Those scenarios are bleak now. Maybe I have lost my true vision—the vision to transform a scene into a mood. During my teenage years, I used to draw a scene of reality into one of my imagination just by looking out of my window. It was my favorite escape plan from those boring, pathetic educational lectures or from my parents’ lectures about being a civilized kid. You know, this world is black and white for so-called mature people—that’s why we call them “oldies.” But for a young brain, it’s too colorful. Not just the seven colors of white light emerging from a prism but countless hues of life itself.

I search for those colors every day, but they seem to have disappeared long ago. While chasing this structure of “success” created by humans, I lost my insight, my imagination. Now I can feel winters and summers, but there’s no spring or rainy days in them. I’m not a painter, but I always had a black pen to draw my world in words.

That day is still vivid in my memory.

“Oh, Harsh! What have you done? At this young age, you are in love!” my mom shouted. She continued, “Are you out of your mind? You are just eleven years old! That explains your poor grades last semester.” She kept going, but I wasn’t there. My eyes were fixed on that transparent window, through which I could see the boundary wall of the plantation. For me, it was a jungle where Mowgli lived—the character from The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling.

The whole locality was hiding from the summer sun, so the streets were deserted. The air was warm, and everything was still. But in my imagination, a breeze touched those trees, and waves of fresh air followed. Clouds attacked the sun from every direction, and soon it was covered. For a moment, the clouds triumphed, and a pale, dim light—just like dawn but in the afternoon—took over. My vision wanted to go further, but someone grabbed my hand and shook me forcefully.

“Hey! Are you even listening to me?” my mom’s irritated voice brought me back to reality.

“You must not talk to that girl from now on. This is my last and final warning,” she said with authority. I nodded to end the one-sided battle.

The next morning was the usual rush to get ready for school. While cycling there, my mind was occupied with recent events. During a random bag-checking event organized by what I’d call Nazi recruits, my beloved diary was confiscated. I protested, saying, “You can’t read my personal diary; it’s not civilized behavior.” But my teacher refuted this by pinching my ear with her fat, muscular fingers.

She read it all in a single breath. For the first time, I realized she could read, as her only role seemed to be disciplining us. Even though she was a math teacher, she never taught us math. Instead, she used her “mathematical powers” to measure the length of girls’ skirts or fingernails. At that moment, I realized I was doomed.

“Who is Mariyam?” she shouted like an angry platoon commander.

Mariyam was the girl I liked, whose name I had engraved with my blood on the last page of my diary. It was rumored that I had cut my finger to write her name, but for clarity, the blood came from an accidental wound. I still have the mark of that wound.

After reading the diary, she interrogated me and Mariyam like an FBI agent. We were in the same class but different sections, which made it even more special. I’d grab every chance to see her. Her section was diagonally opposite mine, so once I got outside my class, I could see her clearly. To achieve that, I always tried to get punished. My ears were always ready to hear those three beautiful words: “Leave my class.” Mission accomplished.

But now I wondered how she would react today and how the school atmosphere would be. These thoughts made me anxious.

I reached school earlier than usual. Parking my bicycle near a eucalyptus tree, I ran to my class on the second floor to secure my favorite seat: in front of the class gate but on the second-to-last bench near the window. Everything seemed normal, calming my nerves slightly.

As the school filled with students, I noticed no one talked to me except my close friends. Yet, it felt like everyone was talking about me. Maybe I was just paranoid.

During assembly, I was in my queue, trying my best to catch a glimpse of her. There she was, ignoring my stares. But who cared? In my vision, it was just the two of us, three meters apart, standing on this vast school ground. Suddenly, the “Nazi recruit” appeared and pulled me out of the queue, dragging me to the stage.

It was my first time on stage. She ordered me to take the pledge over the mic. Nervous and shaking, I feared everyone could hear my furiously pounding heart. With a shaky voice, I forced out the words: “I… In… India is my country, and all Indians (except one) are my brothers and sisters…” I stuttered through the rest, applying every ounce of energy to keep going.

After I finished, she repeated over the mic: “All Indians are brothers and sisters. Keep that in mind!” I faintly laughed, imagining this Nazi recruit being married to her brother. Then, she instructed me to climb onto a chair and raise my hands vertically. It was a routine punishment for me; the only difference was the location.

As the assembly ended, we walked to our classes. Climbing the stairs, my eyes met hers briefly, but she avoided eye contact. I understood—I had created a mess, and only time could clear it.

In class, the usual chaos unfolded. Friends laughed, talked, and gestured wildly, creating a symphony of disorder that I secretly enjoyed. Then the teacher arrived, silencing the noise. His first words were a taunt aimed at me. I accepted it silently, gazing out the window.

Outside, I saw the same scene as before: a lone banyan tree on the diagonal edge of a lake, with the orange sun hanging behind it. The synchronized wind and rustling leaves created a soothing symphony. It reflected my emotions—calm and content.

Even though I was sitting on a chair inside a classroom, battling the harsh, warm winds from the fan and surrounded by people, my mind was elsewhere. I was diagonally opposite that banyan tree.

.    .    .