The Day the Bell Rang Twice--- How First Aid and Friendship Saved the Day

                      “ Sunday Stories: The Success Secrets of Extraordinary”

The morning sun blazed over Sunrise High School. The playground was alive with laughter, racing feet, and the thud of a football echoing across the field. It was one of those days when time felt golden—until it all changed in an instant.

Yash, the star striker of the Sub Junior Football team, sprinted toward the goal. But just as he kicked, his foot slipped on the wet grass. He fell with a loud thud.

The laughter stopped. His scream tore through the playground.

Everyone ran. Yash was lying on the ground, his leg twisted unnaturally, a deep cut on his knee gushing blood. His face turned pale as beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.

“Somebody… help…” he murmured weakly, his voice breaking.

The crowd of children froze in fear. Some covered their mouths, others backed away. The sight of blood made their stomachs churn.

Then, through the panic, Reema Sport Captain of school stepped forward. Her heart was hammering inside her chest, but she remembered the first aid training they had attended just last month.

“Listen to me!” she shouted, her voice trembling yet steady. “We don’t have time to panic!”

Her classmates looked at her, desperate for direction.

“You—run and call the teacher right now! You—bring the first aid box from the gym!And you—ring the bell twice!” Everyone else, give him space!”

The students scattered into action. The double ring of the school bell soon echoed across the campus. Everyone in the classrooms froze. Teachers looked up at once. They all knew what it meant: emergency.

Reema quickly knelt beside Yash. She tore her clean handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it firmly against the bleeding cut. Her hands shook, but she didn’t stop.

“We all are here, Yash, don't worry.” she whispered.

His eyes fluttered. “Am I… am I going to lose my leg?”

Reema’s throat tightened. For a moment, fear clawed at her. But she forced a smile. “Not when I’m here. You’ll be running faster than me in no time.”

Tears welled up in Anaya’s eyes as she knelt down too. “Keep talking to him,” Reema urged.

So Anaya who was Senior Team member began telling Yash silly jokes and stories, her voice quivering but steady enough to keep him awake.

The minutes felt endless. The sun beat down, the ground felt scorching, and Reema’s hands ached from holding the cloth tight—but she refused to let go.

Finally, the PE teachers and the doctor arrived, breathless. Relief washed over the students.

The doctor bent down, quickly checking Yash’s pulse and the wound. She looked at Reema and nodded with deep respect. “You did exactly the right thing. You may have just saved him from losing too much blood.”

Yash was carefully lifted onto a stretcher and rushed to the hospital. Before leaving, he held Reema’s hand weakly. “Thank you,” he whispered, his eyes glistening.

---

That afternoon, the principal gathered the entire school in the auditorium. The air was heavy; everyone still felt the shock of the morning.

“Children,” she began, her voice solemn, “what happened today reminds us that emergencies don’t wait for adults. But when we stay calm, work together, and use what we know—like first aid—we can save lives.”

She looked at Reema, Anaya, and their friends. “You showed extraordinary courage and teamwork. You proved that heroes can be students too.”

The hall erupted into applause. Many had tears in their eyes, realizing how close disaster had come—and how quickly it was turned into safety by their own peers.

That evening, when Yash’s friends visited him at the hospital, he was tired but smiling. His leg was bandaged, and the doctors said he would recover soon.

“I didn’t score the winning goal today,” he joked, “but I found out who my real champions are.”

The room filled with laughter, relief, and a new promise among them all: to always be ready, because first aid is the first step to saving lives.

How Simplicity Out Shined the Show-Offs - A Tale of the Coolest Kid in Town

                          “ Sunday Stories: The Success Secrets of Extraordinary”

In the bustling city of Pune, students of Sunrise High School were always competing—not in studies or sports—but in gadgets, brands, and weekend hangouts.

Arjun, a quiet 14-year-old, stood out—not because he was poor, but because he lived differently. His parents were successful business owners, and their home was filled with everything money could buy. But from a young age, they had taught Arjun something far more valuable than luxury: Financial Literacy.

His father would say, “Wealth is not measured by what you spend, but by what you save and how you use it.”

His mother often reminded him, “Simplicity is the real luxury—it gives you freedom.”

So while his hostel mates ordered pizzas every Friday, bought flashy sneakers, and posted endless selfies with their new phones, Arjun still wore his old but neat shoes, carried a good condition phone, handed over by his father and cooked healthy meals in the common kitchen. 

And this wasn’t about cost—it was about value.

People thought he was “boring.” Some even whispered, “Why is he so stingy and miser when he comes from such a rich family?”

One day, the school announced a “Dream Project” competition: each student could present 'An Idea to Improve the Community'. Arjun’s hostel mates planned big flashy presentations—hiring designers, printing huge banners, even renting speakers. Arjun simply drew his plan on chart paper, using colored pencils.

His idea?
A Free Reading Corner in the local park—wooden benches, open shelves with donated books, and solar lights so kids could read after sunset.

When the judges visited the site, they were shocked—it wasn’t just an idea. Arjun had already built it with his own savings, from his monthly allowance. The benches were made from scrap wood, books donated by neighbours, friends and even he received as birthday gifts. The lights were bought carefully after comparing prices. 

They saw children curled up with books, their laughter spilling under the warm glow of solar lights.

That day, the entire school applauded him. Even the kids who once mocked him lined up to help. His “boring” lifestyle had created something real—something that would last.

Whenever someone passed the park, they’d see children reading under the solar light. And they’d remember the boy who had everything, but chose to spend wisely, proving that simplicity wasn’t weakness—it was power.

But the real surprise came two months later.
A fire in the school’s storeroom destroyed sports equipment meant for an inter-school championship.

The school didn’t have funds to replace it in time—and cancelling the event would have crushed the players’ morale. It also would have shattered months of practice and dreams.

The principal called for donations. Everyone gave a little, but it wasn’t enough.

Then Arjun quietly stepped forward and handed over a cheque from his savings account which was indeed had became a handsome amount, enough to buy all the equipment's again.

When students asked why he didn’t just spend his money on fun before, Arjun smiled and said,
“Because I like being ready when it truly matters.”

That day, he wasn’t just the richest boy in school—he was the wisest.

Normalising Counselling: A Story About Breaking Stereotypes ...

   “ Sunday Stories: The Success Secrets of Extraordinary”

It started on a Tuesday morning—one of those bright but restless days at Vidya Valley School in Pune. The corridors buzzed with chatter, shoes squeaking against polished floors.

In the quiet corner beside the school office sat a blue chair. Most students walked past it without a second glance. But those who had sat there knew—it wasn’t just any chair.

They called it The Whispering Chair.

Why? Because every student who sat there whispered something they’d never said aloud before.It was placed in the school counsellor's room.

That’s where Sumit’s story begin.

Sumit was in Class IX. Sharp mind, quick with Math & Science, and always ready with a joke. But lately, his notebooks were blank, his temper sharp, and his sleep broken. 

Teachers noticed his behavioural change.His Math teacher handed back a test, expecting his usual neat solutions. The paper was almost empty. ‘This isn’t you, Sumit,’ she murmured.”

So did his best friend, Nitin. “You’ve changed, Sumit,” Nitin finally said. “Why don’t you talk to the school counsellor?”

Sumit flinched. “What am I, mad? You think I’ve lost it?”

“No,” he replied gently. “But you look like you’re carrying too much in your head. A lot of questions and confusion always....  Maybe it’s time to take someones help you unpack it.”

He laughed it off. But that night, alone with the ceiling fan whirring above, he whispered to no one, “I wish I could tell someone how heavy this feels.”

The next week, he stood outside the counsellor's door, pretending to be there “by accident.” Inside, a soft voice said, “Come in.”

He hesitated. But then the chair caught his eye—that same blue one. It looked…safe.

He sat.

The counsellor didn’t ask, “What’s wrong with you?”
She asked, “How’s your week been?”
She didn’t label. She just listened calmly .
She didn’t judge. She understood.

In those 40 quiet minutes, she used gentle pauses, giving him space to speak at his own pace. She asked open-ended questions that helped him untangle his thoughts.

Sometimes she reflected his own words back, so he could hear what his heart was really saying. She slid a glass of water toward him, as if to say: Take your time. I’m here.

She guided him through a few deep-breathing exercises when his voice trembled, and encouraged him to keep a small “thought diary” to spot patterns in his feelings.

By the end, Sumit told her about the pressure to score high, the fights at home, the constant noise in his head, and how smiling felt like acting. And the Whispering Chair held it all.

Week by week, he came back—not because he was “mad,” but because it felt good to speak without being told to “man up,” “be strong,” or “stop overthinking.”

News spread. First, silently. Then openly.

Nisha visited counsellor after losing her grandmother. Nisha’s tears weren’t about grades—they were about an empty chair at the dinner table.

Rishi, the school’s star athlete, came in with post-injury fear.

Even Siya, who never stopped talking, came to talk about the thoughts that made her silent at night.

Parents were the last to understand.

One day, Vidya Valley organised "Mind Matters: A Talk with Our Counsellor." The room filled slowly. Hesitant parents. Curious ones. Some with furrowed brows.

The counsellor began with a question:
“If your child had a fever, would you wait until it became unbearable before going to the doctor?”
Heads shook.
“Then why wait when their mind shows signs of pain or confusion?”

She explained how behaviour, anger, academic drops, even silence could be signs—not of madness—but of a mind asking for help. She spoke of growth, not weakness.

Then Sumit stood up and shared his story.

"I used to think going to a counsellor meant I was broken. If others found out, they’d take it the wrong way. Friends might keep their distance, thinking I was a lost cause. But now I know—it meant I was brave.Seeing a counsellor didn’t make me weak. It helped me find myself again."

 There was silence. Then, applause.

That evening, Sumit walked back to the counsellor’s room. The corridor was empty, the chair waiting. He didn’t sit this time. Instead, he bent down, slipped a folded note beneath the cushion, and let his hand rest there for a moment. For the next student. For the next secret. For the next storm.

It read:
“To the next one who sits here—
You’re not alone. You’re just getting stronger.”

And the chair, as always, kept the whisper safe and importantly confidential. 

The Last Bench Girl: A Story of Self-Love - Fuel for the life Journey

                                “ Sunday Stories: The Success Secrets of Extraordinary”

Riya always sat on the last bench.

Not because she was a troublemaker but because she wanted to. It was easier to be invisible back there. No one asked her questions, no one noticed her uneven haircut or her second-hand uniform. She didn’t have the latest water bottle or expensive gel pens. And she definitely wasn’t the type to raise her hand.

Her teachers called her “quiet.” Her classmates called her “weird.”

She called herself "nothing special."

Until one day, Ms. Hema, the new English teacher, walked into class with an unusual assignment.

“Write a letter,” she said, “to the person who deserves your kindness the most.”

Everyone began writing—to their mothers, siblings, best friends. Riya just stared at her paper. Who deserved her kindness? She stared thinking deeply. 

Everyone was rude to her ... in one or other way. Including she her self. She was always forgetting homework, always too slow, always too quiet.

Ms. Hema noticed.

After class, she gently sat beside her and said,

“You know, sometimes we forget that we also deserve kindness—from ourselves most of all.”

 That night, Riya went home and tried again. Truly for first time...

She wrote slowly:

“Dear Me,
I know you feel like you're not good enough. But you try every day, even when it’s hard. You care. You notice small things. You don’t need to be loud to matter.
I’m proud of you.
—Riya”

She didn’t show it to anyone. But she carried that letter in her notebook like a secret anchor.

From then on, something small changed.

She began tying her hair a little neater—not for anyone, just for herself. She read aloud in class— without shaking. She even smiled when a classmate complimented her handwriting.

It wasn’t a sudden transformation. It was slow, uneven, and very real.

The other students didn’t suddenly make her popular—but some began sitting near her. One even asked for her help with a diagram. Ms. Hema noticed her more, leaving encouraging notes and inviting her to lead a small group during a reading session.

Riya began to enjoy her time in class, showing genuine interest in everything happening around her. She started understanding the concepts taught, and when something wasn’t clear, she confidently sought help from others to learn better.

One day, near the end of the year, Riya found a younger girl crying in the bathroom. The girl’s pencil case had broken, and through her tears she whispered, “I’m useless.”

Riya hesitated for a moment—remembering the days she had felt invisible and unsure—but then knelt beside her. She handed the girl a tissue and said gently,

“You’re not useless. Everyone has bad days. This one will pass.”

The girl sniffled and nodded, holding the tissue tight. As Riya walked back to class, she realised something important: she wasn’t just learning in school anymore—she was helping someone else feel seen, just like Ms. Hema had done for her.

And this time, Riya didn’t choose the last bench. She took her seat right in the middle of the room.

“Why Always Me?” – The Story of the School Bell”

                            “ Sunday Stories: The Success Secrets of Extraordinary”

At Shantivan Public School, the day started and ended with a bell. Not an automatic one—but a real, old-fashioned brass bell hung in the corridor. And every week, one student was chosen to be the Bell Ringer.

It may sound like a small job, but the Bell Ringer had to arrive early, ring the bell on time for every class, and stay late after school. No skipping, no excuses.

This week, it was Soniya’s turn.

She was in Class VIII—bright, talkative, and always doodling in the margins of her notebook. When her name was announced during assembly, her first reaction was:

“Why me again? I already did it last term! Why don’t they ask the others? I have art class! I have skit practice! It’s always me!”

Even the teachers standing near by heard her complaints.

Mr. Rao, the science teacher, smiled and said,

“You know, I thought the same last week when I was asked to go for Mr. Raj's substitution Again.”

Mrs. Leela, the English teacher, chuckled,

“And I when I was told to plan the Annual Day again, I too thought it first. But soon I realised, it’s never about ‘me again’—it’s about who can be trusted again.”

Soniya didn’t reply. But their words lingered.

She still groaned a bit the next morning when she got up early. But she came. She rang the bell.

All week, she ran across corridors, reminding teachers politely, checking her watch nervously. She missed parts of her lunch and even stayed back after school once to ring the final bell when the peon was absent.

On Friday, during the last bell, something unexpected happened.

As she rang it, the Principal mam came out of her office and clapped once—slow, but meaningful.

Then the whole corridor joined in.

“What’s going on?” Soniya asked, stunned.

“This week,” said the Principal, “the school ran on time because you did your job without anyone reminding you. Do you know what that’s called, Soniya?”

“Being stuck with responsibility?” she guessed, half-joking.

“No,” the Principal smiled.
“Leadership. And leadership doesn’t wait for applause.”

That Monday, her name wasn’t on the Bell Ringer list.

But the Student Council President asked her to nominate the next Bell Ringer, because “we trust your accountability.”

Soniya looked at the brass bell with new eyes.

---

🧠 Moral for Students & Teachers:

Responsibility is not a punishment—it’s proof that someone believes in your reliability. And once you carry it with sincerity, reward follows quietly—like respect, trust, and growth.