The Tide Turns

**March 12, 2002**

**Sharma University, Rewari**

The morning sun slipped through the blinds, casting faint stripes across the principal's office, but I barely felt its glow. I slouched in the wooden chair, its creak a familiar echo, surrounded by a mess of exam schedules and memos. My throat scratched from last week's lectures, and my shoulders carried a dull ache from swinging a cricket bat. Teaching had worn me down—Jatin's body was young, but my mind was still catching up. Today, I'd step back. Vikas and the others could handle classes; I needed to wrestle the April exams into shape.

I grabbed the brass bell, its metal cool against my skin, and rang it sharply. The chime cut the silence, and Kamla Aunty appeared, her sari a muted green, the faint scent of jasmine trailing her. "Jatin, beta, what do you need?" she asked, her voice soft, steadying.

"Tell Dr. Vikas and the teachers they're taking classes today," I said, rubbing my neck. "Exams are coming—I'm stuck with prep."

Her eyes crinkled with a knowing smile. "You've been pushing hard. I'll let them know." She shuffled out, her footsteps a quiet patter, leaving me with the dead brass clock—its hands frozen in time—and a restless hum in my chest.

By late afternoon, the campus stirred beyond my walls. I stayed buried in the office, ink smudging my fingers as I scratched out timetables, the pen's rasp a steady beat. The System chimed as the day faded, its voice cold in my skull.

[*Mind Matrix: 41 of 150 students studied seriously. 27% participation. No feedback granted. Some Students at 105%.*]

[*Body Matrix: 39 of 59 students trained seriously. 26% participation. No feedback granted.Some Students at 105%.*]

I leaned back, the chair groaning, and rubbed my temples. Twenty-seven percent. Twenty-six. Close to the 30% I needed, but not there. Last week, some had hit 125%, but today? Nothing yet—boosts came Sundays, the System had clarified after Tuesday's rush. I pictured those 41 students—the wiry boy from my class, the lanky bowler—working hard, waiting for the week's end. Not enough, I thought, jaw tight. Tomorrow, they'd push past.

Outside, I didn't see the shift. Rahul, a second-year physics major with unruly hair and a furrowed brow, sat by the Saraswati statue, his textbook open, pencil idle. He watched three first-years nearby—heads bent over notes, their whispers sharp with focus. In Vikas's class, that braided girl had answered fast, her voice cutting through the drone. Rahul chewed his pencil, puzzled. Why so serious? Then it hit—exams. April loomed, a month away. Last semester's scrape still stung, his father's silence worse than any lecture. "I've got to start," he muttered, flipping pages, the paper crinkling under his grip. "Can't fail again."

Whispers spread by the canteen. A third-year chem major sipped tea from a chipped mug, nudging his friend. "They're all at it—books, drills. Exams?" His friend shrugged, steam curling up. "Better not slack." Benches filled—first-years scribbling, second-years debating, third-years hunched over texts, the air thick with quiet resolve.

I didn't know. The office cocooned me, papers piling, ink staining my hands as I wrestled with logistics.

---

**March 13, 2002**

Tuesday dawned gray, clouds heavy overhead. I walked to campus, boots crunching gravel, the cool air sharp against my face. The office swallowed me again—more schedules, a call from a printer, the receiver cold against my ear. Classes droned on, Vikas's voice a faint hum, the sports ground alive with distant shouts.

At 4:00 p.m., I stretched, joints popping, and glanced at the clock—still dead, mocking me. The campus quieted, students trickling out. I grabbed my jacket, leather creaking, but paused, curiosity tugging. I slumped into the chair, eyes closed, and summoned the System.

[*Mind Matrix: 58 of 150 students studied seriously. 39% participation. Some Students at 105%. Host cognition increased to 105%.*]

[*Body Matrix: 52 of 59 students trained seriously. 35% participation. Some Students at 105%. Host physicality and skills increased to 105%.*]

A rush hit me, clean and sharp. Thirty-nine percent. Thirty-five. Over the line. My mind cleared—the room's edges crisp, the mildew scent keen, the bookshelf titles snapping into focus. I grabbed a budget sheet, and the numbers untangled effortlessly, a solution clicking. Five percent smarter. My body followed—shoulders lighter, breath deeper, a hum in my arms. I flexed my hand, picturing a cricket swing, a volleyball spike—skills tingling at my fingertips. I grinned, soft in the silence. The boost was mine, locked till Sunday.

---

**March 14–18, 2002**

The week stretched on, gray skies softening to patches of sun. I stayed out of the classrooms, letting Vikas and the staff steer, my days a blur of exam prep—printing papers, checking labs, ink's sharp tang clinging to my fingers. The campus pulsed beyond my window, students bent over books by the canteen, their murmurs a low hum, athletes drilling on the field, sweat glinting in the light.

Wednesday morning, trouble flared. I stepped out for air, gravel cool under my boots, when Rahul and a stocky second-year squared off near the lecture hall. "You're hogging the notes!" the stocky one barked, shoving Rahul's shoulder.

Rahul stumbled, his book thudding into the dust, and glared back. "Take your own—I'm not your servant!" I strode over, voice firm.

"Enough. Share, or neither gets them." They froze, then mumbled apologies, Rahul brushing dirt off his pages with a scowl. I walked away, tension easing—small sparks, but mine to snuff out.

Thursday, Kamla Aunty brought chai mid-afternoon, the steam warm against my face as I sipped from a chipped cup. "They're working hard out there," she said, nodding toward the window, her sari rustling as she adjusted it.

"Exams, I suppose?" I nodded, the tea's sweetness cutting my fatigue. "Good. They need it." She smiled and left, leaving a trace of jasmine behind. I leaned back, cup cradled in my hands, watching shadows shift across the floor as the day wore on.

Friday, I wandered to the sports ground at dusk, hands in my pockets, the air cooling fast. The cricket team—52 of 59, Tuesday had said—spotted me. The lanky bowler waved, grinning. "Sir, bat with us?" I hesitated, then grabbed a bat, Jatin's grip instinctive. I faced a few balls, the crack of leather on wood sharp, their cheers lifting me. My 105% held—no jump yet, just a steady edge, muscles humming as I swung. I clapped the bowler's shoulder, dust rising, and headed back, the sky bruising purple.

Saturday, I caught Rahul by the statue, his pencil flying, eyes bleary but fixed. "Keeping up?" I asked, leaning against the pedestal, its stone rough under my elbow. He nodded, shy. "Trying, sir. Can't fail." I clapped his shoulder—solid, earnest—and moved on, a flicker of pride warming me. Later, I overheard two first-years by the canteen, their voices low over steaming tea. "She's smarter now—that braided girl. Exams?" "Maybe the new principal." I smirked, unseen, and kept walking.

Sunday night, March 18, I sat on the porch, the Royal Enfield gleaming under the streetlamp. A cigarette burned between my fingers, smoke curling into the dusk, its bite sharp on my tongue. The System chimed, weekly verdict crisp.

[*Mind Matrix: 60 of 150 students studied seriously. 40% participation. Students at 110%. Host cognition at 105%.*]

[*Body Matrix: 54 of 59 students trained seriously. 36% participation. Students at 110%. Host physicality and skills at 105%.*]

A second rush—thoughts quicker, the day's chaos sorting itself; body stronger, a faint power in my limbs. Five percent, locked till next Sunday. I'd misread—students didn't climb daily either, just weekly, like me. They'd hit 105% today, same as me—no 110% yet. Exams had sparked it—Rahul, the braided girl, the bowler—they'd carried it. I flicked the cigarette away, sparks skittering, and smiled. Next week, I'd step back in—chalk, bat, all of it. These kids were mine, and I'd push them higher.

The night settled, a dog barking faintly, the air cool against my skin. I stood, the porch creaking, and headed inside, the System's hum a steady pulse in my chest.