Growing up as the son of a teacher came with its own set of quirks—and, dare I say, perks. But my situation was a little... unique. My mom wasn’t just any teacher; she was the superintendent of a girls’ hostel. Yes, a full-on residential fortress of teenage girls. To some, that might sound like a horror story. To others, a fantasy. For me, it was a bizarre mix of both.

  While other boys my age were busy dodging homework, climbing mango trees, or getting into trouble over stolen cricket balls, I was navigating a very different world—one filled with hair dryers, whispered gossip, and an endless supply of unsolicited attention. I was like a miniature celebrity wandering the corridors, a pint-sized anomaly in a world that had no place for boys, and yet somehow... there I was.

  The girls treated me like a strange mix of pet, mascot, and younger brother. They’d ruffle my hair, pinch my cheeks, or tease me relentlessly—but heaven help anyone outside the hostel who tried to mess with me. I had a whole army of teenage bodyguards ready to throw hands for “Madam’s son.”

  Of course, with great power came great drama.

  At that time, our house didn’t have a TV. Not because we couldn’t afford one—no, that would’ve been easier to explain—but because my parents, in their infinite wisdom, deemed it a distraction. A dangerous, brain-melting machine. They were firmly convinced that if a TV ever entered our home, our study hours would evaporate faster than a plate of samosas at a wedding.

  But fate, as always, had a loophole.

  The girls’ hostel—yes, the same one ruled over by my mom—had a TV. And not just any dusty old box, but a glorious, majestic, 43-inch color television. To my small, screen-starved eyes, it looked like a window into another dimension. A sacred artifact. A beacon of joy.

  Every time I visited the hostel, I’d make a beeline for the common room, shoes flying off, heart pounding, already hearing the familiar theme songs in my head. I’d plop myself right in front of the TV, legs crossed, eyes wide, and melt into that magical world. Tom chasing Jerry across cartoon landscapes, Scooby-Doo unmasking villains who definitely would’ve gotten away with it, and superheroes saving the world one colorful punch at a time—these were my people. My tribe.

  For a few glorious hours, I wasn’t just Madam’s son. I was an honorary resident of that hostel, and more importantly, the king of cartoon time.

  However, this little utopia came with its complications. You see, I wasn’t the only one with eyes on that glorious screen. The hostel girls had their own favorite shows—dramas, romantic serials, Bollywood blockbusters, and the occasional cringe-worthy music countdown.

  Now picture this: a common room full of teenage girls, emotionally invested in some teary-eyed heroine about to confront her cheating fiancé... and in walks me, a cartoon-hungry gremlin with no regard for plotlines or emotional climaxes. I’d march in like I owned the place, plant myself in front of the TV, and demand Cartoon Network with the unwavering resolve of a dictator in footie pajamas.

  But here’s the thing—I wasn’t just any kid. I was Madam’s son. That title came with a kind of unspoken authority. A VIP pass, if you will. The girls knew better than to mess with me too much, lest my mom hear complaints and turn into the ultimate final boss. So, despite the collective groans, eye rolls, and theatrical sighs, nine times out of ten... the channel switched.

  And thus, I reigned.

  For a brief period in hostel history, I was the undisputed ruler of the remote control—a tiny tyrant in shorts, fueled by cartoons and sheer audacity.

  The girls didn’t outright object to my demands, because, let’s face it, who in their right mind would risk getting on the bad side of the superintendent’s son? There was a certain unspoken respect, perhaps even a touch of fear, in their compliance. But just because they didn’t argue didn’t mean they didn’t have their own methods of dealing with me.

  One particular day, the hostel was buzzing with excitement. It was a holiday, which meant no classes, no assignments, and a full day of relaxation. The girls had big plans—an epic movie sequel that I couldn’t have cared less about and couldn’t even fully understand if I tried. I mean, who needs a sequel to a drama when you have Tom and Jerry in glorious HD?

  Naturally, I had my own plans. A grand vision of uninterrupted cartoon bliss. The idea of a world where Scooby-Doo solved mysteries without any interruptions, where Looney Tunes played on loop without the dread of a "please, we’re watching a movie!" looming over me, filled my every thought.

  With great confidence, I marched into the common room, remote in hand, my little feet practically stomping with purpose. I made a beeline for the TV, and without missing a beat, I declared my intentions to the room at large. "It’s cartoon time, ladies. Step aside."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The girls exchanged reluctant glances. I could practically hear the collective sighs, but they knew better than to openly defy me—after all, I was the superintendent’s son. Still, there was a noticeable amount of grumbling under their breath as they reluctantly gave in.

  I sat there triumphantly, my eyes glued to the screen as my beloved cartoon channel blared to life. For the first few minutes, everything went as planned. The colorful world of Tom and Jerry unfolded in front of me, and I reveled in every chase, every prank, and every slapstick moment. Victory was sweet.

  But then, like a seasoned villain in a spy movie, the girls unveiled their masterstroke. During the commercial break, one of them—let’s call her the mastermind—casually reached for the remote with the elegance of a professional thief and said, "Hey, let’s just check another channel until the ads are over."

  I, of course, was too deep in the fantasy of imagining myself as one of the cartoon characters, running from giant anvils and surviving wily traps, to notice. My focus was unshakable.

  And that’s when it happened.

  The next thing I knew, the screen shifted. The cartoons were gone, replaced by a movie sequel. The girls exchanged gleeful looks. I blinked in disbelief. “Hey!” I shouted, but my voice was lost in the sea of exaggerated innocence that filled the room.

  “Oh, the ads are still running,” one of them said, pointing at the screen with a look of such exaggerated sincerity that even I almost believed it.

  The nerve!

  I protested, of course, but they were experts at playing innocent. “We can switch back after the movie,” they said, sweet as sugar, all the while basking in the glow of their TV takeover.

  I wasn’t born yesterday. It didn’t take long for me to figure out their little scheme. But here’s the thing: I was outnumbered. There were at least ten of them, and only one of me. No matter how much I puffed my chest out and demanded my cartoons back, I was facing a battle I couldn’t win—at least not on my own.

  And yes, I had the teacher’s kid card, but that was a tricky weapon to wield. My mom wasn’t the type to let me throw my weight around. If I complained to her, chances were she would be the one scolding me for causing a fuss over cartoons, not them. After all, they weren’t doing anything wrong... right?

  Still, the injustice of it burned inside me.

  Defeated, I got up from the couch and trudged out of the room, my head hanging low like a soldier retreating from battle. I could feel their eyes on me, and, honestly, I think the girls were relieved to see me leave. But little did they know, I wasn’t just leaving to lick my wounds. No, I had a different plan. I decided to go find my mom, partly because I genuinely wanted to know when we were leaving, but mostly because I had no other option. My cartoon kingdom had fallen, and it was time to regroup.

  But what happened next was nothing short of magical.

  As I made my way toward the door, I could practically hear the collective gasp from the girls behind me. Panic spread like wildfire. To them, it looked like I was on my way to complain to the ultimate authority figure—the superintendent. The one who could bring down the hammer and end their precious movie marathon in an instant. I could practically see them imagining my mom coming in, all stern and formal, to deliver a lecture about the sanctity of cartoons and the evils of movie sequels.

  In their minds, the only way to avoid such impending doom was to act fast. And act fast they did.

  I hadn’t even made it halfway down the hallway when a small army of teenage girls descended upon me. They practically shoved me back toward the common room, their voices dripping with desperation. “Come back, come back!” they pleaded, practically tugging at my sleeves. “We were just about to change it back to your cartoons! Honest! We didn’t mean to steal your TV time!”

  They might as well have been bowing to me, I thought. If this wasn’t the funniest thing I’d ever seen, it was definitely one of the most ridiculous.

  Before I could even process what was happening, I found myself back in my seat. The TV had already been switched back to my beloved cartoon channel, and I was sitting there like a king on his throne—no longer a mere boy, but the undisputed ruler of the remote. The cartoon characters flickered to life once again, and I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. This was the power I wielded now.

  But they didn’t stop there.

  One by one, they crowded around me, looking at me with concern and perhaps a hint of guilt. “Are you okay?” one of them asked, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “Do you want some juice?” another chimed in, as if offering me a glass could somehow right the wrongs of their TV treason.

  I stared at them, still processing the fact that my simple act of walking towards my mom had sent them into a full-blown panic. They were practically falling over themselves to appease me. It was a strange, almost surreal feeling. I realized something in that moment: I had inadvertently discovered the ultimate weapon in my arsenal.

  The power of walking toward my mom.

  I didn't need to say a word. I didn’t need to throw a single tantrum. The mere threat of telling on them—just the idea of a potential complaint to the superintendent—was enough to send them into a frenzy of desperation. It was like I had found the secret to controlling their every move, and all I had to do was exist.

  It was a silent victory, and oh, how sweet it was. I leaned back, savoring my triumph as my cartoons resumed their glory. My enemies had surrendered, and I had claimed the throne once more. Life was good.

  After that day, I used my newfound power sparingly, but effectively. Every time there was a conflict over the TV, I’d simply rise from my seat, walk towards the door with a casual air, and pretend to head toward my mom. The reaction was always the same—a mixture of panic, remorse, and frantic apologies. They’d scramble to switch the channel back, practically begging me to return, and I’d stroll back into the common room, triumphant. They'd begrudgingly let me have my cartoons, and I’d settle in, basking in my quiet victory.

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