The Question Paper Scandal
It all began on a humid afternoon behind the old canteen wall, where stories fermented like the scent of dried fish in the alleyways of their neighborhood. Prottoy, Shekhor, Jony, and Raju Chumma lounged together, half-hidden in the cracked shade, puffing cigars as if they were untouchable kings in a decaying empire. The smoke curled in slow spirals between them, carrying with it secrets, sarcasm, and the beginnings of another misadventure.
Prottoy leaned back, his grin sharp as a switchblade. "This college is a circus, and we're the only ones who know how to juggle the fire."
Shekhor—formerly known as Ghaura before his ego demanded the world recognize his flair—laughed through his nose. "Speak for yourself, bro. You might juggle, but I light the match."
Jony shifted nervously, not quite belonging, always the butt of jokes but unable to peel himself away. His eyes darted between Prottoy and Shekhor as if searching for safety in their bravado. Raju Chumma—Ryan to a few, Chumma to everyone else—snorted.
"More like light the match and burn your own pants, Ghaura."
They erupted in laughter, loud and unruly, the kind of sound that got them warnings from Mokbul Sir just last week. But the carefree smoke session would soon turn sour. Because chaos, when mixed with overconfidence, never needed much time to boil.
The Spark of Scandal
Rumors of a leaked question paper had begun to buzz through the college like flies on overripe mangoes. It started as a whisper from a class monitor, then bloomed into full-fledged gossip in the library corners. By the time it reached Prottoy, he wasn't surprised. He was the one who had stolen it.
Under the flickering light of a lab storeroom, Prottoy had struck a deal with Mokbul Sir. The teacher was desperate—debts, failed promotions, an affair whispered about by too many. Prottoy, cunning and reckless, saw his opening.
"Give me the paper," Prottoy said that night. "And I'll make sure it disappears into the right hands."
Mokbul Sir hesitated only a second.
But secrets are harder to contain than smoke. Prottoy's cockiness got the better of him. He bragged, half-drunk, during a rickshaw ride with Sweety Mam watching from behind tinted glasses. Word leaked. The scandal unfolded.
Swapping Shadows: Shekhor Becomes the Star
When things turned ugly, Montu Biri—once mistaken for comic relief—surprised everyone by staying silent. But Shekhor, whose temper could tear through walls, tried to fix it in the most Shekhor way possible: by overacting his innocence and throwing Prottoy under the bus.
Only, the neighborhood knew better.
Prottoy lashed back. "You want to act clean, Ghaura? Didn't you photocopy the whole damn set of answers and sell them to Khangari's gang for beer money?"
The group fractured. Jony, torn between loyalty and fear, stayed quiet. Chumma tried to mediate, arms flailing with exaggerated authority.
"We need to fix this, na! Otherwise, Mokbul Sir will drag us all down. And Sweety Mam... she's watching everything. Her eyes are CCTV."
Sweety Mam said nothing, her lips tight, but she knew. She knew of Mokbul's secret transactions. Of Prottoy's recklessness. Of Shekhor's desperation to matter.
Khangari: The King of the Undercurrents
Khangari wasn't your average student leader. He didn't just control votes—he controlled debts, threats, even gossip. He was the name you whispered when you wanted something to disappear.
He saw potential in Prottoy's scandal. An opportunity to tighten his grip.
"Join me," he told Prottoy one day. "Make the fire bigger. We'll both stay warm."
Prottoy hesitated, but only for a second. He liked fire.
With Khangari backing him, Prottoy's confidence bloomed into danger. He started naming names—Shekhor, Mokbul Sir, even the usually silent Sweety Mam. He threatened a full confession to the principal, knowing Khangari would shield him.
But loyalty in chaos is never a given. Khangari had his eyes on Shekhor too.
The Elder and the Money Mishap
Meanwhile, a subplot of absurdity unfolded involving the local elder—Dada Babu. Somehow, during the scandal's firestorm, Shekhor mistakenly handed him an envelope meant for Khangari's men. Inside: photocopies of the question paper and 5,000 taka.
Dada Babu thought it was rent money. He used it to pay off his long-standing tea tab and called Shekhor a "loyal tenant with good upbringing."
When Khangari's men came to collect, and Shekhor pointed at Dada Babu's tin-roofed tea shop, things descended into hilarious confrontation. Dada Babu threatened them with a rolling pin. Montu Biri, confused but wanting to help, tripped over a cat and knocked over the tea stove.
It took hours to clean up, and even longer to convince the police it wasn't a gang war.
The Reckoning: All Lies Unmasked
It all came to a head in the college courtyard. Prottoy stood tall, chin up, flanked by Khangari's goons. Shekhor stood opposite, twitchy, unpredictable, eyes darting like a cornered animal.
"You sold us out," Shekhor hissed.
"You betrayed your own shadow," Prottoy replied.
Chumma stepped between them. "Enough! Jony's had enough. Sweety Mam is watching. Mokbul Sir's already hiding in the storeroom. If you burn each other now, what will be left to rule?"
It worked—partially. A tense silence fell. Jony, tears in his eyes, finally shouted, "I never wanted any of this! You all treat me like furniture!"
Naznin appeared then, uninvited, her voice soft but cutting. "You all think this is a game? People's futures are burning. Mokbul Sir isn't the only one at fault. You're all villains in your own way."
Shekhor looked at Prottoy. Prottoy looked at Jony. Jony looked down.
No one won. But the masks were off.
Epilogue: What Comes After the Fire
Mokbul Sir was suspended.
Sweety Mam transferred to another school, but not before submitting a report that no one dared to read in full.
Khangari remained, his influence undented. Perhaps even stronger.
Shekhor and Prottoy stopped speaking. Their fire had consumed too much.
Montu Biri started his own tutoring business—"No Leaks, Just Logic"—which inexplicably did well.
Jony, for the first time, skipped class. And smiled.
And Dada Babu? He finally cleared his tea tab, and opened a second stove.
Behind the canteen wall, new students would one day sit, light cigarettes, and wonder if the stories they heard were true.
They were.
Every word of them.