[6] MEETING
The ceiling fans whirred lazily.
Twenty-three chairs scraped into a rough circle.
Amisha sat second row, blue cotton saree with white block-print borders draped crisp, long-sleeve ivory blouse tucked neat.
Her braid—thick, black, waist-long—rested over one shoulder like a sleeping snake.
Face bare, lips glossy with balm, a thin sindoor line glowing in her parting, mangalsutra tucked beneath the pallu.
Karishma plopped beside her, cream kurti rustling.
She poked Amisha’s arm.
“Shaadi-shuda hai, yeh toh mujhe pata hai… par pati kaun hai?”
Her gaze flicked to the sindoor, then the mangalsutra chain.
Amisha’s smile was soft, private.
“Naam Abhiraj hai. Foreign mein business set kiya—London, US. Thode din mein wapas aa rahe hain. Milaungi tujhe, agar ho saka.”
Karishma’s eyes widened.
“Wah! Rich pati-dev!”
Then, mischief:
“Par unko zaroor milwana Mr. Khanna se—jo har meeting mein teri kamar ko ghoor-te rehte hain.”
Amisha’s gaze slid sideways.
Mr. Khanna sat opposite, pretending to read notes—eyes locked on the sliver of waist visible when her pallu shifted.
She tugged the fabric smooth; his gaze snapped to the floor.
Principal Ma’am clapped once.
“Shuru karte hain.”
Agenda rolled:
New timetable
Sports day
“Aur sabse badi khabar—teen aur mahila teachers jald join kar rahi hain.”
She turned to Amisha.
“Mrs. Shekhawat, aap Class 9 aur 10 Maths lengi. Aapki teaching exceptional hai—promotion.”
A ripple of approval.
Then—
A male teacher, Mr. Rao, leaned forward.
“Sir, yeh kya zaroorat hai? Mard teachers hi kaafi hain.”
Silence dropped like a stone.
Amisha’s voice rose—calm, then steel.
“Sir, mard ho ya aurat—hum skills dekhte hain, gender nahi.”
Her tone sharpened, each word a chisel.
“Jis ke andar capability hogi, wahi padhayega. No male, no female—just teacher. Samjhe?”
Mr. Rao’s eyes dropped.
He sat.
Nodded.
Principal Ma’am hid a smile.
“Meeting adjourn. Tea at canteen—Mrs. Shekhawat ki treat.”
Karishma whispered, “Boss lady.”
Amisha’s lips curved—small, satisfied.
Her pallu stayed perfectly in place.
The principal’s final clap dissolved the circle.
Chairs scraped, murmurs rose.
Three male teachers—young, progressive—approached Amisha first.
“Congratulations, ma’am!”
“Class 10 ko aap sambhalengi—best choice!”
She smiled, palms pressed in namaste.
“Shukriya.”
The rest?
Ego-bruised.
Mr. Rao stared at his shoes.
Two seniors muttered about “ladkiyon ka zamana” and shuffled out.
Mr. Khanna lingered last, hand extended, smile oily.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Shekhawat.”
Amisha folded her hands tight behind her back.
“Thank you, sir.”
Her voice was polite granite.
He retracted the hand, cheeks blotchy, and left.
Corridor – 4:50 p.m.
A stampede of tiny feet.
Class V and VI poured in—her old students.
“Amisha didi!”
“Ma’am, promotion mubarak!”
A girl with braids hugged her waist.
“Aap ab 9-10 padhayengi?”
Amisha knelt, saree pooling.
“Haan, par tum logon se milungi zaroor—recess mein, assembly mein, kabhi bhi!”
A boy tugged her pallu.
“Promise?”
She ruffled his hair.
“Pakka promise.”
The corridor echoed with cheers.
Her blue saree fluttered like a victory flag as she waved them off—
teacher, boss lady,
and still their favorite didi.
The courtyard glowed with diyas; the scent of jasmine and ghee floated from the kitchen.
Amisha stepped in, blue saree still crisp, braid swaying like a metronome.
Dadi sat on the jhoola, Minakshi shelling peas on the veranda step, Rajveer reading the evening paper under the lantern.
She kicked off her sandals, voice bright.
“Suno! Suno! School mein badi khabar!”
Three heads snapped up.
Minakshi dropped a pea. “Kya hua, beta?”
Amisha clasped her hands, eyes shining.
“Principal Ma’am ne promotion diya—ab main Class 9 aur 10 Maths padhaungi!”
The jhoola creaked as Dadi stood.
“Arre wah! Meri poti!”
She cupped Amisha’s face, kissed her forehead.
Rajveer folded the paper, pride thick in his voice.
“Shekhawat khandaan ki izzat aur badh gayi.”
Minakshi pulled her into a hug, saree rustling.
“Treat toh banta hai—kal gulab jamun!”
Satish and Mihir burst in from the fields, still dusty.
Satish: “Bhabhi Maa, mubarak ho!”
Mihir: “Ab toh hum bhi aapke student banenge!”
Laughter rippled.
Then Rajveer cleared his throat.
“Ek aur khabar—kal subah Abhiraj aa raha hai. Flight 6 baje land karegi.”
Silence.
A single diya flickered.
Dadi’s eyes misted. “Nau saal…”
Minakshi pressed her pallu to her lips.
Satish whooped. “Bhai aa raha hai!”
Amisha’s smile froze—just for a heartbeat.
Tomorrow.
She busied her hands with the pea bowl, voice steady.
“Achha. Ghar mein ek aur chehra.”
Minakshi caught the flicker.
“Beta, tu khush hai na?”
Amisha nodded, too quick.
“Haan, Ma. Bilkul.”
Under the table, her fingers twisted the edge of her pallu.
Sorry nahi bola toh baat nahi karungi.
But the diyas kept burning,
and the haveli held its breath for morning.
_______________________________________
The sun was already a fist of gold over the domes.
Amisha’s eyes snapped open—
late.
She rolled—
thud.
Knees hit the marble.
“Ek toh raat bhar neend nahi aayi… subah hote hi itna time ho gaya!”
She scrambled up, lavender chiffon saree clutched in one hand.
Pleats in a frenzy—tuck, fold, pin.
Her fingers found the silver kamarband on the corner table—delicate chain, tiny peacock motifs.
Wear it.
She looped it low on her hips, the cool metal kissing soft skin.
Mirror check:
Waist—
a gentle curve, a little extra.
She pinched the softness, grinned.
“Chalta hai. Sukhi lakdi thodi hoon—thodi moti, thodi healthy. Perfect.”
Silver jhumkas, thin bangles, matching anklets—minimal, clinking like rain.
Hair twisted into the usual loose bun, tendrils framing her face.
Lip-balm—thick cherry layer.
Blouse: backless, but tasteful—just a hint of spine.
She adjusted the pallu to drape, not reveal.
“Itna toh chalta hai.”
Down the stairs—two at a time.
Kitchen – 7:25 a.m.
Poha sizzled, tea boiled.
Minakshi looked up from the kadhai.
“Beta, Abhiraj aa raha hoga—aaj ghar pe rehna tha na.”
Amisha flipped a roti mid-air.
“Ma, turant aati hoon! Half-day attend kar ke. Kal hi promotion mila—chhutti li toh Rao sir aur woh saare mard majak udayenge. ‘Teacherji ghar baithi hain.’ Nahi chalega.”
Minakshi sighed, fond.
“Theek hai. Jaldi aana.”
Amisha nodded, stuffed a paratha in her mouth, grabbed her bag.
“7:45 ho gaya—8:30 tak woh yha a jaenge. Flight 6 baje land kiya, shehar se gaon… 1.5 ghanta. Main 12 baje tak wapas a jaungi.”
She bolted—
lavender saree fluttering like a kite,
kamarband glinting with every step.
The haveli gates swung open.
He was coming.
Amisha hurried in, lavender chiffon catching the light like dawn mist, kamarband flashing silver with every step.
Karishma leaned against the noticeboard, eyes widening.
“Aaj toh heroine lag rahi hai, humari madam! Koi aa raha hai kya—mehman?”
Amisha adjusted her pallu, cheeks pink.
“Mehman nahi—pati-ji aa rahe hain.”
Karishma’s jaw dropped.
“Toh ghar pe rehna tha na aaj, madam!”
Amisha tilted her head toward the staffroom door.
Mr. Rao stood inside, sipping chai, eyes already scanning.
She pointed with her gaze—problem.
Karishma rolled her eyes.
“Haan, saala.”
Footsteps—
Mr. Khanna rounded the corner, smile too wide, file clutched like an excuse.
“Mrs. Shekhawat, ek minute—”
Amisha and Karishma didn’t wait.
They bolted.
Lavender and cream dupattas flying,
kamarband and bangles chiming,
two laughing comets streaking down the corridor—
leaving Mr. Khanna in the dust,
mouth open,
file forgotten.