08:12 a.m. — Hanuman Temple Lane
The temple was too small for its own echo.
Hanuman stood in the centre, bright orange against years of smoke and oil, one hand raised, one foot forward, like he was permanently stepping into someone's fight.
Aryan stood just outside the doorway.
He didn't go all the way in. He rarely did.
He left his slippers with the pile, washed his hands at the little tap, and stood on the cool stone threshold.
Inside, an old priest muttered aarti lines from memory.
A bell rang once.
Twice.
Aryan pressed his palms together.
He didn't ask for marks.
Or victory.
Or even "success".
He just thought, very clearly:
Let me not mess this up for them.
Faces flickered in his mind, faster than he liked.
Murthy uncle's tired laugh.
Parvathi aunty's sharp eyes.
Salman's quiet "my sister's education".
Gopal's "I am not here to trouble anyone."
If I talk wrongly today, he thought, they get more trouble.
If I talk right, maybe… not.
A drip from the temple roof hit the stone near his foot.
He almost smiled.
Leaking roof everywhere.
He bowed his head, touched the step lightly.
Then he turned and walked toward Vidyashree.
The bell rang again as he left, echo following him down the lane like a stubborn thought.
---
09:45 a.m. — Vidyashree Corridor
The notice appeared before the second bell.
Someone had pinned it right in the middle of the main board, above the half-torn drawing of "Save Trees".
> DHARA DOMAIN — JUNIOR PITCH REVIEW (INTERNAL)
Class 5 Business & Management
Presenters: – Riya Sharma
– Aryan Kumar
Audience: – Class 5 (selected)
– Class 7 & 8 B&M
– Staff & DHARA Observers
Time: 01:40 p.m.
Venue: Audio-Visual Room
Someone had underlined DHARA Observers three times in red pen.
"Da, your name is literally on the board," Sagar said, half awed, half horrified. "This is illegal."
"It's just internal," Aryan muttered.
"Internal with three classes and DHARA staff," Sagar pointed out. "And seniors. And…" He squinted. "Is that… external people also?"
As if on cue, three adults walked past them toward the admin block.
Shaila, in her stiff saree.
The tall man Aryan remembered from orientation, stride easy, listening more than talking.
And beside them, a woman Aryan had never seen before.
Mid-twenties, maybe.
Plain cotton kurta, dark jeans, ID card on a lanyard. No flashy jewellery, no loud colours. Hair tied back in a low knot that looked like it had been done in a hurry but somehow stayed perfect.
She spoke to the tall man in a low, even voice — the kind that came from someone who had argued in boardrooms and didn't need to shout to win.
Her eyes swept the corridor once.
Not hunting.
Just… taking stock.
For a second — just a second — they passed over Aryan.
Not a stare.
Not a scan.
Just a note.
Like: Oh. This one.
Then she turned back to the tall man, and they disappeared around the corner.
"Who is that?" someone whispered behind them.
"DHARA manager, I think," another said. "Or consultant."
Sagar leaned closer to Aryan.
"Bro," he whispered. "Plot armour is shaking."
Aryan didn't answer.
His heart had picked up speed, but his face stayed blank.
He looked at the board again.
At his own name.
At Riya's.
At the time.
01:40 p.m.
He wrote it on the top of his rough notebook page without thinking.
> 01:40 — start.
He underlined it once.
Then went to class.
---
01:17 p.m. — AV Room, Outside
The AV Room used to be the "Projector Room".
Now it was Vidyashree's fake corporate womb.
Dark walls.
Big screen.
Two AC units that sometimes worked.
Movable chairs set in rows.
A small stage with a plain podium and a single standing mic.
The corridor outside buzzed.
Selected Class 5 students — those who'd taken B&M as first or second preference — lined up with half-curious, half-jealous expressions.
Class 7 and 8 B&M filed in with more swagger. This was their territory.
"Junior pitch, ah?" a Class 7 boy said. "Last year ours was only in classroom. Lucky fellows."
"Lucky?" his friend snorted. "They have Shaila ma'am and that tall sir inside. That's not luck. That's ICU."
Riya stood near the door, file in hand, ponytail tighter than usual.
She looked like she'd been ironed this morning — not a crease on her uniform, not a hair out of place.
On the inside, her stomach was doing something unpleasant and unnecessary.
Her pitch file was ready.
Her slides were ready.
Her logo designs were ready.
Her numbers were clean.
She knew she was good.
But she had also seen Aryan at the gate, notebook full of things that weren't in her file.
When Sagar came up, she covered all that with attitude.
"Try not to faint before your friend's turn," she said.
"I'll faint for both of you after it's over," he replied.
Aryan arrived last.
Not late.
Just… last.
File tucked under one arm, notebook under the other.
He looked like he always did — quiet, slightly tired, eyes too sharp.
Only Sagar noticed the way his fingers pressed into the cardboard of the file.
Riya noticed too.
And pretended she didn't.
"Participants inside," one teacher called.
"Others, line properly."
Riya inhaled.
Squared her shoulders.
Walked in first when they called her name.
Aryan followed.
The AV Room swallowed them both.
---
01:25 p.m. — AV Room, Inside
Lights half-dim.
AC working today — thankfully.
Front row: teachers. Nandini ma'am, Raghavan sir, two other subject teachers.
Second row: Shaila and the tall man.
Next to them, the young woman in the simple kurta sat with a slim notebook, pen resting across it, not yet writing.
Her posture was relaxed.
Her eyes were not.
Third row: Tanushri and the senior B&M students, whispering too loudly.
"This will be fun," one said. "Mini-Shark Tank."
"Don't scare them," Tanushri muttered. She wasn't looking at her classmates.
She was looking at Aryan.
He stood near the side wall, out of the way, watching Riya adjust the mic height.
Last rows: Class 5 students, legs bouncing, excitement poorly contained.
Near the door, allowed to stand only because "Aryan insisted" — Murthy uncle in his faded shirt, Salman with his ever-stained collar, and Gopal in his uniform.
Parvathi aunty hadn't come.
"Somebody must fry pani puri," she'd said. "You go and see what this boy does. Tell me later."
So they came.
They didn't sit.
They stood near the exit, half-in, half-out, as if ready to leave the moment somebody said, "No outsiders."
Nobody did.
So they stayed.
The projector hummed to life.
On the screen: DHARA's logo.
Under it, in plain font:
> INTERNAL JUNIOR PITCH REVIEW
Riya's name and Aryan's name below, side by side.
Shaila adjusted the mic on the table and spoke.
"Alright," she said. "This is not a competition between two children."
Somebody snorted at the word children.
She ignored it.
"This is a review of how you think," she continued. "We are watching not just your idea, but your process."
Her eyes passed over Riya.
Paused on Aryan.
Moved on.
The tall man beside her said nothing, fingers resting lightly on the table, expression unreadable.
The young woman next to him flipped her pen once between her fingers, then let it still.
She looked… curious.
Not impressed.
Not doubtful.
Curious.
"Riya," Shaila said. "You will go first."
Riya exhaled once.
She walked up to the stage, heels clicking.
Her file was heavy with preparation.
Her slides were neat.
Her voice did not shake.
She spoke of branding, merchandise, identity.
About how Vidyashree could turn its student pride into a sustainable product line.
She showed prototypes — hoodies, notebooks, bags.
Her numbers were clean.
Her logic was sharp.
She had clearly rehearsed.
The room listened.
Some seniors nodded at her margin of profit.
Raghavan scribbled something that looked like "good segmentation".
Even Shaila's head tilted once in acknowledgment.
Near the door, Murthy uncle looked mildly confused at the word "merchandise".
Salman whispered, "School things they will sell back to you."
Gopal just watched quietly, not sure what part was for him.
Riya ended with a confident, "Thank you."
Applause.
Real, not polite.
She stepped down, ears buzzing with it.
As she walked past the panel table, the young woman leaned slightly toward her.
"Clear," she said softly. "Sharp."
It was not official feedback.
Just three quiet words.
They still landed like a medal.
Riya's chest lifted by half an inch.
Then she sat down.
And felt something else creep in.
Now let's see him.
She hated that thought.
She couldn't stop it.
Shaila's voice cut through.
"Next," she said. "Aryan Kumar. Gate proposal."
The room shifted.
Class 5 kids straightened.
Senior students leaned forward.
Sagar's hand clenched the edge of his chair.
Tanushri's leg stopped bouncing.
Near the door, Murthy uncle and Salman exchanged a quick look.
Aryan stood.
His file felt heavier than usual.
His notebook felt like a second spine.
He walked to the stage.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just… exact.
Each step carefully placed, as if he didn't trust the floor fully.
He reached the podium.
The mic was too high.
He adjusted it one notch down.
The light hit his face.
The room blurred for a fraction of a second — teachers, students, vendors, DHARA.
Noise from his memories tried to crawl up.
"You're just a kid."
"Our life is not your assignment."
"Don't play with lives unless you can promise stability."
"Help exists. I'm the one who doesn't take it."
He exhaled once.
Slow.
Somewhere in the front row, Tanushri's fingers curled on her notebook, resisting the urge to shout, Breathe, kanna.
In the back, Sagar's voice, memory-version, muttered, If you faint, I'll tell them you were acting dramatic.
On the side, the young woman in the kurta tilted her head, studying him with narrowed eyes — not harsh, not gentle.
Just measuring.
The tall man's gaze sharpened.
Shaila's expression stayed unreadable.
In the doorway, Gopal shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
Murthy uncle's hand tightened on the plastic bag he was carrying.
Salman's jaw worked once, slowly.
The hall held its breath the way a crowd does before the first ball of a match.
Aryan placed both hands on the podium.
He did not look at his notes.
He did not look at the slides.
He looked straight at the room.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet.
But it carried.
"Before I talk about my idea," Aryan said, "I want to ask you all one question…"
He paused.
Every head turned a little more.
One second stretched.
Two.
The projector hummed.
A chair creaked in the back.
Outside, somewhere far, an auto honked.
"…When you think of our school gate," Aryan asked, eyes steady, "whose life do you see first—ours, or theirs?"
The last word landed like a dropped coin in a silent hall.
Theirs.
Tanushri sucked in a small breath.
Sagar's eyes widened.
Riya's fingers stopped tapping against her file.
In the doorway, Murthy uncle blinked, not expecting to be inside the question at all.
Gopal's throat worked.
Salman's grip on the doorframe tightened.
At the panel table, the tall man smiled — a quick, sharp, gone-in-a-second thing.
Shaila's pen, which had been resting idle, tapped once against the paper.
The young woman's eyebrows rose just a little.
"Oh," she murmured, almost to herself.
Then:
"Interesting."
The room stayed suspended there—
between the ours everyone was used to seeing,
and the theirs nobody had been forced to look at—
with a boy in Class 5 standing at the centre,
about to explain why the first picture in their heads
would decide everything that came next.