Misc. Erotica Meera - The Math Teacher

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Episode 12 – Related Rates

Thursday. One day before the Olympiad screening.
Arjun woke with the hollow certainty that everything was slipping through his fingers like sand in a related-rates problem: the faster he tried to grasp, the quicker it escaped.

He had not slept well.

The image of Priya’s arm around Meera’s waist in the seminar hall had metastasised into a full-blown nightmare: the two of them on stage, Priya in sherwani pulling Meera into a slow, scripted dance, Meera’s laughter no longer shy but open, her body leaning into Priya’s with the ease of long familiarity. In the dream the audience applauded, and Arjun stood alone in the wings holding a forgotten prop blackboard that read, in his own handwriting, dy/dt = 0.

He dragged himself to college early again, but this time without a plan—only a desperate need to see her, to confirm she still existed outside the nightmare.

The sky had opened overnight. Monsoon’s delayed revenge: rain lashing the city in sheets, turning Hosur Road into a river of red taillights and splashing potholes. By the time his auto reached college he was half-soaked despite the flapping plastic side-curtains.

The corridors were unusually quiet—many students late or absent. Umbrellas bloomed like black mushrooms in the foyer. Arjun shook water from his hair and headed straight to 12-A.
Third period. She was already there, writing on the board, back to the door.

Today she wore a deep maroon cotton saree, the colour of wet earth after rain. The blouse was matching maroon, three-quarter sleeves, but the pallu was dbangd loosely because of the humidity. Her hair was in a French braid, damp at the ends—she must have walked from the staff parking without an umbrella.

She turned when he entered. Only three other students had braved the storm.
“Good morning, Arjun. Terrible weather.”

He nodded, throat tight. The rain drummed on the tin roof like impatient fingers.

The lesson was related rates: ladders sliding down walls, cones filling with water, shadows lengthening. Classic problems. But today every example felt personal.

“Imagine a girl walking away from a lamp post,” Meera said, drawing a triangle on the board. “Her shadow lengthens as she moves. We relate the rate at which she walks to the rate at which the shadow grows.”

Arjun stared at the diagram: girl, lamp, shadow.
He saw Meera walking away from him, Priya’s shadow stretching longer and longer behind her.
When she assigned practice problems, he worked mechanically. Then the power flickered—once, twice—and died. The tube lights went out, plunging the room into grey monsoon gloom. Rain roared louder without the hum of fans.

Meera sighed. “Generator will take ten minutes. Let’s continue with what light we have.”
She walked to the window to pull the curtains wider. As she reached up, the maroon saree—already damp from rain—clung to her body in patches. The pallu slipped off her shoulder completely, catching on her elbow.

And there it was.

Her saree had absorbed water at the hem and lower pleats. The weight pulled the tuck slightly loose. For one suspended moment, as she strained for the curtain cord, the fabric shifted and revealed a thin, glistening line of midriff—and the edge of her navel, deeper maroon against her skin, shadowed and wet from raindrops that had somehow found their way under the pallu.

Arjun’s breath stopped.

Related rates in real time: the rate at which the pallu slid (slow, gravity-assisted), the rate at which his heart accelerated (exponential), the rate at which blood rushed south (instantaneous, infinite).
She tugged the curtain, the pallu fell back into place, and the moment ended. But the image was seared: the navel framed by wet maroon cotton, a single raindrop clinging to the rim like a misplaced constant.

The lights flickered back on. Class resumed as if nothing had happened.

But something had.

After the bell, as students dashed through corridors to the next period, Arjun lingered.

“Ma’am…the screening tomorrow. I’m… ready.”
She looked at him—really looked—concern softening her eyes. “You seem tense. Rain making everyone gloomy. You’ll do wonderfully. Just breathe.”

He nodded, unable to speak. The wet navel burned behind his eyelids.

The rest of the day was underwater. Olympiad workshop cancelled due to power issues. Drama rehearsal postponed—Shetty sir stuck in traffic.
Arjun wandered the empty corridors until he found himself outside the auditorium again. The door was ajar. He slipped in.

The stage was dark, but a single work-light glowed. Props lay scattered. On the fake dining table sat a forgotten steel tumbler—coffee, cold now. Priya’s, probably.

He walked onto the stage, stood where Meera would stand tomorrow in full costume, and looked out at the empty seats.

Then he saw it.
Taped to the fake blackboard—his blackboard—was a yellow Post-it in Meera’s neat handwriting:
Arjun—boards are perfect. Thank you. Come to full rehearsal tomorrow 5 p.m. if you can. We need a reliable prompter. – M

His heart performed a related rate of its own: distance to her decreasing, rate of change suddenly positive.

He peeled the note carefully, folded it into his pocket next to his heart, and walked out into the rain without an umbrella.

The water soaked him to the skin, but he didn’t feel cold.

Tomorrow the screening.
Tomorrow the rehearsal.
Two events, same girl, two different rates of approach.
He would be there for both.
And this time, he would not stand in the wings.