They saw the gardener from Bihar watering the bougainvillea. They saw the watchman from Kerala reading a Malayala Manorama under a palm tree. They saw the canteen lady from Lucknow making samosas that smelled exactly like the ones in Lucknow.
The class snickered.
His mother laughed. "Beta, you are in Dubai, studying in a school for Indian diplomats' children, taught by a teacher from Bhopal, competing against kids from Kuwait. You are the poem about belonging." kendriya vidyalaya dubai
He slouched into the classroom. Mr. Sharma was already writing Vakya Rachna (Sentence Formation) on the board.
When he finished, there was silence. Then Mr. Sharma stood up. He didn't clap. He just wiped his eye with a handkerchief. They saw the gardener from Bihar watering the bougainvillea
Mr. Sharma turned, his eyes sharp. "Grammatically correct. Emotionally hollow. Sit down."
On the day of the Kavi Sammelan, the auditorium was packed. Parents in saris and kanduras sat side by side. Aisha performed first—a sharp, witty poem about learning khari boli from her Emirati grandfather who watched Sholay on repeat. The class snickered
Rohan smiled. "Did we? My Amma is sending me sadya (feast) for dinner. My father says he's proud. And you taught me that 'neela aasmaan' is not just a colour—it's a feeling."