*CHAPTER 1: THE LAST BENCH*
_(∼1,800 words)_
The bell for the first period had already rung, but Class 9-B was still a mess.
Desks were being dragged, bags were being thrown, and the monitor, Riya Sharma, was already shouting herself hoarse. "Sit down! Sir will come!"
Nobody listened to Riya on the first day. She was small, wore thick glasses, and took her monitor badge too seriously. The boys called her "Madam" behind her back.
Aarav Malhotra walked in last, as usual, earphones dangling from his neck, shirt untucked. He scanned the room like a general surveying a battlefield. The first two benches were taken by the toppers. The middle benches were taken by the "good students" who wanted to be seen as sincere but also wanted to talk. The last bench, near the window, had two empty seats.
He threw his bag on the corner seat. "This is my kingdom," he announced to no one.
Imran Sheikh was already sitting on the second-last bench, sketching in his notebook. He didn't look up. He was the quiet type, the boy who drew during Maths and got scolded, but whose drawings were so good even teachers paused to look.
"Move back," Aarav said, nudging him with his foot. "Last bench is better. You get the window."
Imran shrugged and moved. He didn't care where he sat, as long as he could draw.
The class teacher, Mr. Deshmukh, entered. He was a thin man with a permanent frown and a stick he never actually used, but tapped on the desk to scare them.
"Silence!"
The noise dropped by 50%. Not 100%. Never 100% in 9-B.
He started taking attendance. "Aarav Malhotra?"
"Present, sir," Aarav said, half-standing, grinning.
"Imran Sheikh?"
"Present, sir," Imran mumbled without looking up from his drawing.
"Nisha Patil?"
A girl in the first bench, hair in two tight braids, raised her hand. "Present, sir." She didn't turn around.
"Nisha Patil, you will sit on the last bench. First bench is full. Go back."
There was a collective "oooooh" from the class. The topper, sent to the last bench. It was like exiling a princess.
Nisha's face went red. She picked up her bag, which was heavy with books, all covered in brown paper and labeled neatly, and walked to the back. There was only one seat left — between Aarav and Imran.
She stood there, hesitating.
Aarav moved his bag and patted the seat. "Welcome to hell, topper."
Nisha sat down stiffly, keeping a 6-inch gap between herself and both boys, as if they had a disease.
Mr. Deshmukh began the lesson. "Open page 14. Algebra."
Aarav immediately took out his phone and slid it under the desk. Imran opened his notebook, but to a blank page at the back, not page 14. Nisha opened her textbook, notebook, geometry box, and two pens — one blue, one black — and arranged them in a line.
For the next 40 minutes, three different worlds existed on one bench.
Nisha wrote every word Mr. Deshmukh said. Her handwriting was small and perfect.
Aarav was texting. He would occasionally look up, nod wisely at the board as if he understood, then go back to texting.
Imran was drawing Mr. Deshmukh. He had captured the frown, the stick, the bald patch. It was funny and accurate.
Halfway through the class, Mr. Deshmukh asked a question. "What is the value of x if 2x + 5 = 15?"
Nisha's hand shot up. So did two other hands from the front.
Aarav whispered, "5."
Nisha glared at him. "Don't tell me the answer. I know it."
"I was helping."
"I don't need help from the last bench."
Mr. Deshmukh pointed to Nisha. "Yes?"
"5, sir."
"Correct. Sit."
Aarav whispered again, "See? You did need help. I said 5 first."
Nisha ignored him and wrote "x=5" three times in her notebook and underlined it.
Imran silently slid his notebook towards her. He had drawn a small cartoon: a girl with braids, holding a trophy that said "x=5", and two boys bowing to her.
Nisha looked at it. For the first time that day, the corner of her mouth twitched. She didn't smile, but she didn't frown either. She slid the notebook back.
The bell rang. Mr. Deshmukh left.
Riya, the monitor, marched to the back. "You three. Last bench. You are responsible for cleaning the board after last period. And no talking during class. I heard you."
"Madam, we weren't talking," Aarav lied smoothly.
"You were whispering. Same thing."
As she walked away, Aarav muttered, "Madam, madam."
Nisha said, quietly, "She's just doing her duty."
"Defending the enemy already?" Aarav said. "You've been on this bench for 40 minutes."
Imran spoke for the first time. His voice was low. "She brings extra idlis. For people who don't get tiffin. I've seen."
Aarav and Nisha both looked at him, surprised he had spoken, and surprised by what he said.
The second period began. It was English. The teacher was new, young, and tried to be friendly.
"Let's do an activity. Tell me one thing about the person sitting next to you."
Panic.
Aarav turned to Nisha. "I don't know anything about you except you write too much."
Nisha turned to Imran. "I don't know anything about you except you draw in class."
Imran looked at Aarav. "You come late every day."
They all laughed. It was a small, awkward laugh, but it was the first real sound they had made together.
By the lunch break, they were still not friends. But they were no longer three strangers.
They were the last bench.
And in Class 9-B, the last bench was a country of its own.
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