After coming back in, I sat down with the others, blending into the sea of cushions, laughter, and half-whispered excitement that floated around the TV hall. The movie continued, and by the time "Balam Pichkari" started, the energy in the room shifted like someone had flipped a switch.
We didn't get up and turn the place into a dance floor—that would've gotten us a direct warning from the wardens—but every girl in the hall was making small moves in her chair. Shoulders bouncing, fingers drumming on the arms of plastic chairs, lips syncing to lyrics, heads nodding to the beat. Someone behind me even tapped the beat on the floor with her heels. It was like a mini festival just waiting to burst out.
I couldn't stop smiling.
There was something about the movie. Maybe it was the way it captured youth—loud, messy, unapologetic. Or maybe because it reminded me that life's really about making moments that feel alive. That you can laugh over later. That you can carry in your heart when everything else feels dull.
At that moment, I decided something.
No matter how hard the future is going to be, no matter how many exams or heartbreaks or health scares life throws at me—I'm going to make more memories this time. This life.
In my past life, I had read so many web novels. Rebirth, reincarnation, transmigration—the whole range. All those stories where the heroine wakes up in her past and fights to escape an abusive family or claw her way out of poverty. Thankfully, I didn't have that kind of tragedy. No abusive parents. No poverty. We're not rich either, but Appa can afford to give us what we want without us ever needing to beg or compare. I'd say we're a comfortable upper middle class family.
But still, in that past life of mine… I don't remember living much. Not in the sense of being truly present. There were barely any strong memories. I existed, I moved from goal to goal like a checklist. Win this. Pass that. Help him. Be there. Stay quiet. Say yes.
Now, I don't want to just check boxes.
I want to laugh loudly without checking who's watching. I want to pull pranks. Dance in the rain. Cry over dramas. Write till my hand hurts. Sing even if my voice croaks. Love myself, love people, forgive, fight, and do it all with fire in my heart.
That's what I'm going to do. Make mistakes, sure. But I'll make better ones.
After the movie ended, the warden turned off the projector and the lights came on. The room buzzed with leftover energy like a shaken soda bottle. It was a perfect Sunday vibe.
And the best part?
33
We had chaat for evening tiffin—dahi papdi chaat, to be exact. I love the tangy, crunchy, cold-spicy mix of curd, masala, crushed papdi, and that one sweet drop of tamarind chutney that always hits the back of your tongue like a memory.
We all drifted from the TV hall to the dining area, still in our post-movie haze. Some girls were humming the songs. A few others were repeating dialogues. One of them even imitated Ranbir's dramatic train scene and we all cracked up, clutching our plates.
While we stood in line waiting for the chaat, the conversation shifted.
Pavani said, "Once we finish school, I'm going to take a gap year and just travel."
"To where?" asked Sastika.
"Everywhere. I want to go to Jaipur first. Then Delhi. Then maybe Himachal. I'll take trains, local buses, even walk if I have to," she replied, her eyes glittering like she could already see the snow.
Jai Harini said, "I want to eat street food in every Indian state. I'll make a food diary and rank them all."
"Are you just using travel as an excuse to eat?" I teased.
"Of course," she grinned. "Priorities."
Mahathi added, "I want to travel alone. At least once. Just me, a backpack, a journal. Nothing planned. Just… freedom."
I stayed silent for a second, letting their words settle. Everyone had dreams. Some wild, some silly, but all real in their own way.
And I realized, this is it.
These small conversations. These exciting plans. This is what I didn't get to enjoy last time. I was always rushing. Always trying to fix something or someone. But now, I just want to sit back sometimes and soak in the moment.
The laughter. The smell of chaat. The way someone's anklet jingles when they walk past. The chatter of fifty girls dreaming big, dreaming loud.
I want to live this life like it matters.
Because this time, it does.
After the movie, the snacks, and all the travel talk, somehow the crowd slowly shifted to my cabin. I don't even remember how it happened, but by the time I finished washing my plate and walked back, there were already three girls sitting on my bed, two more leaning by the window, and someone had even opened my cupboard—just "looking," apparently.
Thank God Shivani di was off catching up with her friends in another cabin; otherwise, she would've chased everyone away before they even sat down. It's not that she's rude—she's just very particular about space. And rules. And neatness. And volume. And, basically, everything.
But today, my cabin turned into a mini adda. Everyone was still buzzing from the energy of the movie, and the dreamy feel of the chaat still lingered in the air.
"Didn't they say they'll take us to a non-veg restaurant once a month?" someone asked out of nowhere, plopping down dramatically onto my bed like she was fainting from hunger.
"Yeah, they did say that!" Pavani said, her eyes lighting up.
"But ever since we joined, no one's mentioned anything about it," someone else added, her voice slightly offended.
"We should ask them."
"Yes, remind them."
"I mean, we can't travel right now, but one dinner out—just dinner-is not asking for too much, right?"
"Totally. A little chicken biryani once a month is a basic human right!"
The energy shifted quickly from lazy lounging to active plotting. Half the girls were ready to storm the warden's room with a petition, while the other half were discussing which restaurant they might take us to if this magical non-veg outing ever happened.
"But hey," Mahathi said, "just now Freshers Day got over. We can't expect them to take us out again immediately."
"Yeah, we're not saying tonight. We just want to remind them that we remember," someone grinned.
"It's not a demand. It's a sweet reminder."
Like that, the plan was set. They'd go and have a "fun chat" with the warden. Smile, maybe drop a few compliments, laugh a bit, and slip in the topic like it was an afterthought. Classic strategy.
I didn't go with them.
Not because I didn't want to eat out—I really do miss restaurant chicken—but because I didn't want the warden to see me and suddenly get into serious mode. It's weird, but somehow whenever I'm around, adults seem to get all serious, like they can sense that I'm plotting something bigger than biryani.
So instead, I stayed back and sat at my desk.
I took out a fresh sheet of paper and started scribbling ideas. Not food plans—battle plans.
Tomorrow is the big day.
The first official meeting with the school management regarding the magazine. That means not just wardens, not just student council, but the actual staff who say yes or no to whether something new can exist.
I wrote everything I wanted to say. Why this magazine matters. How will students benefit. How it will encourage creativity and expression, and even bring positive attention to the school. I listed every feature we'd planned so far—articles, photos, creative sections, even interviews. Then I noted the objections they might raise—time, discipline, distractions—and listed calm, reasonable responses.
It felt like preparing for war.
But not the angry kind. The word kind. The kind of war where confidence and preparation mattered more than yelling.
By the time I was done, the girls were back, full of stories about how they sweet-talked the warden, and how the warden laughed and said she'd "think about it." In warden language, that means either she's genuinely thinking, or she's hoping we'll forget.
Still, the girls were satisfied.
And I was, too, because just as they returned, the bell rang for dinner.
Dinner was chapathi and kadai vegetable—the usual slightly oily, slightly spicy mix that tastes ten times better when you're hungry and tired. We sat in our usual row and quietly munched while trading updates and gossip. I didn't speak much. My mind was already on tomorrow.
After dinner, I climbed into my bunk, pulled the sheet up, and stared at the ceiling for a while.
I didn't feel nervous. I felt… awake. Like something real was about to begin.
I'm not just a student anymore.
I'm a writer.
A planner.
A founder.
And tomorrow, I'm going to defend my creation in front of adults who may or may not take a 9th grader seriously.
But I'll make them listen.
I closed my eyes, slowly letting sleep pull me in.
I dreamt I was in a courtroom—not scary, dark courtroom, but one with glowing lights and a thousand eyes watching. I stood at the center, holding my paper full of ideas like a sword. And across from me, sat the school board.
A war of words was about to begin.
And I was ready.