Chapter 9: Burden of a Brain
The classroom was warmer than usual.
Ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, doing little to combat the sharp heat that pooled on the tiled floor. The chalkboard was smeared with faint remnants of yesterday's lesson, and the air reeked faintly of ink, sweat, and the faint tang of sun-dried clothes.
Ishan sat in his usual spot. Center desk, third row. Perfect vantage point — not too conspicuous, yet not buried in the crowd.
It was a position he'd chosen with care.
Every seat in life was a strategy.
Miss Kaushik entered the room carrying a thick stack of papers. Her steps were brisk, her mouth set in a line of stern authority. The class sat up a little straighter.
"We're having a surprise test today," she announced. "Math and logic. Basic aptitude."
A collective groan spread through the classroom. Some heads dropped dramatically onto desks. Others cursed under their breath.
Ishan's fingers twitched.
He had already sharpened the pencil.
The test wasn't difficult — not for him. Not when you'd once negotiated billion-dollar mergers in five time zones and processed financial algorithms faster than most software.
The first question was a number series.
Too obvious.
The second — a logic puzzle about ratios and distance.
Done in thirty seconds.
As he flipped through the rest, Ishan felt the familiar spark. Not joy, not excitement — control. Here, in these clean lines of logic and numbers, was the one thing that still belonged to him.
His intellect.
Untouched by fate. Untouched by reincarnation.
He finished the twenty-question paper in ten minutes, double-checked every answer, and waited. The rest of the class was still frowning and scribbling.
By the end of the period, Miss Kaushik collected the papers. Her eyes lingered on Ishan's as she took his sheet. He didn't smile. He never smiled in these classrooms.
Smiles were for children.
Two days later, the results were announced.
Miss Kaushik stood at the front of the room, flipping through the graded test sheets.
"Some of you need serious help," she began dryly. "But a few did better than expected."
She looked up. "Ishan Malhotra — full marks."
Silence fell.
Even the boys who usually made jokes stayed quiet.
Ishan didn't react.
He didn't have to.
He knew what full marks meant. It meant validation. Even in this second life, his brain still worked better than everyone else's.
Miss Kaushik, however, didn't look pleased. "Ishan, stay back after class."
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped back. Bags were slung over shoulders. Students whispered as they passed him.
"Show-off."
"Doesn't even talk to anyone."
"Probably cheated."
Ishan didn't flinch.
He had heard worse. From sharper tongues. In boardrooms where failure cost lives.
But something beneath their words unsettled him.
The bitterness.
The envy.
He remembered the praise he used to receive — admiration from investors, media, CEOs.
Now, a perfect score got him suspicion.
Miss Kaushik sat at her desk, flipping through more papers.
"You've been doing well," she said without looking up.
"I'm doing what I know," he replied evenly.
She looked at him then — not with approval, but concern.
"Ishan, this isn't a corporate boardroom. You're in a government school. With kids who barely manage to pass. Do you understand how your… precision affects the environment here?"
He blinked. "You're asking me not to do my best?"
"I'm asking you to be mindful."
"That sounds like an excuse for mediocrity."
Her lips tightened.
"I know you're intelligent, but no one likes a show-off. You correct teachers. You finish tests early. You don't interact. That doesn't earn you respect here. It builds walls."
Ishan stared at her. "So, if I dull myself, I'll be liked?"
"Not dull. Just blend in. People here value humility."
He didn't reply.
She sighed. "You're not in whatever world you came from, Ishan. Here, we survive together. Not by being better than everyone else."
He walked out in silence.
That evening, he sat on the back porch of their small house, watching the sky turn crimson.
Kabir was mending an old sandal beside him.
Aaru was trying to teach a neighborhood kid how to fold paper boats.
The air smelled of fried onions and dust.
"I topped the test," Ishan said.
Kabir looked up. "Really? That's great!"
"The teacher wasn't pleased."
Kabir frowned. "Why?"
"She said I make others feel small."
Kabir was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You know, sometimes it's not what you do. It's how you make others feel while doing it."
Ishan looked away.
"I don't know how to be small," he whispered.
Kabir chuckled. "Then learn to bend a little. Trees that bend don't break in storms."
The next day, he walked into class and noticed something.
His desk had chalk marks on it.
Crude lines. A cartoon with a balloon: "Mr. Know-It-All."
He sat anyway.
He didn't erase it.
But he didn't forget.
During lunch, a smaller boy from Class 6 peeked into his classroom.
"Bhaiya?" he asked nervously. "You're the one who got full marks, right?"
Ishan nodded.
"My brother says you can help me with fractions. Will you?"
Ishan stared at him.
In his old life, he would've scoffed.
But this life was different.
He nodded. "Come after school."
That evening, two boys sat beside him with math books.
Ishan explained the concept in silence, drew diagrams on the dirt floor, made them repeat steps.
One understood. The other didn't.
He didn't lose patience.
When they left, one turned and said, "Thanks, bhaiya."
A strange warmth stirred in his chest.
Not praise.
Not admiration.
Something else.
Acceptance.
The next week, more students started sitting beside him during breaks.
Not many. Just a few.
But it was a start.
He stopped correcting teachers in public.
Instead, he'd gently leave notes at their desk afterward.
Some frowned.
Some smiled.
But none scolded.
He was learning.
Humility wasn't weakness.
It was strategy.
That night, he wrote a single line in his hidden notebook:
In the old world, I conquered by being above. In this world, I'll rise by walking among.
The burden of a brain was never the knowledge.
It was learning when — and how — to carry it.
Not above others.
But beside them.
And that, perhaps, was the first lesson this life was trying to teach him.
Not how to be brilliant.
But how to be human.