A month had gone by since Anjali began teaching me.
During that time, something subtle had altered — not between us, but within me. She had drawn a clear line right from the beginning, one that read, this is merely study. I never breached it. I never even attempted to. Nevertheless, that intangible boundary intrigued me more than her classes ever possibly could.
She talked slowly and quietly, telling me formulas and patterns I already had memorized. But I had not gone there to learn math. I had gone there to learn her rhythm — the way her faces changed when she was thinking, the quiet intensity when she wrote something down on paper, the gentle sigh she gave when I intentionally made a mistake.
It wasn't love. It was curiosity blended with something much more sinister — attachment born of scheming.
Then, the school declared the unit tests.
Anjali, ever the honest teacher, said to me, "This time, bring me your actual progress. Show me your report card when you receive it."
She uttered it so lightly, but those words lingered.
Show her my actual progress?
That was the problem. My real progress meant full marks — as always.
But if I scored perfectly, she would see I didn't need her. She'd walk away, satisfied that her student had improved, and that would be the end of it.
So I needed to lose.
Not completely — just enough. Just convincingly.
I sat on the edge of my bed that evening, pondering how bizarre it was for my mind to approach something like this as a problem. At some point in the process, my emotions had begun to obey logic.
Over dinner the following day, I informed my parents of what I had decided.
"Can I get maths lower this time?" I asked.
My mother's hand paused mid-air, spoon half-way to her mouth. "What did you just say?"
"I said I want to score lower — on purpose."
Her eyes cut me. "You didn't study this time, did you? You were messing around again!"
"No," I replied softly, calibrating my tone. "I'll still study. But I'll shoot for exactly forty-eight out of eighty."
She blinked, shocked. "On purpose?"
My dad, who'd been reading the paper, slowly lowered it and stared at me over his glasses but didn't say anything.
My mom pushed again, her voice escalating. "Why would you do something like that? Are you crazy?"
I gazed at her serenely. "Because PK's been flunking every exam. He's been telling me I'm not good enough, that I'll never be as good as you. If I get a worse grade, maybe it'll make him realize that even the head honcho can mess up once in a while."
My mom snorted. "You'd compromise your own grade just to reassure a friend?"
"Yes," I replied. "Sometimes leadership isn't about being at the forefront. It's about knowing how to take it slow."
She scowled, bewildered. "Where did you even find that?"
I smiled weakly and glanced at my father. "From him."
He folded his newspaper in half now, his face unreadable but relaxed.
I went on, "He once said — When you're beginning a journey, be the first to step forward and lead them. But when you arrive, be the last to step off — so you can ensure everyone who followed you has arrived too."
The ensuing silence was thick, but not unpleasant.
My dad smiled — a wide, smug upcurving of the lips that spoke louder than words. "Appears our son's grown up."
My mom let out a sigh, still doubting but not wanting to fight anymore. "Fine. But if you're going to play this game of yours, then pay attention. You will pass above ninety in all other subjects. No excuses."
"Deal," I replied. "If I can't get precisely forty-eight, then I'll quit playing around completely.
She shook her head and muttered something under her breath but her tone had mellowed.
Dinner time had passed. I retreated to my room. There was stillness in the air. My phone vibrated — a text from PK regarding some irrelevant joke, then another from Krrish with a meme. I looked at them for a while and then set the phone down.
What I was doing wasn't for PK. It wasn't even for Anjali.
It was for me — for control.
In all things, I needed to be the one who controlled the fate.
If that meant feigning stumbling, fine. If that meant losing marks to save a relationship, that was simply a different strategy.
As I shut off the lights, my mind wandered to Anjali's smile — courteous, reserved, inadvertent. She did not know she was a part of something far bigger than a study habit.
It was tutoring a boy with trouble in math for her.
For me, it was the arithmetic of hearts — how much to give, how much to withhold, and when to divide myself in order to be near without losing myself.
That evening, I dreamed of numbers falling as raindrops — each one bearing her name.