Chapter 5: The Day of the Results

The morning of the results always arrived like a storm cloud pretending to be a regular day—sunlight outside, birds chirping in the neighborhood, the sound of pressure cookers whistling through windows, all hinting at normalcy. But for Aarav, everything about the day felt unnatural. Every breath, every step, every heartbeat.

He hadn't slept much the night before. It wasn't because he had failed to study—he had, as always, tried his best. Not perfectly, not without flaws, but with the quiet consistency of someone who hoped that this time, his efforts might finally outweigh his inadequacies.

But the fear never left him. The fear of not just what the marks would be, but what they would mean to his father.

It wasn't about failure.

It was about failing him.

That morning, he dressed slower than usual, buttoning his uniform shirt with trembling fingers. His schoolbag felt heavier than it should have, though he carried only the essentials. His shoes made too much noise on the stairs, and he cringed as each step echoed in the narrow hallway. His mother handed him a tiffin box and a warm kiss on the forehead, but her eyes were nervous, too. She said nothing about the results. She didn't need to. Her silence said everything.

"Go carefully, beta," she whispered.

He nodded, slung the bag over his shoulder, and walked out into the morning sun that felt much too bright for a day that would likely end in darkness.

At school, the atmosphere was buzzing. Students huddled in nervous clusters. Some joked loudly, trying to mask their anxiety with forced laughter. Others stood alone, clutching their bags like shields. The principal had decided to distribute report cards through the class teachers during the final period, but no one could focus on lessons. Not really.

Even the teachers seemed distracted. Perhaps they knew too well how much these numbers meant to the children—not just in academics, but in their lives, in their homes, in their fragile sense of worth.

Aarav sat at the edge of his bench, trying to calm his thoughts.

Maybe it won't be that bad.

Maybe I passed every subject.

Maybe...he'll understand I tried.

These hopes were like flickering flames in the wind—alive, but constantly at risk of being extinguished.

The bell for the final period rang. The classroom tensed.

His class teacher entered, holding a stack of report cards. She didn't smile. She never did on days like these. She called each student to the front one by one, handing over the results like a judge delivering verdicts.

Aarav's turn came.

He stood, walked up, and received the card with both hands. He didn't open it immediately. He sat back down, placed it face-down on his desk, and stared at it for a few seconds.

Then, with shaking fingers, he opened it.

68.4%.

His eyes scanned the individual subjects. 74 in Science. 65 in Math. 62 in History. An unexpected 81 in English. And then 57 in Geography—the lowest.

He felt the breath go out of him like air escaping a balloon.

It wasn't terrible. He had passed. But it wasn't good either. And in his world, anything less than "good" was unforgivable.

He stared at the number for a long time, as if willing it to change. As if his gaze could pull the digits upward, bend time backward, correct the careless mistake on that one Geography question that had cost him five marks. But the numbers remained the same—unmoved, merciless.

When the final bell rang, students streamed out of the classrooms in mixed moods—some thrilled, some disappointed, some neutral. Aarav moved slowly, almost mechanically.

The auto ride home felt unusually long. He stared out the window, watching the city blur past, and imagined a life where results were just information, not weapons. Where numbers didn't dictate love. Where home felt like refuge, not a courtroom.

As the auto turned into his lane, his chest tightened. The closer he got to home, the heavier the fear grew.

His father was already back when he reached.

Raghav sat on the sofa, sipping tea. His expression was unreadable—not angry, not warm. Neutral. But Aarav had lived long enough to know that neutrality was not safety. It was suspense. Waiting.

He removed his shoes, walked inside, placed his bag down, and approached his father with quiet steps.

The report card was in his hand, folded once, edges slightly creased.

He held it out.

Raghav took it, opened it, and began scanning the marks. His eyes moved from line to line. Aarav watched his face carefully, hoping—always hoping—for a sign of understanding, even if not approval.

But his father's mouth tightened.

Then came the words.

"This is what you've been studying for?"

His voice was calm. But it was the kind of calm that precedes a storm.

"I gave you books. Tuition. Everything. You couldn't even cross 70%?"

Aarav opened his mouth. Closed it.

"You know what people will say when they see this? They'll laugh at me. At you. At our entire family."

"It's not terrible—" Aarav began, but stopped as soon as the words left his mouth.

Raghav snapped the report card shut and slammed it down on the table.

"Not terrible? I spent thousands on your education. If this is what you give me in return, maybe you should start earning now. Go work at a hotel. Wash dishes. At least then, you'll repay what you've wasted."

Aarav stood frozen. Not because he hadn't heard worse. But because this time, someone else had heard it too.

His class teacher.

A few hours ago, when she had called home for a routine result confirmation, Raghav had put the phone on speaker. Aarav had stood nearby. She had praised his sincerity, his neat handwriting, his consistency. But none of it mattered.

Because minutes after hanging up, Raghav had looked him in the eye and said the words again.

"If you can't study, you'll repay every rupee. I don't care if it's washing plates or cleaning toilets."

Aarav didn't cry.

He just nodded, walked back to his room, and shut the door behind him.

Inside, he didn't sit. He didn't lie down. He just stood still, staring at the blank wall, hearing his father's voice on loop, louder each time.

Washing dishes.

Repay.

Wasted.

His hands trembled—not from anger, but from heartbreak. A kind of silent cracking that echoed through his ribs.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to shout: I tried! I tried harder than anyone knows!

But his mouth wouldn't move.

Because he knew it wouldn't matter.

No one would hear it. Not truly.

That night, he lay in bed without dinner. His mother knocked once, asked softly if he wanted food, then left without waiting for an answer. She knew this ritual.

The ceiling fan spun slowly above him. The blades cut the air like time cutting through days that felt all the same—wake up, try, fail, get scolded, sleep, repeat.

In the corner of the room, his sketchbook sat hidden under a pile of books. He hadn't touched it in months.

He reached for it now—not to draw, but just to hold. The pages felt familiar beneath his fingers, like a friend who no longer spoke but still stayed.

He flipped to an old sketch—a boy with wings made of broken clock hands. He stared at it for a long time.

He didn't want to die.

He didn't want to leave his family in pain.

But he also didn't want to live like this—measured, diminished, erased.

He closed the book, placed it back, and whispered into the darkness, as if to himself, as if to the boy with wings.

"I won't leave. But I won't fly either."

"I'll survive."

Not live. Not thrive. Just… survive.

For them.

Because even in his own ruin, he still loved them.

Especially the father who never understood.