Why are there some days when I can't practice gratitude at all? It's all in the books: celebrate small wins, notice and appreciate acts of kindness, reciprocate, smile at people, embrace yourself, and a million other things that require deliberate, forceful actions to practice gratitude. Yet, on certain days, a thought creeps in: it's a lousy life. And then, a zillion others from the same family follow: I hate what I'm doing. I hate that a big part of my time goes towards things that don't contribute to building my career. I hate that I can't go to the library right now and read The Psychopathology of Everyday Life by Sigmund Freud, but instead, I have to assign House Captains to check nails and uniforms. And I absolutely detest the realization that, despite everything, the time I spend at school remains the best part of my day.

Once the morning assembly is over, I head to the commerce block at the far south of the main building to discuss our upcoming commerce fest with the HOD, Kalpana Bakolia Ma'am. I knock on the door to the staff room, a sheaf of ideas submitted by the team members in my left hand. When I don't hear a reply, I enter tentatively. Romil turns around, his gaze lingering on me a bit longer than I'd like, and then he turns back to Kalpana Ma'am, a forty-something, portly woman wearing a silk saree and inspecting a similar sheaf of papers through her spectacles. I walk toward them both and greet her with a rote, 'Good morning, Ma'am.'

'Good morning, Maithili.' She responds without looking up from the presentation. I steal a glance at the papers; a picture of the Shark Tank judges catches my eye. Nice strategy: using something trendy and replicating a popular show will definitely pique people's interest. But how very unimaginative. I focus on my presentation: SMS (Stock Market Simulation). It's innovative, uses resources from last year's computer science project, and is the perfect game for the public's rising interest in the stock market. It accelerates students' financial acumen in real-time without risking real money. Plus, it's a great advertisement for our app developers—Rishabh, Dheeraj, and Sukirti.

'This is good. A show like Shark Tank is really popular—' Kalpana Ma'am begins when Romil interrupts.

'Besides, we can actually help fund the seed capital for the winners with the contribution money. And the temptation of the prize will appeal to a wider crowd. It's gonna be the real deal!'

'What do you mean by contribution money?' I ask, turning sharply toward Romil.

'What do you mean what do I mean by contribution money? It's implicit, isn't it? Commerce students need to contribute to the commerce fest.'

'But what's the need?' I turn to Kalpana Ma'am. 'Ma'am, here's my idea. We play a stock market simulation game, repurposing the star app our computer science team made as a project last year.' Kalpana Ma'am takes the sheaf of papers from me. 'Low cost. Innovative. And it's going to appeal to many—I'm sure you'll agree the current fad of earning from home among the youth has risen exponentially. People love the capital market. This isn't just a simulation game or an opportunity to win prizes, but a chance to learn and hone a vital skill.'

'But a commerce fest without contributions? What are we, charity?' Romil scoffs.

'No. Ultimately, those who play will have to buy a 200 rupees ticket for a fictional stock in, say, five fictional companies. We'll instruct them to download the Stroke Stock app, where they start with an initial portfolio value. Then they'll play. Throughout, we'll give them fictional news updates on the app—things like government policies, product launches, mergers, or scandals that could skyrocket or tank the stocks. Using these insights, they will trade the stocks. At the end, the person with the highest portfolio value wins. There will be bonus points for smart moves like portfolio diversification and strategies to mitigate losses.'

'Wins what?' Kalpana ma'am asks.

'Huh?' I reply, confused.

'The person with the highest portfolio wins what?' she asks again, her big, round, kohl-lined eyes peering at me over her reading glasses.

'Uh... the money. Whatever their portfolio is worth at the end of the designated time period.'

'Okay, but what if everyone has a negative balance at the end? Would you take more money from them?'

'No, Ma'am. The app is meant to educate with limited traders. It works with a set of constants—there are no new market entrants, and the total investment amount is fixed. In no case will everyone lose. The app's designed that way—'

'It's unique, Ma'am,' Romil interjects, 'I can give her team that, but I don't see enough marketability in it. Plus, there are no stakes here at all. Investing two hundred can fetch ten people a what? A maximum of 2000 in total, and that is to say, if the winner wins all and everyone else loses their money.'

'But, Ma'am, we will give them certificates—' I try to say, but Kalpana Ma'am cuts me in.

'I agree with Romil. Romil's idea of Shark Tank and offering the prize money is a great treat to dangle. Commerce and non-commerce students alike will flock to the fest. It'll be a hit.' Kalpana Ma'am turns to Romil, who's swelling with pride. 'Romil, good job.' She points a pen at him, 'I like your idea. You'll be in charge of collecting the contributions. Let me see—one lakh in prize money for the winner.' My mouth drops open. 'Including other miscellaneous costs, divided by how many students in both 11th and 12th?'

'About two thousand,' I mumble.

'What?' Kalpana ma'am asks, her brows furrowing.

'No, I meant the contribution.' My heart somersaults. 'We have 63 students.'

'So, collect 2,000 rupees per student, Romil, and manage the funds, marketing, and everything Shark Tank. Maithili,' She points the pen at me now. 'You handle everything else—decorations, brunch, and make sure it all fits within the school's allocated budget for the fest. Clear?'

'Yes, Ma'am.' Romil says, and I nod.

'Now, get back to your classes.'

I have been feeling claustrophobic. As we step outside, it hits me—the room only started to feel stuffy the moment I heard about the contribution money. I look at Romil, who has returned to his swanky stride. I feel something heavy settling in my gut, making me slouch and walk sluggishly. Where would I get two thousand rupees for the contribution? I glance back at the staff room. Should I go back and ask her to consider how scholarship students like myself will pay such a hefty sum? No, there's only one scholarship student in commerce—me, or perhaps one more student in 11th commerce. It would be too cheap of me to ask for an exception. I'm sweating, and I only notice it when I ball my hands into fists in a nervous tic.

'Your idea was good.'

'Huh?' I snap out of my thoughts to find Romil walking beside me. 'Obviously, it was.'

'But mine was better,' he says, grinning stupidly.

'I agree,' I pause to watch his smirk falter before adding, 'Yours is better because half the teen population are drama addicts. They go wagging their tongues wherever there's drama or a whiff of gossip. So yeah, it's perfect!'

He chuckles, 'Well, someone got burnt!' I roll my eyes. 'Glad to know I've got your approval, though.' He adds.

I shrug. 'Don't flatter yourself.'

We take our seats in class—mine, the third from the left in the second row, and his, the fourth from the left in the third row. I am deaf to the chatter around me. The worry of not being able to gather the money gnaws at my insides. I think about the piggy bank I raided just recently—one thousand two hundred and fifty rupees gone for stationery and supplies. It's nearly empty now, and I know there's no chance I have two thousand rupees left.

My mind drifts, wandering through memories stored deep within. I remember how three years ago, I passed the fully-funded scholarship exam for this high-end school, the kind even many affluent families couldn't afford. But within months of being here, I realized I needed money constantly—for projects, for stationery, for uniforms, for a variety of what-nots. I scraped by then. We were young; I could borrow. I'd exchange my study notes for small favours. Slowly, as I made friends with these super-rich people, I just couldn't do it anymore. I felt cheap, like an extortionist.

I resorted to other ways. I would pilfer money Papa gave me for groceries, use less oil, less milk in our food, and stash some away for my school needs. It worked for a while, until last year, when the students decided to start a tradition of collecting seven hundred rupees for Teacher's Day gifts and private parties. I was crushed. I even tried looking for part-time jobs, but no one would hire me at sixteen. Thankfully, at the very last moment, the school banned such parties to maintain the integrity of teachers and prevent any bias from personal favours. A small victory, sure, but it was enough to make me realize how fragile my plan was. How fragile I was. No part-time job, no money, no shot at college—zilch at a decent job.

That night, in an impulsive fit, I took whatever was left of my savings and bought a bag of export rejects from a street vendor. A gamble, really. Luckily, I found so many nice pieces of clothes and sewed the ones that had holes or seams with a daisy embroidery I learned by trial and error. I liked it, so I made it my signature. I am currently selling the lot to stores that sell export rejects at discounted prices. My pieces sell on the upcycled section with a fat markup of two hundred and fifty percent. People love a good 'sustainable fashion' story, so I play into it. Take a tee that cost me Rs 100. After my embroidery work and a little flair, the store sells it for Rs 350. But here's the catch: the store keeps 60% of the profit, and I get the other 40%. So, out of the Rs 250 profit margin, the store takes Rs 150, and I walk away with Rs 100. Which, when you think about it, means I make my Rs 100 back, plus another Rs 100 in profit for every tee I sell. Not bad for something that nearly got tossed in the reject pile.

Back in the present, I stand to greet the teacher, Mr. Gautam Kishore, following the rest of the class. I sit, open my book, and force my focus on the lesson, pushing away the troubling thoughts.

At the end of the class, my steps take me to my usual spot —the library—but I can't linger for long. There's this nervous energy that won't let my attention stay on anything for more than a couple of seconds. I decide to take my chances and ask my father.

When I get home, I count the money in my piggy bank. It totals three hundred and fifty-six rupees. I had recently spent most of it on three bundles of export rejects I bought from the vendor. Even though, I knew my situation all along, for some reason, I feel deflated anew. I don't know what I was expecting.

As I walk to our kitchen, which is cozied up in the corner of the living room—slash my bedroom—I imagine the life I could have had with a mother around. I wish Papa had remarried rather than drinking himself out of his wits after my mother ran away a year after giving birth to me. It was postpartum depression, or so I've reckoned. Why else would a mother leave her child to fend for herself?

I taste some leftover rice from the pan Papa made for breakfast. It's salty. Papa took this to lunch? I quickly prepare some wheat flour dough, tear it into small chunks, and add it to the rice, mixing in some water and letting it stew. Once the saltiness subsides and the rice becomes a little too soggy, I eat my lunch and open the first bundle I've stashed inside the floorboard space. It's a hybrid bundle with both good and bad quality sweaters and jackets for the upcoming season. I quickly sort out the jackets that could sell at a markup of five hundred percent or more and start working on the good and easy pieces first.

By seven o'clock, I have embellished three jackets and two jumpers. I pack up the scraps, stow them away under the floorboard, and start cooking dinner. When Papa arrives, I have the daal-roti ready.

Papa came into the kitchen as I was serving him. His six-foot-tall frame covered the doorframe to a degree.

'What did you eat in lunch?' he asks casually, storing the bottles of alcohol on the top rack.

'Uh, rice that you left,' I say tentatively, my eyes searching for any signs of possible divergence in his mood. I sniff; he isn't reeking. He is not drunk yet. Right time, I figure.

'Good,' he replies simply.

I walk around his bent figure and wait for him by the table. A few minutes later, he comes out of the kitchen, holding a glass and a bottle of alcohol in his hand. I bite the insides of my cheek. This is not a nice start.

'Uhm, papa?' I begin and wait, but he doesn't reply, so I ask, 'Papa, there is this school project that's going to help add to the final score.' I lie and pause, but no reply comes.

He shifts the plate to his side, tries to open the bottle with the kada in his hand, but fails, so he asks me, 'Go get the bottle opener.' I crush internally and go inside.

I can't do it. I am failing. I stand on my toes and open the upper drawer, fumbling about with my fingers to find the bottle opener, but I can't find it. My vision is blurring. I sniff and let the tears fall before I wipe them with the back of my hand. It's okay to borrow, I tell myself. It's okay; I can pay Sakshi back. She wouldn't mind. I exhale, sniff, and wipe my runny nose.

'Found it yet?!' Papa yells at the top of his voice, and I jump, hurting my wrist on an exposed nail on the edge of the shelf. I hiss. A trail of blood traces my skin, and a few droplets fall on the floor. I pull myself up on the countertop and quickly find the opener, adrenaline rushing through me.

'Got it!' I run and hand it to him. He takes it with relief spreading across his face. A couple of beads of sweat have formed on his balding forehead. I gaze at his head, my left hand pressing my right wrist.

'Anything else, Papa?' I ask.

He waves me away, and before touching his food, he opens the bottle with a pop.

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Shailey