Chapter 1: प्रोफेसर का पहला दिन
The corridors of Delhi University’s old English department smelled of dust and decaying paper. Archana Sharma adjusted the strap of her leather satchel on her shoulder, her heels clicking a steady, unfamiliar rhythm on the cracked linoleum. It was her first day, and the silence of the late afternoon felt like a held breath. Light slanted in through high, wire-mesh windows, cutting through the motes of dust she’d stirred up.
She found her assigned room. The plaque on the door, ‘Dr. A. Sharma – Visiting Faculty’, looked both foreign and satisfying. At forty-two, after a decade and a half of managing a home and supporting her husband’s career abroad, this was her territory. Hers alone.
Her son Jason had been ecstatic when she told him. “Mom, you’ll be a star here,” he’d said, grinning that easy grin of his. She’d just smiled, the quiet kind. He had no idea.
She was arranging her notes on the podium when a burst of laughter echoed from the far end of the hallway. Students. The sound faded, replaced by shuffling footsteps. She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes before her introductory lecture on Post-Colonial Theory. A sudden, whimsical urge took her—to see the building her boy wandered every day.
She left her bag and stepped back into the corridor. The building was a maze of identical doors and fading notice boards cluttered with exam schedules and political pamphlets. At the intersection near the men’s washroom, a newer, neon-green poster caught her eye. It was haphazardly stuck over an announcement for a poetry society meeting.
The heading was in bold, graffiti-style English: SEDUCE YOUR PROFESSOR – LEADERBOARD.
A smirk played on her lips. How juvenile. Her eyes scanned the handwritten list, a catalog of faculty names with crude scores next to them. Points for ‘Eye Contact’, ‘A Smile That Lingers’, ‘Private Tuition Session’. It was grotesque, a piece of playground bravado made manifest. Then her gaze froze at the very top.
#1: Dr. Archana Sharma (Eng. Dept.) – 85 points. NEW ENTRY. STATUS: UNBREACHED FORTRESS.
Next to the text was a small, clear photograph of her. It was from the university’s staff directory portal, but someone had printed it. Someone had stuck it here.
A cold, precise clarity settled over her. The mundanity of the corridor, the distant sound of a lawnmower outside, the hum of the tube light above her—it all sharpened into focus. She wasn’t angry. She was interested.
“Mom?”
The voice, so familiar and now so out of place here, made her turn smoothly, her expression softening into the gentle, placid mask she wore at home. Jason stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, his face a comical picture of confusion and dawning horror. His eyes darting from her to the poster, back to her.
“Jason! Beta, what a surprise.” Her voice was warm honey.
“What are you… I mean, hi.” He stepped closer, deliberately blocking her view of the noticeboard. His tall frame was tense. “Exploring the department?”
“Just getting my bearings. It’s quite a labyrinth.” She let her eyes, wide and seemingly innocent, linger on his face. He was sweating slightly at the temples. “What’s that behind you? Something colorful.”
“Nothing. Just some stupid ragging thing. Gossip. You shouldn’t…”
She gently moved past him, as if curious, and looked pointedly at the poster again. She let a faint, bewildered frown appear. “How strange. Is this some kind of… game?”
Jason’s laugh was too high. “Yeah. A dumb one. They do it every year. It doesn’t mean anything.” He was rambling. “They just put up photos of new faculty. For fun. It’s just points, it’s not real.”
“My photo is here,” she said, her tone light, almost amused. She reached out and gently peeled the corner of the poster. The adhesive gave way with a soft ripping sound. She studied the image of her own face. “I look quite stern here, don’t I? An ‘unbreached fortress’. How dramatic.”
“Mom, just ignore it. Seriously. I’ll take it down. I’ll find out who did this.” His voice was strained, a mix of embarrassment and a panic he couldn’t fully conceal.
She turned the full force of her placid smile on him. “Don’t be silly, beta. It’s harmless. Let the boys have their fun.” She folded the poster neatly, once, twice, and slipped it into the pocket of her silk kurta. “A souvenir of my first day.”
The bell for the next period clanged, jarring and loud. Jason jumped.
“You have a class to get to,” she said, nodding down the hall. “Go on. I’ll see you at home for dinner. I’m making your favorite aloo parathas.”
He hesitated, searching her face for a trace of what she must really be feeling—anger, shame, shock. He found nothing but gentle concern. For him. He mumbled a goodbye and hurried away, his shoulders hunched.
Archana watched him disappear around the corner. The smile faded from her lips, leaving a line of cool neutrality. She walked back to her classroom, the folded paper a secret weight against her hip.
The room was now full. Twenty-odd pairs of eyes, young, assessing, bored, curious, latched onto her as she entered. She placed her satchel down and slowly took out her register. The rustle of paper was the only sound. She could feel it—the gaze. The scoring. Was that boy in the front row noting her choice of a pearl-grey chiffon sari? Was the girl by the window judging the confidence of her walk?
She turned to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote her name. ‘Dr. Archana Sharma.’
“Good afternoon,” she began, her voice clear and carrying, devoid of the softness she used with Jason. “Welcome to Literary Theory 301. This discipline is, at its heart, about deconstructing power. About reading the subtext in what is presented to you.” She paused, letting her gaze travel slowly across the room, meeting eyes, holding a few for a heartbeat longer than necessary. A slight, knowing smile touched her lips as she saw a couple of students sit up straighter.
“It is about recognizing that every text,” she said, the chalk tapping gently against the board next to her name, “and every person, is a field of play. Contested territory.”
She turned fully, leaning back against the desk, and crossed her ankles. The folded corner of the neon-green poster peeked from her pocket.
“Let’s begin.”
The game, she thought, as their pens scrambled to take down her words, was indeed on. But they had no idea who was really keeping score.