Ishita Sethi, Neelam’s twenty-four-year-old daughter, followed them into the living room and whispered, “The dentist has posted fourteen gym selfies this month. Two are captioned ‘grind never stops.’ Proceed accordingly.”
“Why did you investigate him?”
“Mummy gave me a name and a city. That is basically a research grant.”
Ishita was studying media and believed all human secrets were waiting behind incorrect privacy settings. Tanya occasionally found this useful and usually found it terrifying.
At lunch, the dentist remained an invisible fifth guest.
“He has his own clinic,” Neelam said.
“Teeth?” Rajiv asked.
Everyone looked at him.
“What?” he said. “Some dentists specialise.”
“He is well settled,” Sunita added.
Tanya tore a piece of roti. “I am also settled.”
“You are going to Goa with three unmarried women,” Neelam said. “This is not the traditional image of settled.”
Ishita coughed into her water.
“It is a holiday,” Tanya said.
“Of course. Enjoy now. Later responsibilities come.”
The sentence was not cruel. That made it harder to reject. Neelam genuinely believed life was a corridor of closing doors and considered herself helpful for pointing out the exits.
“Perhaps Tanya does not want those responsibilities,” Ishita said.
Neelam turned. “You finish your degree before contributing.”
“Academic censorship.”
Rajiv changed the subject to flight delays. Sunita began serving more food, which was her preferred response to conflict. Tanya felt affection, irritation and the old pressure to become grateful in the approved direction.
After lunch, Ishita followed her into the bedroom.
The red bikini was hidden inside a shopping bag at the back of the cupboard. Ishita found it within thirty seconds while looking for a charger.
“Ma’am,” she said.
“Put that down.”
“Is this for swimming or the collapse of family civilisation?”
Tanya took it from her. “You are twenty-four. Stop behaving like a twelve-year-old.”
“At twelve I would have informed your mother.”
“At twelve you stole my lipstick and blamed the maid.”
“We have all grown.” Ishita sat on the bed. “Are you nervous?”
“About wearing fabric near water?”
“About being a person where your students and parents can’t see you.”
Tanya looked toward the half-open door. Family voices came from the living room. Neelam was describing the dentist’s clinic location.
“I am already a person,” Tanya said.
“You know what I mean.”
She did.
Ishita picked up Tanya’s phone and took a photograph of the bikini laid across the bedspread.
“What are you doing?”
“Archival documentation. When you panic in Goa, I will send this back with the caption ‘too late for returns.’”
“Naina already checked the return policy.”
“I like your friends.”
“You like surveillance.”
“Related skill set.”
Before leaving, Ishita gave her the dentist’s public profile.
“In case you want to make an informed rejection.”
Tanya looked at the photograph of a handsome man leaning against exercise equipment, the phrase NO DAYS OFF printed beneath his face.
“I have Sundays,” she said. “Fundamental incompatibility.”
On Monday morning, Tanya arrived at school to discover a parent waiting outside Mrs Suri’s office.
Mrs Bhalla’s daughter, Kiara, had received seven out of ten on a creative-writing assignment. This had apparently damaged the family’s faith in objective systems.
“Creativity cannot be marked like mathematics,” Mrs Bhalla said after they sat down.
“That is why the rubric includes language, structure, originality and adherence to the prompt.”
“Kiara’s story was extremely original.”
Tanya opened the notebook. The story concerned a teenage singer selected by four internationally famous musicians to join their band. Several passages had been copied from a popular novel, including an American high-school cafeteria in a story supposedly set in Chandigarh.
“The assignment asked for an original monologue,” Tanya said.
“She was inspired.”
“Very precisely.”
Mrs Suri shifted beside her. It was the administrative signal for diplomacy.
Tanya breathed once.
“Kiara has a lively voice,” she said. “I would like her to trust it. The score reflects work that depends too heavily on someone else’s voice.”
Mrs Bhalla considered this. “Can she resubmit?”
“She can write a new piece during the holiday for feedback. The original grade remains.”
It was a compromise that satisfied nobody completely, which meant it was good institutional work.
In the corridor afterward, Mrs Suri said, “You handled that well.”
“I wanted to climb out the window.”
“That is why the windows do not open.”
Tanya laughed. Mrs Suri checked that the parent had gone.
“People think teachers are born patient,” she said. “Really, we are simply employed in rooms with witnesses.”
It was the most personal thing Mrs Suri had ever said to her.
“Do you ever get tired of being what everyone expects a teacher to be?” Tanya asked.
Mrs Suri glanced at her.
“Constantly. That is why I travel alone every December and tell almost nobody.”
“Where?”
“That would defeat the system.”
She walked away before Tanya could ask more.
The revelation stayed with her all day. Mrs Suri, who treated revised headers as ethical duties, possessed a secret geography. Perhaps everyone did. Perhaps adulthood was not the achievement of one stable identity but the management of several legitimate versions.
That evening, the four friends went shopping for the final items on Meher’s list.
The trip began efficiently in a pharmacy. Sunscreen, mosquito repellent, painkillers, hydration sachets, bandages. Naina compared unit prices. Tanya checked expiry dates. Rhea placed a packet of condoms in the basket and looked directly at Tanya.
“What?” Tanya said.
“Nothing. Public-health initiative.”
“Why are you looking at me?”
“You teach senior classes. I assumed you support education.”
Meher added another packet. “We are four people.”
Naina looked into the basket. “This holiday now has unrealistic projections.”
They were still laughing when the young cashier scanned the items. Tanya reminded herself that adults purchased adult things every day. The cashier did not sound an alarm or call Eastbridge International School.
Next came clothes. Meher treated changing rooms as a production line, sending dresses over the partition. Rhea rejected anything requiring special underwear. Naina bought one black swimsuit after examining the stitching like a loan application.
Tanya tried on a short green dress and emerged with both hands pulling at the hem.
“Stop doing that,” Meher said.
“It moves when I breathe.”
“So do most clothes.”
Rhea circled her. “Approved.”
“By which authority?”
“The court of obvious facts.”
Tanya looked at herself in the mirror. The dress did not turn her into someone else either. That was becoming a pattern.
She bought it.
At a bar afterward, they ordered one round and finalised practical rules in Naina’s notes app.
Emergency phrase: Did you submit the worksheet? It meant call me, interrupt this, or create an excuse now.
Nobody rode a scooter after drinking.
Nobody accepted an open drink from someone else.
Nobody posted a photograph without group approval.
Nobody used the trip to settle old friendship scores.
“That rule is suspiciously specific,” Rhea said.
“Because you become argumentative after two drinks,” Meher replied.
“I am argumentative before two drinks. Alcohol has been falsely accused.”
They ended with a rule Tanya added herself: Fun is optional. Honesty is not.
Rhea read it twice. “Very teacher.”
“Very necessary.”
Naina saved the list.