I never thought life could feel so small.
Some days, I felt like I was a shadow moving through the corridors of the school, invisible yet expected to be everything to everyone.
My name is Ritika, and I’m twenty-two, an orphan, and a teacher at the little school tucked on the edge of the city.
Orphanhood had taught me one thing: survival doesn’t come with comfort.
The first day I walked into this classroom, I had hope.
Hope that teaching could be my escape, my purpose. But hope is fragile.
And here, it seems, it’s something that snaps under the weight of others’ cruelty.
"Miss Ritika, can you stay after class? The principal wants a word,” said Mr. Kapoor, my senior colleague, his voice coated with that fake sweetness that always made my stomach churn.
I nodded, heart sinking, and waited.
When I reached principal office, she was in phone but she gestured me to come.
I waited patiently.
"I need you to prepare the annual student performance report, organize the inter-class debate, and… oh, make sure the notice board is updated before tomorrow morning.” she said, using that tone that made you feel like you’d failed humanity in general.
I blinked at her. “Maam… all of that?”
“Yes. And make sure it’s done properly,” she added, tapping her pen against the desk.
I swallowed. I could feel my brain turning into mush, and my saree felt heavier all of a sudden, like it was conspiring against me too.
“Yes, Maam,” I said softly, trying not to crumble.
Mentally, I was already scheduling all twenty-four hours of my day.
As I walked back to my classroom, the whispers from colleagues hit me like a second slap.
“She looks exhausted… maybe she’ll fail at it,” said Mrs. Sharma with a smirk.
But I couldn’t stop smiling at my students, who ran up to me, chattering about their day.
How unfair that my heart wanted to melt for them while my brain screamed in panic at the thought of all the extra work waiting for me.
Back in my classroom, I sat at my tiny desk, staring at the mountain of papers the principal had assigned me. The inter-class debate? Already stressing me out. The notice board? My brain was waving a white flag just thinking about glue, charts, and neatly written headings. And the performance report… well, I could barely remember where I kept last year’s files.I took a deep breath, draped the saree neatly over my shoulder, and whispered to myself, “You’ve survived worse… probably.”
Three hours later, my pen hand cramped, my eyes blurred, and my students had all gone home except for a few who lingered, waving and asking questions about fractions like nothing else in the world mattered.
By sunset, I was finally done with half of the report, managed to sketch a messy draft of the notice board, and had a mental plan for the debate. My saree was slightly rumpled, my hair had escaped its pins, and my stomach growled like a feral cat.
And still… I kept going. Because giving up wasn’t in my vocabulary. I didn’t have anyone to defend me, so I had to defend myself. And somewhere deep inside, I clung to the fragile hope that one day, someone would see me for more than what the world told them to see.
The kids adore me. I mean, they really do. When I smile, they grin back like I’m the only happy thing in the universe. And when I explain something patiently, even fractions, they hang on every word. That’s the only part of teaching that makes the daily grind bearable—the innocence that hasn’t yet learned to bite.
Then there’s the other side. Colleagues. Bullies. Masters of passive-aggressive attacks.
And yet, the students… the kids… they made it all bearable. Their innocence is like a shield against the meanness around me, even if it’s temporary.
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