Kerala Arranged Marriage

[vickyxon]

The bell had rung hours ago, but the echoes of shouting students and scbanging chairs still lingered in the dusty corners of the staff room. It was 6:30 PM. I was the last one left, a solitary figure amidst stacks of trigonometry assignments and half-empty ink pots. I had pushed myself to finish everything today—every pending grade, every lesson plan for the next week—because starting tomorrow, my world wasn’t going to be defined by x and y. It was going to be defined by him.

As I locked my desk, my reflection in the darkened window caught me off guard. At 23, I sometimes felt older, burdened by the seriousness of my profession. But looking at myself now, I saw the girl Vicky saw through the screen. My skin felt electric, sensitized by the mere thought that in less than twelve hours, the 7,500 kilometers between us would shrink to zero.

I checked my phone one last time. A message from Vicky: "Just boarded. Next time I text you, I’ll be breathing the same air as you. Stay safe, my teacher."

"My teacher." The way he said it made my breath hitch. It wasn't a title of respect; it was a provocation, a low-humming intimacy that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

I stepped out of the college building, and the sky simply gave way. It wasn't just rain; it was a Kerala deluge—thick, heavy, and unrelenting. I cursed softly, realizing my umbrella was still sitting on the shoe rack at home.

The walk to the bus stop was short, but the rain was faster. Within seconds, the thin cotton of my peach-colored salwar kameez was defeated. The water was cold, a sharp contrast to the humid evening air, and as it soaked through, the fabric began to cling. I could feel the wet material molding to the curve of my waist and the swell of my breasts.

I felt exposed, yet strangely empowered. Every splash of a passing car, every cold drop sliding down the nape of my neck, felt like a surrogate for the touch I was craving.

As I stood under the flickering tube light of the bus shelter, shivering slightly, my mind wandered to the photos we had exchanged—the ones our parents hadn't seen. Vicky was an Assistant Professor, a man of logic and structure, but the way he looked at me through the camera lens was anything but academic.
Does he know? I wondered, hugging my bag to my chest, feeling the dampness seep into my skin. Does he know how much I’ve memorized the line of his shoulders? Does he know that I’ve spent nights wondering if his hands are as warm as his voice sounds at 2 AM?

I looked down at my body, the way the wet fabric highlighted my "fine ass"—as he’d once whispered with that devastatingly confident smirk. I felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the weather. I was a math teacher in Ernakulam, a "good girl" from a "good family," but in the privacy of my own head, I was a woman counting down the minutes until I could be unmade by him.