09-12-2025, 07:30 PM
Episode 10 – Critical Points
Arjun barely slept.
The night stretched like an improper integral, diverging slowly toward dawn. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the same scene on loop: the auditorium stage bathed in warm yellow spotlights, Meera in a bridal-red saree, Priya in a crisp sherwani leaning in for the “reconciliation” scene, their faces inches apart, the scripted kiss that would never happen but would feel real enough to the audience - and to him - to shatter something inside his chest.
By 6 a.m. he was up, showered, and pacing his room like a caged derivative.
He needed a plan. Not just to top the Olympiad screening, that was still the goal, but to insert himself into the one place where Meera would spend hours outside class: the drama rehearsals.
He opened his notebook to a new page and wrote in large, determined letters:
OPERATION: BECOME INDISPENSABLE
Offer to help with props/math-themed backdrop (charts, geometry sets, blackboard gags)
Volunteer as prompter or lighting assistant—always near stage
Be the reliable one she turns to when Priya gets too “husbandly”
He underlined the last line three times.
Breakfast was a battlefield of forced smiles. Lakshmi noticed immediately.
“Beta, you look like you fought with your pillow and lost. Drama rehearsals worrying you? Vikram said teachers are doing a play—fun, no?”
Arjun froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. “It’s… fine, Amma. Just Olympiad pressure.”
She ruffled his hair. “Arre, enjoy also. Life not only studies. Go, auto waiting.”
college felt different the moment he stepped through the gates.
The corridors buzzed with Annual Day fever—posters going up, juniors practising dance steps in the quadrangle, the air thick with anticipation and the faint smell of fresh paint from the stage crew. A hand-painted banner already hung over the auditorium entrance:
TEACHERS’ DRAMA – “Ghar Ghar Ki Kahani” – A Family Comedy.
Third period. Meera entered in a soft lavender saree today, the colour of dusk just before the sky gives up its light. The blouse was short-sleeved, modest, but the fabric was lighter than usual—georgette that moved like breath. Her hair was down for the first time in class, falling in loose waves to her mid-back, held away from her face by a simple silver clip. The effect was devastating: younger, softer, almost vulnerable.
Arjun’s heart performed a discontinuity jump.
She began the lesson on integration by parts, voice gentle. “Sometimes the product rule in reverse opens doors we didn’t know existed.”
He barely heard the words. All he could see was that hair—how it would feel between his fingers, how it would curtain their faces if he ever—
He forced the thought down, raised his hand instead.
“Ma’am, for ∫ x e^x dx, why not just guess the antiderivative? Tabular method feels like cheating elegance.”
She smiled—full this time, eyes crinkling. “Because guessing works until it doesn’t. Tabular is systematic—reliable. Like… building trust.”
Their eyes locked a second longer than necessary.
In her mind, unvoiced: He’s relentless today. Good relentless.
The conversation flowed—three questions, each pulling her closer to his bench, her hair brushing his notebook when she leaned over to check his working. Jasmine and something new—lavender talc?—filled the small space between them. When the bell rang she lingered.
“Arjun, the workshop—bring your A-game today. Screening’s Friday.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated, then plunged. “Ma’am… I heard about the drama. If you need help with props—math-themed ones, like giant blackboards or geometry models—I could…”
Her eyebrows lifted, surprised but pleased. “That’s thoughtful. Actually, yes—Shetty sir wants a ‘study room’ scene with equations on the wall. Accurate ones. Could you design a few boards? Nothing too time-consuming.”
His pulse soared. “Absolutely. I’ll start today.”
She touched his arm lightly—barely a second, fingertips on his sleeve. “Thank you. Really.”
The touch burned through cotton all day.
4 p.m. Seminar hall.
Arjun arrived early, booklet already half-solved, but his real mission was the drama boards. He sketched in the margin: a blackboard with Euler’s identity centre-stage, surrounded by partial fractions that resolved into a heart when viewed from afar—a private joke only he and Meera would understand.
Meera entered, lavender glowing under tube lights, hair still down. She looked tired but radiant—rehearsal energy, perhaps. She distributed new booklets, then paused by his desk.
“Any doubts yet?”
He slid the sketch across. “Not math. Drama. First board draft.”
She leaned over—hair cascading forward, brushing his shoulder like silk rope—and studied it. A soft laugh escaped her. “The heart in the fractions… subtle. Shetty sir will love it. And I… appreciate the elegance.”
Priya chose that moment to burst in, script rolls under her arm like a victorious general.
“Wife! There you are. Quick line-reading before full cast—Shetty sir’s busy with lights. Come, come—terrace scene, very romantic.” She winked outrageously at the room, then hooked an arm through Meera’s and tugged her toward the corner.
Arjun watched, blood pressure spiking, as Priya pulled Meera to the back of the hall.
They sat close on two chairs dragged together, heads bent over the script. Priya’s voice dropped to a theatrical whisper, but fragments carried:
“…and the husband says, ‘All these years I thought I was the head of the house… but you, my dear, are the whole equation.’”
Meera laughed—genuine, unguarded. “Priya, that’s terrible.”
“Wait, wait—then he pulls her close…” Priya demonstrated, arm sliding around Meera’s waist exactly where the pinch had landed days ago, pulling her in until their shoulders touched. Meera didn’t resist, just rolled her eyes and read her line.
Arjun’s vision tunnelled. The booklet blurred. He saw only Priya’s hand on Meera’s waist—possessive, practised—and Meera leaning into it, hair falling across Priya’s shoulder like a curtain closing on a private world.
He stood abruptly, chair scbanging loud enough for heads to turn. Without a word he grabbed his bag and walked out, the screening problems unsolved, the drama boards forgotten on the desk.
Outside in the corridor he leaned against the cool wall, heart hammering so hard it hurt.
Critical point. Maximum or minimum—he couldn’t tell.
All he knew was the function of his obsession had reached a turning point, and the second derivative was screaming danger.
Tomorrow the full rehearsals began.
Tomorrow Priya would have hours to play husband.
Tomorrow he had to find a way to change the equation—or watch it solve itself without him.
He walked home under a sky turning the same bruised lavender as Meera’s saree, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders like an integral he wasn’t sure he could evaluate.
Arjun barely slept.
The night stretched like an improper integral, diverging slowly toward dawn. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the same scene on loop: the auditorium stage bathed in warm yellow spotlights, Meera in a bridal-red saree, Priya in a crisp sherwani leaning in for the “reconciliation” scene, their faces inches apart, the scripted kiss that would never happen but would feel real enough to the audience - and to him - to shatter something inside his chest.
By 6 a.m. he was up, showered, and pacing his room like a caged derivative.
He needed a plan. Not just to top the Olympiad screening, that was still the goal, but to insert himself into the one place where Meera would spend hours outside class: the drama rehearsals.
He opened his notebook to a new page and wrote in large, determined letters:
OPERATION: BECOME INDISPENSABLE
Offer to help with props/math-themed backdrop (charts, geometry sets, blackboard gags)
Volunteer as prompter or lighting assistant—always near stage
Be the reliable one she turns to when Priya gets too “husbandly”
He underlined the last line three times.
Breakfast was a battlefield of forced smiles. Lakshmi noticed immediately.
“Beta, you look like you fought with your pillow and lost. Drama rehearsals worrying you? Vikram said teachers are doing a play—fun, no?”
Arjun froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. “It’s… fine, Amma. Just Olympiad pressure.”
She ruffled his hair. “Arre, enjoy also. Life not only studies. Go, auto waiting.”
college felt different the moment he stepped through the gates.
The corridors buzzed with Annual Day fever—posters going up, juniors practising dance steps in the quadrangle, the air thick with anticipation and the faint smell of fresh paint from the stage crew. A hand-painted banner already hung over the auditorium entrance:
TEACHERS’ DRAMA – “Ghar Ghar Ki Kahani” – A Family Comedy.
Third period. Meera entered in a soft lavender saree today, the colour of dusk just before the sky gives up its light. The blouse was short-sleeved, modest, but the fabric was lighter than usual—georgette that moved like breath. Her hair was down for the first time in class, falling in loose waves to her mid-back, held away from her face by a simple silver clip. The effect was devastating: younger, softer, almost vulnerable.
Arjun’s heart performed a discontinuity jump.
She began the lesson on integration by parts, voice gentle. “Sometimes the product rule in reverse opens doors we didn’t know existed.”
He barely heard the words. All he could see was that hair—how it would feel between his fingers, how it would curtain their faces if he ever—
He forced the thought down, raised his hand instead.
“Ma’am, for ∫ x e^x dx, why not just guess the antiderivative? Tabular method feels like cheating elegance.”
She smiled—full this time, eyes crinkling. “Because guessing works until it doesn’t. Tabular is systematic—reliable. Like… building trust.”
Their eyes locked a second longer than necessary.
In her mind, unvoiced: He’s relentless today. Good relentless.
The conversation flowed—three questions, each pulling her closer to his bench, her hair brushing his notebook when she leaned over to check his working. Jasmine and something new—lavender talc?—filled the small space between them. When the bell rang she lingered.
“Arjun, the workshop—bring your A-game today. Screening’s Friday.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated, then plunged. “Ma’am… I heard about the drama. If you need help with props—math-themed ones, like giant blackboards or geometry models—I could…”
Her eyebrows lifted, surprised but pleased. “That’s thoughtful. Actually, yes—Shetty sir wants a ‘study room’ scene with equations on the wall. Accurate ones. Could you design a few boards? Nothing too time-consuming.”
His pulse soared. “Absolutely. I’ll start today.”
She touched his arm lightly—barely a second, fingertips on his sleeve. “Thank you. Really.”
The touch burned through cotton all day.
4 p.m. Seminar hall.
Arjun arrived early, booklet already half-solved, but his real mission was the drama boards. He sketched in the margin: a blackboard with Euler’s identity centre-stage, surrounded by partial fractions that resolved into a heart when viewed from afar—a private joke only he and Meera would understand.
Meera entered, lavender glowing under tube lights, hair still down. She looked tired but radiant—rehearsal energy, perhaps. She distributed new booklets, then paused by his desk.
“Any doubts yet?”
He slid the sketch across. “Not math. Drama. First board draft.”
She leaned over—hair cascading forward, brushing his shoulder like silk rope—and studied it. A soft laugh escaped her. “The heart in the fractions… subtle. Shetty sir will love it. And I… appreciate the elegance.”
Priya chose that moment to burst in, script rolls under her arm like a victorious general.
“Wife! There you are. Quick line-reading before full cast—Shetty sir’s busy with lights. Come, come—terrace scene, very romantic.” She winked outrageously at the room, then hooked an arm through Meera’s and tugged her toward the corner.
Arjun watched, blood pressure spiking, as Priya pulled Meera to the back of the hall.
They sat close on two chairs dragged together, heads bent over the script. Priya’s voice dropped to a theatrical whisper, but fragments carried:
“…and the husband says, ‘All these years I thought I was the head of the house… but you, my dear, are the whole equation.’”
Meera laughed—genuine, unguarded. “Priya, that’s terrible.”
“Wait, wait—then he pulls her close…” Priya demonstrated, arm sliding around Meera’s waist exactly where the pinch had landed days ago, pulling her in until their shoulders touched. Meera didn’t resist, just rolled her eyes and read her line.
Arjun’s vision tunnelled. The booklet blurred. He saw only Priya’s hand on Meera’s waist—possessive, practised—and Meera leaning into it, hair falling across Priya’s shoulder like a curtain closing on a private world.
He stood abruptly, chair scbanging loud enough for heads to turn. Without a word he grabbed his bag and walked out, the screening problems unsolved, the drama boards forgotten on the desk.
Outside in the corridor he leaned against the cool wall, heart hammering so hard it hurt.
Critical point. Maximum or minimum—he couldn’t tell.
All he knew was the function of his obsession had reached a turning point, and the second derivative was screaming danger.
Tomorrow the full rehearsals began.
Tomorrow Priya would have hours to play husband.
Tomorrow he had to find a way to change the equation—or watch it solve itself without him.
He walked home under a sky turning the same bruised lavender as Meera’s saree, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders like an integral he wasn’t sure he could evaluate.
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