The classroom buzzed with mid-morning restlessness — the kind that always began just before the lunch bell. Pencils tapped, crayons rolled, and laughter carried like ripples of sunlight across the walls.
Sanvi Mishra moved between the rows of small wooden desks, her dupatta brushing lightly against her arms as she leaned down to help a student with his alphabet. She had learned, over the months, that teaching wasn’t about lesson plans or tests — it was about quiet patience, about kneeling to the level of a child’s world and earning their trust.
A sudden noise broke her rhythm — the sharp sound of raised voices from the corner near the windows.
“Dhruv, stop it!” Tara’s small voice wavered with anger.
Sanvi straightened immediately. “Tara, Dhruv — what’s happening?”
Both children froze as she approached. Dhruv stared down at his desk, while Tara’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“He said my papa is a robot!” Tara’s voice cracked. “He said he doesn’t talk or smile or hug me when he drops me!”
The other children exchanged glances — curious, a little guilty. Sanvi crouched beside Tara, her tone calm but firm.
“Dhruv,” she said gently, “did you say that?”
Dhruv fidgeted with his eraser. “Everyone says it! Tara’s papa just drops her and leaves. He doesn’t even wave.”
A few giggles followed, and Sanvi’s heart clenched. Children repeated what they saw, not what they understood.
“Listen to me,” she said softly but with authority. “Sometimes grown-ups are quiet because they have a lot to think about. But that doesn’t make them robots. It makes them human. Tara’s father works very hard — maybe that’s why he doesn’t smile much. But I’m sure he loves her very, very much.”
Tara sniffled, her shoulders easing. Dhruv mumbled a small apology, and Sanvi nodded approvingly. “Good. Now, shake hands — and next time, think before you speak.”
When the class finally quieted, Sanvi exhaled and sank briefly into her chair. Tara’s eyes still looked troubled, though, and that worry tugged at something deep inside Sanvi — something maternal she didn’t dare name.
---
After dismissal, Sanvi dialed the guardian number listed in Tara’s file for the third time that week. It rang unanswered. Again.
When she looked up, the familiar caretaker was already standing at the door — a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a kind smile.
“Namaste, ma’am. I’ve come for Tara,” the woman said, folding her hands.
“Namaste,” Sanvi replied. “I’ve been trying to reach her guardian. There are a few things we need to discuss about her behavior in class.”
The woman hesitated, eyes darting toward the window. “Saab is very busy, ma’am. He doesn’t like being disturbed about school matters. I can tell him, if you wish.”
Sanvi forced a polite smile. “Please do. Tell him it’s important.”
The woman nodded, clearly relieved that the conversation ended there. She called to Tara, who ran up with her small bag and a beaming grin, already forgetting the morning’s quarrel.
Sanvi watched them leave, a strange unease settling in her chest.
---
By late afternoon, the corridors were empty. Sanvi stood before the principal’s desk, Tara’s file pressed against her chest.
“Ma’am,” she began carefully, “for six months now, I haven’t once met Tara’s guardian. Only the caretaker comes. She never stays, never talks much. I’m worried about the child.”
The principal sighed, removing her glasses. “I’ve heard that before. Mr. Adhirath Rathore — a businessman, widower, I believe. Keeps to himself. But I agree, Tara’s withdrawn lately. Keep an eye on her, Sanvi. Sometimes a teacher’s attention can heal more than a parent’s presence.”
Sanvi nodded, though her thoughts lingered. A businessman. Always busy. Always distant. The words sounded hollow in her mind.
---
By evening, she finally reached her flat — the one she and Priyank had moved into just after their wedding. She paused by the doorway, keys dangling from her fingers, staring at the stillness inside.
Nothing much had changed — the same pale curtains fluttering in the faint October breeze, the same framed photograph of Priyank in uniform smiling from the console. Only she had changed.
She touched the frame gently. Two years, Priyank. Two years since you left for the border and never came back.
Her throat tightened. Grief no longer felt sharp — it had become something quieter, something that hummed beneath her skin.
Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of thought. The screen read Bhabhi.
“Sanvi, when are you coming home?” her sister-in-law’s voice was warm, affectionate. “Papa keeps asking, and Tushar misses you. The house feels empty without your noise.”
Sanvi smiled faintly, curling onto the couch. “Soon, Bhabhi. Maybe next month. School’s been keeping me busy lately.”
“You always say that,” Bhabhi teased softly. “You sound like your brother now. Both of you work until you forget you have a home.”
Sanvi chuckled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Someone has to make up for Papa worrying all the time.”
Her bhabhi’s tone softened. “I visited Reena aunty yesterday. She was calm… she even recognized Tushar for a moment.”
Sanvi went still. “Really?”
“Yes. Just for a minute, but it was something.”
Sanvi swallowed the ache that rose in her chest. “Thank you for visiting her. Tell Papa I’ll call soon, okay?”
“Of course, beta. Take care of yourself.”
When the call ended, silence returned — not heavy this time, but familiar. The kind she could live with.
Sanvi looked out the window where the streetlights flickered against the dusk. Outside, the world was moving — lights, sounds, people coming home.
Inside, it was just her and the echo of a memory.
And far across town, in a large silent house, a man named Adhirath Rathore looked at the same rain-washed sky, unaware that the woman who had defended his daughter that morning would soon turn his world upside down.
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Next update Saturday 6PM
Chapter 2 ( Scratch)
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