I came face to face with the warden.
"Nila, right? Open your cupboard," she instructed.
Her voice was sharp, not exactly rude—but it had that slightly arrogant edge, the kind you develop when you know people fear your footsteps. She was in her late twenties, immaculately dressed in the Cotton saree, her hair scraped back tightly like her tone. It wasn't the kind of voice that invited conversation.
I opened the cupboard quietly. She leaned forward and blinked in slight surprise.
Inside, my clothes were arranged by category—daily wear, nightwear, ironed uniforms in labeled sections. I had reused shoeboxes for socks, handkerchiefs, and accessories. Cartons for stationery, folders for notebooks. Everything had a place.
"Well," she said, her tone softening just a notch, "this is... quite something. Neat. Organised. Clean bedsheets too."
I didn't respond. My heart had stopped hammering, but I wasn't exactly relieved. Compliments from people like her always came just before a twist in the tone.
She stepped back. "Open your trolley."
I wheeled it out and unzipped it.
After taking one glance at the packed clothes inside their net compartments and colour-coded pouches, she seemed to wave it off. "Close it. No need."
For a second, I thought I was done.
"Open the cupboard again," she said casually.
My hands froze on the trolley zipper. Why again?
Still, I complied. This time, she didn't bother with the folded clothes or boxes. She went straight for the bottom shelf—where my books were.
She skimmed over the school-issued textbooks, then pulled out a notebook.
"What's this?" she asked, flipping it open.
"Notes, ma'am," I said, as evenly as I could.
She flipped a few pages. There were scribbles of different symbols—some familiar, some not. Her fingers paused. Her eyebrows rose.
"What is this code language?" she asked, turning to look at me directly. "Are you girls doing some secret chatting or what?"
"No, ma'am," I said. "That's... Chinese."
"Chinese?" Her tone turned mocking. "There's no Chinese language in your curriculum. I didn't see any textbook or reference either. How are you learning Chinese? Or are you trying to be smart with me?"
A few girls in the bay had turned their heads. Some had already been staring. Now, they were outright eavesdropping.
I felt my cheeks burn. Not with shame, but the sheer indignity of having to explain myself like a criminal.
Still, I reminded myself, You're thirteen in appearance and mentally now. You're twenty-five inside only. Stay calm. No snappy retorts.
"Ma'am," I said politely, "may I just show you something?"
She stepped aside, arms crossed.
I bent down, opened a different folder, and pulled out a thin stack of printed papers. There were around twenty pages. I picked out six that were filled with handwritten Chinese characters—rows and rows of them, each written in a grid table. The other sheets had vocabulary lists, basic grammar, and English translations.
"I practise writing for half an hour a day," I said. "These are worksheets I downloaded and printed from the school library."
She didn't say anything. Just took the sheets from my hand and stared at them. Her lips pressed tight. Maybe she didn't like the fact that I had evidence. Maybe she preferred students stuttering, making excuses—something she could roll her eyes at.
I didn't look at her. My eyes drifted to the side where Shivani di was lounging on the edge of her cot, arms folded, pretending to read something. She was struggling to suppress a grin.
She'd seen me practising those characters night after night, muttering the same tones and strokes under my breath. She never asked questions. She never interfered. That's why I liked her.
"You practise this daily?" the warden asked finally.
"Yes, ma'am."
She didn't hand the sheets back. Just nodded slowly and turned to look over the rest of my shelf.
I hated how exposed I felt. Until a few seconds ago, this was a small personal habit—my space, my interest, my own time. Now, thanks to her public sarcasm, the entire bay knew I was trying to learn Chinese. What next? Gossip about why I was learning it? Or whispers about how I'm trying to show off?
I didn't care about popularity—but I cared about privacy. And this place was slowly draining me of that.
"I'll be taking these notes with me for now," the warden said suddenly, her voice clipped.
"What?" I asked, unable to stop myself.
"For verification," she added, clearly enjoying the power play. "If it's what you say it is, you'll get it back."
I stood there, stunned. Shivani di caught my eye and mouthed, Ignore her.
But it wasn't easy. The notes were personal. And now, they were just gone.
She had no more words of comeback. The silence around us thickened, the way hot air clings before a storm. I could feel it—the way the other girls in the dorm were watching with amusement and judgment, their smirks hidden behind lowered eyes and whispered giggles. They thought I was arrogant. They thought I was faking. Pretending to be above them when I couldn't even understand Chinese. They were laughing at me.
But that wasn't what made my stomach drop.
It was the Warden's eyes. They had caught something.
"My, what is this?" she asked, reaching toward the corner of my bed where my personal diary sat.
Before I could move, her fingers closed around it.
No. Not that.
From the cover alone, it was obvious this wasn't just a school notebook or a textbook. The leather binding, the stitched borders, the Personal journal, and the year 2013, decorated with even my initials on the top—this was personal. Intimate. Mine.
She began to open it.
I snapped forward and snatched it back from her hands.
Gasps echoed. The kind that ripple across a classroom before a fight breaks out. Everyone froze—eyes wide, mouths parted. I could feel the heat of their stares drilling into my back. The obedient girl who had smiled through every other part of the inspection had just snatched something from the Warden's hands.
Unthinkable.
"Sorry, madam," I said curtly, my voice firm but controlled. "This is my personal journal. Since it's personal, I can't let you see what's inside. That would be an invasion of my privacy."
She blinked, stunned. I could see it in her expression—she was not used to being challenged, especially not by someone like me. "Privacy?" she scoffed, her tone rising. "What privacy? This is a hostel, not your home. When we say we're conducting an inspection, it means we have the right to check everything."
"With due respect, no, madam," I replied, standing my ground. "All our belongings were checked before we entered the hostel. My parents were present then. You had full freedom to inspect anything and everything, but you did not open my diary then."
Her eyes narrowed, but I continued, heart pounding.
"Now, when there is no adult from my side here, and when this wasn't part of the Prohibited Items checklist earlier, how is it fair to demand I open my personal diary? I've shown you all the items in plain sight. Everything is visible. But reading my diary—my thoughts—is something I do not consent to."
Warden's voice was sharper now, tinged with disbelief and simmering authority. "You don't give permission?" she repeated slowly. "That's not how it works here. I check everyone's notebooks. Every single one of them. You think you're special?"
"No, madam. I don't," I replied. "But I know what's right and wrong. Notebooks are academic. You have every right to look through those. But a diary is not academic material. It's not a workbook. It's a record of my mind. My memories. My emotions. It's not meant for anyone else's eyes."
She stepped closer. I didn't flinch.
"You think I care about your little sob stories in there?" she asked, pointing at the diary. "What if you've written something that's a threat to discipline? Something inappropriate? What if you've written about staff? Or students? Or puppy love?"
Her tone was accusing, as if I were already guilty of something. The girls behind her murmured.
"Then ask me," I said. "If you have doubts, I'll answer. But no one can read that without my consent."
"You're a first-year. New to this place. You don't know how things work yet," she hissed.
"True," I nodded. "I'm new. But being new doesn't mean I'm without dignity."
A pause.
The air between us trembled, thick with defiance.
Warden crossed her arms, as if deciding whether to escalate this further. Her lips thinned into a line.
"I will be reporting this behavior," she said icily. "We'll see what the principal says."
I nodded. "Please do. I'll explain it to her the same way."
Another murmur from the girls. Now they weren't sure whether to mock me or admire me. I didn't care.
Warden gave one final glare and turned away, her authority bruised but intact.
I sat down slowly, clutching my diary close. I could still feel my pulse in my fingers.
I had drawn a line.
And this time, I didn't regret it.