The Graphite On My Skin(Version 3) - By Thejashree Gandhamaneni

Written By: Thejashree Gandhamaneni

Category: Literary Fiction

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the evocative narrative "The Graphite On My Skin(Version 3)," Thejashree Gandhamaneni crafts a poignant depiction of belonging and identity within the hierarchy of an Indian classroom. This creative work is part of the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 under the category of Creative Writing. The narrative explores themes of solitude, longing, and the silent struggles that often accompany school life, offering readers an introspective glimpse into the subtle nuances of childhood experiences.

About the Work

Thejashree's narrative unfolds in fragments, creating a tapestry of emotions through vivid imagery and introspective moments. The mood is contemplative, capturing the essence of a child's journey through the complexities of social dynamics and personal identity. The narrative style is rich with sensory details, evoking the sounds, smells, and emotions of school life. The work resonates with themes of isolation and acceptance, inviting readers to reflect on the imprints left by formative experiences.

The Graphite On My Skin(Version 3)

Original Submission by Thejashree Gandhamaneni

A Narrative In Fragments

Author’s Note:

If it bruises, let it.

If it heals, let it.

Some imprints are not meant to fade.

They are meant to stain.

INTRO:

The hierarchy of an Indian classroom isn't decided by grades, it’s decided by where you stand. Some are the pulse of the class, some are the walls - they don't intrude but quietly hold the room together.

And beneath that silent order, school buzzes on in its ordinary chaos:

The frenzy of exam season.

Last-minute homework sagas.

The smell of rain on damp uniforms.

Chalk dust sprayed on a blackboard.

And yet, this belonging comes at a cost:

A disastrous exam.

An empty seat where a friend should be.

An incompetent mentor.

A teacher who treats a misplaced comma as a moral failing.

When the farewell eve arrives, nostalgia floods the corridors as students bid goodbye under the toll of the final bell.

The Lunch Box

A nine-year-old sat by her desk, etching doodles into the wood, as fine dust gathered along her fingernails.

The lunch-hour breeze drifted through the casement, while algebraic equations lay undisturbed on the blackboard. She opened her misty steel dabba to munch on the Palak paneer her mom had made for her, early in the morning.

As she gazed at the other children absorbed in gossip, she wondered if she would ever find someone, to sit by her side in recess.

While they bustled through the corridors to reunite with their allies, those thirty minutes, for her, were a dreaded vacuum - more nerve-racking than the stout Maths tutor.

She continued working on the doodles till the pencil tip snapped and the noise of the crowd settled. It was time for history class.

The Crowd

Elementary school was a lattice of well-knitted cliques. She began picking up their tones, their accents, their body language-everything that felt lesser and lesser like her.

With neatly oiled braids and a crisply ironed uniform, she greeted everyone warmly enough to earn a seat at the table.

And yet, most of her time was spent in the last row of the bus, next to a grimy water bucket and a splayed broom -

a place where she'd keenly count each water droplet on the window, and make patterns on its mist:

A heart.

A bird.

A house.

The Last Seat

On a brittle morning, savoring salt-crusted peanuts wrapped in the Hindu newspaper cone, she boarded the bus and leaped towards the first seat.

As she waved at her father who was dressed as usual in his torn sweater and white kufi, she asked the older girls -

“Kya mein yaha par baith sakti hoon?”.

They tilted their heads and threw their bags onto the seats, pointing towards the back. The bus pulled past the flickering lamppost and her father ran alongside it, yelling through the frosted glass:

“Bus ko roko! Give her a seat, she might fall!”

What followed was a clash of words and an agonised father. In a split-second, the windows were shut and the bus set off.

The next day, she noticed a rusty grey needle pressed into her usual seat before she sat down. And as she kept it aside onto the sill, they looked at her in contempt.

She didn't know what it meant.

And the needle was slid back into where it belonged.

The Acrostic

The coy girl had stayed up an entire night, crafting handwritten cards and poems for friendship day.

When the clock ticked noon, she handed them roses and a soft white paper spelling out lovely adjectives for each letter of their names.

At the end of the break, there were giggles all around. She turned to see her friends clutching a crinkled brown paper. The moist blue ink was smudged in tilted letters as it read:

“F - Failure

A - Animal

R - Rude

I - Immature

D - Daunting

A - Arrogant”

It was her name.

Spelled correctly for the first time.

-

The real strife came during sport blocks and excursions. She spent so much time observing others that she forgot she had a voice of her own, something that had dried up in disuse. In logs and fragments, she started recording her existence.

Days designed for togetherness had a unique way of exposing absence.

The Stadium

Location: Basheerbagh

The twenty acre stadium was scorching dry. She picked at the grass and spent the hour tracing patterns in the dust:

A girl.

A scarf.

A desert.

With her head covered in a silvered dupatta, she took ten trips to the loo to check if her reflection still existed in the mirror.

Her father had given her three extra books to carry:

one for when empty,

one for when better,

and one for when bored.

She flipped through the Quran in her hand for comfort and spent the time staring at the limping sparrow next to her. It tapped on the broken cement. A code.

And in the same rhythm, she tapped back.

After the Last Bell

A decade passed. The farewell eve arrived. Warm hugs and camera flashes subsided the tilak ceremony.

As the crowd moved towards the after-party with saffron imprints on their foreheads, Farida followed for a few paces-habitual and hesitant-until she caught her reflection in the glass.

She looked like an uncalled passenger on a cruise: someone there to hold the camera, but never the memory.

Jotting down in her journal, she asked herself:

Why would I grieve the loss of a bond I never had?

How can I mourn a connection that never existed in the first place?

As the music played, she went up the stairs to her classroom. The doodles on the desk felt rough under her fingers. She rubbed at them, and the graphite stayed on her skin as she took the lift to search for her parents.

Near the gate, she noticed Bittu, a stray dog. She fed him the extra chapatis that she had secretly sneaked into her bag from the kitchen counter.

He looked up at her for a moment and stayed still as she ran her hand over his fur once more before standing up.

The graphite on her hand had settled on his fur. And for the first time, the scar belonged elsewhere.

The Two-wheeler

Walking past the gate, she noticed her father. He was waiting for her on his scooter, his eyes squinting in frantic search. She waved at him. He waved back.

He had an icy almond kulfi in his hand that he had bought for her from the Taj stall. As ​she leaped onto the saddle and leaned her forehead against his back, the rough wool of his sweater scratched her cheek as she traced the torn holes and held him tighter.

He didn’t ask about the party or the people inside; he just reached back and revved the engine as he patted her hand and muttered “Main hoon naa beti!”.

She stole one last glimpse of that musty old building as they both hummed to the hues of old Hindi classics on their way back home.

A smile. A relief.

The lamppost had stopped flickering.

The sparrow lifted into the night.

And somewhere between the dock and the dark, she stopped being the uncalled passenger.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a celebration of literary artistry, inviting participants from various backgrounds to share their unique voices. This competition provides a platform for emerging and established writers to present their work, fostering a vibrant community of creative expression. Participants explore diverse themes and styles, enriching the literary landscape with their original contributions.

We extend our gratitude to Thejashree Gandhamaneni for sharing the evocative narrative "The Graphite On My Skin(Version 3)" with us. Your participation in the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 adds depth and diversity to the creative tapestry we celebrate. Thank you for your thoughtful contribution, and we look forward to seeing more of your literary journey.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.