I was eleven years old, waiting for my exam at Saraswati Vidyalaya, my school in Nagpur. "No. 12, please come forward." Kirti, a very fat girl from my class, stepped ahead. I heard my classmates laughing and so I tried to stop them with my eyes. But my good intentions were mistaken. The next morning, my teacher, Mrs. Kamble, told me, "Ashwini, I've received a complaint about you." I was shocked. The girl I was protecting thought I'd been laughing at her. I tried to explain but the teacher refused to hear me out. She punished me by making me stand by the door. I knew I was right. Such punishment to a class topper was simply unheard of. But, slowly, my pride disappeared. Instead of being angry, I understood the other students who have been punished at times. For the first time, I felt humbled  . Three years later, I was in the math class. Mr. Prabhuraman, wrote an equation   -- one he'd taught us the day before -- on the blackboard. "Anyone who doesn't know how to solve this," he said, "please leave the class at once." I knew I could solve only the first two steps. But my pride made me stay there. Unfortunately, the one who was asked to solve it was me. I just stood there, chalk in hand, trying not to look foolish. I prepared myself for a good talking-to  , but Mr. Prabhuraman told me kindly, "Go back to your seat." Today, two decades later, those incidents have made me think. One teacher punished me for something I didn't do; the other forgave me for something I did wrong. Both experiences had an effect on me. They remind me that no matter what you accomplish  , you must always be humble. After receiving a complaint, Mrs. Kamble   _  .
said nothing about it was disappointed felt very angry tried to find out the truth