Chapter 5: The Weight of Words
853 Words
"Full marks?!"
The classroom buzzed. Priya Kapoor—who usually copied her English homework—had just aced the vocabulary test flawlessly.
Her deskmate, Neha, turned pale. Just this morning, Priya had asked which unit they were on—pretending not to know! Now, she’d even corrected Neha’s misspelled "entrepreneur."
Mr. Sharma beamed. "Excellent work, Priya! This is the attitude I expect!" His smile vanished as he glared at Rahul Mehta’s paper—14 errors out of 23.
"Even a donkey would score better! All of you—except Priya—rewrite the wrong words 100 times!"
Neha’s face darkened. Back at their desk, she hissed, "You memorized them, didn’t you?"
Priya turned a textbook page leisurely.
"What? Couldn’t hear you over the wind," she said, voice flat.
Neha’s jaw clenched. Who did she think she was?
The Gossip Machine
By break time, Neha had rallied her friends.
"She pretended not to know! So manipulative!"
"After everything Ishita’s done for her!" another girl chimed in. "And she still dares to like Arjun? Disgusting!"
A quiet boy nearby frowned. Half these girls sigh over Arjun too. Hypocrites. He made a mental note to swap seats.
Meanwhile, Priya walked past them—head high—to the washroom. On her return, she spotted Vedant Rathore wheeling into class.
His uniform was freshly washed, bandages peeking from his sleeves. Head bowed, he moved like a shadow.
The Boy Who Knew Too Much
Priya recalled her research:
Asperger’s wasn’t rejection—it was misunderstood longing.
Crowds overwhelmed Vedant. Each person added exponential variables to his mental calculations—2 people = 1 interaction, 3 people = 3, 4 = 6… By now, his brain was a live wire.
"Good morning," she said, stopping 1.5 meters away.
Vedant’s head snapped up. Amber eyes locked onto hers—blank as a wiped slate.
He recognized greetings. Years of study had taught him:
Smile = slight lip curve (maybe teeth)
Laugh = audible, sometimes with tears
But intent? That was a cipher.
The Wounds Beneath
At seven, a "friendly" boy had pushed him onto concrete. Blood pooled as his mother screamed.
At ten, classmates "apologized" with a soda can—a hornet inside.
Each betrayal etched deeper:
Kindness = prelude to pain.
So when Priya smiled, Vedant’s fingers whitened on his wheelchair.
Then he looked away—a machine powering down.
No one stays. No one’s real.
He was the "mad boy," the "broken thing."
And broken things get left behind.
Standing Strong
Neha, Priya’s deskmate, had moved her desk away as if Priya had a sickness that could spread. She kept glancing at Priya, waiting for her to break down from being ignored.
But Priya just turned a page in her textbook, calm and unbothered.
How is she so strong? Neha thought angrily.
The whole class was whispering, making bets on how long Priya could keep acting like nothing was wrong. Even Arjun Malhotra—who usually stayed out of drama—found her change surprising.
Good, he thought. Now that she’s not following Ishita around, things feel easier.
But no one knew the truth:
Priya was struggling with the school’s morning yoga exercises.
As the class moved through their sun salutations, Priya tried to copy them but looked clumsy. The P.E. teacher frowned. “Ms. Kapoor, are you making fun of this?”
Some kids giggled.
Priya’s face turned red, but she stood tall. I’ll learn this from YouTube later.
The Empty Kitchen
That evening, Priya returned home—a small but nice apartment in Andheri East.
Her grandmother (Dadi) was watching TV and didn’t even look at her. By 7 PM, Priya’s stomach growled. The kitchen had only a bowl of old rice.
“Aren’t we cooking tonight?” Priya asked.
Dadi didn’t look up. “Your hands broken? Cook for yourself.”
The Kapoors weren’t poor. Their tiffin service near the school made good money—enough for her brother Jayant’s expensive shoes, but never enough for Priya’s needs.
She checked the fridge: eggs, vegetables, and—hidden behind some rotis—a packet of frozen chicken.
Perfect.
Soon, the smell of spicy minced meat and potato curry filled the house.
Dadi rushed in, furious. “That chicken was for Jayu! Who said you could—”
Priya blocked her. “The doctor said he needs to eat less. No late-night snacks.”
“You—!” Dadi tried to grab the plate.
But Priya was quick. She took a slow, big bite of the soft chicken. “Mmm… so good.”
Dadi’s mouth watered angrily.
The Fight Continues
As Priya ate, Dadi complained about “useless girls” and bragged about Priya’s cousin Lata—married at 19 to a much older, rich man.
“Lata got top marks! Now she has a fancy car,” Dadi said proudly.
Priya ignored her. A forced marriage isn’t my dream.
Dadi’s yelling grew louder when she realized her old tricks—guilt, threats, pinches—didn’t work anymore.
This new Priya wouldn’t back down.
And that scared her.
- Writer
