A sudden wave of images crashed over me: May 2019—the exact month, the swirling hopes and fears of that time—moments both bright and broken, shaping the boy I was just before life changed everything.
Few years back, It was year 2019, Life is unpredictable, but instead of hope, it ushered in despair. At fifteen, I sat clutching my 9th standard results, staring at the sheet that showed a cold, brutal truth—I had passed only one subject: Physical Training (PT).
A numbness spread through me as though the ground had vanished beneath my feet. I wasn't ready to meet my parents' eyes, yet within hours, I found myself sitting in the principal's office, the silence there heavier than the ceiling fans that whirred above us.
My principal's voice was calm but heavy with disappointment:
"You have two options—leave the school now, or repeat the year."
The words struck like stones. My mother's eyes brimmed with tears, my father kept his silence, neither angry nor comforting—just broken.
I didn't cry. Not then. Inside, though, something cracked.
This was a school where failure was normal, where every year students like me quietly disappeared. I could have stayed stuck in the same pattern. But a fire flickered inside me. I decided I would not repeat the cycle—I would write a new story.
That day, though I left the school behind, I carried with me something much stronger than a certificate: the reckless courage to start over.
As my memories of 2019 faded away, I found myself back in the present, standing still. My eyes looked toward the playground—the same place where I used to laugh and dream when I was younger. I could almost hear the soft voices from the past, carried gently by the wind. Without thinking, I walked forward and let the memories fill my mind. The air smelled a little like dirt and dust, but underneath there was another smell I knew well—the special feeling of nostalgia, like a warm blanket around me.
After soaking in the moment, I turned and walked toward the coaching center where my hopes had once taken shape. The name had changed since my last visit now it was known as Phoenix Classes. The signboard gleamed brightly, a beacon calling me back to the world of books, struggles, and silent perseverance.
Pushing open the door, the familiar scent of chalk dust and old pages hit me straight in the chest. Three women at the reception looked up simultaneously, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and mild surprise.
"What brings you here?" one asked, her voice gentle but firm.
"I want to take admission," I replied simply.
One of the receptionists peered closely at me, her eyes widening slightly as recognition dawned. "Wait, aren't you…?" she began.
Before she finished, the owner of the center appeared, a kind-faced man who had helped guide me through my early struggles. He smiled warmly, stepping forward, "Welcome back. I was starting to wonder when you'd come to visit. It's good to see you again."
"I'm here to meet everyone...to talk sometimes," I said quietly, the weight of old memories pressing gently on my words.
He nodded with understanding and led me inside the classrooms. When I stepped into my coaching classroom, I heard the familiar soft voices of the students mixed with the smell of old notebooks and dreams that were still waiting to come true.
My eyes slowly moved to the last bench—the place where I had sat many times before, where quiet hopes had been shared in the soft light. Nobody else noticed where I was looking, but I did. Only I knew the reason why.
The story goes back to 2019, when I took my TC (school leaving certificate) from my old school. Two months had passed since I left, and I felt more unsure and worried than ever before. But among all the doubts and fears, one thing became clear to me—I had to keep moving forward
That was the day I joined the coaching class—the place that promised to be my second chance. The coaching center was tucked away in a narrow street about half an hour from my home by cycle. Every day, I carried my bicycle on my shoulder as I crossed the old railway bridge—a narrow, iron-barred path that was difficult to cross. Once on the other side, I pushed my bike through the busy streets until I reached the small building. The first time I walked in, a tight knot formed in my stomach.
The classroom buzzed with voices—students easily slipping into conversations about complex problems and upcoming tests. Unlike them, I was a stranger, an outsider holding nothing but my silence and desperation.
When I met the teachers and the headmaster, I felt the usual pang of shame at admitting that I was taking external exams. But their faces told me something different—they didn't judge, only nodded with a quiet resolve. "We'll take care of you," the head teacher assured me. "You're not alone in this — we'll make sure you're ready."
That simple promise anchored me in place. Still, the days ahead were far from easy. Every morning started before dawn as I climbed on my bicycle, muscles stiff from yesterday's exertion. The journey was a battle itself. The toughest part was the old railway bridge—a narrow, iron-barred crossing that demanded careful, slow steps and strength to lift my heavy bicycle over the rails. Twice every day, rain or shine, I faced that bridge as if it were a test designed just for me.
Fitting in with the other students was another challenge altogether. The coaching classes were bustling with young learners who knew each other well, sharing jokes and strategies effortlessly.
I struggled just to follow the lessons — the pace was faster than anything I had experienced before. I sat at the back, eyes flickering between notes and the blackboard, feeling like an invisible wall kept me separated from the lively groups around me.
The schedule was grueling. Classes ran from eight in the morning straight till eleven, followed by a long break, then again from four-thirty till eight in the evening. Two long, intense sessions every day left my head spinning. My fingers cramped from constant note-taking, my eyes ached from poring over books late into the night.
There were days when the failures piled up—low test scores, confusing formulas, and difficult concepts. I wanted to quit. But the promise I had silently made to myself was louder than the temptation to give up and so, with every pedal stroke across that old bridge, with every tired afternoon spent struggling to keep up, I told myself, I am not the boy who failed before. This time, I will rise.
In the bright, buzzing classrooms of Phoenix Classes, I found myself thrown into the relentless rhythm of studies. Two long sessions every day—morning and evening—became my new reality. Every Sunday morning, a test awaited us all: exams designed to measure knowledge, but for me, often just a reminder of how far I still had to climb.
No matter how hard I worked, the results stayed stubbornly low. The pressure pressed down like the heavy monsoon clouds over the city, threatening to drown every ounce of hope. Yet I survived—somehow—in the uneasy space between dreams and despair.
I sat obediently at the very first bench, diligently taking notes and soaking up every word the teachers spoke. They noticed me—not just as a struggling student, but as someone who took each lesson seriously despite the disappointments. It was this silent determination that gradually earned their eyes and hearts.
Weeks went by, and I began to see the reasons for my struggles reflected in the mirror. My face looked darker and tired, with deep shadows under my eyes from stress and sleepless nights. I had started wearing spectacles because my eyes, stubborn as they were, could no longer ignore the strain.
My body grew thinner and weaker, and I became quieter and more withdrawn. The tiredness showed not just on my face but also in the empty silence I carried inside me.
In the noisy classrooms, I was almost invisible—I hardly spoke to anyone and kept to myself.
I had no friends and no one to share my fears or happiness with—just my books, notes, and the lonely sound of my own thoughts. Then Kaustub came into my life. He was the opposite of me—talkative, outgoing, full of energy and questions. But like me, he was also an external student, struggling to find his place among a sea of classroom faces.
Kaustub looked different—he was a little rough around the edges, with messy hair and no sense of style in his clothes. Some might even say he was a bit ugly. But what he lacked in appearance, he made up for with confidence. He had many friends and was well-liked for his bold personality. However, just like me, he was not good at studies and often struggled with his lessons. Despite these differences, we shared a common battle, and somehow that brought us together.
Somehow, Kaustub's presence filled a space inside me that I hadn't even admitted was empty.
He became my first friend in a long time—someone who understood the hard work, the tiredness, and the small hopes we held onto during the late nights spent studying together
Kaustub didn't just support me with his words; he gave me a feeling of brotherhood in this lonely struggle.
Even though I kept trying hard, my test scores went up and down—they would sometimes improve a little but then fall again, But I worked hard. I was serious. The teachers favored me quietly, calling me to extra help sessions, offering gentle advice, and guiding me step by step through the storm.
That year was not just about exams. It was the shaping of character—a silent promise I made to myself that no matter how tough the road, I would not let go of the fight for my future.
The Sunday morning exam was always the hardest. This time it was English — the subject that seemed to twist my tongue and tangle my thoughts. The classroom was quiet, except for the soft rustling of papers and the occasional cough.
I sat alone, far away from other students, my pen moving, but not in the way anyone expected.
Instead of writing answers, I found myself copying the questions again and again, almost as if trying to understand them better through repetition. The paper felt like a puzzle I could not solve, and my mind swirled in confusion.
Suddenly, the air in the room shifted.
The door creaked open, and....
To be continued.....