Mita waved goodbye to her mother at the gate. She stood watching the familiar figure grow smaller, swallowed by the crowd. Then she took a deep breath and turned into a sea of unfamiliar faces.

St. Theresa’s Convent High School loomed ahead.

She hitched up her brand-new satchel, tightened the brown sash over her pink pinafore, and cringed her way through throngs of squealing girls until she found the Counsellor’s room.

“5th Std, Ma’am. I’m the new student,” Mita said.

The Counsellor, clutching a thick bundle of class lists, pushed back an unruly curl. “Second floor, Room 202.”

Mita climbed the broad stone steps, her hand brushing the cool, ancient wall. Her old school—Vidya Mandir—had cement walls. She imagined her friends there now, reciting the Pasaydaan. Just then, she heard “Lord save us, Amen” echoing from upstairs.

Room 202. She found it. Politely asked to be let in.

Ms. D’Souza waved her toward an empty space in the fourth row. Forty-two curious pairs of eyes followed her as she squeezed in and slipped her lunchbox under the desk.

Ms. D’Souza ran her pen down the attendance sheet. She frowned.

“There must be a mistake. You’re not listed here, Mita. Try 5th B—just next door.”

Mita flushed as all eyes turned to her again. She bolted her satchel shut, grabbed her lunchbox, and scuttled out.

Next door, she gave a nervous knock on 5th B. Mita, now freshly wiser, lingered on the threshold despite Ms. Mary’s wave.

“No, dear,” said Ms. Mary kindly. “Try 5th C. Next door.”

Banished once more, Mita bit her lip. She wished her father hadn’t taken the new job—from Mumbai to Bangalore. A promotion for him, yes. An utter demotion for her.

But 5th C had no place for her. Neither did 5th D. Nor E.

Now sweating and breathless, she rounded the corner into 5th F.

Mr. Xavier ran his pen down the list, muttering, “Mita, Mita…”
Then, with a sigh: “No, my dear child.”

More eyes. More giggles. Mita’s toes curled with the desperate wish to disappear.

But then—Mr. Xavier’s pen reversed direction, moving up the list.

“Ah!” he said, eyes lighting up. “Here! It’s written Sanyal Mita instead of Mita Sanyal. Yes, yes. Class, please welcome our new student.”

Knees trembling, Mita plonked herself down at the nearest empty desk.

Her benchmate turned and gave her a warm smile.

Oh, the difference between them and us.