The last hour of the last day of the week.
Not a holiday, but a halting point.
One week since I’ve re-entered the system called school—
Not by desire.
By pressure.
From home. From calls. From duty.
And yet, here I am—present, but not silent.
Why I Wasn’t Willing to Go
I wasn’t skipping school for rebellion.
I was staying out of it to preserve my clarity.
Because inside those walls, I saw nothing but faded boards and foggy visions.
And even now, after a week—
I still see the same.
Teachers walk in and perform. Some, like our Economics teacher, are masters of craft.
Others—like our Accounts teacher—hold the frame, but not the fire.
And then there’s the buffoon in disguise as our Statistics teacher.
I don’t blame him entirely. I lost 11th grade, wasted it.
But when I seek, I get shut.
Is this education?
Or bureaucracy with a chalk stick?
“A teacher who is not a guide is a paid voice in an empty room.”
— anonymous, maybe me
The First Bench is a Joke
I sit on the first bench. Out of choice, out of discipline.
But guess what?
I can’t see the board. Literally.
Reflections blaze across it like sun on water.
I asked to shift benches.
Denied.
They say I’m a naughty boy pretending to be a monk.
They don’t see transformation—they only recall reputation.
But what they miss is this:
I’m not trying to be a better student. I’m trying to be a better man.
And they can’t handle that.
The Real Reason I Still Go
Let me be clear.
The only reason I’m walking into that campus is because I don’t study at home.
That’s it.
Not for teachers.
Not for friendships.
Not for fun.
Because home is peace, but school is a reminder.
A reminder that no one in that classroom dreams beyond the 12th grade.
No one talks about revolution, creation, risks, or the game behind the game.
Just tuitions. Tests. Timetables.
Out of 60 students, maybe 3 girls will make it to greatness—if they break their own cages.
The boys? They’re chilling. Floating. Existing.
Potential isn’t enough when it’s lazy.
And what’s worse?
I can’t even stay in the classroom during recess to read.
I’m forced into the ground.
For what?
To shout? Waste time? Be part of a crowd I no longer identify with?
“You become what you surround yourself with. I am surrounded by sleepwalkers.”
— Me, again.
Now the Pressure Builds: The Cultural Rot
The classroom doesn’t feel like a place of learning anymore.
It feels like a pressure cooker, and I’m on the verge of exploding—not from workload, but from watching the nonsense around me.
Everywhere I look:
Students walking, talking, breathing Web series.
Each one relating to a reel or a scene from Netflix.
Not even realizing their life is being directed by someone else’s script.
Girls pretending to be the lead from some college drama.
Boys copying what they saw on some gangster reel last night.
No one’s here to grow.
They’re here to imitate, to impress, to perform.
There are boys who come just to look at girls.
And girls who are trying to get attention instead of marks.
Everyone wants to be seen, not remembered.
They’re normalizing what should not be normal in Indian culture.
The Indian value system, already fragile in these Gen Z years, is being slaughtered by simulation.
And nobody even notices.
The Principal: The Only Torch
In this entire circus, there is only one person who still holds a flame bright enough to burn through the fog.
Our principal.
She teaches psychology.
She calls herself a change maker—and she means it.xz
She reads minds like open books and edits them with purpose.
If there is a revolution to happen here, a shift of light from total darkness,
it can only begin through her.
Yes, she rules like a dictator.
Yes, we fear her.
But maybe that’s exactly what a generation this lost needs:
Direction with power. Discipline with spine.
Why I Will Still Walk In Every Morning at 7
Because I need the structure.
Because when I sit, I think.
I think of something I’m building quietly.
A project.
A pattern.
A plan too big to say out loud.
While others joke, I strategize.
I don’t hate school. I hate what school has become.
A place where teaching is a job, not a mission.
Where students are records, not minds.
Where the first bench doesn’t even let you see the board,
but expects you to absorb the light.
So I walk in.
Not to blend in.
But to study, observe, and rise.
And Now, Let Me Say This as a Poem:
The lion never feared the cage—he feared forgetting how to roar.
I sit in class, quiet—not because I’m tamed,
But because I’m thinking louder than they’ll ever understand.While they chalk the board with borrowed notes,
I sketch futures in my head—
Futures no one in that room is trained to recognize.
“The real toppers are not in class. They’re already working.”
— Written in a notebook that’s never submitted
“This is not a complaint. This is a record. For history.”
This isn’t just a review. This is my revolution.
The first bell hasn’t rung for class.
It’s rung for war.
Shall we?