun! Uth jao, you'll be late again! Mrs. Malhotra will make you read Macbeth in front of everyone!"The words almost made Arjun smile. Sometimes he found himself performing entire scenes in his head; shadowy applause, basking in the glow of laughter, as though his regular life could really be theatre. He wondered, not for the first time, if he should have joined the drama club—not that he would ever risk such a thing in front of actual people.Arjun's fingers found his battered science notebook, pages heavy with formulas and half-finished thoughts. Buried near the margins, he'd sketched scenes of the old banyan tree at school—roots like old fingers, the kind that gripped secrets. Did anyone else think the tree looked different this year? Maybe it was just the pressure of being in Class 11, maybe it was the mounting tension of another upcoming Chemistry test. Or maybe—"No," he told himself aloud, "don't be weird. It's just exam stress."He met his mother in the kitchen, where she pressed a warm tiffin into his hands and stroked his hair. "Beta, don't forget your ID card today. And eat the sabzi. And be careful, okay?" Her gaze lingered a moment too long. He sometimes caught her worrying over him, but not in the furious way she scolded his little sister. He wondered if she knew how much he worried, too.On the rickety bus to St. Xavier's, Arjun slid into the back next to Rohit, who was arguing with a junior over whose turn it was to DJ the morning playlist. The debate was loud and ridiculous, tracking from Bollywood remixes to meme songs, until Priya—serious and severe as ever—shushed them from three seats ahead. "If you waste all your energy now, you'll have nothing left for today's quiz." Her words were scolding, but Arjun swore she concealed a smile.The view from the bus was always the same. The ancient school building emerged from the chaos of the street, its faded stonework promising respectability and tradition. The banyan tree, its silhouette sprawling over the crumbling fence, presided over the madness like a silent judge. "Does anyone else notice?" Arjun wondered, staring at a fresh-looking red patch on one root. "Maybe it's paint. Maybe someone bled. Maybe it's just stupid."Classes blurred together. Mrs. Malhotra swept into English class with her unmatched energy, sari swirling, eyes missing nothing. "Macbeth's tragic flaw, Arjun? What can we learn?" He tried to sound clever—"That ambition sometimes means we kill our own happiness?" Marked laughter followed. His heart pounded. At least laughter meant feeling alive.His mind churned beneath the performance. "If I get this wrong, nobody cares. If I look too clever, I'm showing off. And if I look lost, Priya's going to hand me another stack of worksheets. Why is it always easier to make people laugh than to ask them for help?" But her eyes found him anyway, soft behind her glasses, pushing him to try harder.Lunchtime was sanctuary. Rohit, in his self-appointed role as class clown, convinced half the table to switch lunchboxes. "Fatigue is worse than hunger," he declared, dramatically biting into a tomato so sour it set his eyes watering. "Sacrifice for science!" Even Priya cracked up.Arjun's phone buzzed. He'd gotten in trouble last week for filming a teacher singing old Hindi songs in the staffroom; the clip had gone semi-viral, and now even the principal eyed him with suspicion. "Making memories," he told himself. He couldn't tell whether he was archiving his school days or simply hiding in other people's stories.When a cricket ball sailed past the canteen and hit the banyan, it left a mark right where the sap oozed. "Is that… new?" Arjun braved, pointing. "Who cares?" Rohit shot back, already plotting a scheme with rubber bands, but Arjun couldn't shake the pang in his gut. "It's nothing," he told himself. "God, stop acting crazy."But every so often, he felt eyes watching him from the staffroom windows, or heard a whisper behind the blackboard—words that never quite came clear. Maybe it was just the hectic swirl of term two, or maybe it was because every student he knew kept whispering, lately, about "bad luck" and "that strange dream," or the missing cat someone saw climbing the tree at dusk.After school, Arjun lingered by the gate while friends streamed past. He watched Mrs. Malhotra speak quietly to the principal under the banyan, her hands moving through the air with odd precision. He wondered what teachers talked about after the bell. "Maybe they talk about us. Maybe they warn each other, 'watch out for this one, he's going nowhere.' Maybe it's all cricket and recipes and paying the gas bill."Priya caught up to him, books hugged to her chest. "You look tense," she said. "I wish I could turn off my brain for five minutes," he laughed, and for just a second they shared a silence that didn't need filling. "It's just a tree, Arjun. You're not working on a horror novel—unless you count bio practicals."That evening, while doing his homework, Arjun found scribbles he didn't remember writing: squiggles in red pen, shapes spiraling out from the page's edge. "Did I fall asleep with the pen in my hand?" He tried to laugh, but the discomfort was real.Dinner was noisy, unremarkable. Chappatis and dal, Papa reading headlines about politics and cricket, Ma reminding him, again, to drink water and finish his fruits. "School okay?" She asked. "School's school, Ma. Nothing new," he said. But even as he said it, he knew that wasn't true.He tried to study, but every so often he caught himself staring at his phone—the group chat pinging with rumors about ghosts in the basement or "cursed" textbooks. He wanted to joke along, but something about the way he kept glimpsing that red on the banyan tree made his chest tighten."That's ridiculous," he told himself. "You're just tired. The mind plays tricks. There's a rational explanation for everything. Priya would agree—with a ten-point list."But when at last he lay in bed, drifting toward uneasy sleep, he heard the echo of the school bell in his mind: much too loud, much too final. He dreamed of sitting alone beneath the banyan, roots wrapped tight around his ankles, as shadows slipped through empty classrooms and laughter echoed, wild and strange, far down twisting, impossible halls.Even deep in sleep, some wordless, ancient part of him knew: this was only the beginning.