THE QUIET CORNER

In the sleepy hill town of Auli, where the air smelled of pine and evenings arrived wrapped in golden mist, there stood an old government school—paint peeling from its walls, windows that refused to shut during the monsoon, and a rusty bell that sounded more tired than loud. But within those walls lived a world of laughter, secrets, scraped knees, chalk dust, and unspoken dreams.

In Class 10-B, on the very last bench by the window that looked out at the hills, sat Karan and Arjun.

They weren’t the toppers. They didn’t raise their hands first. They weren’t favourites in school assemblies or sports events. But everyone knew them — teachers, peons, the principal, even the chaiwala outside the gate. Because they were inseparable. And because together, they brought a kind of warmth into the classroom that no lesson ever could.

They were called “The Last Benchers” — a name that stuck not as a label of laziness, but of quiet loyalty. For ten long years, through ink-stained shirts, shared tiffins, and exam anxieties, they sat side by side, like punctuation marks in each other’s stories.

Karan was the quiet one. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, people listened. His notebooks were full of doodles — not of superheroes or bikes, but of dancers in motion. What no one knew was that he danced alone every evening on the terrace, letting rhythm speak what words couldn’t.

Arjun, on the other hand, had a voice that could fill an auditorium. He was loud, dramatic, always mimicking someone — a teacher, a politician, the school principal. He had a gift for turning even the dullest morning assembly into a show, much to the irritation (and secret amusement) of the teachers.

They were opposites. One dreamt with his eyes closed. The other lived wide awake. But together, they made the kind of friendship stories are written about.

Their class teacher, Mrs. Sharma, believed in stories — especially the ones that went unnoticed.

Most teachers were quick to write them off as “backbench distractions.” But Mrs. Sharma didn’t believe in benches deciding futures. She had a rule:

“Every child is a chapter — some open early, some take time. But none should be skipped.”

She noticed Karan’s drawings. One afternoon, after class, she quietly placed a book of contemporary Indian dance on his desk. No lecture, no questions — just a small Post-it that read: “You don’t need permission to feel alive.”

Arjun, of course, had tested her patience many times — once by impersonating her during morning attendance. But she didn’t scold him. Instead, she handed him a blank sheet and said, “Make me laugh — but on stage this time.” That year, Arjun wrote and directed the annual day skit. It was a hit. The principal laughed the loudest.

For the first time, Arjun wasn't mimicking teachers behind their backs — he was performing in front of an audience that applauded him.

Karan, encouraged by Arjun, danced. Just once. Under the school’s open sky stage, in front of strangers. His legs shook. His heart raced. But when he finished, the applause didn’t stop. Arjun whistled the loudest.

Mrs. Sharma didn’t say much that day. She just smiled. She knew this was only the beginning.

The last bench remained theirs.

But now, it wasn’t a corner for forgotten students.

It was the birthplace of stories.

Of two boys whose lives were quietly transformed by a teacher who chose to believe.

NEXT DAY

The morning the announcement was made, a new kind of energy swept through the school corridors. The notice board outside the principal’s office wore a fresh sheet with bold letters that read:

"State Talent Scholarship Competition – Dance | Drama | Music

Winners receive full academic scholarships."

Whispers flew like chalk dust in the air.

“Did you see?”

“It’s a state-level thing!”

“They’re picking students for scholarship—finally!”

“Arjun will definitely go for drama, no?”

“Karan too... remember their performance on annual day?”

In Class 10-B, Arjun read the notice, already brimming with ideas. “This is it, Karan! The perfect stage. You and me. Final year. Let’s go out with a bang.”

But Karan didn’t nod. He didn’t grin.

Instead, he looked down at his hands and said softly, “I think I want to try solo this time.”

Arjun blinked. “Solo? Why?”

Karan hesitated. “I don’t know. I just… I want to see if I can stand alone. Just once.”

The words landed like a missed cue in a well-rehearsed play.

For the first time in ten years, a quiet crack appeared between them. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a slow drift.

They still walked home, still shared their bench, still laughed occasionally — but something was missing.

The jokes came less often. Arjun’s usual dramatic lunchtime impersonations were shorter. Karan no longer showed him the moves he was working on after school. It was silence wrapped in politeness. And for them, that was the worst kind of silence.

Mrs. Sharma noticed it before either of them said a word.

In lunch break, long before most students had trickled in, she stood quietly near the last bench. A gentle breeze from the open window played with the curtains. She looked at the two empty seats that once overflowed with laughter and loyalty.

And then, she left a small folded paper on Arjun’s side of the bench. No name. No signature. Just a line written in her neat, graceful handwriting:

“Encourage your friend.

Don’t think that you will lose him.”

But when he read those two lines, something stirred inside him.

A memory, maybe. Of the time Karan had once waited silently in the rain just to return Arjun’s forgotten sketchbook. Of how Karan always knew when Arjun was pretending to be happy.

Arjun folded the note and kept it in his diary.

That afternoon, instead of going home, he walked to Karan’s terrace. He heard the faint thump of feet against concrete even before he reached. Karan was dancing — eyes closed, lost in the rhythm only he could hear.

Arjun stood at the doorway, watching.

When Karan stopped, breathless, he looked up — surprised to see him there.

“I got your steps wrong,” Arjun joked.

Karan didn’t smile. Not at first.

Arjun walked closer. “Why didn’t you tell me? That this meant so much?”

“I thought if I chose to stand alone… maybe I’d lose you,” Karan admitted, the fear raw in his voice.

Arjun took out the note and held it up.

“She already knew. Even before we did.”

They both looked at the paper. And then at each other.

“She’s always known,” Karan whispered. “Hasn’t she?”

“Always,” Arjun nodded. “Silently.”

That evening, the last bench in Class 10-B was filled again — not just with two boys, but with belief, respect, and a quiet promise.

Mrs. Sharma didn’t say anything when she walked past them the next morning. She just smiled — the same soft smile that had silently lit up more dreams than words ever could.

The week leading up to the talent competition turned the school into a rehearsal ground. Music leaked from every classroom, dialogues echoed in the corridors, and the air carried the nervous hope of young dreams.

Karan was no longer the quiet boy hiding his dance. He practiced boldly now—sometimes on the terrace of the school, sometimes in the abandoned staff room where a dusty speaker still worked. His steps grew sharper, his confidence stronger. He was preparing for the performance of his life.

Arjun, too, was busy—but not on stage.

He sat under the old tree near the back gate, watching rehearsals, joking with juniors, helping others with props. But never practicing.

Karan noticed.

Day after day, he kept expecting Arjun to pull him aside and say, “Let’s try this together.” But he didn’t. And slowly, the silence between them returned—not of anger, but of something left unsaid.

One evening, while rehearsing behind the school speaker near the storeroom, Karan paused mid-dance. The music stopped, but it wasn’t the silence that bothered him.

It was what was missing.

No loud whistling.

No fake judge’s voice yelling “Zero marks!”

No Arjun clapping off-beat just to irritate him.

No voice calling him “Michael Jackson from Auli.”

He stared at the speaker. And there it was.

A note. Folded neatly. Tucked behind the volume knob.

“The music may guide your steps, but it’s your people who give you rhythm.

Go bring your rhythm back.”

— Your Teacher

Karan didn’t need a name. He knew who had left it.

That night, under a sky scattered with stars, he showed up at Arjun’s house carrying two packets of chips, a bottle of cola, and a half-eaten bar of chocolate.

Arjun opened the door, surprised. “Party without reason?”

“Nope,” Karan grinned. “Scriptwriting mission.”

They settled on the floor of Arjun’s room, surrounded by snacks and the smell of late-night ideas.

“I was thinking,” Karan said, “What if we don’t just perform together?”

Arjun looked puzzled.

“What if we write a piece,” Karan continued, “where even if we perform solo, our talents shine equally? Like… two parts of the same story. You speak. I move. You show emotion through words. I show it through dance.”

Arjun leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Like one soul split into two forms.”

“Exactly,” Karan said, pointing a chip at him. “Script aisi honi chahiye ki even if we are separate on stage, we’re connected.”

Arjun grabbed a notebook, already scribbling. “Then we’re not just performing. We’re telling something.”

That night, laughter returned. So did the whistling. The mimicry. The late-night promises of “This time, we’ll make it count.”

TALENT DAY

The school ground was dressed for the occasion—colourful banners, a row of serious-faced judges, students and parents filling the plastic chairs. Backstage was chaotic, but among the noise stood two boys—quiet, focused, ready.

Performance Number 18:

“Two Stories, One Heart” — Karan & Arjun

The curtains opened.

Stage left — Arjun stood, spotlight on him.

Stage right — Karan stood, his body still, music ready.

Arjun began: a monologue about a boy who always spoke, but was never truly heard.

Karan moved — his dance mirroring each feeling, each silence, each beat of the story.

When Arjun spoke of fear, Karan stumbled.

When Arjun spoke of love, Karan’s hands opened like a flower blooming.

When Arjun shouted in anger, Karan spun like a storm.

When he finally whispered, “But I was never alone,” Karan walked to center stage… and stood beside him.

Together. Finally.

The spotlight merged.

The applause came like a wave. Loud, rising, unstoppable.

And from somewhere in the audience came a familiar whistle.

They looked out.

Mrs. Sharma stood under the shade of a tree, her eyes moist, her smile quiet—but proud.

She didn’t need to say anything.

Because she had already written the story.

She just let them perform it.

And as Karan and Arjun bowed together, hands clasped, the last benchers finally stood center stage—exactly where they were always meant to be.

FEW WEEKS LATER

The school buzzed louder than ever. Winter had passed, and spring brought with it not just blooming rhododendrons on the hills but something more nerve-wracking — Result Day.

Crowds formed early around the old wooden notice board outside the principal’s office. The white sheet was freshly pinned. Neatly typed. Title bold and underlined:

State Talent Scholarship Results – Final Selection

Note: Selected students must secure a minimum of 70% in Board Exams to qualify for full scholarship support.

Arjun read the list thrice. Just to be sure.

There it was —

Karan B.

Arjun G.

Their names. Together.

But the celebration was short-lived. The second line hit hard — “Minimum 70% in Boards.”

And that’s where the real battle began. 

They got scholarship but 70%???

“They can perform, sure — but can they pass?”

“Last benchers can’t become toppers overnight.”

Teachers who once rolled their eyes at their jokes now looked doubtful. Some even shook their heads, already deciding their failure.

Except one.

Mrs. Sharma.

She didn’t say a word. No warnings. No sarcastic reminders. No lectures on time management.

NEXT DAY AFTERNOON 

After school, when the class had emptied out and only the wind moved through the open windows, Karan and Arjun found something on their desk.

Two textbooks — thick, worn but clean. One for Science, one for English.

And between them, a note written in neat, familiar handwriting:

“You don’t need to prove anyone wrong.

You only need to prove to yourself that you can rise.”

— Your Teacher

They didn’t need to ask who had left it.

That evening, they sat near the school steps, trying to study.

But numbers blurred. Paragraphs made no sense. Arjun accidentally turned the Physics book upside down and still didn’t realize.

“This book has something personal against me,” he muttered.

Karan laughed, but he was equally lost.

What they didn’t know was that from a classroom window, Mrs. Sharma was watching quietly — her eyes filled with something deeper than sympathy. Understanding.

That night, she made a choice.

If they couldn’t ask for help, she would give it anyway — silently.

From the next afternoon onward, the magic began.

Each day after class, they’d return to their bench and find handwritten notes — simplified explanations, highlighted formulas, easy tricks to solve difficult problems, grammar hacks with funny examples.

The notes were clever, kind, and oddly personal.

Arjun got a Maths shortcut written using cricket scores.

Karan found History mnemonics using dance move names.

But there was never a name.

Just folded papers, always waiting.

“Who is doing this?” Arjun whispered one day, flipping through the pages.

“I don’t know,” Karan said, “but I don’t want it to stop.”

A few more days passed like that.

And then, one evening, curiosity won.

They decided to stay hidden near the school garden, watching through the dusty classroom window as shadows moved inside.

And then they saw her.

Mrs. Sharma.

Standing at their desk, writing carefully, placing the notes under their books. Her back slightly bent, her sari sleeve brushing the wooden edge, her face calm.

She looked around once — not to be seen, but to ensure no one saw her.

But two boys did.

That evening, something changed.

Not in the notes.

Not in their routine.

But in their hearts.

They didn’t say a word to her.

Didn’t mention what they saw.

Didn’t break the quiet effort she had made to never take credit.

Instead, they studied harder.

Because now they weren’t just learning to pass.

They were learning to honour someone’s silent belief in them.

They still laughed. Still joked. Still struggled.

But every page they turned felt lighter — because they knew someone had turned it before them, just to make sure they wouldn’t give up.

And even though they never told her they knew —

Mrs. Sharma smiled a little differently when they started answering questions in class.

AFTER 2 MONTHS 

The school wore its finest colours that day — flowers at the gate, laughter in the air, and farewell songs echoing through the halls. Teachers gave speeches, juniors clicked selfies, and every goodbye came with a wish.

Karan and Arjun stood at the centre of it all — the same boys who once sat unnoticed at the back of Class 10-B. But today, they were different.

Their final board results had been declared that morning.

Karan B. – 75%

Arjun G. – 72%

Cheers filled the corridor when their names were read. Not just because they had passed, but because they had become something.

A letter arrived with the results too — they had both been selected for a full scholarship at -- London School of Performing Arts.

Their dreams, once drawn in margins and whispered between classes, had finally found a destination.

That evening, before leaving Auli, they returned to where it all began — Class 10-B.

The room was empty, golden sunlight pouring in through the same window. Their bench — the last one near the wall — still waited, quiet and familiar.

They sat down.

And there it was — a folded note placed gently on the desk.

Karan opened it. The handwriting was unmistakable.

“One day, the world will know your names.

But I always knew your worth — from the very first page."

- Your Teacher

Don’t forget where you began — and who you are.

The last bench wasn’t the end of the line.

It was the start of your story.”*

— Mrs. Sharma

No words were needed.

Only a smile.

And a silent promise.

That night, they left Auli — chasing dreams across oceans, carrying a piece of home with them.

5 YEARS LATER

London had given them the stage they always longed for.

Karan now choreographed for global companies. Arjun wrote and directed plays that moved hearts. But one name still lived quietly in the corner of their minds:

Mrs. Sharma.

They were preparing a surprise tribute video for her retirement when the message came.

She had been hospitalised.

Late-stage cancer.

There was no ceremony. No speeches. Only silence and urgency.

They returned to Auli without thinking twice.

In the hospital room, she looked frail but dignified — the same grace, the same calm.

“You both,” she whispered, “still together?”

“Always,” Arjun said, holding her hand.

“We wanted to say thank you,” Karan added gently. “For seeing us… when no one else did.”

They confessed everything — how they had always known it was her.

The notes during their fights.

The study guides left on their bench.

The quiet presence after every broken moment.

“You never said it,” Arjun smiled, “but we always felt it.”

“I didn’t need to say it,” she whispered. “You found your way.”

They brought in the best doctors. Tried everything.

But some goodbyes are written softly.

Few days later, Mrs. Sharma passed away, surrounded by quiet prayers and hearts she had forever changed.

WEEKS LATER 

A new building stood proudly beside the old school in Auli.

Its name was written in wood, hand-painted with care:

The Sharma School of Dance & Theatre

-- Founded by the ones she believed in.

The school welcomed children from every background — especially those who sat unnoticed at the back. The dream was simple: let every voice be heard, every step be seen, every story be told.

Karan now taught dance — with the same patience she had once shown him.

Arjun led the theatre classes — encouraging confidence over perfection.

And in the first classroom, one bench remained empty.

The last bench.

Her bench now.

Because though Mrs. Sharma was no longer there, her presence echoed in every child who stood up for the first time, who spoke, who danced, who dreamed.

(NOTE - Behind Every Curtain Call, There’s Someone Who Chose To See The Unseen.)