The final bell echoed through the corridor, crisp and clear. Pens dropped, chairs scraped, and the hum of relieved voices filled the exam hall.
Bani closed her notebook with a soft thud. Her last paper — done.
Outside, the afternoon sun burned through the white sky, the air heavy with heat and dust. She stepped out slowly, her bag slung over one shoulder, the answer sheets still fresh in her mind. But there was no anxiety, no lingering question of "how did I do?" — she already knew. The silent dimension had given her more than memory. It had given her calm.
A few classmates waved, calling her name.
"Bani! Lunch at the canteen? We're celebrating!"
She smiled, shaking her head. "Next time. I promised Amma I'd be home early."
They groaned in mock protest, but she only laughed. Her steps carried her down the familiar college path — the gulmohar trees shedding orange petals like a quiet celebration.
At the gate, a cool breeze lifted her hair, carrying the scent of roasted peanuts and rain-soaked soil. She inhaled deeply, as if trying to capture Bangalore itself inside her lungs — this city that had raised her, grounded her, and still felt like a piece of her heartbeat.
---
When she reached home, her mother was waiting at the door, hands dusted with flour.
"It's over?"
Bani nodded. "Finally."
Her mother's smile was instant and wide. "Good girl. Come, wash up. Lunch is ready."
Inside, the house hummed with a comforting rhythm. A fan creaked gently overhead. The television murmured in the living room. Her brother, manu, was sprawled on the floor with a notebook open, pretending to study but clearly more interested in the film which was running.
"Akka passed her exams with flying colours!" her mother declared, half teasing.
Manu looked up, grinning. "We'll see when results come. But okay, congrats in advance."
Bani flicked a crumb of rice at him. "You'll eat those words when I top."
"I'll eat holige instead," he said, ducking as she aimed a cushion his way.
Their laughter filled the room, warm and familiar. Her father joined them soon after, carrying a bunch of fresh bananas and a small packet of filter coffee from his store.
"Celebration coffee," he said, handing it to her. "Your mother said you're leaving soon, so at least drink the good one before you go."
Bani smiled, her throat tightening. "Appa, I'll miss your coffee more than Mumbai's sea breeze."
He chuckled softly. "That's why I packed some for you. And Amma's masala powder too — enough to survive your shooting schedules."
---
That night, she sat in her old room with the windows open. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and damp earth. Outside, rain whispered against the roof, steady and rhythmic.
Her phone buzzed.
Hope your exams went well, please be back soon. It was from crew.
The rain softened, turning into a lullaby. As she drifted off to sleep, she thought of the silent space — pages fluttering, light streaming — and how it had changed her. Not by giving answers, but by teaching her that knowledge and magic could live in the same soul.