Chapter 1 – The Girl Who Sat Near the Back Door

 

            The bell rang with a sound that did not echo…it scattered.

            It slipped through the school corridors of Patiala like a startled bird, bouncing off whitewashed walls, brushing past notice boards layered with fading announcements, and dissolving into the open courtyard where dust lifted gently under hurried shoes. Morning assembly had ended. The school had returned to its natural state: noise pretending to be order.

            Kamal walked slower than the others, as he always did.

            Not because he was lazy, but because he liked to observe how the world arranged itself when no one was watching closely. He liked how the corridor smelled faintly of chalk and disinfectant, how the iron railings felt cold even in summer, how footsteps sounded different depending on who was walking…some confident, some uncertain, some desperate to disappear into the crowd.

            He adjusted the strap of his schoolbag and turned toward the senior block.

            That was when he saw her again.

            She was already inside the classroom.

            She always was.

            The last bench near the back door was not the best place to sit. Everyone knew that. It was where teachers rarely looked unless something went wrong. It was where the breeze came in without permission, lifting pages, disturbing concentration. It was where students sat when they wanted to be unseen.

            And yet, she chose it every single day.

            She was younger than Kamal by at least two years, perhaps three. He never bothered to confirm. Her name had not yet arrived in his world in any meaningful way, and age felt like an unnecessary detail.

            She sat sideways, one leg tucked under the bench, her notebook open but clearly ignored. Sunlight fell on her hair in uneven patches, making it difficult to tell where the light ended and she began.

            As Kamal passed by the open door, she noticed him.

            Their eyes met.

            For half a second, neither of them reacted.

            Then she did something absurd.

            She stuck her tongue out.

            Not in mockery. Not in challenge. It was quick, childish, almost accidental…as if her face had acted before her mind could intervene.

            Kamal stopped walking.

            He did not know why.

            The corridor behind him surged with students pushing forward, complaining loudly.

            “Move, yaar.”

            “Why are you standing like that?”

            Someone bumped into him.

            But Kamal did not move.

            Inside the classroom, the girl froze, her tongue still halfway out, her eyes wide with the realization of what she had done.

            They stared at each other.

            Then, without warning, she smiled.

            It was not a practiced smile. It was uneven, slightly embarrassed, and carried the unmistakable guilt of someone caught being foolish.

            Kamal felt something shift.

            Not a dramatic shift. Nothing that could be described or explained. Just a quiet rearranging, like furniture moved in a room he had lived in all his life.

            He smiled back.

            Not because he wanted to.

            Because it happened.

            The girl quickly turned away, pretending to focus on her notebook as if nothing unusual had occurred.

            Kamal resumed walking.

            But something had already stayed behind.

***

            From that day onward, it became a ritual.

            Not one spoken about. Not one agreed upon. It existed entirely in glances and timing.

            Every morning, Kamal would pass the classroom at exactly the same moment. Every morning, the girl would be sitting at the last bench near the back door. Every morning, she would look up just as he crossed the doorway.

            And then…

            A tongue stuck out.

            A blink held a second too long.

            A smile exchanged and immediately taken back.

            It was laughter without sound. Communication without language. A secret so small it could not be explained even if discovered.

            Kamal never told anyone.

            Not his friends, who discussed sports and homework with exaggerated seriousness. Not his best friend, who believed that liking someone meant planning a future. Not even himself, fully.

            Because this did not feel like liking.

            It felt like noticing.

***

            The school corridors of Patiala were old. They had been built to last, not to impress. The paint peeled in places, revealing earlier layers underneath…soft blues, tired creams, forgotten greens. Windows were tall, iron-barred, and always slightly dusty.

            During recess, the corridors became rivers of sound. During class hours, they were quieter, filled with the distant murmur of teachers and the occasional echo of a reprimand.

            Kamal liked the corridors best during the moments in between.

            The moments when bells had rung but students had not yet settled.

            The moments when rules relaxed just enough for real life to peek through.

            That was when he noticed her most clearly.

            She walked differently from the others.

            Not slower. Not faster.

            Just differently.

            Her steps were light, almost careless, as if she did not fully believe the ground required effort. She sometimes hopped over cracks in the floor, sometimes traced patterns with the tip of her shoe. She hummed softly when she thought no one could hear.

            Once, Kamal saw her spinning in place near the stairwell, her arms stretched out, her skirt flaring slightly, before a teacher’s voice snapped her back into stillness.

            She did not seem embarrassed when caught.

            She simply stopped.

            As if play and seriousness were two switches she could turn on and off at will.

***

            One afternoon, rain surprised the city.

            It arrived suddenly, hammering the school roof with enthusiasm, turning the courtyard into a mirror that reflected grey skies and hurried figures. Students rushed to windows, pressing their faces against the bars, delighted by the interruption.

            Kamal stood near the back of the corridor, watching the rain draw lines on the glass.

            “She’s going to get wet,” someone said behind him.

            Kamal turned.

            The girl was standing near the open door of her classroom, looking out at the rain with fascination. She extended her hand just beyond the threshold, letting drops land on her palm.

            A teacher scolded her from inside.

            She withdrew her hand reluctantly.

            Then she looked up and saw Kamal.

            Without hesitation, she stuck her tongue out again.

            This time, Kamal laughed out loud.

            The sound surprised him as much as it did her.

            Her eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners as she laughed too, covering her mouth quickly, aware of where she was.

            The rain continued to fall.

            Something about that moment settled into Kamal’s memory with unusual clarity. The sound of rain. The echo of laughter. The knowledge that something simple had just happened…and that it mattered more than it should.

***

            The idea of playing hide and seek came from nowhere.

            It always did.

            Evening classes had ended early that day. The sun was already lowering itself behind the boundary wall, stretching long shadows across the school building. Teachers had left in a hurry, their voices fading with the sound of scooter engines. The school, usually strict and echoing, softened into something else…quiet, playful, almost secretive.

            A group of students gathered near the stairwell, bags dropped carelessly on the floor.

            “Let’s play,” someone said.

            “Here?” another voice asked, thrilled and nervous at the same time.

            “Yes. Before the guard comes.”

            Rules were decided quickly. One seeker. Everyone else hiding. The entire school building allowed…classrooms, corridors, staircases, behind desks, under stair landings. No going outside the gate.

            Kamal did not usually join such games.

            But that evening, he stayed.

            Perhaps because the light felt gentle. Perhaps because laughter sounded different when it wasn’t forced by timetable. Perhaps because she was there.

            Her eyes lit up immediately when the game was announced.

            “I’ll hide where nobody can find me,” she declared confidently, already backing away.

            Kamal smiled to himself.

            The counting began.

            “One… two… three…”

            Students scattered like startled birds, footsteps thudding against concrete, whispers echoing and dissolving.

            Kamal walked quickly but without panic. He knew the school well. Too well.

            He slipped into a classroom on the second floor…one usually locked, but today carelessly left open. He closed the door softly and moved toward the back, crouching between two desks near the window, where shadows gathered thickly.

            He held his breath.

            Footsteps passed.

            Laughter burst somewhere below.

            Then…A familiar sound.

            Soft, hurried steps.

            The door creaked open.

            Kamal’s heart jumped.

            For a moment, he feared the seeker had found him.

            But then he saw her.

            She slipped inside and closed the door gently, her back pressed against it. Her eyes searched the room quickly…and found him.

            Her face broke into a grin.

            Without a word, she tiptoed over and crouched beside him, so close their shoulders touched.

            Kamal froze.

            Not because he was afraid of being found.

            Because of the closeness.

            She smelled faintly of soap and dust. Her hair brushed his arm. He could feel her breathing…quick, excited, uneven.

            She leaned in slightly and whispered, barely louder than the rustle of pages, “I knew you’d hide somewhere quiet.”

            He swallowed.

            “How?” he whispered back.

            She shrugged, eyes sparkling.

            “You always do.”

            A shout echoed from the corridor below. Someone had been caught.

            She covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing, her fingers brushing Kamal’s hand by accident. The touch was brief.

            But it stayed.

            They waited.

            Seconds stretched strangely, elastic and unreal. The school building seemed to hold its breath with them. Dust floated in the slanted evening light. Somewhere, a pigeon fluttered against a window.

            She shifted slightly closer, knees touching his.

            Kamal felt a warmth spread through his chest…confusing, gentle, unfamiliar. It wasn’t excitement the way running fast created excitement. It wasn’t happiness like winning a game.

            It was something quieter.

            Something that made him aware of himself.

            The door handle rattled.

            They both stiffened.

            Footsteps approached, paused, then moved away.

            She exhaled slowly, relief written all over her face. Then she looked at Kamal, eyes wide with triumph, and silently stuck her tongue out.

            Kamal almost laughed.

            Almost.

            Instead, he smiled…softly, instinctively, without thinking.

            That was when he realized something strange.

            She had chosen this place.

            Not because it was the best hiding spot.

            But because he was here.

            The thought startled him.

            When the game ended, they were found last.

            The seeker opened the door dramatically and groaned.

            “You two! I checked everywhere!”

            She jumped up immediately, brushing dust off her uniform.

            “We won,” she said proudly.

            Kamal stood a second later.

            They walked out together, not touching now, but carrying the closeness between them like a secret neither knew how to name.

            As they descended the stairs, she skipped a step, then another.

            “You always hide in quiet places,” she said casually.

            “And you always find me,” Kamal replied.

            She smiled at that.

            The evening bell rang.

            The spell broke.

            They went their separate ways.

            But something stayed behind in the empty classroom…something neither of them noticed, yet both would carry forward.

***

            Days passed.

            Then weeks.

            Exams came and went. Notices changed. Seasons shifted subtly.

            The ritual remained.

            Sometimes it varied.

            Sometimes she would tilt her head instead of sticking her tongue out.

            Sometimes Kamal would raise an eyebrow dramatically.

            Once, she pretended not to notice him at all—only to glance back at the last second and grin triumphantly when she caught his reaction.

            It was playful.

            It was harmless.

            It was unnamed.

            And because it was unnamed, it felt infinite.

***

            One morning, Kamal arrived late.

            The bell had already rung, and the corridors were unusually quiet. His footsteps sounded louder than usual as he hurried past classrooms, hoping not to be noticed by teachers.

            As he approached the familiar door, he slowed down.

            The last bench was empty.

            His chest tightened unexpectedly.

            He stood there longer than necessary, scanning the room discreetly.

            She was not there.

            The back door creaked slightly in the breeze.

            Kamal felt foolish for feeling disappointed. Absurd, even. It was just a seat. Just a girl. Just a silly habit.

            And yet.

            He moved on, the corridor feeling longer than usual.

            That day, he found it difficult to concentrate. Lessons blurred together. Words lost meaning. He caught himself glancing at the clock more often than usual.

            During recess, he passed by again.

            Still empty.

            A strange restlessness followed him for the rest of the day.

            When the final bell rang, Kamal walked home slower than ever.

***

            The next day, she was back.

            Sitting at the last bench.

            Near the back door.

            As if she had never left.

            When she saw him, she did not stick her tongue out.

            Instead, she raised both eyebrows in exaggerated surprise, as if to say, Did you miss me?

            Kamal did not smile immediately.

            He simply looked at her.

            Something warm spread through him…not relief exactly, but recognition. The kind that comes when a familiar object is returned to its place.

            She waited.

            Then, when his lips finally curved upward, she stuck her tongue out with extra enthusiasm.

            Balance restored.

            Kamal began to wonder about her.

            Not in the way adults wonder about each other.

            He wondered small things.

            What made her choose that seat?

            Why did she always carry the same blue pen?

            Did she realize how easily she filled empty spaces with joy?

            Once, he overheard a teacher call her name during attendance.

            It landed softly in his mind, like a pebble dropped into water.

            He repeated it silently.

            It did not change anything.

            But it made the noticing sharper.

***

            One incident changed the rhythm.

            It happened during a routine inspection.

            Teachers were unusually strict that day. Uniforms were checked. Nails were inspected. Shoes were examined with unnecessary seriousness.

            Kamal stood in line near the corridor, waiting his turn.

            He saw her at the far end, being scolded.

            “Why are you always sitting near the door?” the teacher demanded. “Is this a playground?”

            The girl shrugged, her face carefully neutral.

            “Answer properly,” the teacher snapped.

            “I like the air,” she said quietly.

            The teacher dismissed her with a warning.

            As she walked away, her shoulders were stiff.

            When she passed Kamal, she did not look at him.

            For the first time since their ritual began, she did not acknowledge his presence.

            That absence hurt more than he expected.

            Later, as he passed the classroom, she was at her bench…but facing the other way.

            Kamal hesitated.

            Then, impulsively, he tapped the doorframe lightly.

            She turned.

            Their eyes met.

            Slowly, cautiously, she stuck her tongue out.

            Not playfully.

            Asking.

            Kamal smiled.

            Not brightly.

            Assuring.

            Something in her expression softened.

            The ritual resumed, altered but intact.

            That evening, Kamal realized something important. This was not about fun. It was about being seen. Not fully. Not deeply. Just enough to feel real. The thought startled him. He pushed it aside.

            There would be time later for meanings.

            For now, there was only the road.

            And they were only smiling on it.

***

            The school year stretched on, indifferent to small human discoveries. Exams returned. Seasons shifted again. Notices layered over old ones.

            The corridors remained.

            The last bench remained.

            The girl remained.

            So did Kamal.

            Neither of them knew that this noticing…this small, playful recognition…was quietly becoming a beginning.

            They did not know it would leave marks.

            They did not know it would return years later, uninvited, with questions.

            They only knew this: There was a girl who sat near the back door.

            And there was a boy who noticed.  And for now, that was enough.