For the next two days, Aarav rubbed the nail-paint so hard that the skin around it became red.

The pink colour vanished completely.

The teasing did not.

At first, the boys still talked about the nail-paint. Then they began noticing other things, as if the pink nail had taught them where to look.

Aarav did not shout during games. He did not enjoy pushing and fighting. He kept his notebook neat. He sat with his knees together because that was how Riya and her friends sat during indoor games. He said "sorry" quickly. He used words the society girls used.

Earlier, these things were just Aarav.

Now, in the boys' building, they became evidence.

"Why are you here?" Nikhil asked one morning. "Girls' building is that side, Aaru."

Aarav hated the name at once.

It was close to his own name, but smaller. Softer. Something they could stretch and sing while laughing.

"Don't call me that," he said.

Nikhil smiled. "Listen to his voice. Full request voice."

The others laughed.

For the next week, they watched him as if he was a mistake in their class. If he kept his notebook neat, someone said, "See, Aaru's handwriting is like girls." If he sat quietly, someone tapped his knees with a ruler and said, "Sit properly, princess." If he said sorry, they repeated it in thin voices until he stopped saying it.

Aarav tried to change small things.

He spread his knees wider under the desk. He made his handwriting untidy for two pages. He answered loudly once when the teacher asked a question.

Nothing helped.

During games period, someone called from behind, "Careful, his nail-paint will spoil."

Aarav stopped running.

The football rolled past him.

The sports teacher shouted, "Aarav, play properly!"

Aarav nodded, but his throat had become tight.

The next week, the teasing moved into places where teachers did not look.

During the short break, Aarav went to the washroom to wash chalk dust from his hands. Nikhil and two boys followed him inside. There was nobody else there.

"What is in your pocket?" Nikhil asked.

"Nothing."

One boy pulled at Aarav's shorts pocket and took out two small rubber bands. They were stationery rubber bands Aarav had brought for holding folded brown-paper book covers and bundled labels together. He had forgotten they were there.

"Perfect," Nikhil said.

Aarav stepped back. "Give them."

"Stand still, Aaru."

Before Aarav could move away, one boy held his shoulder. Nikhil pulled two very small sections of Aarav's short hair upward at the top of his head and forced the rubber bands around them. His hair was barely long enough, so the tiny ponytails looked uneven and strained.

The rubber bands pulled at his scalp. The little bunches of hair stood up wrongly, like someone had tried to tie a doll's hair with no hair to tie.

"Now go to class," Nikhil said. "Girls' building practice."

Aarav's eyes filled at once.

"Remove it," he said.

"No. Return like this."

Then footsteps sounded in the corridor. The principal's voice came from outside, speaking to another teacher.

All three boys ran out quickly.

Aarav stood alone near the sink, crying without sound. His hands shook so much that the rubber bands hurt when he pulled them out. He wet his hair again and again, pressing it flat until water ran down his forehead.

When he returned to class, his eyes were red.

The teacher asked, "Are you unwell?"

Aarav shook his head.

He did not trust his voice.

A few days later, another thing happened.

After Hindi period, the whole class went to the library. The library stood beside the central passage connecting both sides of the campus. Girls from the other building passed its windows on their way to music class.

Someone behind Aarav whispered, "See, his group is going."

He ignored it.

The boy behind him leaned forward as if picking up a fallen pencil. Aarav felt a light pull near the back of his head, but it was so quick that he thought maybe someone had brushed past him by mistake. Two boys behind him bent over their books and pressed their lips together to stop laughing.

He did not turn around. Turning around had started too many jokes already.

Only in the washroom before dispersal did he discover the bright yellow hairclip at the back of his hair.

For a second, he did not understand what he was seeing in the mirror. Then he touched the clip and felt his face burn.

He removed it quickly and put it in the dustbin.

That day, he checked the mirror twice before going home.

The next morning, he checked again before assembly.

Soon, checking became a habit.

On another day, while returning from sports, a boy threw a small towel over Aarav's shoulder.

"Here, your dupatta," he said.

The towel smelled of dust and sweat.

Aarav dropped it on the floor and walked away. Behind him, the boys made soft clapping sounds like the society girls did during dance practice.

He hated that more than the towel.

They were taking the safe sounds of home and making them dirty.

By the fourth week, Aarav had become careful about everything.

He checked his hair before class. He checked his desk before sitting. He kept his pockets empty. He avoided the washroom unless the corridor was full. He stopped speaking unless a teacher asked him directly.

Still, they found ways.

One afternoon after lunch, Aarav returned to class and sat down without looking. Cold water soaked through the back of his shorts.

He jumped up.

His bench was wet.

Nikhil covered his mouth, pretending to be shocked.

"Little Aaru made himself wet," he said.

The boys around him burst out laughing.

Another boy called, "Send her to the girls' building. There they will take care."

Aarav stood beside the bench, frozen. The wet patch felt larger because everyone was looking. He wanted to shout that it was only water. He wanted to push Nikhil. He wanted the floor to open.

Instead, he picked up his bag and stood at the back until the teacher entered.

The teacher noticed his wet uniform and asked what had happened. Aarav said his water bottle had leaked on the bench. He kept standing until the period ended because he was too ashamed to explain the truth in front of everyone.

That evening, he did not go down to play.

Riya came to his room with two packets of chips.

"Come. Everyone is waiting."

"I have homework."

"You finished today's homework already."

"I have extra."

Riya looked at him for a moment. She was in Class 10, so she understood more than he liked.

"Did someone say something in school?"

Aarav shook his head.

Riya sat beside him. "Because of Sunday?"

"No."

His voice was too quick.

Riya did not ask again. She kept one chips packet near his book and went out quietly.

The monthly test came after that.

Usually, Aarav liked tests more than daily class. Test papers were quiet. Marks were clear. Nobody could laugh while the teacher walked between the rows.

This time, even the test felt unsafe.

At home, he opened his maths book and stared at the same examples again and again. The numbers kept slipping away. Every few minutes, he touched the back of his hair. He checked his pockets. He remembered the cold bench and the boys laughing.

Mother saw him looking out of the window.

"Aarav, concentrate," she said from the kitchen.

"I am."

He was not.

During the exam, Nikhil sat two benches behind him. Aarav could hear him turning pages. Once, someone's pencil fell, and Aarav's hand went to his hair before he could stop himself.

The first page had sums he knew. Still, his mind kept going to the washroom, the yellow hairclip, and the towel over his shoulder. He solved one answer twice and got two different results. He forgot a map label he had written correctly many times at home.

When the papers came back, Aarav's marks were much lower than usual.

The red number on top looked louder than any joke.

At dinner, Mother held the test paper in her hand.

"What is this, Aarav?"

He looked at the plate.

"I made mistakes."

"These are not small mistakes. You know this work."

"I will study harder."

"You keep saying homework is heavy, but marks are falling. If something is difficult, you must tell me. You cannot just sit quietly and spoil your studies."

He wanted to tell her.

He wanted to say that he was trying to study inside a room full of fear. He wanted to say that every page had Nikhil's voice behind it.

But Mother's face was already worried and strict. Riya was watching from the other side of the table. Aarav felt ashamed of the marks, ashamed of the bullying, and ashamed that both were connected.

"I will study harder," he said again.

Mother sighed and returned the paper.

"I am not scolding because of one test. I am scolding because something is affecting your work and you are hiding it."

That sentence hurt because it was almost true.

He was hiding something.

From everyone.

The month ended on a Friday.

By then, Aarav had learned how to hide many things. He washed his face before leaving school. He checked his hair in the washroom mirror before walking home. He kept his voice flat at home. He said homework was heavy whenever Riya asked him to come down.

Near dispersal that day, he was putting books into his bag when someone came from behind and covered his eyes.

"Guess who, Aaru?"

Aarav tried to pull the hands away.

"Leave me."

While he struggled, another boy quickly drew something on his forehead with a pen. The hands disappeared. By the time Aarav turned, the boys were already mixed into the corridor crowd.

"What did you do?" he asked.

Nikhil only smiled and ran toward the stairs.

Aarav touched his forehead, but the mark was small and dry. He did not feel it properly. The corridor mirror near the washroom was crowded, and he wanted only to leave.

So he walked home with the small pen bindi still on his forehead.

At dinner, Mother noticed he was eating without talking.

Usually, Aarav told full stories. Who forgot tiffin. Who got scolding. Which teacher said funny English. Which girl in society fought with which girl and became friends again after five minutes.

That day, he only mixed dal and rice.

Mother watched his face first.

"What is this on your forehead?"

Aarav looked up.

"What?"

Mother rubbed her thumb lightly near the centre of his forehead. A faint black smudge came onto her skin.

"Bindi?" she asked.

Riya stopped eating.

Aarav's hand went to his forehead. His face changed so quickly that Mother understood before he spoke.

"Who did it?"

"Nobody."

"Aarav."

He looked down at his plate.

Mother also saw his hand then. The skin near his small nail was red again. He had started rubbing it during class without noticing.

"What happened this month?" Mother asked.

"Nothing."

"Did you get hurt?"

"No."

Riya looked down at her plate.

Mother saw that too.

After dinner, Mother came to Aarav's room. She did not switch on the big light. She sat on the edge of his bed and spoke softly.

"Tell me properly."

Aarav stared at his school bag.

"If I tell, you will scold Riya."

"I will not scold without listening."

"It was not her fault."

"Then whose fault?"

He pressed his lips together. For a few seconds, he tried to hold it inside.

Then the whole month came out.

He told her about the nail-paint teasing. He told her about "Aaru." He told her how they copied his voice. He told her about his neat notebook, his sitting, his sorry, his stationery rubber bands, the two tiny ponytails in the washroom, and the principal's footsteps that had made the boys run.

Riya had followed Mother and was standing quietly near the door. She covered her mouth.

Aarav kept talking because if he stopped, he knew he would not start again.

He told them about the yellow hairclip, the towel on his shoulder, the water on the bench, the wet shorts, and the boys laughing that he should be sent to the girls' building.

Then he told Mother the part that hurt in a different way.

"The test also," he said. "I could not think. I kept checking my hair. I kept thinking they would do something. That is why my marks were bad."

Mother looked at the floor for a moment. Her strictness from the test-paper evening returned to her face, but now it looked like pain.

Only at the end did his voice break.

"Today they made bindi," he said. "I didn't know. I came home like that."

Mother's face changed, but her voice stayed calm.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Because it became worse whenever I said anything."

"Did you tell a teacher?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"If I say something, they say more."

Riya was standing near the door now. She had heard enough to cry.

"I am sorry," she said.

Aarav wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I told you, it is not your fault."

Mother looked at both of them.

For the first time that month, Aarav felt someone was seeing the full thing. Not only the nail. Not only the joke. The full tiredness of going to school and becoming smaller before the first bell.

Mother touched his hair once.

"Tomorrow," she said, "I am coming to your school."

Aarav's stomach tightened.

"Please don't make it big."

"I will not make drama," Mother said. "But I will not leave you alone in this."

Riya came and sat on the floor beside his bed. She did not say sorry again. She only kept her hand near his blanket.

Aarav looked at both of them.

Outside, girls from the society were still playing in the corridor. Someone laughed. Someone shouted that the lift had come. It was the same world he knew.

But now there was another world too.

And tomorrow, Mother was going to enter it.