08-01-2026, 03:29 AM
Episode 17 – Vector Calculus
Teacher’s Day.
The college transformed overnight into a carnival of gratitude: corridors strung with marigolds and fairy lights, the assembly ground dbangd in white and gold bunting, a stage set with microphones and a massive backdrop reading HAPPY TEACHER’S DAY in glitter paint. Juniors scurried with trays of sweets; seniors practised skits in corners. The air smelled of roses, agarbatti, and nervous excitement.
Arjun arrived early, carrying nothing visible, but his heart felt heavier than any gift. The paper rose was now in Meera’s diary—he had seen it yesterday when she opened it briefly during workshop, the blue flower still tucked between petals. That small act of preservation had kept him awake: she had kept it. She had chosen to keep it.
Assembly began at 9 a.m. Speeches, songs, a dance medley by Class 10 girls. Then the moment everyone waited for: class representatives presenting gifts to teachers on stage.
12-A’s turn. Rahul and Sneha went up with the class collection—a silver plaque, a bouquet, a box of assorted sweets. Meera accepted gracefully, smiling at the applause, her off-white saree glowing under the morning sun.
Arjun stayed in the audience, hands empty. He had decided last night: no public gift. His rose was private. His feelings were private.
After assembly, classes were suspended—free periods for “celebrations.” Teachers were mobbed in staff rooms and corridors with cards, chocolates, hugs from bolder students.
Arjun wandered, scriptless for once, until he found himself outside the staff room again. The door was ajar; laughter spilled out.
He peeked in.
Meera sat at her desk surrounded by gifts—flowers, mugs, handmade cards. Priya was perched on the table edge, swinging her legs, feeding Meera a piece of gulab jamun from a junior’s box.
“Open mine next,” Priya said, handing over a small packet wrapped in newspaper—typical Priya style, no frills.
Meera unwrapped it carefully: a silk bookmark, hand-embroidered with tiny π symbols in gold thread, spiralling down the length like an infinite series.
Meera’s eyes widened. “Priya… this is beautiful. You made it?”
Priya shrugged, casual. “Had some thread lying around. Thought of you and your maths obsession.”
Meera ran her fingers over the stitches, then—deliberately, Arjun thought—opened her diary on the desk. The paper rose was still there, blue flower intact. She slipped the new silk bookmark inside, marking the page exactly where the rose lay pressed.
Priya noticed—of course she did. Her eyes flicked to the rose, then to Meera’s face, something unreadable passing across her features.
“Nice flower,” she said lightly. “Secret admirer?”
Meera closed the diary gently. “A thoughtful student.”
Priya’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Must be very thoughtful.”
Arjun stepped back into the corridor before they saw him, heart thudding with a mix of triumph and guilt. The bookmark nestled against his rose now—two gifts marking the same secret page.
The rest of the day blurred: cake-cutting in the staff room (he watched from the doorway as Meera fed Priya a piece, Priya returning the gesture with exaggerated ceremony), class photos, songs dedicated to teachers.
At 4 p.m. the drama cast gathered for a quick run-through—no full costumes, just blocking revisions. Arjun took his prompter spot automatically.
Meera arrived last, diary tucked under her arm. She paused by his seat.
“Busy day,” she said softly.
He nodded. “Happy Teacher’s Day, ma’am. Properly this time.”
She smiled—that real one again. “Best one yet.”
Priya called from stage: “Wife! We’re waiting!”
Meera rolled her eyes good-naturedly and hurried up.
The run-through was light, full of laughter. But Arjun noticed small things: Priya’s touches lingering fractionally longer, Meera stepping back a beat sooner than scripted. When Priya pulled her into the terrace embrace, Meera’s body was slightly stiff—not resisting, but not yielding either.
Afterwards, as the cast dispersed, Meera lingered to collect her things. Priya had already left for “corrections emergency.”
Meera approached Arjun.
“Walk with me to the staff room? I have something.”
He followed, pulse racing.
In the now-empty staff room she opened her diary, removed the silk bookmark Priya had given her, and held it out.
“This is beautiful, but… it feels like it belongs with the person who understands π best.”
She placed it in his hand.
He stared, stunned.
“And,” she added quietly, opening the diary again, “your rose is safer at home than here. Too many curious eyes.”
She carefully lifted the paper rose—blue flower still tucked in its heart—and wrapped it in a soft handkerchief before handing it to him.
Their fingers brushed. Lingered.
“Keep them both,” she said. “They’re yours anyway.”
He couldn’t speak.
She smiled—gentle, a little sad, a little something else. “You’ve given me more than a gift, Arjun. You’ve reminded me why I love teaching.”
She picked up her bag. “See you tomorrow.”
He stood frozen as she left, the bookmark in one hand, the rose in the other, the scent of jasmine lingering like a promise.
Vector calculus: direction and magnitude.
His feelings had both now.
And for the first time, he felt the direction might—just might—be pointing back toward him.
Teacher’s Day.
The college transformed overnight into a carnival of gratitude: corridors strung with marigolds and fairy lights, the assembly ground dbangd in white and gold bunting, a stage set with microphones and a massive backdrop reading HAPPY TEACHER’S DAY in glitter paint. Juniors scurried with trays of sweets; seniors practised skits in corners. The air smelled of roses, agarbatti, and nervous excitement.
Arjun arrived early, carrying nothing visible, but his heart felt heavier than any gift. The paper rose was now in Meera’s diary—he had seen it yesterday when she opened it briefly during workshop, the blue flower still tucked between petals. That small act of preservation had kept him awake: she had kept it. She had chosen to keep it.
Assembly began at 9 a.m. Speeches, songs, a dance medley by Class 10 girls. Then the moment everyone waited for: class representatives presenting gifts to teachers on stage.
12-A’s turn. Rahul and Sneha went up with the class collection—a silver plaque, a bouquet, a box of assorted sweets. Meera accepted gracefully, smiling at the applause, her off-white saree glowing under the morning sun.
Arjun stayed in the audience, hands empty. He had decided last night: no public gift. His rose was private. His feelings were private.
After assembly, classes were suspended—free periods for “celebrations.” Teachers were mobbed in staff rooms and corridors with cards, chocolates, hugs from bolder students.
Arjun wandered, scriptless for once, until he found himself outside the staff room again. The door was ajar; laughter spilled out.
He peeked in.
Meera sat at her desk surrounded by gifts—flowers, mugs, handmade cards. Priya was perched on the table edge, swinging her legs, feeding Meera a piece of gulab jamun from a junior’s box.
“Open mine next,” Priya said, handing over a small packet wrapped in newspaper—typical Priya style, no frills.
Meera unwrapped it carefully: a silk bookmark, hand-embroidered with tiny π symbols in gold thread, spiralling down the length like an infinite series.
Meera’s eyes widened. “Priya… this is beautiful. You made it?”
Priya shrugged, casual. “Had some thread lying around. Thought of you and your maths obsession.”
Meera ran her fingers over the stitches, then—deliberately, Arjun thought—opened her diary on the desk. The paper rose was still there, blue flower intact. She slipped the new silk bookmark inside, marking the page exactly where the rose lay pressed.
Priya noticed—of course she did. Her eyes flicked to the rose, then to Meera’s face, something unreadable passing across her features.
“Nice flower,” she said lightly. “Secret admirer?”
Meera closed the diary gently. “A thoughtful student.”
Priya’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Must be very thoughtful.”
Arjun stepped back into the corridor before they saw him, heart thudding with a mix of triumph and guilt. The bookmark nestled against his rose now—two gifts marking the same secret page.
The rest of the day blurred: cake-cutting in the staff room (he watched from the doorway as Meera fed Priya a piece, Priya returning the gesture with exaggerated ceremony), class photos, songs dedicated to teachers.
At 4 p.m. the drama cast gathered for a quick run-through—no full costumes, just blocking revisions. Arjun took his prompter spot automatically.
Meera arrived last, diary tucked under her arm. She paused by his seat.
“Busy day,” she said softly.
He nodded. “Happy Teacher’s Day, ma’am. Properly this time.”
She smiled—that real one again. “Best one yet.”
Priya called from stage: “Wife! We’re waiting!”
Meera rolled her eyes good-naturedly and hurried up.
The run-through was light, full of laughter. But Arjun noticed small things: Priya’s touches lingering fractionally longer, Meera stepping back a beat sooner than scripted. When Priya pulled her into the terrace embrace, Meera’s body was slightly stiff—not resisting, but not yielding either.
Afterwards, as the cast dispersed, Meera lingered to collect her things. Priya had already left for “corrections emergency.”
Meera approached Arjun.
“Walk with me to the staff room? I have something.”
He followed, pulse racing.
In the now-empty staff room she opened her diary, removed the silk bookmark Priya had given her, and held it out.
“This is beautiful, but… it feels like it belongs with the person who understands π best.”
She placed it in his hand.
He stared, stunned.
“And,” she added quietly, opening the diary again, “your rose is safer at home than here. Too many curious eyes.”
She carefully lifted the paper rose—blue flower still tucked in its heart—and wrapped it in a soft handkerchief before handing it to him.
Their fingers brushed. Lingered.
“Keep them both,” she said. “They’re yours anyway.”
He couldn’t speak.
She smiled—gentle, a little sad, a little something else. “You’ve given me more than a gift, Arjun. You’ve reminded me why I love teaching.”
She picked up her bag. “See you tomorrow.”
He stood frozen as she left, the bookmark in one hand, the rose in the other, the scent of jasmine lingering like a promise.
Vector calculus: direction and magnitude.
His feelings had both now.
And for the first time, he felt the direction might—just might—be pointing back toward him.
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