01-12-2025, 10:03 PM
Episode 8 – Partial Fractions
Arjun woke with Priya’s finger burned into his mind.
Not the pinch itself (though that still throbbed in his blood), but the half-second before it: the slow, deliberate trail of her index finger along the curve of Meera’s waist, as if she were tracing a favourite line of poetry.
He lay staring at the fan blades, heart thudding.
Was it just teasing?
Or was Priya… feeling something more?
The thought made him cold, then hot, then cold again.
Jealousy tasted metallic on his tongue.
He forced himself to breathe.
No. They’re friends. Women do that. Priya does that with everyone.
He repeated it like a mantra until the panic loosened its grip.
Friendly. Just friendly.
By the time he brushed his teeth, he had buried the suspicion under layers of denial and teenage pragmatism.
Today was another day with Meera. That was enough.
By the time he got ready, Lakshmi had the table set—upma steaming in a steel bowl, banana leaves fanned out with chutney and sambar, the air thick with mustard tadka.
"Beta, sit sit. Upma fresh, no lumps today—your Appa complained yesterday." She ladled a generous portion, her cotton nightie hitched at the knees, bangles jangling like punctuation. Arjun dropped into the chair, fork diving in, the semolina soft and spiced on his tongue.
Lakshmi watched him over her chai tumbler, steam curling like question marks. "Olympiad going good? You came home yesterday like a ghost—eyes far away, plate half-empty. That new ma'am pushing too hard?"
He swallowed, forcing a smile around the bite. "No, Amma. Meera ma'am is... good. Explains everything clear. Workshop yesterday—solved some tough ones. Screening test next week, top thirty only."
Her eyes lit up, the tumbler pausing mid-sip. "Meera ma'am? Sounds strict. But good teachers are like that—push you till you fly. Remember your 10th PT sir? Made you run till you hated him, then loved him for the marks."
She reached across, pinching his cheek lightly—familial, innocent, a far cry from Priya's loaded touch. "You'll top it, na? IIT gates waiting. What problems today—derivatives again?"
Arjun nodded, warmth spreading at her pride, the knot in his gut loosening further. "Partial fractions now. Breaking big equations into small ones. Like... like life, Amma. Pieces that fit back perfect."
She laughed, the sound rich as coconut milk. "Philosophy from maths! Eat fast, auto waiting. And beta—smile more. Girls notice happy faces, not brooding poets."
He rolled his eyes, but the words stuck—a reminder to surface from his depths.
Breakfast done, bag slung, he kissed her forehead and dashed out, the auto's sputter pulling him toward college. Priya's finger faded to a footnote; today was Meera's—questions queued, intellect sharpened.
The ride blurred: Hosur Road's snarl, vendors hawking idlis from carts, the faint diesel tang. Arjun pulled out his math notebook, ignoring the physics recap Vikram had texted.
Chemistry first period—beakers bubbling, Mr. Rao droning on atomic radii—but Arjun's ears tuned out, eyes on the margins where he'd jotted Olympiad prep: quadratic residues, Diophantine approximations. He underlined a symmetry trick, murmuring it under his breath, imagining Meera's nod, her "Well done, Arjun" like a solved proof.
Physics second: D'Souza's vectors, forces in equilibrium. Arjun sketched force diagrams but saw only curves—breasts as opposing tensions, waist as resultant pull. The bell saved him from a pop quiz; he packed fast, heart accelerating like a limit to class three.
Math period. The door clicked open.
Meera entered, peach chiffon whispering like a secret shared with silk. The saree was tucked modestly high today—no daring low dbang, pleats fanned precise and proper, the pallu pinned secure over a half-sleeve blouse that reached her elbows, modest as a theorem's boundary conditions. Yet the peach glowed against her skin, warm as ripening custard apple, the half-sleeves baring forearms smooth and even-toned, a tease of the arms he'd worshipped in market jeans. Her bun was looser, strands curling at her nape like stray roots seeking soil. Arjun's gaze catalogued: no slips, no shifts—just elegant containment, the chiffon clinging subtly to hips and waist, a promise wrapped in propriety.
"Good morning, class," she said, voice steady as the real axis. "Partial fractions. Decomposing the complex into sums of simplicity—because some expressions are too entangled to integrate directly."
She turned to the board, chalk whispering: (Ax + B)/(x² + x + 1) = ? The class leaned in—Sneha's pen poised, Rahul actually alert. Meera explained: poles, residues, the art of cancellation. "Think of it as breaking a whole into parts that play nice together. The denominator factors; the numerator follows suit."
Arjun heard almost nothing of the actual explanation.
Every concept became her.
- “We decompose a complicated rational function into simpler parts…”
→ *I have already decomposed you, ma’am: one part breast, one part navel, one part armpit, one part waist, one part back… and the sum is still infinite.*
- “The goal is to cancel common factors and reduce…”
→ *I want to cancel the distance between us until the denominator is zero and we collide.*
- “Sometimes you need to assume the form A/(x-a) + B/(x-b) + …”
→ *A for Armpit, B for Back, C for the Curve of your hip when you bend…*
Halfway through, he raised his hand—third question queued, but this one burning. "Ma'am, for irreducible quadratics, if the numerator's degree matches—can we use long division first, then partials? Like decomposing a rational into polynomial plus proper fraction?"
Meera paused, chalk mid-air, wet-earth eyes finding his. A beat—appreciative, curious—then she smiled, that small private curve. "Excellent point, Arjun. Yes—division first simplifies. Show us on the board?"
He stood, legs steady despite the throb in his veins, and walked to the front—her jasmine wafting as he passed, intoxicating as ever. Chalk in hand, he sketched: dividend into divisor, quotient dropping clean, remainder proper for partials. The class watched; Vikram whistled low. Meera stood beside him, close enough for her sleeve to brush his elbow—accidental fire.
"See?" he finished, stepping back. "Now the fractions are tame."
She nodded, taking the chalk, adding her flourish.
"Precisely. You're ahead of the curve, Arjun—most wait till JEE mocks for this." Her voice held warmth, a nod only for him. In her mind, unvoiced: Special, this one. Quiet storm—eyes sharp, questions deeper than his years. IIT material, yes, but something more... attuned.
The class murmured approvals; Arjun returned to his seat buoyant, her praise a tangent kissing his ego at exactly one point. More questions followed—his on repeated linear factors, hers patient, probing:
"Why assume A for the constant term?" "To balance coefficients, ma'am—like equilibrium in vectors." Back-and-forth, a duet: her coastal lilt weaving with his earnest clip, the room fading to their rhythm. By bell, she capped the chalk with a lingering look his way. "Keep it up."
He floated through lunch—Maggi half-eaten, Vikram's jabs ignored—mind on the workshop, questions prepped like arrows.
Lunch break brought chaos.
A new notice fluttered on the board:
ANNUAL DAY CULTURAL FEST – 18th January
Special Highlight: Teachers’ Drama
Theme: Family Comedy-Drama
Auditions & rehearsals start next week!
The classroom erupted—12-A a sudden agora.
Rahul punched the air: "Teachers acting? D'Souza as villain? I'll pay to see!"
Sneha giggled: "Mrs. Nair as heroine? Her sari-twirls would steal the show."
Vikram leaned back, grinning: "Bet Ramakrishna sir does comedy—'Physics of Laughter' or some bakwas." Laughter rippled;
even Sneha-from-12-B peeked in: "Hope it's not another Bible play. Something fun—romance? Mystery?"
Arjun joined the buzz half-heartedly, fork twirling cold dosa. But his thoughts revolved around Meera: Will she participate? On stage, under lights—saree swirling, voice carrying lines of love or loss? The image bloomed: her as heroine, peach chiffon spotlit, waist curving in dramatic pose. Jealousy flickered—other eyes on her—but thrill overrode: a chance to see her anew, unravelled.
The final bell jolted him; he bolted to the seminar hall, claiming second-row prime. The room filled—120 juniors and seniors, murmurs like white noise. Meera entered at 4 sharp, peach glowing, booklets in arm.
"Quick recap yesterday," she said, distributing yellow stacks. "Practice these—INMO-level. Doubts to me."
Arjun dove in, pen flying: inequalities, number theory, his mind a machine honed to top the screening, to earn her undivided gaze. Three problems cracked; two questions queued—one on Wilson's Theorem, elegant proof via factorials; another on elliptic curves, a stretch but showy. Ask soon, he thought, glancing her way—she circled the aisles, patient with a 9th-grader's algebra snag.
Just as he raised his hand, the door creaked. Priya—red kurti vivid as a stop sign—slipped in, beckoning Meera with a crooked finger. "Two minutes, wizard—door talk."
Meera excused herself, peach chiffon swaying as she rose. Arjun's hand lowered, curiosity spiking like a Dirac delta. What now? He waited a beat, then stood
"Ma'am, bathroom quick"—slipping out, veering to the staircase where a half-wall separated hall from steps, shadows cloaking him like a stealth variable.
Their voices carried, low but clear—Priya's animated lilt, Meera's soft counter.
"...drama for Annual Day, Meera! Teachers only—huge buzz. Mrs. Nair's already in as mother-in-law, that dramatic old bat. Theme's family saga—saas-bahu twists with modern spice. Four males: Shetty as the hapless son, D'Souza as grumpy dad, two more TBD. Females: two big ones—wife and MIL. You're perfect for wife. That grace, that quiet fire—audience will eat it up."
Meera's laugh, hesitant: "Priya, me? Acting? I'm the board-and-chalk type. Last play in college—froze mid-line, forgot 'To be or not to be' in Kannada."
"Exactly! That's charm. And listen—males are short; I'm stepping in as husband. Bold, na? You as demure wife, me as the cheeky hubby—chemistry gold. Imagine: me dragging you to the terrace scene, whispering 'Come, let's fight under the stars.' You'll slay."
A pause—Arjun pictured Meera's flush, peach deepening. "Husband? Priya, I've not said yes. And you—husband already? Slow down, your script's running ahead."
Priya's chuckle, warm and wheedling: "Arre, I know you, Meera. That shy 'no' is your 'maybe.' Think: stage lights on your saree, lines that let you feel—love, arguments, that slow-burn reconciliation. Plus, it's fun! Nair aunty hamming the MIL—'Beta, eat more!'—you'll crack up mid-scene. And me as husband? I'll make it easy—carry your dialogues if you blank, feed you cues like coffee shots. Say yes, na? For me?"
Meera sighed, half-amused, half-yielding: "You're impossible. The husband bit—too funny. What if I trip on pleats? Or forget the saas-bahu drama—I'm Udupi girl, not TV serial star."
"Precisely why you'll shine—real, not rehearsed. And pleats? I'll pin them myself. Come on, Meera. We've got a month; rehearsals start next week. Imagine the applause—Father Mathias clapping like a seal. Do it for the kids—they worship you already."
Another beat—Arjun's nails dug into his palm, jealousy coiling: Priya as husband, whispering lines, touching in "rehearsal"? Morning doubts resurfaced— that finger-trail no accident, this pitch laced with want.
"Fine," Meera relented, voice light. "I'll think. But no promises on the husband-wife sparks—you're trouble enough off-stage."
Priya whooped softly: "That's my girl! Knew you'd cave. Now, I've 9th-grade papers screaming—corrections till midnight. Staff room later?"
Meera: "After Olympiad—my stack's waiting too. Go, dramatic hubby."
Priya's laugh faded down the corridor; Meera returned to the hall, peach unruffled.
Arjun slipped back, heart a chaotic oscillator—vibrating between thrill (Meera on stage, unveiled) and turmoil (Priya as husband, the "chemistry" taunt a knife-twist).
Arjun sat frozen, pen hovering above the page.
Priya as Meera’s husband.
Priya touching her on stage, holding her hand, maybe even a fake hug or a playful slap on the cheek in front of the whole college.
Priya whispering lines into Meera’s ear during rehearsals, late evenings, empty classrooms, doors closed.
The morning doubt he had buried so carefully rose again like an improper integral that refused to converge.
*Was the waist pinch really just friendship?*
*Or is Priya…*
He couldn’t finish the thought.
The rest of the workshop passed in a fog. He never asked his prepared questions. Meera walked past his bench once, paused, touched his shoulder lightly.
“Everything okay, Arjun? You look lost.”
He managed a nod, a strangled “Yes ma’am,” and she moved on, peach saree whispering secrets he no longer felt entitled to hear.
5:30 p.m. Bell. Chairs scbangd. Students left in noisy streams.
Arjun packed slowly, mind looping the same reel:
Priya’s finger on Meera’s waist.
Priya saying “my wife” with that half-serious smile.
Meera laughing, not angry, not uncomfortable, just… warm.
He walked home under streetlights that flickered on one by one, the peach saree burned behind his eyelids, now overwritten by Priya’s red kurti and possessive grin.
Jealousy, confusion, longing, fear, all tangled into a single improper fraction he couldn’t reduce.
At the dinner table Lakshmi asked why he was so quiet.
He answered with a shrug and a spoon pushing rice around the plate like an unsolved equation.
That night he didn’t touch himself.
He lay in the dark, fan clicking overhead, staring at the ceiling and listening to his own heartbeat spell out the same unsolvable question over
If Priya becomes Meera’s husband on stage…
who does that leave for him off stage?
Arjun woke with Priya’s finger burned into his mind.
Not the pinch itself (though that still throbbed in his blood), but the half-second before it: the slow, deliberate trail of her index finger along the curve of Meera’s waist, as if she were tracing a favourite line of poetry.
He lay staring at the fan blades, heart thudding.
Was it just teasing?
Or was Priya… feeling something more?
The thought made him cold, then hot, then cold again.
Jealousy tasted metallic on his tongue.
He forced himself to breathe.
No. They’re friends. Women do that. Priya does that with everyone.
He repeated it like a mantra until the panic loosened its grip.
Friendly. Just friendly.
By the time he brushed his teeth, he had buried the suspicion under layers of denial and teenage pragmatism.
Today was another day with Meera. That was enough.
By the time he got ready, Lakshmi had the table set—upma steaming in a steel bowl, banana leaves fanned out with chutney and sambar, the air thick with mustard tadka.
"Beta, sit sit. Upma fresh, no lumps today—your Appa complained yesterday." She ladled a generous portion, her cotton nightie hitched at the knees, bangles jangling like punctuation. Arjun dropped into the chair, fork diving in, the semolina soft and spiced on his tongue.
Lakshmi watched him over her chai tumbler, steam curling like question marks. "Olympiad going good? You came home yesterday like a ghost—eyes far away, plate half-empty. That new ma'am pushing too hard?"
He swallowed, forcing a smile around the bite. "No, Amma. Meera ma'am is... good. Explains everything clear. Workshop yesterday—solved some tough ones. Screening test next week, top thirty only."
Her eyes lit up, the tumbler pausing mid-sip. "Meera ma'am? Sounds strict. But good teachers are like that—push you till you fly. Remember your 10th PT sir? Made you run till you hated him, then loved him for the marks."
She reached across, pinching his cheek lightly—familial, innocent, a far cry from Priya's loaded touch. "You'll top it, na? IIT gates waiting. What problems today—derivatives again?"
Arjun nodded, warmth spreading at her pride, the knot in his gut loosening further. "Partial fractions now. Breaking big equations into small ones. Like... like life, Amma. Pieces that fit back perfect."
She laughed, the sound rich as coconut milk. "Philosophy from maths! Eat fast, auto waiting. And beta—smile more. Girls notice happy faces, not brooding poets."
He rolled his eyes, but the words stuck—a reminder to surface from his depths.
Breakfast done, bag slung, he kissed her forehead and dashed out, the auto's sputter pulling him toward college. Priya's finger faded to a footnote; today was Meera's—questions queued, intellect sharpened.
The ride blurred: Hosur Road's snarl, vendors hawking idlis from carts, the faint diesel tang. Arjun pulled out his math notebook, ignoring the physics recap Vikram had texted.
Chemistry first period—beakers bubbling, Mr. Rao droning on atomic radii—but Arjun's ears tuned out, eyes on the margins where he'd jotted Olympiad prep: quadratic residues, Diophantine approximations. He underlined a symmetry trick, murmuring it under his breath, imagining Meera's nod, her "Well done, Arjun" like a solved proof.
Physics second: D'Souza's vectors, forces in equilibrium. Arjun sketched force diagrams but saw only curves—breasts as opposing tensions, waist as resultant pull. The bell saved him from a pop quiz; he packed fast, heart accelerating like a limit to class three.
Math period. The door clicked open.
Meera entered, peach chiffon whispering like a secret shared with silk. The saree was tucked modestly high today—no daring low dbang, pleats fanned precise and proper, the pallu pinned secure over a half-sleeve blouse that reached her elbows, modest as a theorem's boundary conditions. Yet the peach glowed against her skin, warm as ripening custard apple, the half-sleeves baring forearms smooth and even-toned, a tease of the arms he'd worshipped in market jeans. Her bun was looser, strands curling at her nape like stray roots seeking soil. Arjun's gaze catalogued: no slips, no shifts—just elegant containment, the chiffon clinging subtly to hips and waist, a promise wrapped in propriety.
"Good morning, class," she said, voice steady as the real axis. "Partial fractions. Decomposing the complex into sums of simplicity—because some expressions are too entangled to integrate directly."
She turned to the board, chalk whispering: (Ax + B)/(x² + x + 1) = ? The class leaned in—Sneha's pen poised, Rahul actually alert. Meera explained: poles, residues, the art of cancellation. "Think of it as breaking a whole into parts that play nice together. The denominator factors; the numerator follows suit."
Arjun heard almost nothing of the actual explanation.
Every concept became her.
- “We decompose a complicated rational function into simpler parts…”
→ *I have already decomposed you, ma’am: one part breast, one part navel, one part armpit, one part waist, one part back… and the sum is still infinite.*
- “The goal is to cancel common factors and reduce…”
→ *I want to cancel the distance between us until the denominator is zero and we collide.*
- “Sometimes you need to assume the form A/(x-a) + B/(x-b) + …”
→ *A for Armpit, B for Back, C for the Curve of your hip when you bend…*
Halfway through, he raised his hand—third question queued, but this one burning. "Ma'am, for irreducible quadratics, if the numerator's degree matches—can we use long division first, then partials? Like decomposing a rational into polynomial plus proper fraction?"
Meera paused, chalk mid-air, wet-earth eyes finding his. A beat—appreciative, curious—then she smiled, that small private curve. "Excellent point, Arjun. Yes—division first simplifies. Show us on the board?"
He stood, legs steady despite the throb in his veins, and walked to the front—her jasmine wafting as he passed, intoxicating as ever. Chalk in hand, he sketched: dividend into divisor, quotient dropping clean, remainder proper for partials. The class watched; Vikram whistled low. Meera stood beside him, close enough for her sleeve to brush his elbow—accidental fire.
"See?" he finished, stepping back. "Now the fractions are tame."
She nodded, taking the chalk, adding her flourish.
"Precisely. You're ahead of the curve, Arjun—most wait till JEE mocks for this." Her voice held warmth, a nod only for him. In her mind, unvoiced: Special, this one. Quiet storm—eyes sharp, questions deeper than his years. IIT material, yes, but something more... attuned.
The class murmured approvals; Arjun returned to his seat buoyant, her praise a tangent kissing his ego at exactly one point. More questions followed—his on repeated linear factors, hers patient, probing:
"Why assume A for the constant term?" "To balance coefficients, ma'am—like equilibrium in vectors." Back-and-forth, a duet: her coastal lilt weaving with his earnest clip, the room fading to their rhythm. By bell, she capped the chalk with a lingering look his way. "Keep it up."
He floated through lunch—Maggi half-eaten, Vikram's jabs ignored—mind on the workshop, questions prepped like arrows.
Lunch break brought chaos.
A new notice fluttered on the board:
ANNUAL DAY CULTURAL FEST – 18th January
Special Highlight: Teachers’ Drama
Theme: Family Comedy-Drama
Auditions & rehearsals start next week!
The classroom erupted—12-A a sudden agora.
Rahul punched the air: "Teachers acting? D'Souza as villain? I'll pay to see!"
Sneha giggled: "Mrs. Nair as heroine? Her sari-twirls would steal the show."
Vikram leaned back, grinning: "Bet Ramakrishna sir does comedy—'Physics of Laughter' or some bakwas." Laughter rippled;
even Sneha-from-12-B peeked in: "Hope it's not another Bible play. Something fun—romance? Mystery?"
Arjun joined the buzz half-heartedly, fork twirling cold dosa. But his thoughts revolved around Meera: Will she participate? On stage, under lights—saree swirling, voice carrying lines of love or loss? The image bloomed: her as heroine, peach chiffon spotlit, waist curving in dramatic pose. Jealousy flickered—other eyes on her—but thrill overrode: a chance to see her anew, unravelled.
The final bell jolted him; he bolted to the seminar hall, claiming second-row prime. The room filled—120 juniors and seniors, murmurs like white noise. Meera entered at 4 sharp, peach glowing, booklets in arm.
"Quick recap yesterday," she said, distributing yellow stacks. "Practice these—INMO-level. Doubts to me."
Arjun dove in, pen flying: inequalities, number theory, his mind a machine honed to top the screening, to earn her undivided gaze. Three problems cracked; two questions queued—one on Wilson's Theorem, elegant proof via factorials; another on elliptic curves, a stretch but showy. Ask soon, he thought, glancing her way—she circled the aisles, patient with a 9th-grader's algebra snag.
Just as he raised his hand, the door creaked. Priya—red kurti vivid as a stop sign—slipped in, beckoning Meera with a crooked finger. "Two minutes, wizard—door talk."
Meera excused herself, peach chiffon swaying as she rose. Arjun's hand lowered, curiosity spiking like a Dirac delta. What now? He waited a beat, then stood
"Ma'am, bathroom quick"—slipping out, veering to the staircase where a half-wall separated hall from steps, shadows cloaking him like a stealth variable.
Their voices carried, low but clear—Priya's animated lilt, Meera's soft counter.
"...drama for Annual Day, Meera! Teachers only—huge buzz. Mrs. Nair's already in as mother-in-law, that dramatic old bat. Theme's family saga—saas-bahu twists with modern spice. Four males: Shetty as the hapless son, D'Souza as grumpy dad, two more TBD. Females: two big ones—wife and MIL. You're perfect for wife. That grace, that quiet fire—audience will eat it up."
Meera's laugh, hesitant: "Priya, me? Acting? I'm the board-and-chalk type. Last play in college—froze mid-line, forgot 'To be or not to be' in Kannada."
"Exactly! That's charm. And listen—males are short; I'm stepping in as husband. Bold, na? You as demure wife, me as the cheeky hubby—chemistry gold. Imagine: me dragging you to the terrace scene, whispering 'Come, let's fight under the stars.' You'll slay."
A pause—Arjun pictured Meera's flush, peach deepening. "Husband? Priya, I've not said yes. And you—husband already? Slow down, your script's running ahead."
Priya's chuckle, warm and wheedling: "Arre, I know you, Meera. That shy 'no' is your 'maybe.' Think: stage lights on your saree, lines that let you feel—love, arguments, that slow-burn reconciliation. Plus, it's fun! Nair aunty hamming the MIL—'Beta, eat more!'—you'll crack up mid-scene. And me as husband? I'll make it easy—carry your dialogues if you blank, feed you cues like coffee shots. Say yes, na? For me?"
Meera sighed, half-amused, half-yielding: "You're impossible. The husband bit—too funny. What if I trip on pleats? Or forget the saas-bahu drama—I'm Udupi girl, not TV serial star."
"Precisely why you'll shine—real, not rehearsed. And pleats? I'll pin them myself. Come on, Meera. We've got a month; rehearsals start next week. Imagine the applause—Father Mathias clapping like a seal. Do it for the kids—they worship you already."
Another beat—Arjun's nails dug into his palm, jealousy coiling: Priya as husband, whispering lines, touching in "rehearsal"? Morning doubts resurfaced— that finger-trail no accident, this pitch laced with want.
"Fine," Meera relented, voice light. "I'll think. But no promises on the husband-wife sparks—you're trouble enough off-stage."
Priya whooped softly: "That's my girl! Knew you'd cave. Now, I've 9th-grade papers screaming—corrections till midnight. Staff room later?"
Meera: "After Olympiad—my stack's waiting too. Go, dramatic hubby."
Priya's laugh faded down the corridor; Meera returned to the hall, peach unruffled.
Arjun slipped back, heart a chaotic oscillator—vibrating between thrill (Meera on stage, unveiled) and turmoil (Priya as husband, the "chemistry" taunt a knife-twist).
Arjun sat frozen, pen hovering above the page.
Priya as Meera’s husband.
Priya touching her on stage, holding her hand, maybe even a fake hug or a playful slap on the cheek in front of the whole college.
Priya whispering lines into Meera’s ear during rehearsals, late evenings, empty classrooms, doors closed.
The morning doubt he had buried so carefully rose again like an improper integral that refused to converge.
*Was the waist pinch really just friendship?*
*Or is Priya…*
He couldn’t finish the thought.
The rest of the workshop passed in a fog. He never asked his prepared questions. Meera walked past his bench once, paused, touched his shoulder lightly.
“Everything okay, Arjun? You look lost.”
He managed a nod, a strangled “Yes ma’am,” and she moved on, peach saree whispering secrets he no longer felt entitled to hear.
5:30 p.m. Bell. Chairs scbangd. Students left in noisy streams.
Arjun packed slowly, mind looping the same reel:
Priya’s finger on Meera’s waist.
Priya saying “my wife” with that half-serious smile.
Meera laughing, not angry, not uncomfortable, just… warm.
He walked home under streetlights that flickered on one by one, the peach saree burned behind his eyelids, now overwritten by Priya’s red kurti and possessive grin.
Jealousy, confusion, longing, fear, all tangled into a single improper fraction he couldn’t reduce.
At the dinner table Lakshmi asked why he was so quiet.
He answered with a shrug and a spoon pushing rice around the plate like an unsolved equation.
That night he didn’t touch himself.
He lay in the dark, fan clicking overhead, staring at the ceiling and listening to his own heartbeat spell out the same unsolvable question over
If Priya becomes Meera’s husband on stage…
who does that leave for him off stage?
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