Sitting in class feels like sitting in a room full of puppets.
Really bad puppets.
Every head moves the same way.
Every notebook opens at the same time.
Every answer sounds rehearsed,
as if the strings were pulled by the same invisible hand.
Teachers walk in with question papers —
like judges in a courtroom that never ends.
Some faces glow.
Some drop.
The air fills with a quiet kind of fear.
Marks become currency.
Tuition becomes survival.
Nobody talks about curiosity anymore.
Only results.
The benches creak,
the fan hums,
the board squeaks —
and time stretches like rubber about to snap.
Some sit straight,
some fake confidence,
some pretend to take notes
while their minds drift miles away.
No one talks about the pressure —
the kind that doesn’t show on faces
but sits heavy in the air,
pressing down on everyone equally,
but unevenly breaking a few.
Maybe the system isn’t broken.
Maybe it was designed this way.
A perfect room of puppets.
Moving.
Nodding.
Performing.
Until the bell rings,
and everyone walks out
still tied to the same strings.