New Semester Begins

A chilly wind swept through Anjali as she stepped out of her sedan, standing before the gates of Mumbai's most prestigious architectural college. The grand structure loomed ahead, unchanged in its essence, yet subtle signs of renovation hinted at the passage of time—much like her own life, familiar yet altered in ways she couldn't ignore.

Another gust of cold wind brushed past, making Anjali shiver—it was early, just the way she liked it, when the world was still quiet and the crisp air carried the promise of a fresh start. Glancing at her Casio watch, she noted she was right on time, as always. A faint smile played on her lips as she shut the car door behind her, inhaling the morning breeze. February in Mumbai was rarely this chilly, but today felt like an exception, as if the city itself had conspired to mark her return to the place that once defined her.

Anjali walked through the towering gates of the college, her footsteps slow, measured, almost hesitant. The familiar red-bricked façade stood unchanged, the air still carrying the scent of old books and fresh ambition, yet there was an unshakable weight in her chest—a stark contrast to the girl who once entered these very gates with dreams too big to be contained. She had imagined this moment differently, perhaps with pride, with a sense of belonging, not with the hollow ache of regret gnawing at her ribs. Becoming a professor had been her dream, her purpose, and she had lived it—until she gave it all up for something that, in hindsight, wasn't even worthy of sacrifice. Love, marriage, promises—they had all felt so certain, so absolute, yet they unraveled like fragile threads slipping through her fingers. Now, as she stood at the threshold of her past and present colliding, she couldn't help but wonder—had she lost too much of herself to reclaim what once was? Or was this the beginning of something new, something that, for once, belonged entirely to her?

Anjali walked through the bustling hallways, alive with the energy of fresh ambition and Gen Z quirks. She chuckled to herself—girls striking the perfect morning aesthetic pose, probably for their Snapchat streaks, while a few boys loitered nearby, not-so-subtly gawking. Laughter echoed through the corridors, couples strolled hand in hand, and she instinctively shifted her gaze elsewhere, suddenly hyper-aware of her own solitude. Some things never changed. Shaking off the thought, she took a deep breath and marched forward—she knew exactly where she needed to be. The faculty room. Past the chaos, past the Gen Z lingo she was only half fluent in, and definitely past the secondhand embarrassment of watching a guy attempt a dance for viral reel near the staircase.

Anjali walked with her heels clicking against the tiled floor. The walls were still the same, adorned with student work—sketches, site analysis, and conceptual drawings pinned neatly on the boards. The faint scent of old wooden desks, ink, and stress lingered in the air. Some things never changed.

As she pushed open the faculty room door, a familiar voice rang out.

"Anjali! My God, it's really you!"

Mrs. Rita practically sprang from her chair, her glasses sliding down her nose as she rushed forward. She was the same as ever—petite, wrapped in a crisp cotton saree, her silver-streaked hair neatly tied up, and eyes sharp enough to catch a student sneaking in late from a mile away.

Anjali smirked. "In the flesh. Didn't think I was a ghost, did you?"

Mrs. Rita grabbed her hands warmly. "Well, you did vanish into thin air. What was I supposed to think?"

"Retirement?" Anjali quipped. "Maybe you all decided to replace me with a hologram of some kind."

Mrs. Rita let out an amused huff. "If only! You think we found another Anjali? You overestimate our luck." She shook her head. "The department's been surviving, but barely. It's good to have you back."

Anjali sighed, shifting her bag to her other shoulder. "Let's hope the students feel the same way."

"Oh, they will—just not in the way you're hoping," Mrs. Rita said with a knowing grin.

Anjali narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Mrs. Rita linked arms with her, guiding her toward her old office. "Let's just say... students these days need a reminder of what real discipline looks like. They've gotten too comfortable."

Anjali raised an eyebrow. "Comfortable, huh? And by that, you mean...?"

"Oh, you know," Mrs. Rita said, waving a hand dismissively. "Slacking off, turning in half-baked designs, coming up with the most creative excuses—'Ma'am, my model got destroyed in a minor earthquake'—in Gujarat, of all places. And the worst part?"

Anjali pretended to gasp. "Don't tell me. They're smiling too?"

Mrs. Rita sighed dramatically. "Yes! Smiling. Laughing. Acting like college is some kind of social club. It's tragic, really."

Anjali shook her head, placing a hand over her heart. "That's it. I'm officially heartbroken. Where's the misery? The sleepless nights? The existential crisis over submission deadlines?"

"Exactly! That's why we need you back," Mrs. Rita said, stopping in front of Anjali's office. "Someone needs to remind them that architecture isn't fun. It's suffering. Passionate suffering."

Anjali smirked, crossing her arms. "So basically, I'm here to be the villain of their lives?"

Mrs. Rita chuckled. "Anjali, you were never the villain. You were the necessary evil."

Anjali glanced at the door of her office and let out a slow breath. "Well then," she murmured, "time to bring back some much-needed fear."

Mrs. Rita grinned. "That's the spirit! Welcome back, Professor Anjali."

The door creaked slightly as Anjali stepped inside.

The room was exactly as she remembered. The same wooden desk sat in the middle, the old bookshelf stacked with architecture books on one side, and the tall window that overlooked the college courtyard on the other. The sight of it sent a chill through her.

She ran her fingers over the desk, tracing the faint scratches on its surface. The last time she sat here, she had been a different person. A woman who believed in new beginnings, in a future she had built with both hands. But life had its own plans.

The memory of that day was still fresh. The morning sunlight streaming through the blinds, her coffee half-drunk, a pile of student submissions waiting to be reviewed. Then the phone call. Her fingers had trembled as she picked it up. What followed changed everything.

Anjali swallowed hard. She had left this office thinking she would never return. She had even taken one last glance before locking the door behind her, convinced that chapter of her life was over. But here she was—standing in the same place, breathing the same air. Life had pulled her back.

She closed her eyes and exhaled. "Okay," she whispered to herself. "One step at a time."

A light knock on the door startled Anjali out of her thoughts. She turned to see a middle-aged man standing at the doorway, a bundle of papers in his hand.

"Madam," he greeted her with a polite nod. "Welcome back."

"Thank you," she said, straightening herself.

The man stepped in, placing a printed sheet on her desk. "Your lecture schedule, madam. Classes start from tomorrow."

Anjali picked up the timetable, scanning the slots assigned to her. The routine seemed manageable. She looked back at the peon. "Anything else I should know?"

He scratched his head, thinking. "Just that... third-year batch, madam." He hesitated before adding, "Some students are a little... difficult."

A slow smile tugged at Anjali's lips. "Difficult students? That's nothing new."

The peon grinned. "You'll see, madam. Best of luck." He gave a slight bow and left.

Anjali leaned back in her chair, tapping the edge of the paper against the desk. "Third-year batch, huh?" she murmured to herself.

She sat in her chair, unfolding the timetable properly and studying it with more attention. Morning lectures, practical sessions, design juries—everything looked structured, almost predictable.

Then her eyes landed on the third-year batch slot.

Twice a week. Two-hour sessions. Studio project guidance.

She felt an odd sense of anticipation tighten in her chest. Teaching third-years had always been interesting—they were at that stage where they thought they knew everything but still had a lot to learn. A challenge, but not one she wasn't prepared for.

But why had the peon hesitated? What was it about this batch?

Anjali's fingers tapped against the desk. It didn't matter. Whatever or whoever was in that class, she would handle it. She had dealt with difficult students before. Nothing could shake her anymore.

At least, that's what she believed.

Little did she know, tomorrow, in that very classroom, she was going to meet the storm she never saw coming.

The night outside was quiet, except for the occasional honking of a distant truck and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock in her childhood bedroom. Anjali sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at the soft glow of her bedside lamp. The room hadn't changed much in all these years—the same floral wallpaper, the bookshelves stacked with her old architecture books, the dreamcatcher her mother had once bought for her, now swaying gently near the window.

But she had changed.

She leaned back against the headboard, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the blanket as her mind drifted to the past.

There was a time when she had believed in fairytales—the kind of love that felt like home, that made life feel whole. She had found it once, or so she thought.

She still remembered the day she got married. The soft rustling of her bridal saree, the scent of fresh jasmine in her hair, the way her heart had raced when she had walked towards him, her husband—the man she had once thought was her forever.

The early years had been beautiful. Late-night drives, laughter over burnt toast in the mornings, the way he used to pull her into his arms after a long day. They had dreams. Plans. A future.

And then, slowly, piece by piece, everything fell apart.

The fights started small—forgotten dates, misplaced priorities. Then came the silences, heavier than any argument. It was as if love had slipped through their fingers, leaving behind nothing but resentment and exhaustion. She had fought for them, for their marriage, until she had nothing left in her to fight with.

One day, she walked away.

Or maybe, she had no choice but to.

A deep sigh escaped her lips, and she rubbed her face with her hands. She had left everything behind—her life, her city, her career. And she had come back here. To her mother. To this home where she had once learned to dream.

A gentle knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts.

"Still awake?" her mother's voice floated in, soft and knowing.

Anjali smiled faintly. "Yeah, Ma. Come in."

Her mother walked in, wearing her usual night cotton saree, her hair pulled back in a loose bun. She sat on the bed beside Anjali, her warmth instantly calming.

"You've been quiet all evening," her mother observed, tucking a loose strand of Anjali's hair behind her ear. "Thinking too much again?"

Anjali let out a small, humorless laugh. "When do I not?"

Her mother gave her a look—the one that said stop pretending.

"I don't know, Ma," Anjali admitted after a pause. "I thought I had made peace with it. My past, my decisions. But going back to college tomorrow... it feels like stepping into an old life I had abandoned."

Her mother sighed, squeezing her hand. "Because it is. But that doesn't mean it's wrong."

Anjali looked away. "What if I don't fit in anymore? What if I don't belong there?"

"You were always meant to teach, Anju," her mother said gently. "And you know that. You wouldn't have accepted the offer if you didn't."

Anjali exhaled slowly. "I guess I just... I don't want to fail again."

Her mother's eyes softened. "You didn't fail, beta. You tried. And sometimes, trying is all we can do."

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of unspoken emotions settling between them. Then, her mother gave her a small smile.

"You know," she began, "people always ask me why I never thought of marrying again after your father passed away."

Anjali turned to her, surprised. Her mother rarely spoke about this.

"Did you ever want to?" Anjali asked hesitantly.

Her mother chuckled softly. "Maybe, at times. But then I would look at you, my little girl with her big dreams, and I'd think—my love is enough for her. And hers is enough for me."

Anjali felt her throat tighten. "Ma..."

Her mother brushed her fingers through Anjali's hair, like she used to when Anjali was little. "Not every love story needs a second chapter, Anju. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't have one."

Anjali swallowed hard. "I don't think I'm ready for another chapter."

Her mother smiled knowingly. "Maybe not today. But one day, you will be. And when that day comes, don't let fear hold you back."

A tear slipped down Anjali's cheek before she could stop it. Her mother wiped it away gently.

"No matter what happens, you will always have a home here," her mother murmured. "You will always have me."

Anjali wrapped her arms around her mother, burying her face in her shoulder, just like she had as a child.

And for the first time in a long while, she let herself feel safe again.

The alarm rang at exactly 6:00 AM.

Anjali groaned, blindly reaching out to silence it before her mother could barge in and scold her for snoozing it again. She turned over, blinking at the ceiling, trying to process the reality of the situation.

Today was the day.

Her first day back as a professor.

She lay there for a few moments, staring at the ceiling. "Well, well, Professor Anjali," she murmured sarcastically, "back to traumatizing a fresh batch of clueless students. What an honor."

With a deep sigh, she dragged herself out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face and stared at her reflection. Her thick, straight hair was a little messy from sleep but still carried the volume she loved. Her eyes were alert despite the lingering drowsiness, and her expression? Somewhere between I got this and I should have run away to the Himalayas instead.

She narrowed her eyes at herself. "You are confident. You are strict. You are not about to be emotionally manipulated by a bunch of first-year students pretending to be innocent."

Shaking her head, she went about her morning routine. She picked a soft-colored chiffon saree, elegant yet professional. It draped around her with effortless grace, flowing as she moved. Her straight, voluminous hair fell just right over her shoulders, giving her the perfect balance of authority and approachability.

"Strict enough to terrify them, pretty enough to make them wonder if I'm actually scary," she muttered with a smirk.

Next, she assembled her tote bag—the survival kit of every professor:

 • Notebook & pen – Because she still liked jotting down notes the old-fashioned way.

 • Planner – To pretend she had her life together.

 • Water bottle – Hydration, of course.

 • Sanitizer & tissues – Because students were walking, talking biohazards.

 • Backup pen – For when students gave the classic 'Ma'am, I forgot my pen' excuse.

One last glance in the mirror. Saree? Perfect. Hair? Flawless. Expression? Balanced between I care and Don't test me.

"Alright," she whispered. "Time to remind these freshers that college is not a vacation."

Her mother was already at the dining table, sipping tea and reading the newspaper with her usual air of wisdom.

"You're awake and on time?" her mother mused, not even looking up. "Is this a dream?"

Anjali rolled her eyes as she poured herself some tea. "I can be punctual when necessary. It's just that necessity doesn't visit me often."

Her mother smirked. "Nervous?"

Anjali hesitated before replying, "A little."

Her mother reached out, squeezing her hand. "You'll be fine, Anju. You were always meant to do this."

Anjali exhaled. "I just don't want to be too lenient. First-years are like puppies—they look cute and helpless, but the second you let your guard down, they pee all over your discipline."

Her mother laughed. "So, you want to be the terrifying professor?"

"A healthy amount of fear is necessary, Ma. I need them to respect me, not treat me like a friendly neighborhood consultant." She took a sip of her tea. "I want them to know that 'late submissions' are not in my vocabulary."

Her mother chuckled. "Ah, so you're aiming for 'strict but stylish'?"

Anjali smirked. "Exactly. First impression matters."

Her mother patted her cheek. "Then go, Professor. Show them what you're made of."

Anjali glanced at her watch. 7:45 AM. Time to go.

By the time she reached the college, nostalgia hit her hard. The scent of fresh-cut model boards, stationary, and coffee lingered in the air.

She walked through the corridors, ignoring the curious glances from students who were clearly trying to gauge what kind of professor she would be. The faculty room was a quick stop—just a nod at a few professors—before she headed straight to her classroom.

The moment she pushed the door open, she was greeted by chaos.

Loud chatter. Students still settling in. One boy laughing way too loudly at something on his phone. Someone scrambling to pull out their books. A girl adjusting her hair in the reflection of a window.

8:29 AM.

She stood at the door for a second, taking it all in. Ah, freshers. So young. So full of hope. So utterly unprepared for reality.

Taking a deep breath, she strode in, her saree flowing behind her, heels clicking sharply against the floor. The effect was immediate. The talking quieted, some students straightened, and a few exchanged nervous glances.

Perfect.

She placed her tote bag on the desk, taking her time. Then, in a calm but authoritative voice, she spoke.

"Good morning."

A scattered, lazy "Good morning, ma'am" echoed back.

She raised an eyebrow, tapping her fingers against the desk. "That was weak. Let's try again." She leaned slightly forward, her tone lighter but still firm. "I said, good morning."

The students quickly straightened. "Good morning, ma'am!"

She nodded approvingly. "Better. Now, listen carefully. First-year is fun—until it isn't. You're stepping into a world where effort is not optional, deadlines are sacred, and 'Ma'am, can I get an extension?' is a phrase that will get you nothing but disappointment."

She crossed her arms. "I value two things—punctuality and effort. If you're late, don't bother coming in. If your work is sloppy, expect to hear exactly why it's garbage. And if you think I'm the kind of professor who will nod sweetly while you make excuses, let me burst that bubble—I am not."

The nervous glances spread. Some students gulped. A few looked genuinely worried.

She almost smirked. But not yet.

Instead, she continued, "That said... if you put in the work, if you try, if you care about what you're doing—I will match your effort. But if you slack off, I'll make sure you regret it."

There was silence. No one dared to move.

She smiled. "Now. Let's begin."

And just like that, Professor Anjali was back.