Echo of Desire

Mornings returned to their steady rhythm in Shalini's household. The clang of the alarm clock, the hurried brushing of teeth, the hiss of chai boiling over on the stove — it all folded into a familiar, comforting pattern. Shalini found a measure of relief in this routine, even if the edges of her mind still frayed with worry and longing.

Each morning she would pin her dupatta neatly, line her eyes with kohl, and slip on her modest cotton saree, the same muted shades she had always worn. It made her feel protected, as if the fabric itself was a shield against the restlessness gnawing at her.

Avi, meanwhile, trudged through his own school days with a quiet sense of exhaustion, still haunted by the strange dreams he couldn't explain. Shalini watched him closely, her motherly instincts sharp. But he was trying hard to be brave, and for now, she let him be, knowing her son needed to find his own answers.

In the afternoons, after school ended, she walked briskly home to begin her new coaching classes. It was her way of giving back — helping the struggling students, and earning a bit extra to keep their household afloat.

The first group arrived every day around four. Ravi and Prayush were always among the earliest, bright-eyed, carrying their neatly bound notebooks. A few other boys and girls trickled in after them, settling on the rug in her small front room where she'd arranged a low wooden table, chalk, and an old whiteboard.

At first, it had felt like any other group of kids — eager to learn, respectful, occasionally a little shy. But slowly, Shalini began to notice things that made her stomach twist.

There was Ravi, for instance. Sweet, quiet Ravi, always polite — but lately, his eyes lingered far too long on her feet as she walked around the room. Sometimes he lost track of his sums altogether, staring as she adjusted the edge of her saree over her toes.

Once, while she wrote out a tricky equation on the board, she turned back to see Ravi completely transfixed, pencil halfway to his mouth, his gaze pinned to the arch of her foot. A blush burned across Shalini's cheeks, even as she scolded herself for noticing.

He's just a boy, she told herself. Boys look. They don't mean anything.

But the discomfort stayed.

Prayush, meanwhile, was more obvious. Though he pretended to be absorbed in grammar exercises, his gaze traveled upward whenever she reached up to place a chart on the wall or adjust the window curtain. More than once she caught him openly watching the gap beneath her arm, eyes glazed in a way that made her skin crawl.

At first, she tried to convince herself it was innocent curiosity. But then, one humid afternoon, she saw his lips part, as if tasting the air around her, and she knew it was more than childish confusion.

A prickly heat rose along her neck. She wanted to shout at them, to snap them out of it, but then something shameful inside her held her tongue.

Because a part of her — a secret, small, desperate part — liked being seen.

No one had looked at her this way since her husband left for Dubai, vanished into a silence so total it might as well have been death.

The boys' gazes, however wrong, however clumsy, were a reminder: she was still a woman. Still breathing, still wanted.

That knowledge both terrified and thrilled her.

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One Thursday, as the sun dipped low and painted the ceiling gold, Shalini called on Ravi to read from his Hindi textbook. His voice trembled as he stood, eyes locked not on the page but on her toes where her anklet glinted.

"Ravi?" she prompted, sharper than she meant. "The next paragraph, beta."

He jolted, cheeks darkening, and stumbled over the words, reading in a rush. Shalini pretended not to notice.

Prayush, meanwhile, had taken a seat closer to her chair. The smell of sandalwood soap clung to him, fresh from washing his face before class, but it mingled with something raw and hormonal — a boy on the cusp of becoming a man. He leaned forward, gaze darting to her underarms whenever she lifted her arm to write.

Shalini felt sweat bead there under the sleeve of her blouse. When she realized Prayush was following that tiny darkened patch like a predator, she almost dropped her chalk.

She quickly lowered her arm, her mind screaming: Control yourself. You're the teacher.

Still, a small thrill shot through her veins, making her heart pound.

The other children seemed oblivious, focused on their sums and spelling. But Shalini could feel the air growing charged, a secret current crackling between her and these two boys, who watched her with worshipful, forbidden eyes.

---

After the group left for the evening, Shalini tried to settle herself with chores. She washed the dishes, wiped down the chalkboard, checked Avi's school uniform for the next morning.

But her thoughts kept circling back.

Why do they look at me like that?

She told herself it was a test — that this was where a teacher had to stand firm. Yet a darker, hidden side of her was flattered, even aroused, by being the object of someone's secret fascination.

She felt more alive than she had in years, and that realization made her ashamed.

When Avi came home from a friend's house, he found her standing at the sink, lost in thought.

"Mummy?"

She jumped, turning quickly. "Yes, beta?"

"You okay?" he asked, brow furrowed.

Shalini forced a smile. "Just tired," she lied.

"Want me to help with dinner?"

She shook her head, stroking his hair gently. "No, you go change. I'll call you when it's ready."

He nodded and disappeared down the hall.

Alone again, Shalini leaned against the counter, chest tight. She didn't know how to name what was happening. The boys were young, their desire confused and awkward. Yet something in their eyes was honest — raw, even. It reached into the emptiest corners of her heart, corners that had ached for so long she had almost stopped noticing the pain.

For the first time in years, she wondered what it might be like to let herself be wanted — truly, shamelessly, wanted.

But before that thought could root itself too deeply, she forced it away, plunging her hands into soapy water, scrubbing the plates until her knuckles burned.

The routine, she reminded herself, was what kept everything from breaking apart. Morning, afternoon, evening — lessons, coaching, homework, meals.

If she clung to it tightly enough, maybe these dangerous new feelings would fade.

But as she dried her hands and heard the distant echo of Ravi's stuttering voice, the memory of Prayush's glazed stare, she knew:

Routine alone might not be enough.

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