The fluorescent hum of the classroom lights cast a sickly yellow glow over the rows of desks, each one scarred with the testament of countless bored teenagers. My gaze drifted from the blackboard, where Mr. Sharma’s neat, looping Hindi characters marched across the slate, to the window. Beyond the grimy glass, the monsoon sky hung heavy, a bruised purple promising an imminent downpour. The air inside, however, felt stifling, thick with the scent of old textbooks, sweat, and something else – a faint, sweet perfume that always seemed to cling to Deepika.