It’s today.

On the last day of annual exams, we were told that the results would be announced on May 1st, and that we are to report to our respective classrooms at 7 o’clock. Yesterday, I couldn’t sleep.
Was I excited?
“Excitement” doesn’t even begin to express how I felt.

Today is the result day.

I woke up early, perhaps by the chatter around me as my elder woke up for namaz. I got up as well, brushing my teeth, braiding my hair, donning the uniform. No matter how slowly I got from one task to the other, I was still ready by 6:30 AM.

Grandma joked that I must be going to school to guard the gates today since I was up so early. She said it in that teasing tone of hers, laughing softly while sipping her chai. I made a face at her, but deep inside, I knew she was right. I had woken up before even the roti tawa had heated up, before the birds even decided to start chirping properly. But how could I not? Today wasn’t just any day. It was THE day — the day we would finally see our report cards, our final marks, the day our parents had been waiting for, the day my mind had been occupied with ever since I put down my pen after the last exam.

I tied my ribbons extra tight today, feeling they might reflect my “seriousness” and “responsibility.” Maybe if my hair looked neat enough, my teachers would magically like me even more and give me some extra marks! You know, we all think of these silly superstitions at that age. I even polished my shoes twice. Once after breakfast, and again right before stepping out. Mom kept saying, “Bas kar, kitni baar polish karegi? Sab ko andha kar degi!” I pretended not to hear.

As I stepped out, I felt like a soldier walking to the battlefield. The road to school felt different today. Even the potholes looked like they were watching me and whispering, “Good luck.” The stray dog that usually barked at me just watched me silently today. Maybe he knew it was a big day.

When I reached school, it was empty. Just the ayahs and cleaners sweeping the corridors, the echo of their brooms bouncing off the walls. A few chairs were stacked in corners, and dust hung lazily in the air like it had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

I felt so upset. I had imagined coming in and being greeted by a crowd of equally nervous and excited classmates. I had imagined laughter, chattering, maybe even someone crying out of fear. But no. Here I was, standing alone, feeling like the only contestant who showed up at a talent show that got cancelled.

I dragged myself to my classroom, dropping my bag on my usual bench with a thud loud enough to scare a passing lizard. I kept looking at the door every few minutes, hoping someone would walk in. But no one came.

My mind went back to the teachers’ announcement — “7 o’clock sharp!” My watch kept ticking, as if mocking me. How could they say something and not mean it? Hadn’t they taught us about punctuality and discipline throughout the year? “Time is precious,” they would say. “Don’t waste it,” they would scold. And yet here I was, at 7:05, 7:15, 7:30… alone.

An hour later, my classmates started trickling in. One by one. Some looked half-asleep, others looked like they had run all the way. And the moment they saw me, they started giggling.
“Arre, monitor ji! Kitni jaldi aa gayi!”
“Did you sleep here overnight?”
“Are you sure today is the result day? Maybe you came for next year’s results!”

Their words felt like sharp pins pricking my excitement balloon. I forced a smile and pretended to look busy with my pencil box, but inside, I was sulking. Why couldn’t they all come on time? Why wasn’t this day as special to them as it was to me?

Time crawled by painfully slowly. The big old clock on the classroom wall seemed to have taken a nap too. My classmates busied themselves playing games, some girls were braiding each other’s hair, a few boys were busy with paper rockets. The classroom turned into a small fair — noisy, chaotic, and utterly free of any serious adult supervision.

And me? I was the monitor. The eternal responsibility of maintaining silence fell on me yet again. On the last day too! Can you imagine? I wanted to just melt away and become invisible. But no, I stood up, clapping my hands like some traffic policeman at a chaotic crossing.
“Quiet! Shh! Please sit down!”
“Ma’am aa sakti hain kabhi bhi!”

Did they listen? Obviously not. They looked at me as if I had started singing opera in a fish market. Some even copied my hand gestures behind my back, making the rest laugh. I was torn between laughing with them and fulfilling my ‘monitor duty’.

Time ticked on. The sun had fully risen outside, flooding the room with heat and brightness. I could hear the crows cawing and the squirrels running across the windows. But inside, the tension kept rising. My excitement slowly started to feel like a punishment. Why weren’t the teachers coming? Why weren’t they sticking to their word?

Finally, around 10-ish, we heard heavy footsteps in the corridor. Our class went from zoo-level noise to pin-drop silence in exactly two seconds. It was a miracle. A few seconds later, a group of teachers entered, holding stacks of report cards. Some of them looked so casual, as if they were just going for a stroll in the park.

At that moment, I didn’t know whether to cry with relief or to throw a chalk at them for making us wait so long.

Finally.

The teacher started calling out names. One by one, students went up to receive their report cards. Some came back with wide smiles, others with tears brimming in their eyes, and some tried to hide their cards as if they were carrying top-secret documents.

When my name was called, I stood up slowly, feeling my legs go wobbly. My heart pounded in my ears. I took each step to the teacher’s table like I was walking on a tightrope over a crocodile pit.

She handed me my card with a half-smile. I took it, closed my eyes for a second, and opened it.

I had topped the class.

I read it again and again to be sure. I had done it. I had really done it.

But you know what? The excitement had drained by then. The magic of this moment had been eaten up by the long hours of waiting, the jokes, the noise, and the disappointment at the teachers’ delay.

I looked at my marks, then at the teacher, then back at my card. I felt a strange hollowness inside. I forced a smile and returned to my bench.

I still can’t believe that the teachers didn’t keep their promise. That they weren’t punctual. That they weren’t ready with the results when they promised. That they missed their deadline. And that they taught us a lesson for life.

This is how the society is shaped, from indirect lessons of life.

We hear so many speeches about discipline and values. We are given moral science lessons, we are asked to recite “Early to bed and early to rise…” and so many other golden rules. But in reality, the grown-ups don’t always follow what they preach. Today, I saw that so clearly.

At home, everyone was happy when I showed them my report card. Dad patted my head, Mom hugged me, Grandma gave me an extra piece of mithai. They were all so proud. And don’t get me wrong, I felt happy too. But somewhere inside me, a small part of that pure, untouched excitement was lost forever.

I think I grew up a little today. Maybe not in height, but in my mind. I realised that life isn’t always about perfect timings and flawless plans. You can do your best, you can show up early, you can polish your shoes and tie your ribbons perfectly — but sometimes, the world doesn’t work according to your neat little timetable.

I also understood why some of my classmates laughed and played. Maybe they already knew this. Maybe they had learnt to not expect too much from promises. Maybe they had already adjusted to a world where delays are normal and being too early makes you a fool.

But I don’t want to become like that completely. I want to keep that small spark alive — the one that makes me show up on time, the one that makes me hope people will do what they say, the one that makes me prepare and polish and try. Even if the world disappoints me sometimes, I want to keep that part of me.

Tonight, I will keep my report card under my pillow. Maybe that sounds childish, but I want to sleep with the proof of my hard work close to me. Even if the final moment didn’t turn out as magical as I had imagined, the effort behind it was still mine.

Tomorrow, I will probably wake up with new dreams. Maybe next year, I’ll be more practical. Maybe I won’t rush so early. Or maybe I still will. I don’t know yet. But today, I learnt that life’s biggest lessons often come wrapped in small disappointments.

It’s funny how a simple result day could teach me so much more than the whole year’s moral science book.

So, here I am, writing all this down before I forget. Before I grow up and start laughing at these things like the others. Before I start telling younger kids, “Don’t get so excited, nothing ever happens on time.”

I don’t want to become that person.

Today was not just a result day. It was a day that tested my patience, my hope, my trust. It was a day that showed me the gap between what is taught and what is done.

And maybe, just maybe, that gap is what we need to keep crossing again and again to stay human.

Anyway, I need to go now. Mom is calling me to help with dinner. Dad is waiting to tell his friends on the phone about my first position. Grandma has already started telling all the neighbours.

But in my heart, there’s a quiet voice repeating:

It’s today. The day I topped the class. The day I understood society a little more. The day I learnt that sometimes the wait is longer than you expect, and the lesson is bigger than any mark on a report card.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s more important than the marks themselves.

Goodnight, diary.