10-12-2025, 07:33 PM
Episode 11 – Implicit Differentiation
The screening test was two days away, but Arjun’s mind had already differentiated itself from the Olympiad.
Every derivative he took, every integral he evaluated, looped back to the same fixed point: the auditorium, 5:30 p.m., Meera and Priya alone on stage rehearsing lines that belonged to a husband and wife.
He arrived at college with a plan etched in fire: volunteer so completely for the drama that Meera would have no choice but to see him, need him, prefer him.
First period free, assembly day. He sprinted to the auditorium instead of the quadrangle, slipping through the side door like a shadow. The stage was half-lit, props scattered: a cardboard dining table, plastic flowers, a fake blackboard leaning against the wall waiting for his equations. Shetty sir was nowhere; only two juniors fiddled with lights.
Then she walked in.
Meera, carrying a stack of printed scripts, wearing a simple cream saree with faint gold threads that caught the stage spots and threw them back in soft shards. The blouse was short-sleeved again, the pallu dbangd loosely enough to hint at the curve beneath when she moved. Her hair was tied in a low knot, a few strands already escaping like early doubts.
She spotted him immediately.
“Arjun? Assembly skipped?”
“I… came to work on the boards, ma’am. As promised.” He gestured to the sketches in his hand—three large charts: Euler’s identity blooming into a heart via partial fractions, a second with contour integrals forming the word “Family,” a third with implicit curves that, from a distance, resolved into intertwined initials he prayed no one noticed were M and A.
Her eyes softened. “You really did them. They’re beautiful.”
She stepped closer to examine, the cream saree brushing his arm. Jasmine, stronger today, mixed with the faint warmth of her skin. He inhaled greedily.
“Shall I mount them?” he asked, voice rough.
“Please. Ladder’s there.”
He fetched it, positioned it centre-stage, and climbed. She held the first chart steady below, her fingers occasionally brushing his as he hammered nails. From this height he could see down the modest neckline—just a handspan of shadow, the gentle rise of her breasts with each breath, the gold border of the saree framing the view like a proscenium arch.
Implicit differentiation: she was the curve y = f(x), he the observer trying to find dy/dx without ever seeing the explicit form.
“Careful,” she murmured as he stretched for the top corner. The ladder wobbled; instinctively she steadied it with both hands on the sides—directly below him, face tilted up, throat exposed, the soft hollow at its base pulsing with her heartbeat.
He froze, hammer mid-air.
The view was merciless: hair escaping the knot, lips parted in concern, the cream fabric stretching across her chest as she reached higher. One more step and he could have touched her hair.
“I’m fine, ma’am,” he managed, hammering the last nail harder than needed.
They worked in companionable silence for twenty minutes—him mounting, her passing pins and tape, occasionally laughing at his hidden math jokes in the designs. When the third board was up she stepped back, hands on hips, surveying.
“Perfect. The audience will love the subtlety. You have a real eye, Arjun.”
The praise warmed him more than sunlight.
Then the door banged open.
Priya strode in like she owned the stage, script in one hand, a steel tumbler of filter coffee in the other. She wore a bright yellow kurti today, sleeves rolled to the elbow, short hair tousled as if she’d just run from class.
“Wife! There you are. And… student helper?” She raised an eyebrow at Arjun, smile sharp. “Dedicated, aren’t we?”
Arjun climbed down slowly, pulse thudding.
Meera smiled, a little flustered. “Arjun designed the math boards. They’re brilliant.”
Priya glanced up, eyes narrowing at the heart hidden in the fractions. Something flickered across her face—recognition? amusement?—then vanished.
“Talented boy,” she said lightly.
“But playtime’s over. Shetty sir’s stuck in a meeting—asked me to run lines with you. Terrace scene, very emotional. Arjun, you can… watch and learn?”
The invitation was polite, but the subtext clear: stay if you dare.
Meera hesitated, then nodded. “Arjun, thank you so much. You’ve saved us. We’ll manage from here.”
Dismissal. Soft, kind, but final.
He gathered his tools slowly, every second a battle not to look back. At the door he paused.
“If you need anything else, ma’am—lights, cues, whatever—I’m free after Olympiad workshop.”
Meera’s smile was grateful. “I’ll remember. Go study—you have screening Friday.”
Priya’s voice floated after him, already in character: “Darling wife, come here… let’s fight under the stars.”
He walked out into the corridor, the auditorium door closing with a soft click that sounded, to him, like a boundary condition being set.
The rest of the day was torture.
Math period: implicit differentiation on the board, but all he could see was the explicit curve of her body beneath cream chiffon when she had looked up at him on the ladder. Olympiad workshop: he solved nothing, staring at the drama boards he had hung, the hidden heart now a public joke.
At home he barely ate. Lakshmi’s worried questions floated past him. In his room he opened the notebook and stared at his plan.
OPERATION: BECOME INDISPENSABLE
Crossed out.
Below it he wrote a single line:
She doesn’t need me. She has Priya.
Then he closed the book, lay back, and for the first time since Meera had walked into his life, felt the terrifying possibility that the function of his desire might have no real root—that the curve he worshipped might never intersect his axis at all.
Outside, the Bangalore night pressed hot and close, and somewhere across the city, Meera and Priya were rehearsing lines that belonged to a husband and wife.
Arjun stared at the ceiling until the fan blurred into a rotating complex plane, and the critical point he had reached felt less like a maximum and more like the beginning of a very steep descent.
![[Image: 1765375381279.png]](https://i.ibb.co/gbPx2dpp/1765375381279.png)
The screening test was two days away, but Arjun’s mind had already differentiated itself from the Olympiad.
Every derivative he took, every integral he evaluated, looped back to the same fixed point: the auditorium, 5:30 p.m., Meera and Priya alone on stage rehearsing lines that belonged to a husband and wife.
He arrived at college with a plan etched in fire: volunteer so completely for the drama that Meera would have no choice but to see him, need him, prefer him.
First period free, assembly day. He sprinted to the auditorium instead of the quadrangle, slipping through the side door like a shadow. The stage was half-lit, props scattered: a cardboard dining table, plastic flowers, a fake blackboard leaning against the wall waiting for his equations. Shetty sir was nowhere; only two juniors fiddled with lights.
Then she walked in.
Meera, carrying a stack of printed scripts, wearing a simple cream saree with faint gold threads that caught the stage spots and threw them back in soft shards. The blouse was short-sleeved again, the pallu dbangd loosely enough to hint at the curve beneath when she moved. Her hair was tied in a low knot, a few strands already escaping like early doubts.
She spotted him immediately.
“Arjun? Assembly skipped?”
“I… came to work on the boards, ma’am. As promised.” He gestured to the sketches in his hand—three large charts: Euler’s identity blooming into a heart via partial fractions, a second with contour integrals forming the word “Family,” a third with implicit curves that, from a distance, resolved into intertwined initials he prayed no one noticed were M and A.
Her eyes softened. “You really did them. They’re beautiful.”
She stepped closer to examine, the cream saree brushing his arm. Jasmine, stronger today, mixed with the faint warmth of her skin. He inhaled greedily.
“Shall I mount them?” he asked, voice rough.
“Please. Ladder’s there.”
He fetched it, positioned it centre-stage, and climbed. She held the first chart steady below, her fingers occasionally brushing his as he hammered nails. From this height he could see down the modest neckline—just a handspan of shadow, the gentle rise of her breasts with each breath, the gold border of the saree framing the view like a proscenium arch.
Implicit differentiation: she was the curve y = f(x), he the observer trying to find dy/dx without ever seeing the explicit form.
“Careful,” she murmured as he stretched for the top corner. The ladder wobbled; instinctively she steadied it with both hands on the sides—directly below him, face tilted up, throat exposed, the soft hollow at its base pulsing with her heartbeat.
He froze, hammer mid-air.
The view was merciless: hair escaping the knot, lips parted in concern, the cream fabric stretching across her chest as she reached higher. One more step and he could have touched her hair.
“I’m fine, ma’am,” he managed, hammering the last nail harder than needed.
They worked in companionable silence for twenty minutes—him mounting, her passing pins and tape, occasionally laughing at his hidden math jokes in the designs. When the third board was up she stepped back, hands on hips, surveying.
“Perfect. The audience will love the subtlety. You have a real eye, Arjun.”
The praise warmed him more than sunlight.
Then the door banged open.
Priya strode in like she owned the stage, script in one hand, a steel tumbler of filter coffee in the other. She wore a bright yellow kurti today, sleeves rolled to the elbow, short hair tousled as if she’d just run from class.
“Wife! There you are. And… student helper?” She raised an eyebrow at Arjun, smile sharp. “Dedicated, aren’t we?”
Arjun climbed down slowly, pulse thudding.
Meera smiled, a little flustered. “Arjun designed the math boards. They’re brilliant.”
Priya glanced up, eyes narrowing at the heart hidden in the fractions. Something flickered across her face—recognition? amusement?—then vanished.
“Talented boy,” she said lightly.
“But playtime’s over. Shetty sir’s stuck in a meeting—asked me to run lines with you. Terrace scene, very emotional. Arjun, you can… watch and learn?”
The invitation was polite, but the subtext clear: stay if you dare.
Meera hesitated, then nodded. “Arjun, thank you so much. You’ve saved us. We’ll manage from here.”
Dismissal. Soft, kind, but final.
He gathered his tools slowly, every second a battle not to look back. At the door he paused.
“If you need anything else, ma’am—lights, cues, whatever—I’m free after Olympiad workshop.”
Meera’s smile was grateful. “I’ll remember. Go study—you have screening Friday.”
Priya’s voice floated after him, already in character: “Darling wife, come here… let’s fight under the stars.”
He walked out into the corridor, the auditorium door closing with a soft click that sounded, to him, like a boundary condition being set.
The rest of the day was torture.
Math period: implicit differentiation on the board, but all he could see was the explicit curve of her body beneath cream chiffon when she had looked up at him on the ladder. Olympiad workshop: he solved nothing, staring at the drama boards he had hung, the hidden heart now a public joke.
At home he barely ate. Lakshmi’s worried questions floated past him. In his room he opened the notebook and stared at his plan.
OPERATION: BECOME INDISPENSABLE
Crossed out.
Below it he wrote a single line:
She doesn’t need me. She has Priya.
Then he closed the book, lay back, and for the first time since Meera had walked into his life, felt the terrifying possibility that the function of his desire might have no real root—that the curve he worshipped might never intersect his axis at all.
Outside, the Bangalore night pressed hot and close, and somewhere across the city, Meera and Priya were rehearsing lines that belonged to a husband and wife.
Arjun stared at the ceiling until the fan blurred into a rotating complex plane, and the critical point he had reached felt less like a maximum and more like the beginning of a very steep descent.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)