Slowly 2nd lockdown arrives and the days became same, Finally, The day the results arrived, my family crowded around the computer screen. My heart dropped as I stared blankly—I had forgotten so much, all my question papers seemed to have vanished from memory The day of the results felt heavier than any exam. My entire family huddled around the computer screen—my father's breath quiet, my mother's hands clasped tight. I felt strangely hollow, nerves coiling tighter with every click and scroll.
The school website loaded with agonizing slowness. I watched the blinking cursor, heart thrumming, until the portal finally appeared. Then my father read aloud, "Seat number required."
My mind scrambled—seat number? I knew it by heart once, but now, under pressure, it was gone. I rushed to my room and rifled through my bag, textbooks, random slips of paper.
My hall ticket wasn't there, and all the question papers had vanished into a mess of the past months. It was as if, overnight, everything about the exams had been swept away.
A sudden memory flashed: after the maths paper, I'd left my question paper behind with Gayatri at coaching, too distracted by our mixed feelings and her encouragement to retrieve it. That tiny piece of hope flickered in the panic.
Fingers trembling, I grabbed my phone and messaged her, "Hey, do you still have my maths question paper? I need my seat number for results."
Her reply came almost instantly. "Yes. I kept it safe. You want the seat number?"
Within seconds she sent a photo. There it was—my shaky handwriting, the faded numbers in the top right corner. Relief washed over me; for a moment the noise in my head faded and I smiled softly, remembering how her support had helped me, not just with maths, but even now at this final hurdle.
Armed with the seat number, I typed it in. This time, as the result page loaded, I didn't feel quite so alone.
My eyes scanned the score Pass.—54%. I expected far less, around 36 or 45, but the numbers glowed brighter than I dared hope.
A soft smile curved my lips. Beside me, Kaustub's message popped up: "Got 54% too."
We had survived—through struggle, failure, and quiet victories.
I had passed my 10th board.
Days blended into weeks, the monotony punctuated by news updates and cautious optimism.
The once familiar world seemed like a paused movie, its soundtrack silent but tension humming beneath each moment.
Around June and July as partial unlocks began, cautious steps emerged from homes. Masks appeared in every pocket, sanitizer became a constant companion, and social distancing signs marked new rules for old spaces.
As the world slowly adjusted to the new normal after lockdown, routines settled into a fragile rhythm. We decided to met again, and finally, Gayatri managed to find time amid her busy days to come to Chinchwad.
We met at the familiar coaching center, under the warm afternoon sun filtering through the trees. Heart pounding, I took a breath and revealed my results—54%, the number heavy with struggle and triumph.
Before I could even gauge her reaction, Gayatri pulled me into an excited, tight hug. Her joy was as vivid and real as my relief—she celebrated my success with a happiness that outshone even my own.
We settled into the cozy corner of the café, the muted chatter and clinking dishes wrapping around us like a gentle cocoon. Gayatri seemed different—brighter, more friendly. There was a new lightness in her smile, a calm assurance in her eyes that drew me in.
She ordered just one dessert—a rich, creamy kulfi—and then surprised me by asking for two spoons. When the plate arrived, we sat close, sharing bites from the same cool, sweet treat. The simple act felt like a quiet declaration, a soft step into something deeper.
As we ate, the air between us shifted. Our conversation flowed freely—laughing, sharing worries, dreams, and memories. Trust blossomed effortlessly, like the gentle unfolding of a new flower.
In that small café, sharing that kulfi with two spoons, I felt our bond grow stronger and closer. It was more than friendship now—it was a connection grounded in care, trust, and the promise of something lasting.
But beneath the surface, a new tension quietly crept in—"What's next?" The question hung between us in every conversation, a shadow of uncertainty about the future. Career choices, study plans, dreams long delayed—all waited to be faced.
The journey was far from over, yet with Gayatri by my side, I felt ready to meet the challenge—even if the road ahead was unclear.
For a few moments, everything felt right. Days flowed with that gentle momentum, a new chapter opening blank and promising.
The excitement of passing the 10th grade soon gave way to a new kind of tension—college admissions. I figured that after finishing the 10th, there was nothing more pressing. Why bother with college? I thought my journey was over, that life could finally settle.
But Gayatri saw it differently.
One evening, as we sat quietly chatting, she looked at me with steady eyes and said, "You know, 10th is just the beginning. The real foundation is the 12th. Without it, so many doors will stay closed."
I frowned, skeptical. "But why? Isn't 10th enough to get started? I just want to be done."
She shook her head gently, her voice patient but firm. "It's not about just finishing. 12th builds the knowledge and opportunities—the degree courses, professional paths, even future jobs often require it. Without 12th, it's like trying to run a marathon without training."
Her words lingered, planting a seed of understanding in my mind. Maybe I had been looking at this all wrong. My life didn't end with the 10th; it was only truly beginning. The next steps mattered more than I'd thought.
Her faith challenged my doubt, opening a door I hadn't dared see before—a future that could unfold, not stop.
In that moment, I realized: this was just the first chapter of my real journey.
With the decision made to continue my education, the search for a college began in earnest. My family recommended three places: PDAE, where I had completed my 10th board exams; SMC, a respected institution nearby; and, the one I dreamed of joining—DY Patel, a name that carried prestige and promise.
I was filled with eager anticipation, imagining myself walking those famed halls of DY Patil, ready for a fresh start and new opportunities. But fate played its own game.
The letters arrived. CMS had approved my admission. DY Patil—no response, no admission.
A heavy weight settled in my chest. I felt unprepared and unsettled, caught in a whirlwind I hadn't expected. I wasn't ready for this new phase, this unknown path. Just when I thought I had found solid ground in passing the 10th, everything shifted again, and I questioned if I could survive this change. I could hold onto as I faced the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Though my steps toward the future felt shaky, her friendship gave me a quiet strength to keep moving forward.
I met Gayatri one evening, my heart heavy with the news of my unexpected admission at CMS and all the worries it brought. As I poured out my fears and frustrations, she listened quietly—her eyes steady, her presence comforting.
"It's okay," she said softly, her voice full of unwavering support. "You're strong. This new phase won't be easy, but you have what it takes. Face it head-on. Don't let fear hold you back."
Her word was the only thing, In a sudden surge of emotion, I asked, "Can I… hug you?"
Her eyes widened with surprise, and I instantly felt the awkwardness settle between us—a hesitation I hadn't expected. Her reaction wasn't what I'd hoped. It was as if the closeness I felt wasn't mirrored in her heart. A wave of realization washed over me: she didn't see me the way I saw her.
That moment changed everything. I understood finally that, I had to stop expecting something more from her, stop hoping for those feelings to be returned. The fear of the coming college phase, the uncertainty, it all loomed large—but I decided to let go of control.
I vowed to go with the flow.
Now, in 2023, I find myself on a boat, drifting gently along the river near Kejubai Signature. The water flows steadily beneath me—sometimes swift, sometimes calm—mirroring the journey I've taken.
I lean into the current, letting it carry me forward, trusting the flow instead of fighting it. The past, the struggles, the doubts—they are all part of this river's path.
And like the river, I move on.
The sun beat gently on the winding path as I guided the boat slowly along the river, the familiar sights of my neighborhood passing by in quiet rhythm. Settling my thoughts, I left the water's edge and climbed into a rickshaw heading toward my college—a place that once felt intimidating, now a symbol of a chapter I was ready to face.
As the rickshaw pulled up to the college gate, the watchman's curious eyes met mine. "What brings you here?" he asked gruffly.
"I want admission," I replied, heart pounding slightly as I crossed the threshold into the courtyard. The campus had changed in subtle ways—new paint on old walls, freshly trimmed shrubs—but the essence lingered, a blend of anticipation and nostalgia.
I step Inside, I found the principal's office where Mrs. Biji sat, busy with papers. "I want to take admission," I said plainly.
She looked up, confusion flickering across her face as she didn't recognize me. "Please follow the procedure, fill out the forms," she replied politely.
Seated at the desk, I began filling the admission form when a familiar voice interrupted. One of the teachers, eyes wide with surprise, asked, "Hey why are you here? What are you doing here?"
Biji paused, then her expression softened into recognition. "Who is he! Then teacher said "he is our old student, principal remebered and says, Oh yes, the boy I once took for the oral exam test in my cabin," she chuckled quietly.
Curious, they both asked, "Why the admission now?"
I smiled faintly, words catching in my throat. "I just wanted to see the college again. The place I once feared stepping into… now, I want to step in for real."
As I stepped out into the open courtyard, my heart swelled. I took a breath, then clapped my hands, a shout escaping me—a release of all the nervous energy, the struggles, the triumphs. The air filled with the sounds of joy and chaos from distant classrooms, echoes of students, memories mingling with the new. This was the place where my past met my future—and I was ready to walk every step
To be continued....