Rachna ShahMy Heart Beats for NothingEnds with rain. Pouring drops, beautiful in their ephemeral state of being, cloud their vision; two students trudge up the dirty hill, dirt covering their shiny Mary Jane shoes, the leather frayed at the edges. They belong to House Honour, the highest house of St. Joseph's Matriculation Higher Secondary School, although an impartial view is yet to be ascertained. The brown collared shirts and white pleated skirts are a dark color, a sort of mix of mud splashes from the rush to catch the bus, the only means of transport, and the monsoon season downpour. The tallest of the girls, Ashika, stands hesitantly outside the polished mahogany doors. “Well, go ahead then,” Pushpa says in a terrified tone, though it's for good reason. “We are late,” Ashika disagrees. “And,” he continues, staring at the state of his knuckles, blackened in color, with red bruises forming on the sides, “You know what that means.” Pushpa takes a deep breath. "Professor Palvali adores you, or at least she adores your grandmother's donations: you go first, and perhaps the rest of us will escape any kind of extreme punishment." With an aura of reluctance, Ashika enters, something of strength in her lethargic walk. ; The moral sciences are neither a class of prestige nor of honor, but rather a class of duties. “Do you have any excuse for being late?” The professor announces, in a clear and distinct, shrill voice that resonates through the room. Ashika stands at the corner of the classroom, unsure whether to run to her seat, unfortunately located near the front of the classroom, or wait there for the punishment she has been awarded—perhaps being hit with a ruler or a chopstick, but the physical pain is something simple to deal with... middle of paper ......in vain his unsuspecting guardians (he wouldn't exactly call them guardians, but what else is there to call them?) will not know of his disappearance during the Opening House BBQ event nowhere else other than the Mehta mansion. Although the Mehtas have supposedly resided in the house for generations, there is still a faint smell of cobwebs and death lingering in the air, and Chaaya's father has finally decided that selling the house might be for best. Who has a barbecue in the winter anyway? Ashika thinks, shaking her ebony-flecked hair, stepping out into the freezing air (frigid compared to India's rather arid climate), a shiver running down her slender spine as she wraps herself in a hand-knitted shawl, the colors weaving into threads as if the music merges to create a symphony, only the music doesn't cause stinging fingers, the blood fades into the white cotton.