19-12-2025, 11:11 AM
Episode 14 - Taylor series
Saturday morning. No college. No Olympiad workshop. Just the drama rehearsal at 5 p.m. and an entire day stretching ahead like an infinite series Arjun had no idea how to sum.
He tried studying, JEE mocks, calculus revisions, but every polynomial reminded him of her curves, every convergence test of how close he had come yesterday under that tiny umbrella. The café conversation replayed endlessly: her laugh when he mispronounced “Udupi,” the way her fingers had curled around the cappuccino cup, the casual brush of her knee against his under the small table when she shifted.
By noon he was restless, pacing his room like a particle in a box with no escape velocity.
Today was the first full dress rehearsal—costumes, lights, the whole cast. Today he would sit in the front row with the prompt script in his lap and Meera’s voice in his ears for hours.
He reached college at 4:30 p.m., half an hour before call time.
The auditorium was already alive: juniors running cables, Shetty sir barking orders, the smell of fresh paint and hot halogen lamps thick in the air. The stage had transformed overnight—a living-room set with sofa, dining table, fake window showing a painted Bangalore skyline. His math boards hung proudly on the “study” wall, the hidden heart in the fractions catching the light whenever a spot swept across.
He found a seat in the third row, centre, script open on his knee even though he had memorised most of it. The cast trickled in: Mrs. Nair in a glittering green saree and heavy jewellery, already practising her saas glare; Mr. Shetty in kurta-pyjama looking harassed; D’Souza sir muttering lines under his breath.
Then Priya entered — sherwani tailored sharp, cream with gold embroidery, hair slicked back, a fake moustache that somehow made her look dangerously handsome. She carried herself with swagger, greeting everyone with loud “Arre bhai!” and back-slaps.
Finally, Meera.
She stepped onto the stage from the wings and the entire auditorium seemed to inhale.
She wore a bridal-red silk saree—low-waist as Priya had teased, the pleats tucked just below her navel, the pallu dbangd elegantly over one shoulder. The blouse was sleeveless, deep red with delicate gold work, leaving her arms and a generous sliver of midriff bare. Her hair was loose, wavy, adorned with a single strand of jasmine pinned behind one ear. Minimal jewellery—a thin gold chain, small jhumkas—yet she looked like every wedding fantasy Arjun had never allowed himself to have.
![[Image: 1766122376207-2.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/jBvFgqY/1766122376207-2.jpg)
Saturday morning. No college. No Olympiad workshop. Just the drama rehearsal at 5 p.m. and an entire day stretching ahead like an infinite series Arjun had no idea how to sum.
He tried studying, JEE mocks, calculus revisions, but every polynomial reminded him of her curves, every convergence test of how close he had come yesterday under that tiny umbrella. The café conversation replayed endlessly: her laugh when he mispronounced “Udupi,” the way her fingers had curled around the cappuccino cup, the casual brush of her knee against his under the small table when she shifted.
By noon he was restless, pacing his room like a particle in a box with no escape velocity.
Today was the first full dress rehearsal—costumes, lights, the whole cast. Today he would sit in the front row with the prompt script in his lap and Meera’s voice in his ears for hours.
He reached college at 4:30 p.m., half an hour before call time.
The auditorium was already alive: juniors running cables, Shetty sir barking orders, the smell of fresh paint and hot halogen lamps thick in the air. The stage had transformed overnight—a living-room set with sofa, dining table, fake window showing a painted Bangalore skyline. His math boards hung proudly on the “study” wall, the hidden heart in the fractions catching the light whenever a spot swept across.
He found a seat in the third row, centre, script open on his knee even though he had memorised most of it. The cast trickled in: Mrs. Nair in a glittering green saree and heavy jewellery, already practising her saas glare; Mr. Shetty in kurta-pyjama looking harassed; D’Souza sir muttering lines under his breath.
Then Priya entered — sherwani tailored sharp, cream with gold embroidery, hair slicked back, a fake moustache that somehow made her look dangerously handsome. She carried herself with swagger, greeting everyone with loud “Arre bhai!” and back-slaps.
Finally, Meera.
She stepped onto the stage from the wings and the entire auditorium seemed to inhale.
She wore a bridal-red silk saree—low-waist as Priya had teased, the pleats tucked just below her navel, the pallu dbangd elegantly over one shoulder. The blouse was sleeveless, deep red with delicate gold work, leaving her arms and a generous sliver of midriff bare. Her hair was loose, wavy, adorned with a single strand of jasmine pinned behind one ear. Minimal jewellery—a thin gold chain, small jhumkas—yet she looked like every wedding fantasy Arjun had never allowed himself to have.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)