82. Routine Scheduling

I woke up early, even before the alarm rang. As usual, I sat down cross-legged at the edge of my bed and closed my eyes—not just to meditate, but to sort through the checklist swirling inside my head.

Class notes — complete.Science assignment — done.Articles for Student Voice — finished and saved.French homework — ugh, still pending.Social Science assignment — not yet announced.

My mind felt like a filing cabinet, with each drawer labelled and ready. After that little mental tidy-up, I completed my morning routine and still had an hour before the bell. Instead of sitting around, I pulled out the notebook we were using to draft the magazine schedule and content. I arranged the print layouts, listed the pending tasks, and made a to-do checklist for the week ahead. Something about having things organized on paper calms me.

When I went to the prayer in the auditorium hall, I checked if there were any announcements about events or staff changes, but it was quiet. Routine prayers, same chants, nothing new. Maybe that was a good thing. Too much change all at once can feel like turbulence.

After breakfast, we returned to class, sluggish from the vada and pongal combo. I found my seat, opened my science book, and prepped for class—though my mind was still lingering somewhere between "how to present the sports column layout" and "how to remind people to submit articles without sounding bossy."

Science ma'am walked in five minutes early today, with a large brown folder in her hand—the kind that means either project work or punishment. We stood up and wished her.

"Good morning, class," she said crisply. "Submission time."

I watched quietly as the front bench girls pulled out their neatly bound science assignments, decorated and written like exam papers. I followed, clutching mine with quiet confidence, and placed it on her desk. But as I turned back, I realized something odd—most of the class was still seated.

Only around 10 or 12 of us had gone up. I blinked. Out of 35 students, barely one-third had submitted?

"Only this many?" Science ma'am's voice cut through the air like a blade.

A couple of students stood up, looking sheepish. Some mumbled excuses. "Didn't finish drawing the diagram." "Forgot the chart." "Left it in hostel."

She didn't let them speak beyond that.

"If you didn't submit, stand up right now."

Chairs scraped. Feet shuffled. Almost 20 students stood, heads down.

Ma'am wasn't angry in a loud way. She was furious in a calm, disappointed, and cutting way. "Is this how you'll be when you go to college? Will your professors accept 'I forgot'?"

The whole class was silent.

"Those who submitted—shift to the front rows," she said, pointing.

I picked up my bag and moved forward. It felt a little like being on stage. Everyone's eyes were following us. A few students rolled theirs. Some just sighed.

"The rest of you," ma'am said sharply, "back benches. And stand until the period ends."

They obeyed without question.

For the next forty minutes, she taught us about the circulatory system in her usual passionate way—diagrams, examples, and all. But the mood was completely different. Half the class was standing, uncomfortable, trying to focus while also glancing down at their own feet. Some were trying hard not to look embarrassed. A few whispered to each other when she wasn't looking, but most were just quiet.

As I sat and took notes, part of me felt a little bad for them. I knew some of them had genuinely tried but didn't finish on time. Others were just lazy or forgot. But it also made me think—why is it always the same people who finish their work on time? And why is it always the same people who don't?

Being in the front row wasn't a reward. It was just a reminder that consistency matters more than talent.

The period ended with ma'am collecting the submissions and warning the rest to submit it by tomorrow, with marks deducted. She left the class in silence. Everyone exhaled together.

Mahathi muttered behind me, "That felt like a punishment parade."

Sree Lekha leaned forward and whispered, "I thought I was safe, but I forgot the last diagram."

Pavani, from the back, raised her hand like she was in court. "Nila! Next time don't finish early. You're making the rest of us look bad!"

I smiled. "Blame the checklist in my head."

But deep down, I knew that today's class wasn't about science alone. It was a reminder that our actions—small or big—echo around us.

Because we got scolded right in the first period, the entire class's morale was at an all-time low. Until lunch, there was a strange silence hanging in the air. No whispers, no passing notes, no casual sighs or jokes under the desk. Everyone sat straight, scribbling down notes like they were prepping for board exams.

Even the usually playful ones were unusually serious. It wasn't just about the punishment—it was the way ma'am's disappointment settled in the room like fog, making everyone feel heavy and guilty. The air felt pressed down, as though our classroom itself was punishing us with its quiet.

I was relieved when the bell rang for lunch. The corridor noise, the clang of stainless-steel plates, the chatter of other classes—it all felt like a return to normalcy. But our classroom still felt like it was wrapped in bubble wrap, stiff and silent.

After lunch, I moved to the language class for French class. Only then did I feel like I could finally breathe. It wasn't that French class was easy—it wasn't—but at least the atmosphere was different. Light. Less tense.

Our French teacher entered with her usual bright salwar and a sharp gaze.

"Tomorrow, I will be checking all your work," she announced in a no-nonsense tone. "Class notes, textbook exercises—everything I've asked you to complete till now."

A collective groan rose in the air, but she raised her hand to silence it.

"This isn't a surprise test. I've been reminding you all. I am giving you one whole class tomorrow just to check your work. That's teaching time I'm sacrificing. It's 5 marks from your internals. Don't disappoint me."

I felt a pang in my stomach. Not guilt—just stress. I remembered I hadn't completed some of the textbook exercises, especially the grammar section on negation and sentence restructuring. I'd skipped them because I didn't understand the instructions fully the first time. I kept putting it off.

"Whatever's pending, complete it today," she continued. "This is your last reminder."

As the class ended and we transitioned into self-study, I didn't waste time chatting or walking around. I took out my French notebook and textbook, settled near the back window for some peace, and got to work.

I pulled out the French dictionary Amma had packed for me at the last minute. Back then, I had rolled my eyes and told her I'd use the internet. But now, in this classroom—without Wi-Fi or easy access to translation tools—it felt like my secret weapon.

One by one, I tackled each question. Slowly, the fog in my mind started to clear. I made sure to note down the answers neatly, double-checking the tenses and sentence structure. For once, I didn't rely on half understanding or guesswork. I wanted to be sure.

Around me, other students were also working quietly. The room was filled with the rustle of pages, the occasional whisper for help, and the quiet scratching of pencils and pens. It was like we had all been collectively reminded today: school isn't always going to be forgiving.

Sometimes, pressure is not just about exams. It's about the silent expectations, the small internal marks, the one unfinished page that might lower your grade.

But today also reminded me that pressure, when handled right, becomes discipline.

As the final bell rang, I felt satisfied—not because everything was perfect, but because I didn't let the day defeat me. I managed to catch up.

One assignment down. One subject off my worry list.