The Uncalled Passenger: A Memoir - By Thejashree Gandhamaneni

Written By: Thejashree Gandhamaneni

Category: Memoir/Personal Expression/Non-fiction

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In "The Uncalled Passenger: A Memoir," Thejashree Gandhamaneni offers a profoundly introspective piece for the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This personal narrative delves into the nuances of belonging and identity within the hierarchy of an Indian classroom. Through vivid recollections and heartfelt reflection, Thejashree invites readers to explore the silent struggles and unspoken connections that shape our formative years.

About the Work

The memoir captures the raw essence of feeling like an outsider amidst the chaos of school life. Thejashree skillfully portrays the internal battle of seeking acceptance while grappling with solitude. Through evocative imagery and poignant anecdotes, the narrative paints a picture of resilience and self-discovery. The work resonates with anyone who has ever felt unseen, offering a glimpse into the journey of finding one's voice.

The Uncalled Passenger

Original Submission by Thejashree Gandhamaneni

Author’s Note:

If parts of this feel unfamiliar, that is expected.

And if you find yourself unsettled by what you recognize, sit with it.

Some stories are not meant to comfort.

Only to remain.

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. Others are the walls-witnesses who never intrude but 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 their last goodbye under the toll of the final bell.

The Lunch Box

I sat at my desk, etching doodles into the wooden platform. The lunch-hour breeze drifted through the room, while algebraic equations lay undisturbed on the board. I watched the others, absorbed in gossip, wondering how it was possible to feel so alone in such a noisy crowd.

While they bustled through the corridors to reunite with allies, those thirty minutes were a dreaded vacuum-more nerve-racking than the stout Maths tutor. I studied their interests and tried to initiate conversations.

But friendship is a two-way street.

And I?

I was at a dead end.

Staring through the glass, I whispered to myself:

Maybe friends are not for everyone.

Maybe I need to like myself first.

The Last Seat

On a brittle winter morning, seven-year-old me savored a handful of peanuts and boarded the bus. I leaped towards the first seat to wave at my father, but the older girls threw their bags down, pointing at the back.

As the bus pulled away, my father ran alongside it, yelling through the glass:

“Stop the bus! Give her a seat! She might fall!”

The windows were closed.

And the next day, a pin was pressed into the leather seat, waiting for me.

The Stone Unturned

Elementary school was a group of well-knitted cliques. I began picking up their tones, their accents, their body language-everything that felt less like me.

With neatly plaited braids and a crisply ironed uniform, I greeted everyone warmly enough to earn a seat at the table. I convinced myself that if you cannot find a place in a crowd, the flaw must lie within you.

Rehearsing cool dialogues and abbreviations became the routine.

And yet, most of my time was spent in the last row of the bus, next to a grimy water bucket and a mop.

The November Night

On a chilly November night, I stayed up until dawn crafting handwritten cards and poems for a friend. I packed them into a woolen bag and when the clock ticked noon, I handed her the gifts-flowers and a soft white paper spelling out lovely adjectives for each letter of her name.

After lunch break, there were giggles all around. I turned to see them clutching a crinkled brown paper. The ink was smudged in tilted letters as it read:

“T - Terrible, H - Horrible, E - Elephant,

J - Jealous, A - Animal, S - Sadistic,

H - Hollow, R - Rude, E - Empty, E - Evil.”

It was my name.

Spelled correctly for the first time that day.

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

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

Personal Log: Friday, 11:10pm

Location: Basheerbagh Stadium

The twenty-acre stadium is a desert of mirages. Each peer is a hope meant to disappoint. I spent the hour tracing patterns in the dust:

A heart.

A bird.

A desert.

Ten trips to the loo. And three books in the bag to carry:

one for when I’m empty,

one for when I’m better,

and one for when I’m bored.

I leaned onto the Gita in my hand - a distraction and a manual for a life I'm not sure I'm living.

“Asamsayam maha-baho mano durnigraham calam, abhyasena tu kaunteya vairagyena ca grhyate”

The whispers say I need a script to exist. Maybe they’re right.

And back at school, the sparrow is still there. She limps on the window pane,

tapping against the broken wood.

A code.

I tap back.

After the Last Bell

Farewell eve arrived. I watched warm hugs and camera flashes fill the room-a dance of belonging I hadn't learned the steps to.

As the crowd moved towards the after-party, I followed for a few paces-habitual and hesitant-until I caught my reflection in a window.

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

Jotting down in my journal, I asked myself:

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, I went up the stairs to my classroom. The doodles on my desk felt rough under my fingers. I rubbed at them, and the graphite stayed on my skin while I took the lift to meet my parents.

Near the gate, a stray dog was lying on the ground. He looked up at me for a moment and stayed still as I ran my hand over his fur once more before standing up.

The breeze brushed past my face. It felt as warm as it did when I first joined school.

The Two-wheeler

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

As ​I leaped onto the saddle and leaned my forehead against his back, the rough wool of his sweater scratched my cheek.

He didn’t ask about the party or the people inside; he just reached back and revved the engine as he patted my hand.

I stole one last glimpse of that musty old building. A smile. A relief.

The cruise had sailed on.

The sparrow lifted into the night.

And somewhere between the dock and the dark,

I stopped being the uncalled passenger.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates diverse voices and creative expressions from around the world. This prestigious event invites participants to share their unique stories and perspectives, fostering a global community of writers and poets. It is a platform that honors creativity and encourages the exploration of new literary horizons.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Thejashree Gandhamaneni for sharing "The Uncalled Passenger: A Memoir" with us. Your contribution to the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches our understanding of personal journeys and the search for belonging. We appreciate your vulnerability and creativity, which have touched us all.

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.