After navigating through the narrow gully beside Rimi, one hand loosely gripping his bicycle, Aritra Naskar finally arrived at the infamous blue three-storied house—the stronghold of Ratan Sir, the man whose voice could rival the sharpness of a chalk screeching on a bckboard. This house wasn't just any residential building; it was a temple of physics, where Newton's ws were treated with more reverence than actual religious scriptures.

  The staircase groaned under the weight of students trudging up to the top floor, where the tuition room was located. The walls were adorned with faded posters of Einstein, Newton, and a mysteriously judgmental photo of Ratan Sir from his younger days, gring as if challenging every student to solve the toughest problem of their lives.

  Upon reaching the cssroom, Aritra noticed the sea of students already spread out on the floor, sitting cross-legged like obedient monks. The room was spacious but packed, with at least 100 students squeezed into every avaible inch. The air was thick with the scent of old books, ink, and the faint, nostalgic aroma of sweat from students battling the summer heat with nothing but ceiling fans and determination.

  Aritra and Rimi found a spot against the side wall, a strategic location that allowed them to observe the entire room while avoiding direct eye contact with Ratan Sir when he arrived. Aritra unpacked his notebook, gncing at Rimi, who fshed him her signature smile—the one that had the charm of a puppy and the subtle manipution tactics of a chess grandmaster.

  Alright, focus. Just here to help her with physics. No emotional attachments this time, Aritra reminded himself, though a small part of his brain rolled its metaphorical eyes.

  As they settled in, Rimi leaned slightly closer, pretending to look at his notes but clearly testing the waters of conservative flirting.

  "Aritra, your handwriting is so neat. It's like printed text," she whispered with a smile.

  Aritra smirked.

  "Thanks. It's because I treat my notebook better than most people treat retionships."

  Rimi giggled, lightly swatting his arm with faux indignation.

  Ah, the cssic 'pretend punch' technique. Timeless, Aritra thought, suppressing a chuckle.

  As they discussed problems about Newton's Second Law, students began trickling in, the room slowly filling with familiar faces. Amid the crowd, Aritra spotted his two best friends, Deep Halder and Arnab Das, weaving through the sea of backpacks and water bottles.

  Deep Halder, ranked 7th in css, had a perpetually curious expression, as if the universe owed him expnations for everything. His hair was always slightly messy, the universal sign of a boy too engrossed in solving problems to bother with a comb.

  Arnab Das, the proud holder of the 11th rank, was the sarcastic philosopher of the group. He had a talent for turning even the most mundane observations into comedic gold, often at the expense of unsuspecting cssmates.

  "Oi, genius," Deep called out, sliding into a spot next to Aritra.

  "Solving the mysteries of the universe or just pretending?" Arnab added, dropping his bag with theatrical exhaustion.

  "A bit of both," Aritra replied, grinning.

  The four of them quickly fell into their usual rhythm, discussing doubts, solving tricky problems, and occasionally making jokes that earned disapproving gnces from the more serious students.

  Arnab squinted at a question in his notebook.

  "If a train is moving at 90 km/h and a fly is buzzing inside at 5 km/h, what's the fly's velocity retive to the ground?"

  Without missing a beat, Aritra replied,

  "Depends. Is the fly paying rent for traveling, or is it freeloading?"

  Deep burst out ughing, nearly dropping his pen.

  "I swear, Aritra, if sarcasm was a subject, you'd top the board exams."

  Their ughter was cut short by the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. The room fell into an eerie silence as if someone had hit a giant mute button. Even the ceiling fan seemed to slow down in anticipation.

  The wall clock struck 3:10 PM.

  Ratan Sir had arrived.

  He entered the room with the authority of a man who knew he held the power to make or break dreams. His sharp gaze scanned the students, silencing even the boldest whisperers. In a world before smartphones, gossip thrived on face-to-face interactions, but not when Ratan Sir was in the room.

  As he pced his notes on the dusty wooden table, the students straightened their backs, opened their notebooks, and mentally prepared for a two-hour rollercoaster through the thrilling world of physics.

  Let the games begin, Aritra thought, gripping his pen like a warrior about to enter battle.

  The moment Ratan Sir crossed the threshold, the room transformed from a bustling marketpce of whispers into a silent sanctuary of physics. His presence had that effect—the ability to mute 100 students without uttering a single word.

  Ratan Sir was a legend, not just because of his sharp intellect but because of his uncanny ability to detect a student daydreaming from across the room. A tall, wiry man in his te 40s with a receding hairline and spectacles perched perpetually on the tip of his nose, he wore the same expression whether he was expining Newton's ws or catching someone whispering—a mix of mild disappointment and cosmic indifference. His voice, sharp and precise, carried authority without the need to shout.

  His attire was consistent: a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into trousers that always seemed one size too big, and bck sandals that squeaked faintly as he walked. The legendary wooden stick he carried wasn't for discipline but served as an extension of his dramatic expnations, often used to emphasize a point or tap gently on inattentive heads (with surgical precision).

  "Good afternoon," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a ser beam.

  "Good afternoon, Sir," the css chorused back, some louder than others, attempting to mask the fear of being called upon.

  Without wasting a second, he dove straight into business.

  "First things first," he announced, "submit your homework on Newton's Laws of Motion. And yes, I will be checking them thoroughly."

  A collective groan echoed softly, quickly stifled under Sir's piercing gre.

  The students hurriedly passed their notebooks to the front. As the pile grew taller, Ratan Sir casually picked up a random notebook and flipped through the pages with the expertise of a detective examining evidence.

  "Hmm… neat handwriting, diagrams aligned… which means…" he paused dramatically, scanning the student responsible.

  "Copied. Definitely copied."

  The css chuckled nervously.

  "Don't worry," he continued, "I'm not here to punish you for wrong answers. That's part of learning. But if you haven't done it at all… well, consider this your first cardio session for the day."

  Cue nervous gnces.

  Next, he distributed the previous week's homework on Motion in a Pne, his face unreadable as he handed back each notebook.

  "Some of you have done well," he said, pausing. "Some of you have done… what I can only describe as modern art."

  The room erupted in muffled ughter.

  Without warning, he pointed at a random student.

  "You! Solve today's first problem on the board."

  The poor boy stumbled to the bckboard, visibly shaking. As he attempted to solve the problem, Ratan Sir paced behind him, observing like a hawk.

  "Are you solving it, or is your hand on autopilot from copying yesterday?" Sir quipped.

  The student stammered, erasing half the equation.

  Aritra whispered to Deep, "I think Sir's gre has more friction than the roughest surface in physics."

  Deep chuckled softly, careful not to draw attention.

  Sir continued picking random students, occasionally delivering lines that bordered on philosophical:

  "Remember, copying homework is like sharing a parachute. It might work. Might."

  Despite the humor, every student knew—Ratan Sir's css was a battlefield, and only those who genuinely understood the subject emerged unscathed.

  After the impromptu performances, Sir shifted gears.

  "Now, let's get serious. Expin the concept of tension in this problem," he said, pointing straight at Aritra.

  Aritra stood up confidently.

  "Sir, tension here represents the force transmitted through the string, bancing the pull of gravity on the hanging mass and the inertia of the block on the surface."

  Sir nodded slightly—his version of a gold medal.

  After the relentless barrage of homework checks, spontaneous bckboard summons, and enough sarcastic remarks to fill a book, the css finally settled into a somewhat rexed rhythm. Ratan Sir adjusted his spectacles, his signature wooden stick resting against the desk like an ancient relic of authority.

  "Alright, enough entertainment. Now, let's dive into our next chapter: Work, Energy, and Power," he announced, tapping the board with a rhythmic thud-thud that echoed ominously.

  The css groaned softly, but no one dared to protest audibly.

  Sir smirked.

  "Don't worry, this isn't as scary as it sounds. In fact, let me start with a story."

  Aritra perked up, exchanging curious gnces with Deep and Arnab. When Ratan Sir told a story, it was either brilliantly insightful or hiriously random.

  "Picture this," Sir began, pacing slowly. "A man named Babu works at a construction site. He carries heavy cement bags from the truck to the top of a building. Now, there's another man, Chotu, who stands beside the truck all day, leaning against a shovel, doing absolutely nothing."

  The css chuckled.

  "At the end of the day, who do you think did more work?" Sir asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Aritra whispered, "Babu, obviously. Chotu's biggest contribution was holding the ground in pce."

  Sir caught the whisper and grinned.

  "Exactly! But here's the twist. In physics, work isn't just about effort. It's about force applied over a distance. So if Chotu didn't move, technically, he did zero work."

  Zero work? The css looked stunned, as if Sir had just decred gravity optional on weekends.

  "Yes, zero. You could sweat all day, but if there's no dispcement, physics says: 'Nice try, but nope.'"

  The students scribbled furiously, while Aritra leaned back, absorbing the logic.

  Sir continued, "Now, imagine Babu carrying the same load up a hill versus on ft ground. Which feels harder?"

  "The hill," the css replied in unison.

  "Correct. But here's the fun part: Work done against gravity depends only on the height gained, not the path. Whether Babu climbs stairs or takes a ramp, if he reaches the same height, the work done is the same."

  Arnab whispered, "Physics really loves ruining common sense, huh?"

  Deep stifled a ugh.

  Sir, with his superhero-like hearing, turned sharply.

  "Yes, Arnab, because common sense is just the physics you haven't understood yet."

  The css erupted in ughter.

  Next came Energy.

  "Energy is the ability to do work," Sir expined, drawing diagrams of falling apples and bouncing balls.

  "Think of it like this: When you eat food, your body converts it into energy. That's why you can run, jump, or even sit here pretending to understand."

  Rimi giggled softly. Aritra rolled his eyes, focusing on Sir.

  "And then we have Power, the rate at which work is done. Imagine two students solving the same problem. One takes five minutes, the other takes one minute. Who has more power?"

  Without missing a beat, Aritra whispered, "The one who copied it."

  Sir chuckled, shaking his head.

  "True, but in physics, it's the faster one."

  As the clock ticked, Sir solved problems, threw curveball questions, and ensured no one escaped without at least one 'aha!' moment.

  By the time the css ended, notebooks were filled, brains were fried, and Aritra felt like he'd run a mental marathon.

  Packing up, he thought, Physics may be tough, but surviving Ratan Sir's css? Now that's real power.