The dream faded, and I woke with my heart pounding, the echo of that promise lingering in my thoughts like a fragile hope.
The year had changed. It was now 2023.
Leaving the past behind for a moment, I took a cab to meet Kaustub. The years had changed us both. At first, he didn't recognize me—the boy who once stared silently from the back benches was gone. When realization struck, his eyes widened in shock.
We found a quiet corner in a small restaurant, sharing samosas, words heavy with unspoken history.
He pulled out a photo—me and Gayatri, captured in a moment frozen in time. My eyes welled up before the softness of a smile crept across my face. I closed my eyes, letting the memory envelope me—the laughter, the wood-paneled benches, the gentle touch of her hand—as if I could feel her presence again.
Suddenly, the world shifted beneath me and I was transported back.
It was morning, 2019, my routine goes same, morning coaching, eveing coaching whole day study, all months only study, days gone and months gone, Finally March 2020 arrived with a mix of anxiety and hope. The board exams were here—the ultimate test of everything I had fought for.
My grandfather came all the way from the village, a quiet pillar of strength just when I needed it most. His presence was a kind of comfort, steady and old as the earth.
The exam days blurred into a whirlwind. I tackled the language papers—English, Marathi, Hindi—with growing confidence. Thanks to my grandfather's patience and regular coaching, I found them easier than I expected.
But the real battle was with maths and science.
Maths was the enemy I never fully conquered. I stumbled through concepts, trapped in confusion, but one day when i was in extra classes coaching, when my frustration peaked, my notebook was a battlefield—ink-scrawled fractions and smeared eraser marks, evidence of every mistake. My mind spun in helpless circles. Numbers blurred, logic dissolved. I pressed trembling fingers to my temple, fighting the urge to give up, She noticed the hesitation in my fingers. Gently, she reached out and took my pencil away that's when Gayatri, quiet until then, slipped closer. She reached out and, for the first time, cupped my face gently in her hands. Her palms were cool and soft—steadying, certain in a way I'd never known. The chaos in my mind faded beneath her touch.
I looked up, and for the first time allowed myself to truly meet her eyes. They were luminous: deep brown flecked with gold where the late sunlight found them, alive with unspoken kindness. There was a softness there, a promise—a quiet faith in me that I'd never dared hold for myself.
She says, "Don't give up," she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. "Hey, breathe," she whispered, thumbs brushing softly against my cheeks"We'll do this together."
For a split second, the world outside that small patch of light fell away. All the noise—my fear, my self-doubt, the pressure of expectations—just… dissolved. Her fingertips rested at the edges of my jaw, anchoring me. There, in the honesty of her gaze, I saw not just answers to the day's equations, but a kind of hope: the fierce, gentle belief that I could win this battle, even if I never believed it myself.
she said, her voice low and certain. "Let's try this equation together. See this?" She began writing out a problem, saying each step aloud.
"For linear equations," she continued, "we just move all the variables to one side and constants to the other. It's like shifting your puzzle pieces until the image clears up. Ready to try?"
I watched her hand move, neat and confident. She motioned for me to try. "Go on, I'm here."
With her encouragement, I copied her steps, stumbling at the subtraction but hesitating only a second before she quietly corrected me. "Almost! Just remember, minus and minus is plus. You're, like, ninety percent there!"
I managed the next step alone, glancing at her for approval. She grinned, eyes shining, and bumped her shoulder into mine. "See? I told you, you're getting it."
When I faltered at word problems, she leaned in closer, whispering playful hints: "Pretend you have ten chocolates. Would I steal two?" We both laughed. Suddenly, numbers were less like traps and more like stories. Every tiny victory, she celebrated—clapping, smiling, sometimes gently squeezing my arm.
She nudged a solved sum forward, pointing at the answer. "You did that," she said softly, pride warming her voice. "You really can do this."
I felt the knot of fear slowly unravel, replaced by the patient certainty of her support. And each time her hand brushed mine, or her laughter rang in the small, sunlit room, I grew more certain that—just maybe—victory wasn't so far away after all. It was the turning point—the exact moment my defeat began to shift, inch by inch, toward victory. And it was her eyes, shimmering with care and quiet insistence, that lit the way.
When I sat down for the maths paper, nerves fluttered in my chest, but as soon as I read the questions, memories of Gayatri's gentle teaching washed over me. Her voice echoed in my mind with each question—her steady explanations, her patient encouragement, and the certainty in her eyes when I finally understood. It felt almost unreal; as if she was there beside me, guiding my hand as I wrote—her calm assurance blending with every answer I scribbled.
With every tough question, I pictured her warm smile: "You aren't stuck. Just take it step by step, like we practiced." The pressure and fear faded; in their place grew a quiet confidence. I moved through the problems—breaking equations just as she'd shown me, solving patiently, methodically. By the time the final bell rang, it felt less like my exam and more like ours, as if Gayatri was writing it with me.
Afterwards, I rushed straight to the coaching center, eager and anxious. Gayatri was already there. When our eyes met, a thousand unspoken words passed between us. I sank into the chair beside her and the conversation filled with nervous energy.
"So?" she asked, eyebrows raised, that familiar half-smile teasing her lips.
"I… I think I did okay," I managed, still not sure. "I kept remembering the way you explained things."
She laughed softly, nudging my arm. "That's good! You studied so hard. You did your best, right? Don't overthink—be positive. You've got this same energy in you. Just trust it!"
Her optimism was infectious, even as my heart still tangled itself in worries. We talked about the paper—all the tricky parts, the things I might have missed, the jokes she made to keep me from spiraling too far.
As we got up to leave, I realized my question paper was missing—I'd left it with Gayatri in all the excitement. Somehow, it seemed fitting. That paper, like the journey through maths itself, belonged as much to her kindness and support as it did to me.
Science was a different story altogether. During the exam, I felt panic clutch me. I wasn't prepared. My mind raced as I stared at questions I barely understood. Desperation pushed me to try and copy, but the effort was shaky. The school principal, doing his rounds, suddenly stopped beside me, his sharp eyes narrowing.
"What are you writing?" he asked sternly.
Fear slammed into me, but he helped me to tell answer of objectives, To my surprise, instead of reprimand, the principal gave me a another life. He says, "You have fifteen minutes. Use it wisely."
It shook me deeply. For external students like me, the authorities sometimes turned a blind eye—offering unofficial leniency in subjects where failure was common. Geography, history, and science became exams of quiet copying, slice by slice.
The last paper ended, and suddenly the relentless rhythm of exams—waking, studying, testing, repeating—was gone. A strange stillness replaced the daily tension; it was as if the world itself had stopped to exhale. For the first time in months, my mornings weren't filled with alarm bells and hurried revision, but with an emptiness I didn't quite know how to fill.