I enter the lab, greet the assistant, and head toward the back. This is the only space in the school that feels like mine. The work I do here adds value to the world, and more importantly, I am valued here. I know my way around the wires; when circuits fail and motors stop working, the team calls me. I love it. It feels nice to know that you’re good at something, and even better to be appreciated for it.

The lab feels different after the holidays. The robotics section has been shifted backward, and the 3-D printer now occupies center stage. As soon as you enter, a board lists the names of the students working in the lab along with their projects. A new list now appears at the top right corner of the board that I had missed earlier. The title reads ‘Lab Student Representatives.’ Barely able to contain my excitement, I move closer, hurriedly searching for my name.

It is not there. It must be a mistake. I take a deep breath and patiently scan each name in the list, over and over again. It is not there; this is not a mistake. I turn around and storm into Dr. Nene’s office, the head of the lab. She is sixty years old, loves chocolate milk and works on at least six projects at a time. She says it helps her focus. I knock on her door and am greeted with a big smile. She offers me a tetra pack of chocolate milk, the one I like. I refuse saying it’s too early in the day, it’s not. It’s 10:45 in the morning, fifteen minutes till recess but I don’t feel hungry. I’ve lost my appetite.

It is now eleven am. It’s time for recess, but I don’t get up from the chair. Dr. Nene closes her laptop screen and looks at me purposefully. “Sweetie, whatever you do in life, don’t ever become an actor. Your eyes give it away,” she says. I don’t respond, locking eyes with her, waiting for her to eventually come to the point. Half an hour later, I walk out of the lab with tears in my eyes.

I lock the washroom door; no one can see me in such a state. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my face says it all: my eyes are red, my breathing heavy and my nostrils are flaring. Dr Nene is right; I am not fit for a student representative because my emotions will get the better of me. Who else has such an extreme reaction over not being chosen for a position? I am not warm or welcoming and the team deserves a better leader, one who is practical and rational.

I wash my face and exhale. It’s okay, I needed this reality check. It’s just one position that won’t matter in the long run. I will learn to control my emotions. Three years from now, I will know my way around my emotions the same way I know my way around wires – no one will know what’s going on in my mind. Next time, I will be valued — both on a personal and professional level. I will be better. This will not happen again.

“Sweetie, can you prepare a list of the cast and crew by the end of today’s rehearsal?” I nod, open my laptop, and start typing enthusiastically. I love this. My first internship is nearly over, and I’ve had the chance to work as an Assistant Director. It’s been exhausting, but it’ll all be worth it soon. I’ve gained so much experience—making schedules, scouting for props, working on the background score and even giving my input on scenes. I’m on a roll.

I pause and ask my director how Imran should be credited. “Assistant Director,” she replies. I sit there, my face blank, staring at her. “Assistant Director?” I repeat myself, a question lingering at the back of my throat. She nods while editing the play bills for the next day’s performance.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I was supposed to be credited as an Assistant Director. Sneha had specifically asked me if I would be interested in assisting. This isn't fair; this is my credit and I have worked for it. I have to talk to her and stand up for myself. I will not be treated like a doormat, again.

Sneha, I thought I would be credited as an Assistant Director. I run the sentence in my head for the seventh time. It’s too direct, I need to tone it down a bit. Most importantly, I need to smile. Everyone likes smiling people and if I don’t, the lines on my forehead will make me look angry. I cannot look angry.

I shouldn’t be angry; I should be grateful. Most interns are told to serve coffee or observe from the sidelines, but I’ve had the privilege to work with veteran artists backstage, even dance on stage. I’ve had a great experience so far, and I need to remember that I was hired despite not fitting most of the eligibility criteria. Imran is more deserving of the credit; he’s older and more experienced and everyone likes him. I like him too. What kind of person takes away credit from someone she likes?

Moreover, it’s the day before the performance, I cannot possibly have this conversation about credit right now. Sneha has bigger and better things to worry about, and I should be working instead of wasting my energy on meaningless titles. I focus on the document in front of me and start typing everyone’s names. Sneha glares at me from across the room and asks me to type gently, my aggressive typing is distracting the actors. I smile and oblige.

It’s 9:30 at night and we are done for the day. My dad’s busy, so I decide to take the metro, alone. I had been trying to convince my parents to let me commute on my own for weeks. Today is that day. A part of me is glad that I can finally travel independently, there is also the extra ten minutes I get to spend with Imran. But a huge part of me is disappointed that today had to be that chosen day.

“You’re pissed today,” Imran comments. “It’s been five minutes since we’ve been walking and you haven’t uttered a single word. There is pasta packed in your bag which you still haven’t eaten. Plus, your face says it all,” he continues. I don’t respond and absent mindedly cross the road with him, a detour from the way to the metro station.

Twenty minutes later, we are sitting at a roadside food joint with two plates of Maggi in front of us. I take a bite from my cheese Maggi, but it doesn’t go down my throat. Imran finishes his second plate of chicken Maggi, and sits there patiently, observing me. I eventually give in and tell him about not being credited as an Assistant Director. “Talk to Sneha if it means so much to you, the credit doesn’t affect me. I have the experience, that’s what matters,” he casually remarks. I want to hug him but I also never want to see him again. It would be so much easier if he was a jerk, at least my feelings would’ve been justified.

It’s an hour till show time. I look for the play bills, they should’ve been distributed to the audience by now. But I can’t find them anywhere and head backstage to get ready for my entry. It will be fine; everything happens for the best. Even if I’m not credited as an Assistant Director, Imran will be. I will be credited under Production which is equally good, if not better.

I’m sitting on the sound console, resting my hands on the key for the final climax music. I press the key, and slide the volume to its maximum capacity; the theater gasps. It’s done, we did it, I did it. Sneha walks on stage and calls the entire cast on the stage; the crew is next. I run from the sound console towards the stage. The backstage door is locked and I cannot enter the auditorium. I barely make my way back to the console, and hear my name being announced under sound.

I can feel the colour draining from my face. I force myself to smile, fold my hands and bow to the audience. Imran gets credited as Assistant Director, he looks at me and I forcibly smile again. The audience has left, the entire crew is packing and clearing the stage. Sneha pulls me aside and thanks me for doing great work, and gives me a goodbye hug. I hug her back, reluctantly. Everything is terrible, but at least I have one thing going for me. I find Imran, he is standing in a corner and dismantling the set. He spots me and waves goodbye. I stand in front of him, waiting for a reaction but he doesn’t meet my eye. He eventually moves closer, shrugs and hugs me. I look away, eyes filled with tears and leave as soon as I can.

I walk out of the theater, find my family and aggressively shut the car door. I was wrong when I told myself that things get better, sometimes they do, but most times they don’t. But they will get better the next time; they have to. Next time around, I will be valued – both on a personal and professional level. I will be better. This will not happen again.