A Student’s Diary

By Sanjana Shome

5:30 AM The alarm cuts through my dream—or maybe it was just a thought, I can’t even remember the last time I had a real dream. My eyes burn. Sleep feels like a distant memory, though I can’t remember the last time I actually rested. Mumma knocks on my door. “Get up, beta. Don’t waste time.” I drag myself out of bed, splash water on my face, and stare at the mirror. The boy in front of me has dark circles under his eyes. He doesn’t look like me. Did I always look like this? My mind is buzzing, or maybe it’s empty—I feel like I’m thinking about something important, but I don’t know what.

6:30 AM The bus is packed. Everyone around me chats with their friends, laughing and joking as if they have endless energy, while I clutch my notebook, trying to focus. The heat and smell make me nauseous. I open my notebook, trying to study, fueled by the fear of being scolded by the teacher for coming to class unprepared. But the lack of sleep makes it impossible—I drift in and out, words blurring together, formulas slipping through my foggy mind. My neck aches from holding my head up, a constant tension I can’t release. I wonder how everyone has the time and energy to talk, but I force my attention back to the book, trying to keep up.

7:50 AM I step off the bus and shuffle into the classroom, my bag stuffed with every single textbook, workbook, and notebook the teachers demanded we bring. It’s heavy—too heavy—but nobody seems to care that carrying it is a punishment in itself. I open my notebook again, hoping the formulas I tried to cram on the bus have somehow stuck. But nothing has entered my clouded mind. Even the prayer time, which everyone else treats as a quiet pause, becomes just another opportunity to try and catch up. Before I can start, she walks in—first period, as always, her presence sharp and demanding. She doesn’t waste a second and begins quizzing us on yesterday’s lesson. My mind blanks. I don’t remember a thing. Every first-period class is like this: I’m too tired to think, too drained to answer. My stomach twists as she calls on me, and before I can even form a sentence, she tells me to stand as punishment. My legs shake; the room spins. Everyone else murmurs quietly, pretending to focus on their notebooks, but I feel every second stretching out like an eternity.

12:30 PM The day just drags on like this, one period bleeding into the next, each one a relentless cycle of lectures, notes, and endless questions. I try to cram at every free moment—the few seconds between classes, the brief lull during lunch—but it never sticks. A constant, gnawing panic lingers, settling into my chest like a stone I can’t lift. I notice how snappy I’ve become, how quick to snap at anyone who disturbs my fragile focus. My friends wouldn’t understand anyway; they don’t struggle like this. They joke, chat, and laugh without the same weight pressing down on them. I’m not bad at school—not failing—but I’m painfully average. Enough to survive, never enough to excel. It feels like I’m running a race I’ll never win, and every wrong step tightens the pressure in my chest.

1:30 PM Finally, the dreaded period arrives—the one I’ve been fearing all day, the teacher whose questions make my stomach twist. My heart pounds as she walks in, eyes sharp, scanning the room like a hawk. Of course, she calls on me first. I try to answer, but my words come out in half-baked answers, fumbling and incoherent, scrambled by exhaustion. She pauses, her gaze sharp and accusing, and says I haven’t studied. I’m not punished this time, but the stern, disappointed scolding cuts deeper than any detention ever could. She lectures me on prioritizing my studies, organizing my time better, as if being painfully average were a crime. My chest tightens, shame and anxiety coiling together—I know I’m not failing, but I’m never enough.

3:00 PM School ends. For most kids that would mean freedom. For me, it’s just the beginning. I squeeze into an auto to head to coaching, the city blurring past the windows. My mind can’t escape my teacher’s scoldings. Was I really not doing enough? I haven’t wasted time watching movies or going out with friends. I even studied during games periods at school, scribbling notes while everyone else ran and laughed. So why wasn’t it enough? The thought gnaws at me, twisting in my chest like a relentless knot. As the auto drives on, I already feel the weight of the next prison waiting for me—rows of desks, fluorescent lights, and the unending hum of students bent over their books. Kota isn’t the only factory; they’ve built smaller ones everywhere now.

3:30 PM I enter the coaching room, the heat and hum hitting me like a wall. I’ve become good at pretending. Good at looking like I understand, even when my mind is blank. I fix my eyes on the teacher, nod at the right moments, scribble notes that may or may not make sense. Every so often I throw in a muttered answer when called upon, just to seem engaged. It works—mostly. The teacher seems satisfied. But in focusing so hard on appearing competent, I miss what she’s actually saying. Words drift past me, formulas dissolve before I can grasp them. I’m performing comprehension, not actually understanding. And yet, if I let that slip, if I falter, there’s no telling what the consequences might be.

9:15 PMI finally reach home, passing by kids in the park laughing and running with their friends, and a sharp pang twists in my chest. Papa immediately asks about my studies, not even sparing a glance at how exhausted I am. Could he really not bother to ask once, “Beta, aap kaise ho?” or even show that he understood I was struggling? Did he even understand that I was struggling? Mumma just tells me to quickly take a bath so I can eat dinner. I drop my bag by the door, shoulders aching, body screaming for rest. Two prisons behind me, I’ve returned to a third, and this one is the worst of all: the one where expectations and indifference weigh heavier than any classroom or coaching room, where even home offers no reprieve.

10:00 PMI don’t even try to speak. I know that if I complain, if I even hint at how suffocating everything feels, it will only lead to an interrogation, phone calls to my teachers, and lectures that make everything worse. Father would say I need to manage my time better, that everyone goes through this, and that I should learn something from the toppers of the class—befriend them, he’d suggest, as if that could change anything. Then he’d tell my teachers to ask me more questions, “practice makes perfect,” he’d say, oblivious to the weight piling on my chest. No matter what I feel, nothing I say could lessen the pressure—only multiply it.

11:00 PM I’m always calculating—how much time I have, how much I don’t, how many topics I can realistically cover, how many assignments remain. I tally every mark I could gain, and more painfully, every mark I’ll lose if exhaustion wins for even a second. My brain never stops adding, subtracting, dividing, multiplying. Even when I try to rest, the numbers keep coming, gnawing at me, a constant reminder that falling behind is inevitable.

11:30 PM I just keep thinking about time. Not using it, just thinking about it. How do I balance it all? Physics in the morning, Maths after lunch, Chemistry on the bus, Computer Science after coaching, assignments scattered in between. Projects due next week, tests I can’t even begin to prepare for. I imagine breaking the day into perfect chunks, but it never works.

12:00 AM Every day is the same. I wake up after not sleeping, study while getting ready, study on the bus, study at school, study at coaching, study when I’m back home. Time moves forward while I feel like I’m moving backward. I’m always being questioned, always judged, always compared. Tests every week? Every day? Every period? Just tests, tests, tests—The alarm rings.

3:45 AMI put the book down. My hands are trembling, but not from studying. The house is silent; everyone’s asleep. Even the ticking clock feels too loud. For the first time in months, I’m not thinking about marks or assignments or formulas. I’m just…free. I keep staring at the alarm on my phone, set for 5:30. I know it’ll ring, and I know I won’t wake up for it.

By the time you read this, you’ve already found me, and you’ve already found this diary. Mumma, Papa… I’m sorry. I know you wanted to see my picture in the paper for something else, something proud — a medal, a rank, a seat. But this is the only way I knew how to make it stop. I’m sorry I couldn’t do it. I know you wanted a son to be proud of but I couldn’t even become someone I could be proud of. I hope you won’t resent me too much. I really did try my best. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you while I was still here. I’m sorry for the silence, for the failure, for leaving you with only these pages.

This is my last answer to a question no one asked.

By Sanjana Shome