At the end of 4th grade, Adiba got transferred. It hit me hard—I felt awful. But what hurt even more was the realization that now, I'd have to find a friend among the very people I had always kept my distance from.
By 5th grade, I was the class monitor. Four years in a row. Not everyone was happy about it. They hated how strict I was, how I never played favorites, never bent the rules. Maybe if I had friends, I would've let things slide sometimes. Maybe if I had someone, I wouldn't have felt like an outsider in my own classroom.
But I didn't.
So, I ruled alone. And they resented me for it.
It started in 2nd grade. That's when they first called me names—Fatty, Monster, trash , useless bitch . They laughed at me, mocked me, boys and girls alike. At first, it was just my class. But soon, it spread. Other sections joined in, like it was some sort of game. Even in the morning assembly, they found ways to torment me, whispering, giggling, making sure I never forgot what they thought of me.
I tried to ignore it. I told myself their words didn't matter. But by the time I reached 5th grade, everything got worse. I was alone now—truly alone. And they knew it.
So, they got creative.
Every morning, the moment I stepped into class, someone would grab my bag and throw it to the last bench—the farthest, the filthiest. And when they needed to clean their own dirty desks, they used my bag for it, wiping off the dust, the ink stains, whatever filth they didn't want on their hands.
I'd pick up my bag, covered in grime, and sit there, silent. Because what could I say? Who would listen?
No one.
And they knew that too.
Even after pushing me to the last bench, they still weren't satisfied. It wasn't enough.
Every single day, the torment continued. They threw crumpled paper at me, aiming for my head, my arms, my face. Trash—scraps of paper, pencil shavings, even food wrappers—would be tossed onto my seat before I could sit down. And the worst part? The boys had started enjoying it too.
They stole my notebooks, scribbled on them, ripped pages out, or tossed them to the floor like they were worthless. My water bottle was never safe either—sometimes, they'd empty it, leaving me with nothing to drink. Other times, they'd mix red chili powder in it, laughing as they watched me gag and cough. And the most disgusting? Filling it with filthy bathroom water whenever I left the classroom, whether for games or just a trip to the washroom.
Even my tiffin wasn't spared. They couldn't stand the idea of me eating in peace. So, I started eating alone, in a quiet corner, hoping to escape them. But they followed. They surrounded me, forming a mocking circle, taunting in Marathi, their words cutting deeper than I could admit.
"Bhes kitna khayegi?" (How much will this buffalo eat?)
"Dekho kaise kha rahi hai, aise koi khata hai?" (Look at how she eats, who eats like that?)
I didn't even know Marathi at first. But slowly, I began to understand. Every insult. Every joke at my expense.
Yes, I was overweight—by 6th grade, I weighed 60 kg. But I never let that bother me. It was them—their words, their cruelty—that made me feel like something less than human.
Even after everything, I never said a word at home. I'd come back, quiet as ever, pretending nothing had happened. But at night, I'd bury my face into my pillow and cry—silent, muffled sobs—so no one would hear, so no one would ask.
I tried complaining to the teachers a few times. Three, maybe four. But all they ever said was, "Ignore them. They'll stop on their own."
Ignore them? I had been ignoring them for four years. And nothing had changed. Nothing had stopped. If anything, it had only gotten worse. I told them because I couldn't breathe anymore, because I felt like I was suffocating. But none of them understood. None of them cared.
Everyone loved the games period. The excitement, the freedom. But for me? It was the worst part of the day. Because I knew exactly how it would go—I sit alone under the tree, waiting for the bell to ring. Because if they saw me outside, they'd throw stones at me, mock me, humiliate me in front of everyone. I wasn't welcome in their games. I never had been.
So, I started playing with the younger kids instead. The little ones. They didn't hurt me, didn't laugh at me. The others saw this and laughed even more. "Look at her! Playing with the babies!" But I didn't care. At least with them, I wasn't an outcast. At least with them, I wasn't nothing.
School was just a routine. Get on the bus. Get off the bus. Survive the day. Repeat.
But even the bus wasn't safe. As soon as I got on, they'd gather outside, calling me names, shouting insults, making sure I heard them. And once inside? The stares. The whispers. Some even laughed openly. And I couldn't even blame them. Maybe I was funny to look at.
So, I did the only thing I could. I turned to the window, pulled the curtain across the glass, and shut them out.
Ignored them.
Just like I'd always done.