Courage is not when you stand for yourself, but when you stand for Others
This might be more of a confession than a rant/storytime.
Very Big ass post, I know it is, so read if you really want to. (TL;DR at the bottom)
yea its a cat fight story ( they are so cute uwu)
The only people who had the guts to actually bully me were my friends. Yes, friends. These were the people I went to nursery, kindergarten, and 1st standard with. In 2nd standard, I got shifted to a different branch of my school, but in 5th class, I got happy again because our branch and theirs got unified, and I shifted to their section once more. Things were going pretty smoothly—I was happy to be with my old pals again. One of them was even my best friend from 1st class, and our mothers used to call us Jai-Veeru (Sholay reference), so you can understand my happiness.
Then, from 6th class, a thing called cheelna got popular in our group, which simply meant roasting. It didn’t take long for it to get so popular that everyone in the group was doing it. It went something like this: someone would start roasting a person using their most diabolical insecurity, and then others would follow up, turning it into full-on harassment. The insults would last for days, sometimes even weeks, until someone else became the new target, shifting the focus away. We never used abusive words, but what we did say hurt more than any cuss words ever could. In 6th and 7th, I wasn’t called out much because I had just rejoined the group, so while they roasted me, it wasn’t as brutal as what others faced. Also, my mother was a teacher at our school, which might have made them hesitant to go all out on me out of fear that I’d tell her. Now, about how the roasts were—they were wild for me back then. They constantly teased my best friend for being thin, called him a twig, made fun of him for not being good at sports, and even nicknamed him Jiggly puff because his name resembled it. Similarly, they called a dark-toned guy—who was also very close to me and is now my other best friend—names like Kaalu and Kaala Naag. Another guy with bad teeth was called Rabbit.
All these people were close to me, but so was the group leader. Personally, I did call my best friend Jigglypuff multiple times (which I still regret to this day) because I found the name cute. But when I saw him seriously getting triggered by it, I stopped. However, I never participated in the racist or appearance-based insults. Even though I didn’t like it, I never tried to stop them or defend the person getting bullied—because I was afraid that if I did, they would turn on me. Even if you were the one getting bullied, you couldn’t stand up for yourself. You had to silently suffer or enjoy, as they used to say. If you got angry or showed that something bothered you, everyone would consider you a loser who "can’t handle jokes," and the whole group would start avoiding you, refusing to sit with you or talk to you.
In 8th standard, things went south. By then, everyone was quite open with me, and I started getting bullied too. At first, it wasn’t too bad, and I ignored it like it didn’t affect me. But one time during midterms, they crossed a line, and I got really angry. I said a lot of things in frustration, and as expected, everyone ghosted me. Suddenly, I was completely alone. Even though I sat in the same row, no one sat beside me. Even my best friend turned his back on me—he had already formed a similar bond with the guy with bad teeth, and he didn’t want to risk being ghosted too. But all this was still nothing compared to my high-end self-esteem and the rage building inside me. They constantly passed comments all day at school. I sat alone and ate lunch while they all sat just behind me, laughing and joking about me. I kept waiting for someone to come and tell me that it was okay—that I should just let go of my anger and join them again. That’s how things had always gone before. But this time, no one came. My whole world was crashing. These were the last people I considered my friends, and knowing that they were the ones bullying me so hard was heartbreaking. I couldn’t ask anyone for help—not my parents, because they had always been against me changing my section to theirs, and not my teachers, because I refused to be a snitch. If I told on them, it would backfire. They would all turn on me even harder, and since I was alone, I would definitely lose. This continued for a month or something. I kept crying inside.
Until… one day, I had enough. During recess, they were bored of me not reacting to their insults. So one of them came up to me, snatched my sketchbook, and started throwing it around in a game of catch-um-catch, making me run between them, my face down so they couldn’t see my wet eyes. When the guy who had snatched it first got my sketchbook again, something snapped inside me. I ran at him with all my power—like a bull—and jumped straight into him. We both fell to the ground. By then, I was so frustrated that I didn’t care about anything. I sat on him and started hitting—punching, slapping, kicking—while crying so loudly that the whole class froze. Even though everyone tried to pull me off him, I kept crying like a baby, trying to beat him to the ground, to end him or something.
As expected, the teacher came and took us to the principal. The guy I beat up was sent to the sick room while I stood outside the principal’s office, whimpering, still trying to process what I had just done. Both our parents were called. Since our fathers were friends, they brushed it off as just a small catfight between two friends and didn’t take any action. But the school did. Both of us were suspended for seven days. When the principal asked me to apologize, I refused. I was still crying (I don’t even know why, but I was just so sad that I couldn’t stop). She then called me in alone and asked me what had really happened. I told her everything. She suggested I change my section, and I agreed in a flick of a second.
When I went back to the classroom to grab my bag, everyone thought I was going home. But when another friend came in and told them that I was changing my section, the whole room went silent. They were shocked. As I walked out, I could hear them whispering in disbelief—"Why would he change his section over something so small and naïve?"
But after that moment, the entire dynamic of the group changed. No one ever crossed the line again. Seeing me cry while being so angry—seeing me break down and snap—made them remember their own frustration. It reminded them of all the times they had been bullied but never fought back. A year later, lockdown happened, and we all moved to WhatsApp. As soon as I got my number, I messaged a friend about it. Instantly, I got invited to the group chat. It was like nothing had ever happened. Everyone from that group is still my friend today—even the guy I beat up.
The biggest lesson I learned wasn’t about standing up for myself. It was about standing up for my friend. My mistake wasn’t that I let myself get bullied. It wasn’t that I didn’t stop them the first time they insulted me. My real mistake was never standing up for my best friend when he needed me. We’re still friends, but our bond is just… "friends" now. Those wounds—of me laughing while he suffered—are still in his mind. Only when it happened to me did I understand what he had to go through. Or maybe even worse than me.
He couldn’t fight for himself like I did.
He couldn’t speak up for himself.
He had no one to vent to.
No siblings.
His only best friend was on the other side, Laughing on him.
TLDR- My friends were the only ones who ever bullied me. Our group had a toxic "roasting" culture that turned into harassment. I endured it until I snapped in 8th grade, fought back, and switched sections. This changed the group dynamics, and years later, we all reconnected like nothing happened. Biggest regret? Not standing up for my best friend when he needed me.