Yash composes himself and slowly makes his way toward his classroom. His heart is pounding wildly. He quietly slips to the last bench, sits down, pulls out a notebook from his bag, and covers his face with it, pretending to read.
The class already has 15 to 20 girls seated—some on the front benches, some in the middle, some near the windows. They're chatting lightly, someone opening a bag, someone sipping water, someone typing on their phone. Seeing Yash's strange behavior, one girl smiles and nudges her friend. Then another. Soon, all eyes are on him. Their laughter starts soft, then bursts out together—some cover their mouths, some elbow each other, and a wave of giggles ripples through the room. One girl whispers, "He's hiding behind a book like a kid caught in school!" Another adds, "Thinks we can't see him!" Their laughter is so infectious that two more girls join in, and the classroom atmosphere turns light and playful.
The girls can't hold back their giggles and all start laughing together.
Gradually, the rest of the students trickle in—some peeking through the door, some rushing in and dumping their bags, some calling out to friends. Every newcomer pauses at the sound of laughter, then smiles in understanding. It's shown that Yash's biology class has a total of 35 students—23 girls and 12 boys. The girls have claimed most of the front and middle benches, while the boys are scattered toward the back or in corners. The room fills with the scrape of chairs, the thud of bags hitting the floor, and a rising hum of conversation.
Since everyone is a stranger, small talk begins. One boy asks the guy next to him, "Bro, where you from? I'm from UP." On the other side, girls chat about their schools—"My school was super strict; feels like freedom here," one says, and another laughs, "Wait till we meet the teacher!" Someone checks their lunch box, someone doodles in a notebook. The vibe is warming up, like a new group forming.
Amid this, a girl sitting on the bench next to Yash turns to him. It's Harshita—long hair, sparkling eyes, and a mischievous smile. She extends her hand. "Hi, I'm Harshita. Nice to meet you. What's your name?"
As Yash slowly lowers his notebook, his face still red, eyes downcast, Harshita recognizes him and bursts out laughing. "Oh wow! You're the guy from the hallway earlier, right? Tripping, running like a madman, total movie scene!" Her tone is teasing but not mean.
Yash, embarrassed, lowers his head and sits quietly, his hands trembling on the notebook.
Harshita smiles and says, "Hey, don't feel bad—you're so innocent, man," and laughs again. Her friends nearby join in. One says, "Seriously, why so shy? We're all new!" Yash stammers, "L-l-look, ma'am, p-p-please forgive me, I-I can't talk to you right now." The words stumble out, like his tongue is stuck. This makes Harshita and her friends laugh harder. Harshita clutches her stomach. "Ma'am? I'm your age, dude!" Now others in the class start smiling; a playful mood fills the air.
Just then, the teacher suddenly enters—sari, glasses, register and marker in hand. Her walk is brisk, her voice sharp. "Everyone quiet! Sit in your places, talk later!" Silence falls instantly. The last chair scrapes stop. Introducing herself, she says, "I'm Miss Payal, your biology teacher," and adds sternly, "If anyone has a problem with my teaching, keep it to yourself—don't let it out of your mouth."
Hearing this, all the boys and girls go quiet. You could hear a pin drop.
The teacher starts taking attendance.
She opens the register and calls out names—"Ankita?" "Present, ma'am," a girl from the front replies. "Vikas?" "Here, ma'am," a boy from the back. One by one, names echo, with slight movements—chairs shifting, pens clicking, notebooks flipping. Slowly, Yash's turn comes. Everyone's eyes are on the register, but Yash suddenly straightens up, pulls his shoulders back, and says in a powerful, stylish tone—as if he's a different person—"Present, Ma'am." His voice is deep, clear, and so confident it sends a jolt through the room.
The strength in his voice stuns everyone. Girls in front turn around, boys in the back twist their heads. The same Yash who was stammering "ma'am" minutes ago now sounds like steel. Harshita's eyes widen, Mukesh and Sameer elbow each other. A moment of silence, then whispers—"That's the same guy?" "Man, what swagger!"
The scene cuts to—
Outwardly, Yash looks "tough"—face stern, eyes on the board—but inside, he's nervous. His fingers crumple the edge of his notebook, his heart racing again. Because Miss Payal is truly stunning—long hair, fair skin, sari pallu draped lightly over her shoulder, and eyes that both intimidate and captivate. Yash's gaze keeps drifting to her, then snapping away.
From the side, Harshita leans in, smiling, and whispers—
"Whoa! What happened to your voice? You were stuttering earlier, and now… superstar!" Her eyes sparkle with mischief and admiration.
Yash gives a small smile, his voice still strong but softer now. "I wasn't stuttering; my heartbeat was racing, so I spoke in breaks…" He chuckles lightly—his first smile in class, cute, charming, a little shy. Harshita laughs. "Oh, heartbeat issue? Got it!"
Then the class begins.
Miss Payal draws diagrams on the board, explains cell structure, her voice sharp but clear. Students take notes, pens scratching, someone asks a question and gets an instant answer. Time passes—the bell rings, it's lunch. The room starts emptying, bags lifted, chairs pushed back. Yash glances at his classmates—the boys gathering at the back, laughing and joking. He hesitates, then slings his bag over his shoulder and joins the boys' group.
Soon, the boys are chatting—
"Where you from, man?" "Mumbai, you?" "Delhi." Someone talks gaming, someone cricket. Yash listens quietly, then speaks up—"I'm local, but first time in college." His voice carries the confidence from attendance. Mukesh laughs, "Dude, you're a hero!" Sameer adds, "And that 'Present, Ma'am'—wow!" Yash smiles, and in his mind, he thinks—
"I never made friends growing up, always alone through school. But not anymore… now I'll make friends, I'll enjoy."
All the boys are cool—
Some short and skinny, some chubby with laughing bellies. But truthfully, only Yash is perfect. His muscles show through his shirt, broad shoulders, slim waist, and that cute, charming face—light stubble, deep eyes, a smile that touches hearts. The boys surround him, talking, like he's the center of the group.
After this, class resumes.
Post-lunch, many students head home—catching buses, autos. Only Yash, two boys—Mukesh and Sameer—and two girls—Shrishti and Harshita—remain. Miss Payal explains practicals, shows the microscope. Slowly, class ends—the bell rings, ma'am closes the register. "Test tomorrow, be prepared."
After class, Yash heads to the washroom.
He stands in front of the mirror, splashes water on his face, fixes his hair, and smiles at himself—"Good day, Yash." Then he grabs his bag and starts leaving college. The parking lot is sunny, bikes revving, car horns. He sees Harshita laughing with a guy on a Duke bike—black jacket, helmet in hand. The bike roars to life, smoke rises, and they speed off. Shrishti gets into her white car, turns on music, and drives away. Mukesh and Sameer ride off on their old bike, calling out—"See you tomorrow, bro!"
Yash just stands, watching everyone leave.
The parking lot empties, dust swirls, silence falls. When everyone's gone, he starts walking home. With no money, he goes on foot. His place is about 5 kilometers away—sun beating down, traffic, roadside tea stalls. He walks slowly, bag on shoulder, sometimes looking at the sky, sometimes dusting his shoes. Finally, he reaches his room—a small rented space above a garage.
He freshens up—soap on face, comb through hair—then heads to work in the garage.
Cars are parked, tools scattered, the smell of oil. He lies under a scooter, turns a wrench, sweat pouring. By 10 p.m., he's still working, but Yash feels no fatigue. Since childhood, he's worked so much that his body is built for it—pure stamina. Muscles glisten with sweat, breathing steady, hands moving without pause.
Then his boss arrives—middle-aged, white shirt, glasses—and scolds him—
"Why are you working so late? Turn off the lights, go sleep!"
Yash puts down the wrench, wipes sweat, and says—
"Sir, my quota isn't done yet, so…"
The boss puts a hand to his head and says—
"Look, only do extra when I tell you. Otherwise, just two hours at night. Plus, you're up from 5 to 7 a.m. doing repairs anyway. Don't tire yourself out. Go sleep."
Yash nods, "Okay, sir…" and leaves. He organizes the tools, turns off the lights, climbs the stairs to his room.
The boss stands alone, leaning against the garage wall, thinking—
"When he was 7, he came to my garage. Tiny, dirty clothes, stubborn eyes. I shooed him away—'You're a kid, go.' But he insisted, 'Give me work, I need money.' So I hired him. It's been 12 years. I don't know much about his school life, but his college life shouldn't get ruined…"
In a way, the boss now sees Yash like his own son. He lights a cigarette, watches Yash's shadow climb the stairs through the smoke, and smiles—"He'll be back at 5 a.m. tomorrow."