The warden's whistle cut through the air like a warning bell, followed by her signature yell. "Girls, out now! Don't make me come inside!"
We were already ready, thankfully, so our bay was the first to step out. But the warden wasn't letting anyone off easy—she marched past each dorm cabin like a commander inspecting troops, glaring at anyone still fussing over kajal or earrings.
I ducked my head and clutched my dupatta, silently thanking the heavens that we escaped her scolding today. Even our shoes were on, dupattas pinned, and hair neatly in place—an actual miracle considering how chaotic dressing time usually was.
I carried just a small sling bag with me. Inside were the essentials: a mini notebook, some rough magazine notes, and two pens. I had a feeling Nishanth wouldn't carry anything useful—especially not today. I forgot to remind him earlier, and honestly, who would think of carrying pens and paper on a cultural day? But someone had to.
So far, only three people knew about the magazine project—me, Nishanth, and our computer sir. We'd been keeping it that way on purpose, not to create suspense, but because we weren't ready yet. We didn't want too many eyes on it before we were confident in what we had. For everyone else, it was just assumed I was helping computer sir with behind-the-stage coordination.
As we came out into the corridor, another warden stopped us. "Wait, wait, wait! Don't rush. Stand in a line! We'll take all the girls together to the auditorium."
That was the rule here—uniformed movements, minimal chaos, maximum control. Maybe it was the no-phone policy, or maybe it was the fact that we were still technically school kids in their eyes. But there were no photos being taken. No mirrors being angled for selfies, no bursts of giggles about group shots. Just girls in beautiful clothes, standing in lines, waiting for wardens to give the signal.
And somehow, that struck me harder than I expected.
In my past life, once college started, dressing up wasn't just about feeling good—it was about showing off. Every festival, farewell, or freshers' day was just another excuse for photoshoots. People spent more time arguing over filters than actually enjoying the event.
Every conversation turned into a debate about which angle looked better or how many likes the post would get. Compliments got replaced by comment tags. Real excitement became a rehearsed pose. People forgot to actually talk to each other. They only spoke to the screen.
But here? There were no phones. No filters. No digital performance.
Just girls—excited, nervous, glowing—quietly waiting to walk together, their eyes shining with anticipation, not for likes or shares, but for the moment itself.
And for the first time, I didn't miss the camera.
Because somehow, this felt more real.
More alive.
When we reached the auditorium, most of the girls were being made to sit together in neat rows under the watchful eyes of two wardens. But I didn't follow them.
Instead, I slipped my permission letter from the sling bag and showed it to the warden in charge of seating. She narrowed her eyes at the paper, checked the signature, then gave a small nod. "Go. But stay near the teacher who signed this," she said sharply, as if I was being granted top-secret access.
I nodded, offered her a polite smile, and started moving towards the front rows where the stage lights already spilled a soft glow.
As I walked past, Pavani leaned forward from her seat and whispered loudly, "Nila, are you really planning a surprise dance?"
I smirked. "Nope. But there is a surprise."
Before they could question further, I picked up the pace and reached the area near the stage, where our computer-sir stood, holding a clipboard and scanning the flow of performances. The decor team had done a great job—simple cloth drapes in gold and maroon, a flower arch on one corner, and warm fairy lights looped across the top made it look festive but elegant.
Sir spotted me and smiled. "Wow, you came earlier than expected, Nila."
"I thought I should come early and help out as much as I can, sir. Nishanth won't be joining us at the start—he's in the dance performance," I replied, pulling out my notepad like I meant business.
Just then, as if on cue, Nishanth popped out from behind one of the curtain wings, already in costume. "Sir, don't believe her sweet words. She's a micro-manager in disguise. If you let her help, she might end up micro-managing you too."
I shot him a glare. "I'm just organised, okay?"
"Tomato, thomato," he said with a grin, already backing away.
Computer sir chuckled. "Okay, okay. Stop bickering, you two. Thanks for the help, Nila. And you—" he turned to Nishanth, "get lost before your performance starts."
Nishanth gave a dramatic salute and jogged off backstage.
And with that, the evening truly began.
The opening was a long line of formalities. Speech after speech from school management—principal, then vice-principal, and finally, a few staff members involved in organizing the fresher's day. I tried my best to remain attentive but my mind was already racing with backstage arrangements and the magazine checklist.
Finally, after nearly 30 minutes of speeches, the actual program began.
The first performance was a solo by a boy from 9th grade—a devotional song dedicated to Lord Krishna. His voice was angelic, high-pitched yet controlled, and there was a moment of stunned silence before the hall erupted into loud applause. Even teachers looked surprised.
Then came a Bharatanatyam performance by a 9th-grade girl. She'd draped a proper saree—not the readymade costume type—but still carried the elegance and discipline of a seasoned dancer. Her expressions, footwork, and timing made everyone sit up straighter. It wasn't just a school performance—it was a celebration of art.
Next came a group of girls singing a traditional folk song—something upbeat with rhythmic claps and harmonies. The Nattukuthu style brought a fresh energy, and I saw a few younger students swaying along in their seats.
And then, it was time.
Nishanth's group performance.
Seven boys entered the stage along with Nishanth. All of them wore oversized black shirts and military-patterned pants. The spotlight flickered once, then settled on them as the beat dropped and the performance began.
From the very first step, they brought a fierce energy. Their moves were tight, their expressions confident, and the audience responded with claps and cheers. But it was only just starting.
Right before the second song kicked in, they pulled off a surprise mid-performance transformation. One of the boys ran to the side and threw out rolled-up lungis, and like a magic act in motion, the boys tied them on top of their pants in perfect sync, not missing a single beat. As the folk song rhythm began to thrum through the speakers, they unbuttoned their black shirts halfway, revealing plain white vests underneath.
The audience went wild.
Now they looked like the perfect folk dance crew—raw, earthy, authentic. There was a swagger in their steps and a beat in their soul. The lungis flared as they danced with rhythmic jumps and stomps, and the crowd roared louder with every beat drop.
They started with a mashup of hit Tamil dance numbers, and the auditorium's energy lifted instantly. The lights dimmed and flickered in time with the beats, and when the song "Kaasu Panam" from Soodhu Kavvum blasted through the speakers, the entire hall practically vibrated.
It wasn't just the sound—it was the choreography, the sync, the attitude. Nishanth was right at the
It didn't feel like a school performance anymore.
It felt like a celebration of being young, wild, and unapologetically themselves.
I couldn't stop smiling.
Even Computer Sir beside me whispered, "Well… that escalated perfectly."
I simply nodded, watching Nishanth throw his arm up and spin to the beat like he belonged on that stage more than anywhere else in the world.
I made a mental note: This performance has to be the feature image for the first article on the magazine's culture section.
Because how could we not include this?
It wasn't just a performance.
It was a moment.
For a moment, I forgot we were in a no-phone school, because this was the kind of moment people would kill to record.
This.
This is what freshers' day should feel like.