The inspection wasn't over yet. Not for the rest of them.
The warden still had twenty-eight more beds to go, and none of us were allowed to move. No talking, no bathroom breaks, no sneaking off for water. Just cots and silence. The long corridor was filled with the sound of keys jingling from her waistband and her sandals slapping hard against the tiled floor as she moved from one bed to another, flipping bedsheets and cupboard doors with the determination of someone looking for a fight.
I sat back on my cot, spine straight, hands folded in my lap like some obedient doll, but my eyes quietly observed everything.
A girl near the end of the row had stashed chips in a shoe box. The warden pulled it out and held it up like she'd caught a mouse. "You think this is a picnic spot?" she snapped. The girl's cheeks went red. A quiet ripple of nervous laughter followed from another corner—quickly silenced when the warden turned her head.
Another girl had her bedsheets folded inside out to hide ink stains. "This is how you live?" the warden sneered, pulling the blanket off and shaking it. The girl, probably no older than me, stood frozen until her eyes began to shimmer. She didn't cry then—not in front of the warden. But the moment the woman moved on to the next bed, the girl sat down on the floor and began to sob quietly into her palms. Her friends circled around her, whispering something that didn't seem to help.
I bit my lip. The same woman who'd teased me with sarcasm had just reduced another girl to tears. I shouldn't feel triumphant. But I did, a little. Not because she was cruel to others, but because I hadn't cried. Because I'd stood my ground. Because I'd won a very small, very personal war. Even if my worksheets were still with her.
She moved like a metal detector, scanning cupboards and drawers for signs of rebellion: posters, sketchbooks, novels, photographs. Each discovery got a comment. Some cots passed with only a sniff of approval. Others—most—were met with criticism, thinly veiled in schooly scoldings.
By the time she reached the last bed, the sun had shifted low, painting the dormitory in a tired yellow hue. No one breathed easily until she finally declared, "That's all," and left, her clipboard clutched like a trophy.
The second she turned the corner, the dorm exhaled all at once.
Girls jumped up to go to the bathroom, stretch their backs, or whisper furiously about what was taken. Someone let out a dramatic "Finallyyy!" which earned a few chuckles.
Snack time couldn't have come soon enough.
The cafeteria was humid, the kind of place where steel benches clanged when you shifted, and the smell of boiling Maggi hung in the air like a warm cloud. Jai Harini waved from across the room, already holding two plates, and I made my way to their usual corner: a patchy square of table near the back wall where the fans worked better.
"Here, yours," she said, sliding the plate in front of me. "Second round's easier to grab. You're welcome."
Sree Lekha, Pavani, and Amritha squeezed in beside us, clutching their bowls. Prerna balanced her glass of Boost precariously as she sat down.
"I heard you gave it back to the warden," Amritha whispered, clearly impressed.
"Didn't expect that, honestly," Pavani said, elbowing me lightly. "Most of us just nod and cry."
"She was being sarcastic," I replied, poking at the noodles. "I just… didn't want to explain something she wasn't ready to believe."
"Chinese, huh?" Sree Lekha raised her eyebrows. "You're too cool for Hindi or French?"
I shrugged. "I just like it."
Sastika leaned in from the edge of the table. "You didn't stammer, you didn't tear up… you even had backup worksheets. I mean—who does that?"
Everyone chuckled. I felt the tension in my shoulders ease, slowly. Maybe not everyone here was waiting to pull me down.
Maybe… some of them were climbing too.
Evening in the playground was usually filled with laughter and the thudding of shuttlecocks. But I needed silence today, a space to walk off the prickling rage that hadn't left my chest since the inspection. I'd barely made it two rounds around the far-end cement path when voices carried over—louder than they needed to be, sharp enough to slice through the evening air.
"She snatched it. From my hand. A diary!" the Warden said, her voice theatrical with disbelief. "No manners at all. So arrogant for a new joiner."
Another staff member chuckled awkwardly. "She seemed polite during the checking, though…"
"Oh, don't be fooled," the Warden cut in. "She acted calm, but that's how they manipulate you. When I was just about to check her notebooks properly, she interrupted. Started quoting privacy and all that. Privacy? This is a hostel, not her father's palace."
I didn't flinch, but I felt every word like a pin. The Warden wasn't addressing me, but she was performing, projecting her authority loud enough for the entire open ground to hear.
A few girls from my dorm, seated near the basketball post, tried to distract me. "Ignore it, Nila. She's venting. She'll tire out."
But no. That wasn't just venting. That was narrative control.
I walked straight to the staff circle and stopped a few feet away, my hands clasped respectfully in front of me.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Sorry for the interruption," I said, voice calm but clear. "Could you please let me know when I can get my Chinese worksheets and language notebook back?"
The Warden blinked. She hadn't expected me to confront her—not like this, not with so many staff present.
"I haven't had time to fully check them," she said stiffly. "They're still under observation. And I'm not sure I can return them yet."
"With due respect, ma'am," I said, "they're not part of the Restricted Items list we received in the school welcome pack. There was no mention of worksheets or subject notebooks being disallowed. I went through the rules again after the inspection."
"Still—"
I turned, politely, to the Chief Warden who had joined midway and was now observing us with interest.
"Ma'am, if I may, could I show you what the worksheets contain? Just for clarity."
She raised her eyebrows. "On your phone?"
"I don't have one, ma'am. But if I may use yours, just to search a sample on Google."
The Warden's eyes widened in disbelief, but the Chief Warden, amused and curious, handed her phone to me without protest. I opened a browser, searched "Chinese simplified character worksheets," and clicked on the images tab.
"These are the exact sheets, ma'am. I've been doing self-study with the help of a language tutor back home."
The Chief Warden glanced at the screen. "Hmm… these are standard practice sheets. Nothing unusual."
The Warden, flustered, muttered, "Still. We don't know if there's anything embedded in those characters—"
"With due respect," I interrupted gently, "if there's any specific concern, I'm open to having a translator look at the content. But until then, ma'am, may I request a deadline? I'd like to continue my lessons."
The Chief Warden gave a quiet nod, then turned to the Warden. "Return the papers and notebook to her before dinner. No need to keep academic material if there's no valid objection."
The Warden pursed her lips.
Then the Chief Warden turned back to me. "And about the diary. You refused to let it be checked?"
"Yes, ma'am. I did. I was polite, but firm. It's a personal journal. I don't write class notes in it. Just private reflections. If the rules explicitly say I can't keep a diary, I'll stop. But as of now, I haven't found such a clause."
There was a pause.
"You do realise we expect students to comply—even with unspoken rules?"
"I do, ma'am," I said. "And I value discipline. But I also believe that unspoken rules should not override written ones when it comes to personal boundaries."
The Chief Warden studied me for a long moment. I didn't shrink away.
Finally, she said, "You make your case well. I don't particularly like being argued with, but at least you follow protocol. That's better than being sneaky."
"Thank you, ma'am."
Nila handed the phone back. "You may collect your things from the Warden's cabin at 7:30 p.m."
"Understood."
The Warden didn't say a word.
Later, I went to her cabin. She didn't meet my eyes as she passed me the brown envelope. I thanked her anyway.
I knew I had offended her authority. But it wasn't intentional rebellion. It was the assertion of reason over emotion.
Back in the dorm, my notebooks felt like reclaimed dignity. I checked them- pages uncreased, content untouched. The other girls looked at me as if I had just crossed a minefield and returned holding the map.
By dinner, the whole hostel had heard.
"She got her stuff back!"
"She used Google and showed proof to the Chief!"
"She stood her ground!"
I smiled quietly, but I didn't bask in it. I hadn't done it to make a point. I'd done it to protect a boundary that mattered.
That night, I finished my Chinese worksheets in peaceful silence and slipped into bed by 9:30. The dorm buzzed with whispers, but I tuned them out.
The Warden had power.
But now, so did I.