The following week marked a new rhythm for Abhiram. The excitement of the first days slowly gave way to the reality of class schedules, lectures, and unfamiliar faces. His classroom was now assigned: a modest hall, not too spacious, with rows of wooden benches that bore the scratches and scribbles of students who had come before. The faint scent of chalk dust mixed with the humid air, and the ceiling fans whirred lazily, often too slow to battle the late-morning heat.
What struck Abhiram first was that the Biotechnology and Pharma students were combined into one class. It meant a larger batch, more names to remember, and more possibilities for friendships—or mistakes. He sat quietly on the second row on the left side, notebook open, pen ready, though his heart beat faster than the words his professors would speak.
That's when he noticed a boy with a calm face and easy smile who slid into the seat beside him. "Hi, I'm Jagan," he introduced himself casually, as though they'd already known each other. Abhiram, still hesitant, managed a polite smile. "Abhiram," he replied softly. There was no instant spark of deep friendship, but there was something comforting in Jagan's straightforwardness. It was as if life had decided to place someone beside him who didn't demand anything, who wasn't judgmental.
Soon, the bell rang, and the first official lecture began. To Abhiram's surprise, the subject was Tamil—a familiar language, something he had always felt close to. The teacher spoke about the depth of Tamil literature, its history, and its poetry. For the first time that day, Abhiram relaxed, scribbling down notes while sneaking small glances around the class to study his new peers.
But the relief didn't last long. The second lecture was Physics, and the sight of equations on the blackboard made Abhiram's chest tighten. Memories of his school years came rushing back—mock tests where he had failed, the disappointment on his father's face, the sense of not being good enough. His hand trembled slightly as he copied formulas from the board.
Then came Mathematics, another mountain he had once feared to climb. The teacher's voice echoed in the room: "Focus, understand the basics, and everything will follow." But for Abhiram, the numbers blurred, symbols danced, and he felt a shiver of doubt: "Will I repeat the same mistakes again? Will I fall behind like I did in school?"
In that moment, he closed his notebook, took a deep breath, and made a silent vow:
"No. Not this time. I will not run away. I will not let Physics and Maths define me. I will learn, I will write, I will achieve. I will not care about what others think of me anymore."
And so, from that day forward, Abhiram began to practice differently. He didn't study for marks or to impress anyone—he studied to fight the shadow of his own past. Each night, instead of scrolling endlessly on his phone or losing himself in social media like before, he wrote equations in his notebook until his hand hurt. Each morning, he revised formulas, not because a teacher expected it, but because he wanted to prove to himself that he could.
The days slowly began to settle into a pattern—new lectures, new assignments, and quiet exchanges with Jagan, who had by now become his friend in college. Still, at the back of his mind, Abhiram carried questions without answers: Would he truly escape his past? Would this new chapter be different, or was he only fooling himself?
The story was only beginning to unfold…