Anyone Else But You... (2 page)

All the best!

Ananya Verma

This story is purely a work of fiction. As a result, any resemblance to a person, living or dead is purely co-incidental. The names
of characters, places and organizations are
all fictional
in nature and
they have been used
without any ill-will.

-
         
Authors

PROLOGUE

The aroma of freshly picked daffodils
filled the air
as the sunlight peeped into her office through the tinted window pane. Mrs. Meena Singhal paced the floor of her office in anticipation of some good news. She walked towards the window that overlooked the lush front lawns of the school
and stood for a moment to admire its’ beauty. When she had first entered this school as a Physics teacher, seventeen years back – it was this very lawn and its beauty that had caught her attention. The dream to be the Principal and the passion for the job of teaching was as strong then as it was now but something about the school, its’ lawns, the then-Principal’s office had appealed to her and that appeal was yet to recede.

She had some fond memories of her first year, way back in the Summer of 1993. The then Principal, Mr. Chavan showed her around the school that was not
yet
fully built. Void of a Senior wing, she remembers how Mr. Chavan insisted that she put forward her ideas, her inputs and opinions regarding what all could be done to help the school expand and grow. The graciousness
and display of respect
by
a
Civilian Award recipient educationist towards an ordinary first-day teacher was commendable according to Mrs. Singhal. And she pledged that from that day on, she would not only be an excellent teacher but a warm hearted mother and an approachable friend to all the hundreds of students she would teach in years to come. And the results were instant, her popularity grew. Students swore by her name and in the process, the respect she was entitled to
,
became unmatchable. A couple of years later, she was entrusted with certain administrative responsibilities of that of a Coordinator which she fulfilled to perfection. A Head of the Department post followed and by the time she was about to complete her sixth year, she was already being talked about as a possible replacement for the soon to be retiring Mr. Chavan.

And the much expected call came; May 2000, Mrs. Meena Singhal officially took over as the Principal of the
Delhi High School
, thus taking over from a person, a premier educationist who had left behind a legacy of sorts. If one felt that the hard work had borne fruits, it wasn’t to be as the hard work would now be needed. 

A popular English news daily named the Truth of India started an annual award for the Best School and as expected
Delhi High School
won it a record 6 times in 7 years to become the first school ever to make it to the Hall of Fame.

And then the ominous signs, as Mrs. Singhal aged, the magic touch in her administrative abilities soon started diminishing. The popular and motivational leader soon began getting confused over her own theories. The man management capabilities were deteriorating and there was unrest everywhere. The calls for change grew louder as teachers and students alike wanted a relatively younger Principal to take over the reins. She believed that it was the best time for her to leave and so did many others including the Chairman of the trust, Mr. A.Chandrashekhar. She applied for a voluntary retirement
from her active responsibilities of teaching and being the Principal of an institution. And in return she was offered the post of the Director of
Delhi High School
s, which she gladly accepted.

A knock on the glass door of her cabin diverted all her attention from her past to her present.

“Come in,” she said in a gentle voice.

Her teary eyed secretary walked in, “they’ve accepted it ma’am. So it’s final then?”

Singhal pursed her lips, “Yes. And you should be happy that I am going before people ask me to go. The question is that they will say ‘why now?’ rather ‘why not?’
.”
Singhal could afford a smile. A lot of stress dropped from her shoulder, she could leave happily now and with her head held high.

She gracefully walked across her room towards her grand revolving chair. She sat down and took a sip of water. “So Sunaina…” she said.

“…I hope you will forgive me if I’ve ever given you a tough time over these 10 years that you’ve worked as my Secretary. I sincerely apologize.”

Ms. Sunaina wiped a bead of tear, “Not at all. It’s been an honour serving you.” Sunaina tried hard to put up a smile but failed miserably.

Almost immediately Singhal’s phone buzzed. It was the Chairman.

“Could you excuse me for a minute?”

Sunaina nodded and left.

Very few would know that the winds of change had begun to blow over
Delhi High School
.

ONE

A lot of commotion surrounded the Reception area of
 
DHS. On a normal day you would find it to be deserted but the first round of interviews for Class XI had begun and hundreds of applicants had to be interviewed. Admission during this time of the year of the students of Class XI was of topmost priority for the school. It was so because those very students would be the face of the school, representing the prestigious institution for two years to come in every competition in different schools in different cities. Their results would be printed in the brochure of the school. They couldn’t afford to take this lightly.

For the new-admissions, it was a chance to rub shoulders with the future IITians, businessmen and leaders of the country. It was a chance for them to bask in the glory of being a
 
Delhite
 
-
 
a tag which is privileged to a few yet wanted by all. It was a chance to make new friends, enemies. A chance for girls to swoon over hot guys and as for teachers
,
it meant a fresh bunch of students with fresh ideas
,
handpicked to suit their standards of ‘quality students’.

 
For Meena Singhal, it was her last
responsibility as the Principal of a school s
he had dedicated a major part of her life working for. As for Rishav Sen it was a chance to fulfill a childhood dream of wearing the coveted bottle green blazer.

 
Tall, slim built,
 
a
little bit of stubble on his face, with a white shirt casually worn over a worn out jeans; Rishav Sen walked towards the door leading to the reception with careful steps. There was a hint of nervousness in his walk which he disguised with a confidence that only some would be able to see
as what it was-
superficial
. He had achieved more than what a 16 year old would ever dream of – youngest writer to get published, former Junior Editor at the Truth of India.

 
He wasn’t entirely new to the school, its lawns, its grand reception and the sense of being lost in the winding corridors
seemed all too familiar
. He could
remember
exactly where he had sat
,
six years ago in the same reception area. The chairs were green then. He was new to the city then. All he had was a not-so-impressive report card with average marks. On top of that he was applying mid-session.