The Grade 10th started, chilling winters were going the past was going in back, warm spring was coming up Mid March Started the New Session of the new 10th Grade everything was normal.
The first unit test of tenth grade arrived in July.
Three subjects. Mathematics. Science. English. Each paper worth fifty marks. Each paper a small measurement of what you were and what you might become.
Digvijay sat in the examination hall — third row, second bench, the seat assigned to him by roll number. Around him, the familiar sounds of examination. The scratch of pens. The rustle of turning pages. The occasional cough that might be nervousness or might be signal.
He had studied differently this time.
Not just reading. Not just memorizing. But understanding — pulling each concept apart like disassembling a machine, seeing how the gears connected, how motion in one part created motion in another.
Mathematics first. The paper was difficult — designed to be difficult, to separate the serious students from the pretenders. Quadratic equations. Trigonometry. Coordinate geometry. Each problem a small puzzle.
He solved them. One by one. Not rushing. Not panicking. Just... solving.
When he walked out of the hall, Devansh was waiting.
"How was it?" The usual smile. The usual warmth that didn't quite reach the eyes.
"Okay," Digvijay said. "Manageable."
"Just okay?" Yug, appearing beside Devansh. "You looked pretty confident in there."
"Did I?"
"You finished early. Sat there checking your paper like you had nothing to worry about."
Digvijay shrugged. "Maybe the paper was easy for me."
Something passed between Devansh and Yug. A glance. Quick. Loaded.
"Maybe," Yug said softly. "We'll see."
The results came two weeks later.
Mrs. Verma, the mathematics teacher, read them aloud. This was tradition — a public accounting of success and failure, a ritual that some students loved and others dreaded.
Names in ascending order of marks.
Digvijay waited. Listened. His name didn't come in the thirties. Didn't come in the forties. Didn't come in the fifties, sixties, seventies, eighties.
"And the highest in the class." Mrs. Verma paused. Adjusted her glasses. "Digvijay Pratap Raj. Ninety-one percent."
Silence.
Not the respectful silence that followed a topper's announcement. A different silence. The silence of something that didn't fit the expected pattern.
He felt the eyes. Devansh's eyes. Yug's eyes. The eyes of the entire class, recalculating, reassessing, updating their mental file on the forty-eight-percent boy who had somehow scored ninety-one.
"Congratulations, Digvijay." Mrs. Verma's voice carried genuine surprise. "Excellent improvement."
"Thank you, ma'am."
He walked back to his seat. Passed Devansh's desk. Saw the smile still fixed in place, but the muscles around it had tightened.
Passed Yug's desk. Saw no smile at all. Just those quiet eyes, watching. Calculating.
Something has changed, Digvijay thought. Something in the way they're looking at me.
He didn't understand yet what he had done. Didn't understand that ninety-one percent was not just a number — it was a threat. It was proof that the forty-eight-percent boy was not who they had decided he was. It was evidence that their assessment had been wrong.
And people like Devansh and Yug did not like being wrong
---
It started three weeks later.
A library book. Advanced Mathematics for Secondary Students. A reference text that several students had borrowed throughout the year for additional practice.
The librarian, Mr. Saxena, stopped Digvijay in the corridor during lunch break.
"You need to return the book."
Digvijay looked at him. "Which book, sir?"
"Don't play games with me." Mr. Saxena's voice was sharp. "The Advanced Mathematics reference. It's been three weeks overdue. You signed it out on the fifteenth."
"Sir, I didn't—"
"Your name is in the register. Digvijay Pratap Raj. Your signature."
"Sir, I never borrowed that book. I have my own reference materials. I didn't need—"
"Are you calling me a liar? Are you saying the register is false?"
Other students were gathering now. Watching. The familiar formation of an audience assembling for someone else's humiliation.
"Sir, please check again. Someone might have—"
"Someone might have what? Forged your signature? Written your name by mistake?" Mr. Saxena's voice rose. "I've been a librarian for twenty-two years. I know when a student is lying to avoid a fine."
Digvijay saw them then. At the edge of the crowd. Krish — standing slightly apart, face carefully blank. And behind him, barely visible, Yug. Watching. Always watching.
"Sir, I will pay the fine. But I want it noted that I did not borrow this book."
"You can note whatever you want. The fine is fifty rupees. And if the book is not returned by Friday, it becomes two hundred, and a letter goes to your parents."
The book appeared three days later.
Not in Digvijay's bag. Not delivered to his hands. It simply... appeared. On a shelf in the library, slightly out of place, as if someone had slipped it there when no one was watching.
Mr. Saxena found it during his evening inventory. The matter was quietly dropped. No apology was offered. No correction made to the record that now showed Digvijay Pratap Raj as a student who had borrowed a book, failed to return it on time, and only complied after being publicly confronted.
A small stain. A minor notation. Nothing that would affect grades or official records.
But Digvijay noticed something.
Yug also had a similar surname. Raj. And during the initial confrontation, Mr. Saxena had mentioned something about "the Raj boy" — not specifying which one.
Had Yug been questioned too? Had the scheme been designed to provide him cover — create confusion about which Raj boy might have taken the book?
And Krish. The way he had stood at the edge of the crowd. Face blank. Not defending. Not accusing. Just... present.
Digvijay filed these observations away. Added them to the growing collection of things he noticed but didn't yet understand.
---
A pen. Missing from his bag during lunch break. He thought he had lost it — pens went missing all the time, nothing unusual.
Then his notebook. Mathematics. The one with all his solved problems, his notes from class,his preparations for the upcoming tests. Gone.
He searched everywhere. Bag. Desk. The spaces between desks. The lost-and-found box near the staff room. Nothing.
"Lost your notebook?" Yug, appearing beside him. Voice soft. Sympathetic. "That's terrible, yaar. All those notes. All that work."
"Did you see anyone near my bag?"
"Me? No. I was in the canteen." Yug paused. "Why? Do you think someone took it?"
"I don't know."
"That would be pretty low. Stealing someone's notebook before exams." Yug shook his head. "People can be terrible."
Then the textbook. Mathematics. The official NCERT textbook that was essential for board preparation.
This one Digvijay noticed immediately. He had used it during the previous period. Had placed it in his bag. Had gone to the bathroom for five minutes.
When he returned, the bag was slightly unzipped. The textbook was gone.
He looked around the classroom. Most students were present. Devansh at his desk, reading something. Mihir near the window. Hitesh laughing with some other boys.
And Yug. At his own desk. Not looking at Digvijay. Not looking at anything in particular. Just sitting there with that slight, unreadable expression.
Digvijay walked to his bag. Checked again. Definitely gone.
He approached Yug.
"Have you seen my math textbook?"
"Your textbook?" Yug looked up. Confusion on his face — performed confusion, Digvijay now recognized. "No. Why would I have seen your textbook?"
"I'm not asking if you have it. I'm asking if you saw anyone take it."
"Take it?" Yug's eyebrows rose. "Someone's stealing from you? That's serious, yaar. You should tell the teacher."
"I'm asking you."
Something flickered in Yug's eyes. Just for a moment. A recognition that the game was being seen, that the mask was slipping.
"I didn't see anything, Digvijay. Sorry."
Days passed. A week. Two weeks.
No textbook. No notebook. Mathematics half-yearly exams approaching, and Digvijay had nothing to study from.
He asked around. Tried to borrow. But somehow, no one had a spare textbook. Somehow, everyone's notebooks were "in use" or "at home" or "promised to someone else."
He noticed something else.
Desperation made him do something he would later regret.
Devansh had a reference textbook. A special edition with additional solved examples and practice problems. It sat on his desk openly, casually, almost taunting.
Digvijay took it.
Not permanently — he told himself this. Just until he could prepare for the exams. Just until he could catch up on what he had lost. He would return it. He would explain.
He slipped it into his bag during lunch break, when the classroom was empty. Walked out normally. Told himself it was temporary. Necessary. Not really stealing — borrowing without asking, which was different.
He told himself many things.
The complaint came two days later.
Devansh. In the staff room. Voice loud enough to carry into the corridor where students gathered between periods.
"Sir, my reference textbook is missing. I know who took it."
Mr. Sharma, the class teacher, looked up. "Who?"
"Digvijay. He was jealous of my marks. He wanted to sabotage my preparation."
"That's a serious accusation."
"Sir, ask anyone. He was the only one in the classroom during lunch on Thursday. He had the opportunity." Devansh's voice cracked slightly — a perfect performance of distress. "Sir, my father bought that book specially for me. It cost eight hundred rupees. And my exams are next week."
Yug appeared beside him. "Sir, I saw Digvijay near Devansh's desk that day. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but now..."
"Sir, this is not fair." Hitesh, adding his voice. "Digvijay is always looking at our books, our notes. He's struggling in studies, everyone knows."
Struggling? Digvijay thought. I scored ninety-one percent in the unit test.
But no one mentioned that. No one would mention it.
The narrative was being written, and he had no pen.
Mr. Sharma called him to the staff room.
"Digvijay, do you have Devansh's textbook?"
"Sir—"
"Yes or no."
A pause. The weight of eyes on him. Other teachers watching. Students gathered at the door, listening.
"Sir, my own books were stolen first. I—"
"That's not what I asked. Do you have his textbook?"
Silence.
"I see." Mr. Sharma's voice hardened. "Return it by tomorrow. And we will discuss this further."
"Sir, if I could explain—"
"Tomorrow, Digvijay. Return the book. Explanation can come after."
He searched for his own books one more time. Desperate now. The classroom, the corridors, the library, the lost-and-found.
Nothing.
Until Yug found him near the classroom cupboard.
"Looking for something?"
Digvijay didn't answer.
"Maybe try the cupboard. Top shelf. Behind the old charts."
Digvijay looked at him. Yug's face was blank. Almost helpful.
"Why would my books be there?"
"I don't know. Just a suggestion." Yug smiled. "Sometimes things end up in strange places."
Digvijay checked. Nothing.
Of course nothing. He's playing with me.
But two months later — two months after he had made new notebooks, borrowed textbooks from other sources, struggled through the half-yearly exams without proper materials — his original notebook appeared.
In the cupboard. Top shelf. Behind the old charts.
Exactly where Yug had suggested.
Old chapters inside. From before they were stolen. Useless now for current preparation, but present. A ghost of what he had lost.
To be continued...