20-06-2025, 09:01 PM
Morning light filtered through the window of Devika's apartment as she stood before the mirror, adjusting her saree with deliberate precision. Today, the crimson cotton fabric was dbangd high around her waist, the pleats neat and conservative, the pallu securely covering her torso and dbangd over her shoulder with not an inch of midriff exposed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she secured the final fold with a safety pin—a small act of armor against the afternoon that awaited her.
"Three o'clock," she whispered to her reflection, the time hanging between them like a sentence. Her eyes, usually bright with academic curiosity, were shadowed with apprehension. The practical class with Vishnu and Pathan loomed in her mind, a dark cloud hovering over the day's otherwise clear sky.
Devika gathered her materials—textbooks, lecture notes, a folder of practical guidelines—and slipped them into her worn leather bag, the same one she'd carried since her PhD days. The familiar weight against her hip provided a small comfort as she locked her apartment door behind her.
The college campus hummed with mid-morning activity as she arrived. Students lounged on benches or hurried between buildings, their voices creating a steady murmur beneath the rustling leaves. Devika kept her eyes forward, her posture rigid as she navigated the familiar pathways to the Science building. The weight of glances—real or imagined—prickled against her skin with each step.
In the relative safety of the staff room, Devika allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The space was half-empty, most faculty members already engaged in morning classes. She set her bag down at her designated desk, unloading her materials with methodical care.
"Good morning, Devika!" Sharada's voice cut through the quiet, bright and sharp as broken glass. She approached with her usual confident stride, a mug of tea steaming in her hand. "You're looking... different today."
Devika glanced up, offering a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Good morning."
Sharada settled into the chair beside Devika's desk, her gaze traveling over the high dbang of Devika's saree with unmistakable disapproval. "What happened to the new style? It suited you so well."
"I thought this would be more appropriate," Devika replied, arranging her papers with careful attention. "Especially given the practical assignments announced yesterday."
"Practical assignments?" Sharada's eyebrows rose with practiced curiosity. "Oh, did you get a difficult batch?"
Devika's hands stilled. "Vishnu Patil and Pathan Khan."
A flicker of something—concern? alarm?—crossed Sharada's face before she smoothed it away with a sympathetic smile. "Ah, I see. They have quite the reputation, don't they?"
"That's putting it mildly." Devika lowered her voice, though the staff room remained largely empty. "I requested a reassignment, but Professor Krishnamurthy refused. Said it was all finalized."
"And so you're... what? Trying to make yourself invisible?" Sharada gestured to Devika's conservatively dbangd saree. "Hiding behind yards of fabric?"
Devika felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I'm simply dressing professionally."
"You were dressing professionally before." Sharada leaned closer, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "Listen to me, Devika. I've been teaching here for years. I know these types of boys. If you suddenly change your appearance, they'll sense weakness. They'll know they've affected you."
A cold knot formed in Devika's stomach. "What are you suggesting?"
"Consistency," Sharada replied simply. "Don't let them see that they've rattled you. The moment they realize they have power over your choices—even something as simple as how you dbang your saree—they'll push for more."
Devika's fingers found the edge of her pallu, twisting the fabric anxiously. "But the way I was wearing it... it seemed to encourage their attention."
"Their attention was already there," Sharada countered. "At least with the lower dbang, you appeared confident, in control of your own image. Now you look... frightened."
"I'm not frightened," Devika protested, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. "I'm just trying to minimize distractions."
Sharada sipped her tea, studying Devika over the rim of her mug. "Tell me honestly. Would you have changed your style if any other students had been assigned to you?"
The question hung between them, unanswerable. Devika's silence was answer enough.
"Exactly," Sharada said softly. "You're letting them dictate your choices already. That's dangerous ground, Devika."
"But what should I do?" The question escaped before Devika could contain it, raw with vulnerability.
"Be consistent. Be confident. Don't show fear." Sharada set her mug down with a decisive clink. "And for heaven's sake, wear your saree the way you've been wearing it all week. The moment you change in response to them, you hand them a victory."
Devika considered this, weighing Sharada's words against her own instincts. There was logic to the argument, even if it led to a conclusion that made her uncomfortable.
"I don't know..."
"Trust me," Sharada pressed, reaching out to squeeze Devika's hand. "I've seen what happens when young male students sense vulnerability in a female professor. It never ends well."
The weight of those words settled heavily on Devika's shoulders. She glanced at the clock on the wall—just past ten. Five hours until the practical class.
"Fine," she conceded finally. "You're probably right."
Relief flooded Sharada's features. "Good. The washroom is empty now if you want to adjust before your morning lecture."
Devika gathered her saree and a small bag of safety pins. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
In the privacy of the faculty washroom, Devika stood before the mirror once again. With practiced movements, she unpinned her saree, loosening the fabric around her waist. The pleats fell lower, revealing a sliver of skin between the saree and her blouse. She adjusted the pallu, dbanging it more loosely across her torso, allowing the weight of the fabric to create a more relaxed silhouette.
Her reflection stared back at her, transformed yet familiar. The woman in the mirror looked confident, modern, stylish—but Devika felt exposed, vulnerable. She smoothed a hand over the fabric, feeling the cool silk against her palm.
"Consistency," she murmured to herself, echoing Sharada's advice. "Don't show fear."
When she returned to the staff room, Sharada's approving nod carried a weight that Devika couldn't quite define. But there was no time to dwell on it—her morning lecture awaited, and after that, hours of anticipation before the practical class that she both dreaded and, now, was determined to face with composure.
---
The biology laboratory was bathed in afternoon sunlight when Devika arrived at quarter to three. She moved deliberately around the space, setting up three workstations with microscopes, slides, petri dishes, and various instruments for the day's experiments. Each movement was precise, controlled—a choreography of preparation that helped steady her nerves.
At exactly three o'clock, a knock sounded at the door. Devika straightened, smoothed her saree—lower on her waist than she would have preferred, but consistent with the past week's style—and called, "Enter."
Vishnu and Pathan stepped into the laboratory, their expressions carefully collegeed into polite interest that didn't quite mask the gleam in their eyes as they took in Devika's appearance. They carried notebooks and pens, props in the performance of dedicated students.
"Good afternoon, Professor," Pathan greeted, his voice smooth as silk. "We're looking forward to today's practical session."
"As am I," Devika replied, her tone crisp and professional. "Please take your places at the workstations. We have several important experiments to cover today."
They moved to the benches she had prepared, setting down their materials with deliberate care. Devika remained standing at the front demonstration table, creating physical distance between herself and the students.
"Before we begin, I'd like to establish some ground rules for our sessions," she said, meeting their gazes directly. "I expect complete focus on the material, thorough documentation of your observations, and professional behavior at all times. These practical sessions constitute a significant portion of your final grade."
"Of course, Professor," Vishnu nodded, his expression earnest. "We're very serious about improving our understanding of biology."
"Good," Devika replied, ignoring the subtle emphasis he placed on the word 'biology.' "Let's begin with introductions. I know we've been in lecture together, but for these more intimate sessions, it's important we understand each other's backgrounds and goals."
She watched their reactions carefully, noting the slight widening of Pathan's eyes at the word 'intimate'—an unfortunate choice on her part, but she pressed on.
"I'm Dr. Devika Nair. I completed my PhD in cellular biology at Chennai University, specializing in membrane transport mechanisms. Before joining this institution, I conducted research on cellular adaptations to environmental stressors." She paused, then added, "Now, tell me about yourselves. Mr. Khan, you may begin."
Pathan leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on the workbench. "I'm Pathan Khan, from Pune. My family is in the finance business. I'm interested in biology because..." he paused, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "I find the study of living systems fascinating. Especially the way different organisms respond to various... stimuli."
Devika nodded stiffly, then turned to Vishnu. "And you, Mr. Patil?"
"Vishnu Patil," he said, his voice deeper than Pathan's, rougher around the edges. "My family recently established themselves in agribusiness. I'm particularly interested in understanding biological processes that could be applied to agricultural improvements." The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue, practiced and plausible.
"Thank you," Devika said, picking up a set of instruction sheets from her desk. "Today we'll be examining cellular structures using various staining techniques, followed by a pipetting accuracy exercise that will be essential for next week's experiments."
She distributed the papers, careful to maintain distance as she placed them on the edge of each workbench. "Please read through the procedures while I prepare the slides."
As Devika turned to the supply cabinet, she felt their eyes following her movements. The awareness prickled across her skin, raising goosebumps despite the warm laboratory air. She gathered the necessary materials, her movements deliberate and efficient.
"For our first experiment," she began, returning to the demonstration table, "we'll be examining epithelial cells using methylene blue staining. This technique allows us to visualize cellular structures that would otherwise be transparent under the microscope."
She demonstrated the procedure, applying a drop of stain to a prepared slide, then carefully placing a cover slip to avoid air bubbles. Throughout her explanation, Vishnu and Pathan maintained expressions of studious attention, nodding at appropriate intervals and occasionally jotting notes.
"Now you try," Devika instructed, gesturing to the materials at their stations. "Remember to handle the cover slips carefully—they're extremely fragile."
She watched as they attempted to replicate her demonstration, noting Vishnu's deliberately clumsy handling of the pipette.
"No, not like that," she corrected, moving toward his workstation. "You're applying too much pressure."
Standing beside him, Devika demonstrated the proper technique again, acutely aware of his proximity. "Hold it lightly between your thumb and forefinger, like this."
Vishnu's hand brushed against hers as he reached for the pipette. "Like this, Professor?" His fingers fumbled, almost dropping the instrument.
"Here," Devika said, her professional instincts overriding her discomfort. She guided his hand, adjusting his grip on the pipette. "Gentle pressure, just enough to draw up the stain."
She felt his breath against her arm, warm and deliberately slow. The moment stretched longer than necessary before she stepped back, putting distance between them again.
"Now you try, Mr. Khan," she said, moving to Pathan's workstation.
Pathan's attempt was equally poor, though his errors were different—he pretended to struggle with the cover slip placement, creating air bubbles that would render the slide unreadable.
"You need to lower it gradually, from one edge," Devika explained, reaching across to demonstrate. The movement brought her closer to him than she would have liked, the edge of her saree pallu brushing against his arm. She felt him shift slightly, moving into the contact rather than away from it.
"I see," he murmured, his voice lower than necessary for the quiet laboratory. "It's all in the technique, isn't it?"
Devika stepped back quickly, returning to the demonstration table. "Once your slides are prepared, adjust your microscopes to the lowest magnification first, then gradually increase to higher power."
She watched as they bent over their microscopes, appearing to focus on the task. After several moments, Vishnu looked up with a frown.
"I can't seem to find anything, Professor. The field is just blue."
Devika suppressed a sigh. Were they truly this incompetent, or was this part of their game? Either possibility was troubling.
"Let me check," she said, approaching his station again. She leaned over to look through the eyepiece, aware of Vishnu's gaze on her as she adjusted her position. The microscope was completely out of focus, the field a blur of indistinct color.
"You haven't adjusted the focus at all," she observed, straightening. "Try the coarse adjustment knob first, then fine-tune with the smaller knob."
"Could you show me?" Vishnu asked, his expression the perfect picture of academic struggle.
Devika hesitated, then leaned over again to demonstrate. She was acutely conscious of how the position caused her saree to pull slightly across her hips, how the pallu slipped a fraction from her shoulder as she bent to the eyepiece.
"There," she said, adjusting the focus until cellular structures became visible. "Now you can see the cell membranes and nuclei clearly. Try to count the visible cells in this field and record your observations."
She moved to check Pathan's progress, finding him with similar difficulties. The pattern repeated—she would demonstrate, he would watch, not the microscope but her, his attention fixed on the curve of her neck as she bent to the eyepiece, the sliver of skin exposed at her waist as she reached to adjust the fine focus.
The air in the laboratory grew heavier, charged with an uncomfortable tension that had nothing to do with academic struggle. Devika maintained her professional demeanor through sheer force of will, directing them through the observations and notes they should be taking.
"For our next experiment," she said, returning to the safety of the demonstration table, "we'll practice precise volume measurements using micropipettes. This skill is essential for many biological procedures, including DNA extraction and protein analysis."
She demonstrated the proper technique for handling the delicate instruments, explaining the importance of accuracy in scientific measurements. "Even a small error can significantly impact your results, so precision is crucial."
As expected, both students struggled with the pipetting exercises. Devika moved between their stations, correcting their grips, demonstrating the proper angle for tip insertion, guiding their hands through the motions of aspiration and dispensing. Each interaction brought unwanted proximity, moments where their fingers would "accidentally" brush against hers, where Pathan would lean too close as she explained a concept, his shoulder pressing against her arm.
During one such demonstration, as Devika guided Vishnu's hand through a pipetting motion, she felt his gaze fixed not on the instrument but on the dbang of her saree across her torso. The weight of his attention was almost physical, a pressure against her skin that made her want to wrap the fabric tighter around herself.
"You need to maintain a consistent pressure," she instructed, her voice betraying none of her discomfort. "Too much force and you'll draw up excess liquid; too little and your measurement will be inaccurate."
"It's difficult to get the feel for it," Vishnu replied, his voice pitched low. "Your hands make it look so easy, Professor. They're very... skilled."
Devika withdrew her hand from the demonstration, stepping back. "Practice will improve your technique. Try the exercise again while I check Mr. Khan's progress."
Moving to Pathan's station, she found him struggling with similar "difficulties." As she leaned forward to demonstrate once more, she caught the subtle inhale as he breathed in her scent—sandalwood and jasmine from the soap she used that morning, layered with the subtle musk of nervous perspiration.
"Like this," she said, guiding his hand through the motion. "Smooth and controlled."
"Smooth and controlled," Pathan echoed, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that made Devika's skin crawl. "I'll remember that, Professor."
Throughout the two-hour session, the pattern continued—demonstrations requiring physical proximity, explanations delivered over bent heads, corrections that necessitated standing beside them as they pretended to struggle with basic techniques. With each interaction, Devika felt their attention like a tangible thing, sliding over her form, lingering on the exposed skin at her waist when she reached for equipment on high shelves, noting the way her saree shifted as she moved between stations.
At one point, as she bent to retrieve a dropped cover slip, she heard a sharp intake of breath behind her. Straightening quickly, she turned to find both Vishnu and Pathan watching her, their expressions a mixture of appreciation and something darker, more predatory.
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" she asked, her voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.
"No problem at all, Professor," Pathan replied smoothly. "We were just admiring your... attention to detail."
The final experiment involved recording observations of cellular division phases. As they worked, Devika noticed both students making repeated "adjustments" to their microscopes, necessitating her assistance. Each time she approached, they would shift in their seats, creating situations where she had to lean across them to access the adjustment knobs, where her saree would brush against their arms or shoulders, where the pallu would slip slightly from her shoulder as she bent to the eyepiece.
By the time five o'clock approached, marking the end of the practical session, Devika felt emotionally exhausted. She had maintained her professional composure throughout, correcting techniques, explaining concepts, guiding their observations—all while acutely aware of their gaze following every movement, noting every adjustment of her saree, every momentary exposure of skin as she reached or bent or demonstrated.
"That concludes today's practical," she announced, returning to the demonstration table. "Please clean your workstations and prepare a summary of your observations for our next session."
Vishnu and Pathan cleaned their areas with unexpected thoroughness, their movements unhurried as they gathered their materials. Devika busied herself with organizing her notes, avoiding their gaze as they completed their tasks.
"Same time next week, Professor?" Pathan asked as they prepared to leave, his tone innocent but his eyes anything but.
"Yes," Devika replied, not looking up from her papers. "Please review chapters seven and eight before our next session. We'll be covering membrane transport mechanisms."
"We'll be thoroughly prepared," Vishnu promised, lingering by the door. "Thank you for your... hands-on guidance today. It was most illuminating."
Only when the door closed behind them did Devika allow her shoulders to slump, releasing the tension she had been carrying for the past two hours. She sank into her chair, staring at the now-empty laboratory, replaying moments from the session—the brushing of fingers, the leaning of shoulders, the weighted gazes that seemed to peel away layers of fabric and propriety.
She had survived the first practical, maintained her professionalism throughout. But three more months of weekly sessions stretched before her like a dark tunnel, with no reassignment possible according to Seenu's announcement.
Outside the laboratory window, afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the campus grounds. In the corridor, she could hear the receding footsteps of Vishnu and Pathan, punctuated by low laughter that echoed against the walls. The sound followed her as she gathered her materials, a haunting reminder that this was only the beginning.
"Three o'clock," she whispered to her reflection, the time hanging between them like a sentence. Her eyes, usually bright with academic curiosity, were shadowed with apprehension. The practical class with Vishnu and Pathan loomed in her mind, a dark cloud hovering over the day's otherwise clear sky.
Devika gathered her materials—textbooks, lecture notes, a folder of practical guidelines—and slipped them into her worn leather bag, the same one she'd carried since her PhD days. The familiar weight against her hip provided a small comfort as she locked her apartment door behind her.
The college campus hummed with mid-morning activity as she arrived. Students lounged on benches or hurried between buildings, their voices creating a steady murmur beneath the rustling leaves. Devika kept her eyes forward, her posture rigid as she navigated the familiar pathways to the Science building. The weight of glances—real or imagined—prickled against her skin with each step.
In the relative safety of the staff room, Devika allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The space was half-empty, most faculty members already engaged in morning classes. She set her bag down at her designated desk, unloading her materials with methodical care.
"Good morning, Devika!" Sharada's voice cut through the quiet, bright and sharp as broken glass. She approached with her usual confident stride, a mug of tea steaming in her hand. "You're looking... different today."
Devika glanced up, offering a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Good morning."
Sharada settled into the chair beside Devika's desk, her gaze traveling over the high dbang of Devika's saree with unmistakable disapproval. "What happened to the new style? It suited you so well."
"I thought this would be more appropriate," Devika replied, arranging her papers with careful attention. "Especially given the practical assignments announced yesterday."
"Practical assignments?" Sharada's eyebrows rose with practiced curiosity. "Oh, did you get a difficult batch?"
Devika's hands stilled. "Vishnu Patil and Pathan Khan."
A flicker of something—concern? alarm?—crossed Sharada's face before she smoothed it away with a sympathetic smile. "Ah, I see. They have quite the reputation, don't they?"
"That's putting it mildly." Devika lowered her voice, though the staff room remained largely empty. "I requested a reassignment, but Professor Krishnamurthy refused. Said it was all finalized."
"And so you're... what? Trying to make yourself invisible?" Sharada gestured to Devika's conservatively dbangd saree. "Hiding behind yards of fabric?"
Devika felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I'm simply dressing professionally."
"You were dressing professionally before." Sharada leaned closer, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "Listen to me, Devika. I've been teaching here for years. I know these types of boys. If you suddenly change your appearance, they'll sense weakness. They'll know they've affected you."
A cold knot formed in Devika's stomach. "What are you suggesting?"
"Consistency," Sharada replied simply. "Don't let them see that they've rattled you. The moment they realize they have power over your choices—even something as simple as how you dbang your saree—they'll push for more."
Devika's fingers found the edge of her pallu, twisting the fabric anxiously. "But the way I was wearing it... it seemed to encourage their attention."
"Their attention was already there," Sharada countered. "At least with the lower dbang, you appeared confident, in control of your own image. Now you look... frightened."
"I'm not frightened," Devika protested, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. "I'm just trying to minimize distractions."
Sharada sipped her tea, studying Devika over the rim of her mug. "Tell me honestly. Would you have changed your style if any other students had been assigned to you?"
The question hung between them, unanswerable. Devika's silence was answer enough.
"Exactly," Sharada said softly. "You're letting them dictate your choices already. That's dangerous ground, Devika."
"But what should I do?" The question escaped before Devika could contain it, raw with vulnerability.
"Be consistent. Be confident. Don't show fear." Sharada set her mug down with a decisive clink. "And for heaven's sake, wear your saree the way you've been wearing it all week. The moment you change in response to them, you hand them a victory."
Devika considered this, weighing Sharada's words against her own instincts. There was logic to the argument, even if it led to a conclusion that made her uncomfortable.
"I don't know..."
"Trust me," Sharada pressed, reaching out to squeeze Devika's hand. "I've seen what happens when young male students sense vulnerability in a female professor. It never ends well."
The weight of those words settled heavily on Devika's shoulders. She glanced at the clock on the wall—just past ten. Five hours until the practical class.
"Fine," she conceded finally. "You're probably right."
Relief flooded Sharada's features. "Good. The washroom is empty now if you want to adjust before your morning lecture."
Devika gathered her saree and a small bag of safety pins. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
In the privacy of the faculty washroom, Devika stood before the mirror once again. With practiced movements, she unpinned her saree, loosening the fabric around her waist. The pleats fell lower, revealing a sliver of skin between the saree and her blouse. She adjusted the pallu, dbanging it more loosely across her torso, allowing the weight of the fabric to create a more relaxed silhouette.
Her reflection stared back at her, transformed yet familiar. The woman in the mirror looked confident, modern, stylish—but Devika felt exposed, vulnerable. She smoothed a hand over the fabric, feeling the cool silk against her palm.
"Consistency," she murmured to herself, echoing Sharada's advice. "Don't show fear."
When she returned to the staff room, Sharada's approving nod carried a weight that Devika couldn't quite define. But there was no time to dwell on it—her morning lecture awaited, and after that, hours of anticipation before the practical class that she both dreaded and, now, was determined to face with composure.
---
The biology laboratory was bathed in afternoon sunlight when Devika arrived at quarter to three. She moved deliberately around the space, setting up three workstations with microscopes, slides, petri dishes, and various instruments for the day's experiments. Each movement was precise, controlled—a choreography of preparation that helped steady her nerves.
At exactly three o'clock, a knock sounded at the door. Devika straightened, smoothed her saree—lower on her waist than she would have preferred, but consistent with the past week's style—and called, "Enter."
Vishnu and Pathan stepped into the laboratory, their expressions carefully collegeed into polite interest that didn't quite mask the gleam in their eyes as they took in Devika's appearance. They carried notebooks and pens, props in the performance of dedicated students.
"Good afternoon, Professor," Pathan greeted, his voice smooth as silk. "We're looking forward to today's practical session."
"As am I," Devika replied, her tone crisp and professional. "Please take your places at the workstations. We have several important experiments to cover today."
They moved to the benches she had prepared, setting down their materials with deliberate care. Devika remained standing at the front demonstration table, creating physical distance between herself and the students.
"Before we begin, I'd like to establish some ground rules for our sessions," she said, meeting their gazes directly. "I expect complete focus on the material, thorough documentation of your observations, and professional behavior at all times. These practical sessions constitute a significant portion of your final grade."
"Of course, Professor," Vishnu nodded, his expression earnest. "We're very serious about improving our understanding of biology."
"Good," Devika replied, ignoring the subtle emphasis he placed on the word 'biology.' "Let's begin with introductions. I know we've been in lecture together, but for these more intimate sessions, it's important we understand each other's backgrounds and goals."
She watched their reactions carefully, noting the slight widening of Pathan's eyes at the word 'intimate'—an unfortunate choice on her part, but she pressed on.
"I'm Dr. Devika Nair. I completed my PhD in cellular biology at Chennai University, specializing in membrane transport mechanisms. Before joining this institution, I conducted research on cellular adaptations to environmental stressors." She paused, then added, "Now, tell me about yourselves. Mr. Khan, you may begin."
Pathan leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on the workbench. "I'm Pathan Khan, from Pune. My family is in the finance business. I'm interested in biology because..." he paused, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "I find the study of living systems fascinating. Especially the way different organisms respond to various... stimuli."
Devika nodded stiffly, then turned to Vishnu. "And you, Mr. Patil?"
"Vishnu Patil," he said, his voice deeper than Pathan's, rougher around the edges. "My family recently established themselves in agribusiness. I'm particularly interested in understanding biological processes that could be applied to agricultural improvements." The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue, practiced and plausible.
"Thank you," Devika said, picking up a set of instruction sheets from her desk. "Today we'll be examining cellular structures using various staining techniques, followed by a pipetting accuracy exercise that will be essential for next week's experiments."
She distributed the papers, careful to maintain distance as she placed them on the edge of each workbench. "Please read through the procedures while I prepare the slides."
As Devika turned to the supply cabinet, she felt their eyes following her movements. The awareness prickled across her skin, raising goosebumps despite the warm laboratory air. She gathered the necessary materials, her movements deliberate and efficient.
"For our first experiment," she began, returning to the demonstration table, "we'll be examining epithelial cells using methylene blue staining. This technique allows us to visualize cellular structures that would otherwise be transparent under the microscope."
She demonstrated the procedure, applying a drop of stain to a prepared slide, then carefully placing a cover slip to avoid air bubbles. Throughout her explanation, Vishnu and Pathan maintained expressions of studious attention, nodding at appropriate intervals and occasionally jotting notes.
"Now you try," Devika instructed, gesturing to the materials at their stations. "Remember to handle the cover slips carefully—they're extremely fragile."
She watched as they attempted to replicate her demonstration, noting Vishnu's deliberately clumsy handling of the pipette.
"No, not like that," she corrected, moving toward his workstation. "You're applying too much pressure."
Standing beside him, Devika demonstrated the proper technique again, acutely aware of his proximity. "Hold it lightly between your thumb and forefinger, like this."
Vishnu's hand brushed against hers as he reached for the pipette. "Like this, Professor?" His fingers fumbled, almost dropping the instrument.
"Here," Devika said, her professional instincts overriding her discomfort. She guided his hand, adjusting his grip on the pipette. "Gentle pressure, just enough to draw up the stain."
She felt his breath against her arm, warm and deliberately slow. The moment stretched longer than necessary before she stepped back, putting distance between them again.
"Now you try, Mr. Khan," she said, moving to Pathan's workstation.
Pathan's attempt was equally poor, though his errors were different—he pretended to struggle with the cover slip placement, creating air bubbles that would render the slide unreadable.
"You need to lower it gradually, from one edge," Devika explained, reaching across to demonstrate. The movement brought her closer to him than she would have liked, the edge of her saree pallu brushing against his arm. She felt him shift slightly, moving into the contact rather than away from it.
"I see," he murmured, his voice lower than necessary for the quiet laboratory. "It's all in the technique, isn't it?"
Devika stepped back quickly, returning to the demonstration table. "Once your slides are prepared, adjust your microscopes to the lowest magnification first, then gradually increase to higher power."
She watched as they bent over their microscopes, appearing to focus on the task. After several moments, Vishnu looked up with a frown.
"I can't seem to find anything, Professor. The field is just blue."
Devika suppressed a sigh. Were they truly this incompetent, or was this part of their game? Either possibility was troubling.
"Let me check," she said, approaching his station again. She leaned over to look through the eyepiece, aware of Vishnu's gaze on her as she adjusted her position. The microscope was completely out of focus, the field a blur of indistinct color.
"You haven't adjusted the focus at all," she observed, straightening. "Try the coarse adjustment knob first, then fine-tune with the smaller knob."
"Could you show me?" Vishnu asked, his expression the perfect picture of academic struggle.
Devika hesitated, then leaned over again to demonstrate. She was acutely conscious of how the position caused her saree to pull slightly across her hips, how the pallu slipped a fraction from her shoulder as she bent to the eyepiece.
"There," she said, adjusting the focus until cellular structures became visible. "Now you can see the cell membranes and nuclei clearly. Try to count the visible cells in this field and record your observations."
She moved to check Pathan's progress, finding him with similar difficulties. The pattern repeated—she would demonstrate, he would watch, not the microscope but her, his attention fixed on the curve of her neck as she bent to the eyepiece, the sliver of skin exposed at her waist as she reached to adjust the fine focus.
The air in the laboratory grew heavier, charged with an uncomfortable tension that had nothing to do with academic struggle. Devika maintained her professional demeanor through sheer force of will, directing them through the observations and notes they should be taking.
"For our next experiment," she said, returning to the safety of the demonstration table, "we'll practice precise volume measurements using micropipettes. This skill is essential for many biological procedures, including DNA extraction and protein analysis."
She demonstrated the proper technique for handling the delicate instruments, explaining the importance of accuracy in scientific measurements. "Even a small error can significantly impact your results, so precision is crucial."
As expected, both students struggled with the pipetting exercises. Devika moved between their stations, correcting their grips, demonstrating the proper angle for tip insertion, guiding their hands through the motions of aspiration and dispensing. Each interaction brought unwanted proximity, moments where their fingers would "accidentally" brush against hers, where Pathan would lean too close as she explained a concept, his shoulder pressing against her arm.
During one such demonstration, as Devika guided Vishnu's hand through a pipetting motion, she felt his gaze fixed not on the instrument but on the dbang of her saree across her torso. The weight of his attention was almost physical, a pressure against her skin that made her want to wrap the fabric tighter around herself.
"You need to maintain a consistent pressure," she instructed, her voice betraying none of her discomfort. "Too much force and you'll draw up excess liquid; too little and your measurement will be inaccurate."
"It's difficult to get the feel for it," Vishnu replied, his voice pitched low. "Your hands make it look so easy, Professor. They're very... skilled."
Devika withdrew her hand from the demonstration, stepping back. "Practice will improve your technique. Try the exercise again while I check Mr. Khan's progress."
Moving to Pathan's station, she found him struggling with similar "difficulties." As she leaned forward to demonstrate once more, she caught the subtle inhale as he breathed in her scent—sandalwood and jasmine from the soap she used that morning, layered with the subtle musk of nervous perspiration.
"Like this," she said, guiding his hand through the motion. "Smooth and controlled."
"Smooth and controlled," Pathan echoed, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that made Devika's skin crawl. "I'll remember that, Professor."
Throughout the two-hour session, the pattern continued—demonstrations requiring physical proximity, explanations delivered over bent heads, corrections that necessitated standing beside them as they pretended to struggle with basic techniques. With each interaction, Devika felt their attention like a tangible thing, sliding over her form, lingering on the exposed skin at her waist when she reached for equipment on high shelves, noting the way her saree shifted as she moved between stations.
At one point, as she bent to retrieve a dropped cover slip, she heard a sharp intake of breath behind her. Straightening quickly, she turned to find both Vishnu and Pathan watching her, their expressions a mixture of appreciation and something darker, more predatory.
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" she asked, her voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.
"No problem at all, Professor," Pathan replied smoothly. "We were just admiring your... attention to detail."
The final experiment involved recording observations of cellular division phases. As they worked, Devika noticed both students making repeated "adjustments" to their microscopes, necessitating her assistance. Each time she approached, they would shift in their seats, creating situations where she had to lean across them to access the adjustment knobs, where her saree would brush against their arms or shoulders, where the pallu would slip slightly from her shoulder as she bent to the eyepiece.
By the time five o'clock approached, marking the end of the practical session, Devika felt emotionally exhausted. She had maintained her professional composure throughout, correcting techniques, explaining concepts, guiding their observations—all while acutely aware of their gaze following every movement, noting every adjustment of her saree, every momentary exposure of skin as she reached or bent or demonstrated.
"That concludes today's practical," she announced, returning to the demonstration table. "Please clean your workstations and prepare a summary of your observations for our next session."
Vishnu and Pathan cleaned their areas with unexpected thoroughness, their movements unhurried as they gathered their materials. Devika busied herself with organizing her notes, avoiding their gaze as they completed their tasks.
"Same time next week, Professor?" Pathan asked as they prepared to leave, his tone innocent but his eyes anything but.
"Yes," Devika replied, not looking up from her papers. "Please review chapters seven and eight before our next session. We'll be covering membrane transport mechanisms."
"We'll be thoroughly prepared," Vishnu promised, lingering by the door. "Thank you for your... hands-on guidance today. It was most illuminating."
Only when the door closed behind them did Devika allow her shoulders to slump, releasing the tension she had been carrying for the past two hours. She sank into her chair, staring at the now-empty laboratory, replaying moments from the session—the brushing of fingers, the leaning of shoulders, the weighted gazes that seemed to peel away layers of fabric and propriety.
She had survived the first practical, maintained her professionalism throughout. But three more months of weekly sessions stretched before her like a dark tunnel, with no reassignment possible according to Seenu's announcement.
Outside the laboratory window, afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the campus grounds. In the corridor, she could hear the receding footsteps of Vishnu and Pathan, punctuated by low laughter that echoed against the walls. The sound followed her as she gathered her materials, a haunting reminder that this was only the beginning.
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