Chapter 4: A Different Kind of Homework

The academic week for Anya concluded not with a whimper, but with a satisfying intellectual hum. Friday afternoons were usually reserved for delving deeper into the week's readings or meeting Divya for a casual study session that inevitably devolved into animated discussions about everything but textbooks. Today, however, Anya’s schedule was marked by a different kind of obligation, one steeped in tradition and familial expectation.

After her final seminar, a lively debate on postcolonial narratives that had left her mind buzzing, Anya made her way home. The Sharma household, unlike her quiet campus dorm, was a vibrant sanctuary. The air was usually filled with the scent of her mother’s cooking, the distant strains of classical music, and the comforting murmur of her parents’ voices. Their home was a beautiful blend of modern comfort and traditional aesthetics, a reflection of their deep-rooted values.

As she stepped through the ornate wooden door, the familiar warmth enveloped her. Her mother, Mrs. Sharma, was in the kitchen, a fragrant cloud of cardamom and ginger escaping from bubbling pots. Her father, Mr. Sharma, was engrossed in the evening newspaper in the living room, a cup of masala chai steaming beside him.

“Anya, my dear, how was your day?” Mrs. Sharma greeted, wiping her hands on a dishtowel as Anya entered the kitchen. Her mother’s smile was always a comforting sight, a beacon of unconditional love and quiet strength.

“Good, Ma. Productive,” Anya replied, setting her bag down. “Professor Mehra’s class was particularly engaging today. We delved into the intricacies of narrative ethics.”

Mrs. Sharma nodded, though Anya knew the specifics of literary theory were likely beyond her mother’s immediate interest. Her mother, like most parents, simply appreciated Anya’s dedication and enthusiasm for her studies. “That’s wonderful, dear. Now, come sit. I’ve made your favorite pakoras.”

As Anya settled at the kitchen island, her father joined them, folding his newspaper neatly. “Ah, Professor Mehra. Your mother was just telling me about him, Anya. A new face at the university, isn’t he?” Mr. Sharma had a keen interest in local affairs and reputable families, his network of acquaintances wide and influential.

“Yes, Papa. He joined this semester,” Anya confirmed, biting into a crispy pakora. “He’s quite exceptional. Very inspiring.”

Her parents exchanged a subtle glance, one of those non-verbal communications that had always passed between them, hinting at something unsaid. Anya, accustomed to their unspoken language, sensed a slight shift in the atmosphere.

“That reminds me, Anya,” Mr. Sharma began, his tone casual, almost too casual. “Your mother and I were discussing something earlier. The Mehras are hosting a small get-together next Sunday. A family gathering, really. Just a few close friends and relatives. Your mother and Mrs. Mehra have been friends for decades, as you know, and Mr. Mehra and I share a few business interests now. It would be good for us all to attend. You too, of course.”

Anya blinked, a spoonful of chutney halfway to her mouth. The Mehras. The name resonated. Rohan Mehra. Could it be… his family? The thought was fleeting, almost absurd. The university was large, and Mehra wasn't an uncommon surname. Still, a curious prickle ran down her spine.

“The Mehras?” Anya asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “Are they… the same Mehras who own the textile mills? The ones whose daughter, Rina, got married last year?”

Mrs. Sharma smiled. “Yes, dear, those Mehras. A wonderful family. And Rina, yes, she’s doing very well. It’s always lovely to catch up with them. They've been like extended family to us for so long. There’s a warmth, a familiarity with them that’s hard to find these days.”

Mr. Sharma nodded in agreement. “Indeed. We’ve shared so many milestones with them. And now that Rohan has returned from abroad and taken up a position at your university, it feels like our circles are aligning even more. His father, Jayesh, is very proud of him. A fine young man, highly educated, and very grounded. Just the sort of person you’d want to know.” His father’s words were layered, a subtle weaving of praise and suggestion that Anya instinctively understood. Her parents had always subtly steered her towards 'good company,' and the Mehras were, without a doubt, held in the highest regard.

Anya pushed down the bizarre surge of curiosity. It couldn’t be her professor. It was simply a coincidence of surnames. The idea was too outlandish, too close to the plots of the very romantic novels she devoured. Yet, the coincidence nagged at her. She usually didn’t mind family gatherings; they were part of her cultural fabric, an enjoyable way to connect. But this time, a strange sense of anticipation, laced with a tiny thrill of the unknown, began to simmer beneath her calm exterior.

“Of course, Papa,” Anya replied, trying to maintain her usual composure. “I’d be happy to attend. Sunday, you said?”

“Sunday afternoon,” Mrs. Sharma confirmed. “It will be nice. A chance to unwind before the new week. And you know how much Mrs. Mehra loves to hear about your studies.” Her mother’s tone was light, but Anya knew her words carried a weight – a reminder of her family’s pride in her academic achievements, and the expectation that she would represent the family well. It was a gentle form of 'homework,' not graded, but always observed.

Anya finished her pakoras, her mind drifting from literary theory to the intriguing possibility of a familiar face at an unfamiliar social event. She dismissed the thought again. It was illogical. Her professor, at a family gathering? Unlikely. Still, a part of her couldn’t shake the peculiar sensation that something significant was about to unfold.

Across town, in a more contemporary, yet equally tastefully furnished, bungalow, Professor Rohan Mehra was engaged in a different kind of after-class musing. The scent of jasmine from the garden drifted through the open balcony doors of his study, mingling with the subtle aroma of the aged leather of his books. He had spent the evening organizing his growing collection, a comforting ritual after a demanding week. His new life back in his hometown was good. The university offered intellectual stimulation, his students were sharp, and his family was a constant source of affection, even if that affection sometimes came with unspoken expectations.

Rohan leaned back, a classic novel open but unread in his hands. His thoughts drifted to his Modern Literary Theory class, and specifically, to Anya Sharma. Her question today had been exceptional, a true testament to her critical faculties. He genuinely admired her intellect, her quiet confidence, the way her eyes would light up with understanding. It was a professional admiration, of course, but potent nonetheless. He found himself thinking about her potential, imagining the academic heights she could reach.

A gentle knock interrupted his contemplation. His mother, Mrs. Mehra, entered, carrying a tray with a glass of warm milk and a plate of his favorite saffron biscuits. Mrs. Mehra was the epitome of grace and tradition, her silk sari rustling softly with her movements. She was a woman who navigated the modern world with an unwavering adherence to her cultural roots, and her son was her pride and joy.

“Still working, beta?” she asked, her voice soft and loving. “You’ve just come back, don’t overexert yourself. Your father and I worry.”

Rohan smiled, taking the glass from her. “Just organizing, Ma. And reflecting on the week. It’s been good. The students are bright.”

Mrs. Mehra sat down on the armchair opposite him, her gaze lingering on him with a mixture of affection and something else – a subtle, expectant glint in her eyes. “That’s wonderful, beta. We knew you’d settle in well. Your father was just saying how happy he is to have you back here, making a name for yourself in your own city.” She paused, taking a delicate bite of a biscuit. “You know, Rohan, your father and I were discussing… you’ve established your career now. You’re settled. It’s a good time to start thinking about the next step in life, isn’t it?”

Rohan knew exactly where this conversation was heading. This had been a recurring theme since his return, the ‘next step’ being a thinly veiled euphemism for marriage. He loved his parents dearly, and respected their traditional values, but he also harbored a modern sensibility about finding a partner. He wanted a connection that went beyond familial approval and societal expectations.

“Ma, please,” he began gently. “I’ve only just started. I want to focus on my work, on my research. There’s plenty of time for all that.”

Mrs. Mehra shook her head, a gentle, chiding smile on her face. “Time flies, beta. Look at Rina, your cousin. So happy with her husband, such a lovely family she’s building. Your father’s friends, the Sharmas, their daughter Anya is just a few years younger than you, a brilliant student… See how happy they are to have her settled.” She didn't press, merely planting the seed, letting it grow in the fertile ground of his subconscious. This was her art – subtle persuasion, never outright demand.

Rohan took a deep breath. The Sharmas. He knew the name, of course. Good family friends, prominent in the community. Their daughter… Anya. He didn’t know much about her, beyond what his parents occasionally mentioned in passing. A good girl, well-educated, well-mannered. The perfect candidate for an arranged match, in his parents’ eyes. He’d always imagined an arranged marriage as a distant, abstract possibility, a duty he might eventually fulfill if true love eluded him. But he wasn’t actively seeking it. Not yet.

“Ma, I understand your concern, and Papa’s,” Rohan said, choosing his words carefully. “But I believe that when the right person comes along, whether through an arrangement or otherwise, it will feel right. I’m not in a hurry.”

“Of course, beta, of course,” Mrs. Mehra soothed, though her eyes still held that knowing gleam. “We only want your happiness. And a good partner brings so much to life. Someone who understands your world, shares your values. Someone from a good family, who has been brought up with the same principles.” She paused, stirring her tea. “Your father and I have been discussing this with Mr. and Mrs. Sharma recently. They are wonderful people, our oldest friends. We have always envisioned our families becoming even closer.”

Rohan felt a slight unease. His parents were clearly moving beyond subtle hints into more direct conversations with potential families. He respected their efforts, understood their desire to see him settled, but the thought of being “arranged” felt… premature. He wanted to feel a connection, an intellectual and emotional bond, before committing to a lifetime.

“We actually decided to host a small family gathering next Sunday,” Mrs. Mehra continued, oblivious to his internal debate. “Just a few close relatives and, of course, the Sharmas. It will be a lovely evening. A chance for you to meet some new faces, perhaps.” The ‘new faces’ was clearly code for ‘potential candidates,’ though he suspected she already had a very specific candidate in mind.

Rohan nodded, a slight weariness settling over him. He knew better than to argue too much with his mother when she was in this mode. It was futile. He would attend the gathering, as he always did, with politeness and a detached air. He would meet the "new faces," and he would endure the subtle appraisals. It was part of the unspoken contract of being a beloved, unmarried son in a traditional Indian family.

He finished his milk, the subtle sweetness doing little to dissipate the new, slightly bitter taste of obligation. He genuinely wanted to find love, a partnership. But he also valued his family’s peace and happiness. The thought of an arranged marriage, while not entirely unpalatable, felt like a concession to duty rather than a leap of faith.

He sighed, closing his novel. The fictional worlds, with their grand romances and dramatic declarations, seemed a far cry from the subtle, calculated maneuvering of his own family’s expectations. This new kind of homework, the one assigned by his parents, felt far more complex, and potentially far more life-altering, than any literary theory. He could only hope that, like his most challenging academic texts, there was a hidden beauty, a profound meaning, waiting to be uncovered within its pages.

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