The Dark Day
When the 5:30 AM bell jolted her awake, she moved instinctively, leaning over to grab her water bucket, ready to begin the first steps of her routine.
But it was gone.
The bucket. The water. Vanished.
Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it—had someone stolen it for their own needs? Had it been a prank, a part of ragging? Was this just another lesson in the unspoken rules of survival here?
She sat there, stunned, lost, not knowing what to do next.
This world was far different from the one she had left behind, and for the first time, she realized she had no one to turn to—no uncle, no aunt, no sister to set things right.
How would she handle this moment? Would she push back, demand answers, or simply learn to endure?
Baani rushed to the bathrooms, scanning every corner, hoping she’d find her missing bucket—hoping, somehow, that this wasn’t real.
But it was gone.
The dormitory had an indoor store, a small space stocked with basic sanitary necessities, soap, shampoo, books, pens, pencils, and other essentials students needed to get by.
But like everything else in the dorm, it operated on a strict schedule—each grade had an assigned day to shop, and for 11th graders, that day was Thursday.
Three days away.
Baani stared at the reality of it—she couldn’t wait that long. The thought of managing without proper sanitary pads for the next few days was unbearable.
She needed a solution. Now.
This was the moment when dorm rules collided with personal necessity, forcing her into a choice she never thought she’d have to make.
She had no choice but to make do with what she had—her last washable pad, already far from fresh. The unhygienic discomfort settled deep, but there was no time to dwell, no time to fix what she couldn’t control.
The bell rang—breakfast time.
She couldn’t afford to miss meals in these initial days, couldn’t let weakness take hold while she was still finding her footing.
So, she rushed to the dining hall, swallowing her frustration along with every bite, pushing past discomfort and the ache of helplessness.
By the time she returned, another bell dictated her next move—school.
Mandatory presence. First day. No exceptions.
She grabbed a rag, the only thing she could think to use as a makeshift pad, and ran toward the school gates, steeling herself for the day ahead.
Betrayal
Baani had never felt this kind of desperation before. The discomfort, the humiliation of wetness, the fear of being noticed and judged—it all weighed on her, forcing her into a corner where she had no choice but to act.
She swallowed her hesitation, gathering every ounce of courage to ask for help—from her roommate’s outside friend, from the very people who could make this easier for her.
But no one helped.
No sympathy, no solidarity—just indifference.
Then came her roommate’s suggestion—a tempting trick wrapped in betrayal.
Baani knew it was against the dorm rules, knew it wasn’t right, but what option did she have? With uniforms yet to be assigned and freedom within reach, her roommate convinced her that if she just slipped out quickly, she’d go unnoticed.
And so, heart pounding in rebellion, she stepped beyond the gate.
But the moment she did, her fate was sealed.
Her roommate had already betrayed her, running straight to the admin office, reporting her as if she was some delinquent, some rule-breaker who had disregarded the institution’s order.
Within moments, wardens and staff gathered, searching for her, discussing her violation, trapping her in a web she never saw coming.
Baani had thought the outside world was kind, that people looked out for each other like her village had—but this moment shattered that belief.
She wasn’t just learning about independence.
She was learning about cruelty.
Baani’s heart pounded with urgency, her steps quick as she scanned the area outside the dormitory—but there was no store in sight.
Only food and drink stalls, small vendors calling out their wares, a world that felt far removed from the desperate need that had driven her beyond the gate.
She approached one of the vendors, her voice barely steady, asking where she could find a general store.
The vendor gestured down the road, giving simple directions—“Walk a bit further, there’s one a block away.”
Hope flickered within her.
She followed the direction, her resolve tightening—but every step she took deeper into the unknown, the weight of the rule she had broken grew heavier.
What if she was caught?
Red-handed
Baani barely had time to process what was happening.
One moment, she was following the vendor’s directions, her thoughts racing between urgency and fear, and the next—a motorbike pulled in front of her, blocking her path.
The man, unfamiliar but firm in his stance, demanded her name.
Instinct took over.
She had learned from elders—never share personal details with strangers, never give away where you’re truly from. In the rush of the moment, she blurted out her maternal uncle’s town name, avoiding mention of her village.
But she didn’t realize—the man wasn’t just any stranger.
He was a dorm officer.
He had been tracing her, knowing exactly who she was and why she had stepped beyond the school gates.
Then came the words that sent a cold wave through her chest—“We’re going to your uncle’s home. Sit on the bike.”
She hesitated, confusion swirling with fear, but before she could resist, before she could piece together what had just unfolded—the bike roared to life, speeding toward her maternal uncle’s house.
By the time she fully grasped the situation, she was already standing at the doorstep—caught, exposed, and suddenly facing the reality of what breaking the rules had led to.
The weight of the day pressed down on Baani, but her body refused to release the tension in words or sobs—just quiet, heavy tears that spoke louder than anything she could have said.
Fear kept her silent, shame sat unspoken in her throat, but the most immediate need—the one that had set everything in motion—still had to be addressed.
She looked to her cousin sister, voice barely a whisper, asking for a sanitary pad.
Without hesitation, her cousin sister handed her a few.
Baani grabbed them and rushed to the bathroom, shutting the door as if she could block out everything that had just happened.
The pain, the exhaustion, the sheer shock of being expelled—none of it had a place now.
She cleaned herself up, sat down for dinner with the family, barely tasting the food, barely acknowledging the conversations around her.
And then, finally, she went to bed.
For the first time in years, she didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.
The Embarrassment
The weight of everything pressed onto Baani’s chest, but the moment she heard her grandfather’s voice, the dam holding back her emotions nearly broke.
He had taken the first bus at dawn, rushing to her the moment he heard what had happened. His worried eyes searched her face, demanding answers that she couldn’t bring herself to say aloud.
“What happened, Baani?”
She could barely look at him.
The truth was there, written in the tension of her silence, but she couldn’t bear to explain it—not to him, not to anyone.
Instead, she forced out the only words she could muster—“Let’s go home.”
She needed to leave.
The stares, the whispers, the cousins who mocked instead of consoled, treating her expulsion as gossip instead of pain—it was too much.
She had no energy left to defend herself, to justify, to explain. She just wanted to run from it, erase it, disappear into the place where her identity was still whole.
Back in her village, Baani felt the weight of silence in a way she never had before.
She had once been the pride of the village, the girl whose success had sent ripples of celebration through the streets. Now, she was the subject of hushed whispers, lingering stares—judgment instead of admiration.
She wanted to believe her family would feel the same, that their love would overshadow disappointment. But instead, she felt distance, as if her failure had cast an invisible barrier between her and the home, she once found comfort in.
It was the 1990s—before smartphones, before instant messaging, before social media’s distractions. The only dial phone sat in the panchayat office, half-broken most of the year.
Gossip was the only source of entertainment, and now, she was at the center of it.
For days, she didn’t step outside, knowing that every glance, every murmured conversation carried the weight of her mistake, her expulsion, her failure to meet the expectations placed on her.
Baani’s journey had been marked by loss, betrayal, and disappointment, but she refused to let it define her future.
Her first year after expulsion felt like a waste, stuck in a public school where she couldn’t study her preferred subjects, where she felt disconnected from her ambitions.
But then, a new possibility surfaced, thanks to her older sister’s suggestion—if their middle sister could help secure her admission in the school where she was finishing her final year, Baani could finally have stability, guidance, and a familiar presence in her life.
And it worked.
She enrolled in the next town’s public school, and though the institution itself was far from ideal, she didn’t care.
What mattered was getting away from the village that had once celebrated her success and later whispered about her downfall.
She reassured her sisters, promising them—“If I stay with middle sister, I will learn from her. I will get good grades. I will figure things out.”
She wasn’t afraid of challenges anymore.
She just wanted distance, space to rebuild herself, space to grow.
That night on the terrace, surrounded by her sisters, was the moment Baani had been waiting for all year—not the chance to start anew, not even the escape from her village’s whispers, but the words she needed to hear, the validation she had longed for.
Her oldest sister’s advice was simple but powerful—“Forget about what happened. Learn from it. Move on. Focus on what’s ahead. Give your 100%, and I’m sure you’ll rock it.”
It was the kind of encouragement that could repair the cracks in her spirit, could remind her that she was still strong, still capable, still worthy.
And that was all it took.
She hugged her sisters with tears in her eyes—relief, gratitude, a quiet kind of healing.
She had spent a year waiting for someone—anyone—from her family to ask, to understand, to stand by her side, but the support never came. Not from her mother, not from the ones who should have protected her through humiliation.
In that moment, she realized something crucial—the ones who truly cared were with her.
And that was enough.
The Cause
In all that chaos Baani did not focus on the main cause – the reason behind the betrayal that had once shattered her world, forcing her out of the dorm, stripping away her innocence in the most brutal way.
Back then, she had been too naïve, too trusting, unaware of the silent fears and concealed truths surrounding her roommates.
But now, with time and wisdom, she saw it clearly—they had been protecting a secret, a physical relationship hidden within the confines of the shared bed, concealed from the watchful eyes of the dorm.
That first sleepless night, when she had merely heard the whispered voices from the nearby bed, they had assumed she understood their secret—assumed she would expose them.
And rather than face the possibility of discovery, they had woven their deception, set a trap, ensuring she would be kicked out before she had the chance to even comprehend what had truly transpired.
It was never about her mistake.
It was about their fear.
In hindsight, Baani didn’t grieve for what was lost—instead, she recognized the lessons she had gained. The world was not like her village, not built on unconditional trust and care, but instead layered with complexities, betrayals, and self-preservation.
She had lost her place in the dorm, but she had gained something far more lasting—a hardened resilience, a sharpened awareness, and the quiet strength to never let blind trust lead her astray again.
