13-11-2025, 05:05 AM
Episode 4 – Asymptotes
Arjun barely slept that night.
The ceiling fan in his room whirred like a faulty differential equation, chopping the darkness into uneven slices. He lay on his back, shirtless in the humid Bangalore air, one arm thrown over his eyes as if that could block the image.
But it didn't.
The light-blue cotton, the pallu in mid-slide, the swell of her left breast rising like a defiant y = e^x—unbounded, infinite, always approaching but never quite touching the asymptote of his sanity.
He had touched himself twice before midnight, each time slower, more reverent, imagining his fingers as the tangent line kissing that curve at precisely one point.
The release came in waves, but the hunger didn't ebb.
It asymptoted—got closer and closer to satisfaction without ever reaching it.
By morning, he was a wreck.
Dark circles under his eyes, hair uncombed, uniform shirt half-tucked. Lakshmi noticed over breakfast—idli and sambar steaming on the steel plate.
"Beta, you look like you solved the entire JEE paper last night. Eyes redder than chilli powder. Study too much?"
Arjun mumbled something about derivatives keeping him up.
She laughed, ruffling his hair.
"Arre, maths is not a girlfriend to lose sleep over. Eat properly."
If only she knew.
Maths wasn't the problem.
Maths was the priestess.
He reached college early again—fifteen minutes this time, enough to claim the first bench without Vikram's teasing. The classroom was still empty, sunlight slanting through the windows in golden rods that dust motes danced around like lazy electrons.
Arjun pulled out his notebook, stared at the margin doodle from yesterday: a crude sketch of a breast, labelled f(x) = √(1 - x²), the upper hemisphere of a unit circle.
He added a note: Asymptote: unreality.
Because no matter how many times he traced it, the real thing remained forever out of reach—approaching, teasing, but never intersecting.
The class filled slowly. Rahul arrived with a half-eaten banana, waxing poetic about some IPL rumour. Sneha followed, nose in her physics guide, muttering about centripetal force. Vikram last, as always, collapsing into the seat beside Arjun with a groan.
"Bro, you look like death warmed over. What, Meera ma'am give you extra homework or extra something else?" He waggled his eyebrows.
Arjun shot him a glare that could curdle milk. "Shut up and open your book."
Vikram chuckled but obeyed, flipping to the chapter on tangents.
"Fine, fine. But seriously, since she came, you're like a man possessed. Possessed by pi or something."
The bell rang.
The door opened.
And Meera entered, carrying the weight of another day like it was nothing more than a differential form.
Today, she wore something different—a mustard-yellow chudidar kameez with a matching chunni dbangd over her shoulders like a gentle shawl. The fabric was soft cotton, the kameez fitted just enough to follow the lines of her body without apology, flaring slightly at the hips before meeting the slim churidar pants that hugged her legs like a second skin. The colour shimmered like sunlight on the Cauvery—warm, inviting, a refreshing change from the sarees that had become his daily sacrament. No pleats whispering secrets today; instead, the outfit moved with her like a fluid equation, practical yet poetic, making her look younger, more approachable, like a theorem he might one day solve.
Arjun's breath caught. It was refreshing—her in this attire, the chunni adding a layer of modesty that only heightened the mystery beneath. She greeted the class with the same quiet “Good morning” that somehow silenced thirty-five restless souls. Today her hair was in a high ponytail, swinging like a pendulum against her back—each step a tick, each sway a tock, marking the inexorable approach of asymptote.
"Good morning, class," she said, her voice a gentle limit as x approaches calm. "Today we move to asymptotes. The lines that functions flirt with but never quite embrace."
She smiled at the board, chalk in hand, and began writing:
Horizontal Asymptote: lim (x→∞) f(x) = L
The curve gets closer... but never touches.
Arjun's pen froze mid-note.
Flirt but never embrace.
Was that a sign? A theorem written just for him?
He watched her arm extend, the yellow cotton catching the light, the chunni shifting slightly but holding firm. The outline of her form beneath—smooth, unblemished—faded back into focus as she lowered her hand.
She paced as she explained, three steps left, pause, gesture with the chalk like a conductor summoning symphonies from silence.
"Think of it like the graph of y = 1/x. As x goes to infinity, y approaches zero. So close to the x-axis... tantalisingly near. But they never meet."
She drew it swiftly—two axes, the hyperbola swooping in from the first quadrant, tailing off toward the origin from the other side, forever chasing that forbidden line.
Rahul raised his hand. "Ma'am, but why? Why not just touch?"
Meera turned, braid swinging. "Because some things are defined by their distance, Rahul. The beauty is in the chase."
Arjun swallowed hard.
His throat felt like sandpaper.
The beauty is in the chase.
He chased her with his eyes, cataloguing: the way the chudidar dbangd over her waist, remembering the shadow from Day One; the subtle shift across her hips, echoing the parabolic promise of her backside; and now, layered over yesterday's revelation, the faint suggestion of breasts beneath—two soft hills under the fabric, rising gently with each word, guarded by the chunni like a dashed line on a graph.
Midway through the explanation, as she gestured emphatically toward the board—"See here, the vertical asymptote at x=0, where the function shoots to infinity"—the chunni slipped from her right shoulder. It didn't fall completely; it caught on her elbow, hanging there like a reluctant curtain refusing to close the show.
And there, for the first time in this new light, Arjun saw the unfiltered curve of her breasts.
The chudidar couldn't hide it—no.
The cotton was fitted, hugging the swell like a loving integral, the stitching along the seam tracing the exact point where the curves began their ascent. They were fuller than he had imagined in his fevered sketches—round, symmetrical, the soft weight pressing forward as though gravity itself had decided to be kind only to her. The swell over the chudidar was extremely erotic to watch, the fabric stretching taut across the peaks, outlining two perfect parabolas that met at the centre in a shadowed valley. He couldn't believe she had the perfect curve etched into the dress, visible even through the modest neckline—a semicircle of desire, rising and falling with her breath like a slow cosine wave he could ride forever.
Arjun's eyes traced the radius: from the soft shadow beneath to the point where the cotton met skin, a distance of maybe four inches, maybe forty light-years.
He so wanted to calculate the dimensions of it—the volume of those spheres, perhaps using the formula for a solid of revolution, rotating y = √(r² - x²) around the x-axis to find the integral that captured their fullness; the surface area, smooth and unyielding under his imagined touch. His pulse became a step function—zero, then suddenly infinite. He had an extreme itch to know how it feels to hold them, to integrate his palms over that curve, finding the area enclosed by fabric and flesh.
The class leaned in, notebooks scratching like a chorus of approvals. Sneha scribbled furiously; Vikram doodled a stick-figure hyperbola with googly eyes. Arjun wrote nothing. He was too busy plotting his own graph: Meera as the hyperbola, himself as the x-axis—eternally pursued, eternally denied. Lost in these thoughts, the bell rang—shrill, final—snapping him back as the class finished in a surge of noise.
Meera gathered her things, adjusting the chunni back over her shoulder with a casual flick, and walked out toward the staff room. Arjun watched her go, the ponytail swaying, the chudidar hugging her form like an equation solved.
In the staff room, the air was thick with the scent of filter coffee and old textbooks. Meera settled at her desk, marking papers, when Mrs. Nair, the senior history teacher, bustled in with a bright smile.
"Meera dear, perfect timing! Look who's back from leave—Priya! Priya Menon, our English teacher. She's been out with a bad cold for a week. Priya, this is Ms. Meera Krishnan, our new maths wizard from St. Joseph’s."
Priya turned, a woman in her late twenties with short, wavy hair, a mischievous grin, and a red salwar kameez that screamed energy. She was funny and talkative, her eyes sparkling like plot twists in a novel.
"Oh my god, finally! I've heard so much about you already—apparently, you've got the 12th graders actually paying attention to calculus? That's witchcraft, not teaching!" She laughed, a warm, infectious sound that filled the room like punctuation marks in a lively sentence.
Meera blushed, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you, Priya. I've heard you're the one who makes Shakespeare fun. How was the leave?"
Priya shook her hand firmly, plopping down on the chair beside her.
"Fun? Ha! I was buried under blankets, bingeing Netflix and coughing like a Victorian heroine. But tell me about you—coastal Karnataka accent? Mangalore? Udupi? Spill!"
They chatted easily—about Bangalore traffic, the best idli spots in Koramangala, how college politics was worse than Game of Thrones. Priya cracked jokes about the principal's cassock looking like a ghost costume, and Meera laughed, her shyness melting. They quickly became friends, swapping numbers before Priya glanced at the clock.
"Oops, my 10th graders await. Romeo and Juliet won't teach themselves. See you at lunch, Meera!"
Priya proceeded to her classes, leaving Meera smiling at her desk.
Evening came, the final bell echoing through empty corridors. Classes finished, everyone left in a rush of bikes and chatter. Meera was stuck on some work in the staff room—grading extra asymptote problems, her chunni dbangd loosely now in the quiet heat. Arjun lingered alone in the classroom, pretending to solve equations but really tracing breast curves in his notebook, thoughts asymptoting toward her endlessly.
Priya was in one of the classes doing her work late—marking essays on Macbeth—and when she finished, she slung her bag over her shoulder. As she passed the staff room, she saw Meera packing up and getting ready to leave.
"Hey, new bestie! Still here? Walk with me to parking?"
Meera smiled, gathering her files. "Sure, Priya. Just finishing up." At the same time, Arjun packed up in the classroom, heart heavy with unsolved desires, and headed out.
Meera and Priya walked together, talking animatedly—Priya recounting a hilarious student mix-up with "to be or not to be," Meera sharing her first-day jitters. They reached the parking place, the evening sun casting long shadows over scooters and bikes. During their conversation, a small wind gusted through, playful and insistent, tugging Meera's chunni off her right shoulder one side. It slipped down, exposing the fitted curve of her kameez.
That's when Priya noticed. Her eyes widened, and she grinned wickedly. "Omg, you got beautiful curvy breasts under there!" Before Meera could react, Priya gave a little slap to the boob—a light, teasing tap that made it jiggle for a second, the cotton rippling like a wave function disturbed.
Meera gasped, laughing as she pulled the chunni back up. "Stop it, Priya! You're crazy!" She swatted her friend's arm playfully, cheeks flushing, but the moment passed in giggles.
Both of them didn't know that Arjun was just coming out of the college when they were talking in the parking place. He witnessed it all—the wind's betrayal, the slip of the chunni, Priya's words hanging in the air like an undefined limit, and then the slap. The view froze him: Meera's breast under the mustard-yellow cotton, the curve he had worshipped all morning, now disturbed into a brief, hypnotic jiggle—like a parabola perturbed by an external force, oscillating back to equilibrium in slow motion. The swell bounced once, twice, the fabric stretching and releasing in a perfect damped harmonic motion, the radius he had calculated earlier now alive, dynamic, begging for integration. His thoughts raced: If I model that jiggle as y = A e^{-bt} cos(ωt), the amplitude A capturing the fullness, the decay b the fabric's resistance... god, the dimensions, the feel—soft yet firm, like the volume under a rotated semicircle, infinite in its finite perfection. Extreme excitement surged through him, an instant erection straining against his pants like a vector shooting to infinity, his body a step function jumping from zero to unbearable. He couldn't move an inch, rooted like a fixed point in a chaotic system, watching the two women laugh it off.
Priya and Meera mounted their scooties, engines buzzing to life, and zipped away into the traffic, unaware of the witness. But Arjun couldn't move an inch. The image and the scene had etched in his memory—the slap, the jiggle, the curve's defiant bounce—like a theorem proven in flesh. He stood there until the sun dipped lower, then finally dragged himself home, thoughts asymptoting toward that moment forever, satisfaction approaching but never quite touching.
![[Image: 1762988684383.png]](https://i.ibb.co/JWBSJ793/1762988684383.png)
![[Image: 1762988831021.png]](https://i.ibb.co/wFrP9RpL/1762988831021.png)
Arjun barely slept that night.
The ceiling fan in his room whirred like a faulty differential equation, chopping the darkness into uneven slices. He lay on his back, shirtless in the humid Bangalore air, one arm thrown over his eyes as if that could block the image.
But it didn't.
The light-blue cotton, the pallu in mid-slide, the swell of her left breast rising like a defiant y = e^x—unbounded, infinite, always approaching but never quite touching the asymptote of his sanity.
He had touched himself twice before midnight, each time slower, more reverent, imagining his fingers as the tangent line kissing that curve at precisely one point.
The release came in waves, but the hunger didn't ebb.
It asymptoted—got closer and closer to satisfaction without ever reaching it.
By morning, he was a wreck.
Dark circles under his eyes, hair uncombed, uniform shirt half-tucked. Lakshmi noticed over breakfast—idli and sambar steaming on the steel plate.
"Beta, you look like you solved the entire JEE paper last night. Eyes redder than chilli powder. Study too much?"
Arjun mumbled something about derivatives keeping him up.
She laughed, ruffling his hair.
"Arre, maths is not a girlfriend to lose sleep over. Eat properly."
If only she knew.
Maths wasn't the problem.
Maths was the priestess.
He reached college early again—fifteen minutes this time, enough to claim the first bench without Vikram's teasing. The classroom was still empty, sunlight slanting through the windows in golden rods that dust motes danced around like lazy electrons.
Arjun pulled out his notebook, stared at the margin doodle from yesterday: a crude sketch of a breast, labelled f(x) = √(1 - x²), the upper hemisphere of a unit circle.
He added a note: Asymptote: unreality.
Because no matter how many times he traced it, the real thing remained forever out of reach—approaching, teasing, but never intersecting.
The class filled slowly. Rahul arrived with a half-eaten banana, waxing poetic about some IPL rumour. Sneha followed, nose in her physics guide, muttering about centripetal force. Vikram last, as always, collapsing into the seat beside Arjun with a groan.
"Bro, you look like death warmed over. What, Meera ma'am give you extra homework or extra something else?" He waggled his eyebrows.
Arjun shot him a glare that could curdle milk. "Shut up and open your book."
Vikram chuckled but obeyed, flipping to the chapter on tangents.
"Fine, fine. But seriously, since she came, you're like a man possessed. Possessed by pi or something."
The bell rang.
The door opened.
And Meera entered, carrying the weight of another day like it was nothing more than a differential form.
Today, she wore something different—a mustard-yellow chudidar kameez with a matching chunni dbangd over her shoulders like a gentle shawl. The fabric was soft cotton, the kameez fitted just enough to follow the lines of her body without apology, flaring slightly at the hips before meeting the slim churidar pants that hugged her legs like a second skin. The colour shimmered like sunlight on the Cauvery—warm, inviting, a refreshing change from the sarees that had become his daily sacrament. No pleats whispering secrets today; instead, the outfit moved with her like a fluid equation, practical yet poetic, making her look younger, more approachable, like a theorem he might one day solve.
Arjun's breath caught. It was refreshing—her in this attire, the chunni adding a layer of modesty that only heightened the mystery beneath. She greeted the class with the same quiet “Good morning” that somehow silenced thirty-five restless souls. Today her hair was in a high ponytail, swinging like a pendulum against her back—each step a tick, each sway a tock, marking the inexorable approach of asymptote.
"Good morning, class," she said, her voice a gentle limit as x approaches calm. "Today we move to asymptotes. The lines that functions flirt with but never quite embrace."
She smiled at the board, chalk in hand, and began writing:
Horizontal Asymptote: lim (x→∞) f(x) = L
The curve gets closer... but never touches.
Arjun's pen froze mid-note.
Flirt but never embrace.
Was that a sign? A theorem written just for him?
He watched her arm extend, the yellow cotton catching the light, the chunni shifting slightly but holding firm. The outline of her form beneath—smooth, unblemished—faded back into focus as she lowered her hand.
She paced as she explained, three steps left, pause, gesture with the chalk like a conductor summoning symphonies from silence.
"Think of it like the graph of y = 1/x. As x goes to infinity, y approaches zero. So close to the x-axis... tantalisingly near. But they never meet."
She drew it swiftly—two axes, the hyperbola swooping in from the first quadrant, tailing off toward the origin from the other side, forever chasing that forbidden line.
Rahul raised his hand. "Ma'am, but why? Why not just touch?"
Meera turned, braid swinging. "Because some things are defined by their distance, Rahul. The beauty is in the chase."
Arjun swallowed hard.
His throat felt like sandpaper.
The beauty is in the chase.
He chased her with his eyes, cataloguing: the way the chudidar dbangd over her waist, remembering the shadow from Day One; the subtle shift across her hips, echoing the parabolic promise of her backside; and now, layered over yesterday's revelation, the faint suggestion of breasts beneath—two soft hills under the fabric, rising gently with each word, guarded by the chunni like a dashed line on a graph.
Midway through the explanation, as she gestured emphatically toward the board—"See here, the vertical asymptote at x=0, where the function shoots to infinity"—the chunni slipped from her right shoulder. It didn't fall completely; it caught on her elbow, hanging there like a reluctant curtain refusing to close the show.
And there, for the first time in this new light, Arjun saw the unfiltered curve of her breasts.
The chudidar couldn't hide it—no.
The cotton was fitted, hugging the swell like a loving integral, the stitching along the seam tracing the exact point where the curves began their ascent. They were fuller than he had imagined in his fevered sketches—round, symmetrical, the soft weight pressing forward as though gravity itself had decided to be kind only to her. The swell over the chudidar was extremely erotic to watch, the fabric stretching taut across the peaks, outlining two perfect parabolas that met at the centre in a shadowed valley. He couldn't believe she had the perfect curve etched into the dress, visible even through the modest neckline—a semicircle of desire, rising and falling with her breath like a slow cosine wave he could ride forever.
Arjun's eyes traced the radius: from the soft shadow beneath to the point where the cotton met skin, a distance of maybe four inches, maybe forty light-years.
He so wanted to calculate the dimensions of it—the volume of those spheres, perhaps using the formula for a solid of revolution, rotating y = √(r² - x²) around the x-axis to find the integral that captured their fullness; the surface area, smooth and unyielding under his imagined touch. His pulse became a step function—zero, then suddenly infinite. He had an extreme itch to know how it feels to hold them, to integrate his palms over that curve, finding the area enclosed by fabric and flesh.
The class leaned in, notebooks scratching like a chorus of approvals. Sneha scribbled furiously; Vikram doodled a stick-figure hyperbola with googly eyes. Arjun wrote nothing. He was too busy plotting his own graph: Meera as the hyperbola, himself as the x-axis—eternally pursued, eternally denied. Lost in these thoughts, the bell rang—shrill, final—snapping him back as the class finished in a surge of noise.
Meera gathered her things, adjusting the chunni back over her shoulder with a casual flick, and walked out toward the staff room. Arjun watched her go, the ponytail swaying, the chudidar hugging her form like an equation solved.
In the staff room, the air was thick with the scent of filter coffee and old textbooks. Meera settled at her desk, marking papers, when Mrs. Nair, the senior history teacher, bustled in with a bright smile.
"Meera dear, perfect timing! Look who's back from leave—Priya! Priya Menon, our English teacher. She's been out with a bad cold for a week. Priya, this is Ms. Meera Krishnan, our new maths wizard from St. Joseph’s."
Priya turned, a woman in her late twenties with short, wavy hair, a mischievous grin, and a red salwar kameez that screamed energy. She was funny and talkative, her eyes sparkling like plot twists in a novel.
"Oh my god, finally! I've heard so much about you already—apparently, you've got the 12th graders actually paying attention to calculus? That's witchcraft, not teaching!" She laughed, a warm, infectious sound that filled the room like punctuation marks in a lively sentence.
Meera blushed, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you, Priya. I've heard you're the one who makes Shakespeare fun. How was the leave?"
Priya shook her hand firmly, plopping down on the chair beside her.
"Fun? Ha! I was buried under blankets, bingeing Netflix and coughing like a Victorian heroine. But tell me about you—coastal Karnataka accent? Mangalore? Udupi? Spill!"
They chatted easily—about Bangalore traffic, the best idli spots in Koramangala, how college politics was worse than Game of Thrones. Priya cracked jokes about the principal's cassock looking like a ghost costume, and Meera laughed, her shyness melting. They quickly became friends, swapping numbers before Priya glanced at the clock.
"Oops, my 10th graders await. Romeo and Juliet won't teach themselves. See you at lunch, Meera!"
Priya proceeded to her classes, leaving Meera smiling at her desk.
Evening came, the final bell echoing through empty corridors. Classes finished, everyone left in a rush of bikes and chatter. Meera was stuck on some work in the staff room—grading extra asymptote problems, her chunni dbangd loosely now in the quiet heat. Arjun lingered alone in the classroom, pretending to solve equations but really tracing breast curves in his notebook, thoughts asymptoting toward her endlessly.
Priya was in one of the classes doing her work late—marking essays on Macbeth—and when she finished, she slung her bag over her shoulder. As she passed the staff room, she saw Meera packing up and getting ready to leave.
"Hey, new bestie! Still here? Walk with me to parking?"
Meera smiled, gathering her files. "Sure, Priya. Just finishing up." At the same time, Arjun packed up in the classroom, heart heavy with unsolved desires, and headed out.
Meera and Priya walked together, talking animatedly—Priya recounting a hilarious student mix-up with "to be or not to be," Meera sharing her first-day jitters. They reached the parking place, the evening sun casting long shadows over scooters and bikes. During their conversation, a small wind gusted through, playful and insistent, tugging Meera's chunni off her right shoulder one side. It slipped down, exposing the fitted curve of her kameez.
That's when Priya noticed. Her eyes widened, and she grinned wickedly. "Omg, you got beautiful curvy breasts under there!" Before Meera could react, Priya gave a little slap to the boob—a light, teasing tap that made it jiggle for a second, the cotton rippling like a wave function disturbed.
Meera gasped, laughing as she pulled the chunni back up. "Stop it, Priya! You're crazy!" She swatted her friend's arm playfully, cheeks flushing, but the moment passed in giggles.
Both of them didn't know that Arjun was just coming out of the college when they were talking in the parking place. He witnessed it all—the wind's betrayal, the slip of the chunni, Priya's words hanging in the air like an undefined limit, and then the slap. The view froze him: Meera's breast under the mustard-yellow cotton, the curve he had worshipped all morning, now disturbed into a brief, hypnotic jiggle—like a parabola perturbed by an external force, oscillating back to equilibrium in slow motion. The swell bounced once, twice, the fabric stretching and releasing in a perfect damped harmonic motion, the radius he had calculated earlier now alive, dynamic, begging for integration. His thoughts raced: If I model that jiggle as y = A e^{-bt} cos(ωt), the amplitude A capturing the fullness, the decay b the fabric's resistance... god, the dimensions, the feel—soft yet firm, like the volume under a rotated semicircle, infinite in its finite perfection. Extreme excitement surged through him, an instant erection straining against his pants like a vector shooting to infinity, his body a step function jumping from zero to unbearable. He couldn't move an inch, rooted like a fixed point in a chaotic system, watching the two women laugh it off.
Priya and Meera mounted their scooties, engines buzzing to life, and zipped away into the traffic, unaware of the witness. But Arjun couldn't move an inch. The image and the scene had etched in his memory—the slap, the jiggle, the curve's defiant bounce—like a theorem proven in flesh. He stood there until the sun dipped lower, then finally dragged himself home, thoughts asymptoting toward that moment forever, satisfaction approaching but never quite touching.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)