Chapter 5: The Unveiling

Sunday arrived, cloaked in a soft, golden afternoon light that promised a pleasant, uneventful day. For Anya, however, a subtle undercurrent of apprehension buzzed beneath her calm exterior. She had dressed with more care than usual, choosing a elegant, deep emerald green silk kurta that her mother had insisted upon, paired with delicate pearl earrings. “You must always look your best, dear,” Mrs. Sharma had advised, her tone hinting at more than just a typical social call. Anya knew the drill: family gatherings often doubled as informal showcases for eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. It was a cultural dance she knew well, and usually tolerated with good humor, but today, her mind kept circling back to the faint, lingering suspicion about the surname 'Mehra.'

As their car pulled up to the grand entrance of the Mehra residence, Anya gasped softly. It was an exquisite bungalow, sprawling and elegant, set amidst meticulously manicured gardens. The scent of blooming jasmine was even stronger here, wafting over the high walls. Valet parkers efficiently guided cars, and a warm glow emanated from within, signaling a gathering of considerable warmth and distinction. This was definitely a family of substance, she thought, and then, a jolt. This was the exact description Divya had given of Professor Mehra’s background, based on campus gossip. The knot of premonition tightened in her stomach.

Inside, the house was a tasteful blend of classic Indian artistry and understated modern luxury. Laughter and conversation mingled with the soft strains of a tabla and sitar playing traditional melodies. Mrs. Mehra, a woman of graceful poise in a beautiful lilac saree, greeted them with genuine warmth, her embrace for Anya’s mother long and affectionate. Mr. Mehra, a distinguished gentleman with kind eyes, clasped her father’s hand firmly.

Anya dutifully offered her respects, taking in the scene. Various relatives and close friends mingled, enjoying delicate appetizers and refreshing beverages. Her parents were immediately drawn into conversations, leaving Anya to navigate the periphery. She spotted several young men and women of marriageable age, a fact that didn't escape her mother's approving glances in her direction. Anya smiled politely at a few distant relatives, her gaze subtly scanning the room. She was looking for him, though she didn't want to admit it even to herself.

She drifted towards a quieter corner near a large window, pretending to be engrossed in a particularly intricate piece of artwork. It was then that she saw him.

He was standing near the edge of the living room, engaged in conversation with an older gentleman, his back mostly to her. He wore a crisp, tailored linen shirt, sleeves still rolled up, and dark trousers – a decidedly more relaxed, yet still impeccably stylish, ensemble than his academic attire. His hair, usually neatly combed for class, had a few strands falling casually across his forehead. He was laughing, a rich, genuine sound that Anya realized she’d never heard in a classroom. It was undeniably him. Professor Rohan Mehra. Here. At the Mehra family gathering.

Anya’s breath hitched. Her earlier prickle of suspicion now exploded into a full-blown shockwave. This was his home. This was his family. The coincidence was no longer absurd; it was reality. She felt a sudden, dizzying sense of disorientation, the clear lines of her world blurring into an incomprehensible mess. Her revered professor, a figure of academic authority and inspiration, was also the ‘Rohan Mehra’ her parents had mentioned. The ‘fine young man’ her father had praised. The 'new face' whose family wanted to 'align their circles.'

Before she could process this dizzying revelation, he turned. His eyes, keen and intelligent, swept across the room and landed on her. For a split second, there was a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher—recognition? Surprise? But then, the professorial mask, perhaps an unconscious reflex, settled over his features. He offered a polite, almost formal smile, the kind one gives to a guest one doesn't immediately place.

Anya felt a renewed wave of panic. He didn't seem to recognize her as his student. Or perhaps he did, and was simply maintaining the polite distance appropriate for a social setting. She offered a stiff, almost involuntary nod back, her mind racing. This was wrong. All of it.

Rohan had managed the delicate dance of his mother’s ‘social gatherings’ for years. He circulated, exchanged pleasantries, offered respectful greetings to elders, and patiently answered questions about his new teaching post. He genuinely enjoyed seeing family and old friends, but the underlying agenda of these events always left him a little weary. He was good at keeping his emotional distance, projecting a polite, somewhat unapproachable aura when it came to personal matters.

He had just finished a lengthy discussion with his great-uncle about the burgeoning textile market, gracefully deflecting a subtle inquiry about his marital status, when his mother, Mrs. Mehra, approached him, a radiant smile on her face. Beside her stood Mr. and Mrs. Sharma, their faces equally beaming. And next to them, looking somewhat overwhelmed by the grandeur of the setting, was a young woman in an elegant emerald green kurta.

Rohan’s eyes, ever observant, immediately registered her presence. There was something familiar about her posture, the way she held herself with a quiet dignity, almost a reserved grace. Her long, dark hair was neatly styled, framing a face that was both intelligent and subtly beautiful. She looked… thoughtful. And vaguely familiar.

“Rohan, my dear,” Mrs. Mehra began, her voice brimming with maternal pride. “I want you to formally meet our very dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Sharma, and their wonderful daughter, Anya.”

Mr. Sharma extended his hand warmly. “Rohan, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly. Your father speaks very highly of you. A true scholar, he says.”

Rohan returned the handshake, his smile polite and practiced. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Sharma. I’ve heard so much about your family from my parents.” He then turned to Mrs. Sharma, offering a respectful 'Namaste'.

And then, his gaze shifted to Anya. He looked at her, truly looked at her, in this entirely new context. Her eyes, usually so focused and intense in his lectures, seemed wider, a little apprehensive, but still held that spark of intelligence he recognized. The delicate pearl earrings, the way the silk kurta draped gracefully – it was a very different presentation from the studious young woman in the front row of his Modern Literary Theory class.

"And this is Anya," Mrs. Mehra prompted, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye.

Rohan extended his hand, a polite, almost formal gesture. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anya.” He felt a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her hand as she briefly returned his handshake. "My parents have spoken so much about the Sharmas and their daughter." His words were courteous, but his mind was still trying to place her. He knew he'd seen her before, but the context was elusive. The name 'Anya' rang a bell, of course, but he interacted with dozens of students, and many shared common names. There was nothing to explicitly connect her to his university life in this moment. He categorized her as a polite, intelligent young woman from a respected family, a friend of his parents.

Anya’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, as she replied. “The pleasure is mine, Professor… I mean, Rohan.” The slip was subtle, but it didn't go unnoticed by Rohan, though he simply attributed it to social awkwardness or perhaps an overestimation of his local prominence. He offered a reassuring smile.

Mrs. Sharma chuckled lightly. “Anya is a student of literature, Rohan. Perhaps you two have some common interests to discuss.” Her words, innocent on the surface, were laden with expectation.

“Indeed,” Rohan said, turning his full attention to Anya. “What particular areas of literature interest you, Anya?” He genuinely wanted to know. Her intelligent eyes suggested she would have interesting answers, perhaps beyond the usual, superficial responses he often encountered at such events.

Anya hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering between him and her parents. She couldn't bring herself to say 'Modern Literary Theory' or 'narrative ethics.' The irony was too sharp, the situation too precarious. "Oh, I enjoy classical poetry," she finally offered, a safe, generic answer that didn't betray her current academic pursuits. "And some contemporary fiction."

Rohan nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “A fine choice. There’s a timeless beauty to classical poetry. And contemporary fiction offers fascinating insights into our changing world.” He could have delved deeper, but the conversation was interrupted as Mr. Mehra called for everyone's attention.

The buzz in the room gradually subsided as Mr. Mehra, standing beside his wife, tapped a spoon against a crystal glass. A hush fell, expectant and anticipatory. Rohan felt a familiar tightness in his chest. This was it. The moment his mother had been subtly building towards.

Mr. Mehra’s voice, clear and resonant, filled the silence. “Distinguished friends, beloved family, thank you all for joining us this evening. It warms our hearts to have you here.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guests before settling, with a profound tenderness, on the Sharmas. “As many of you know, the Sharma and Mehra families have shared a bond of friendship, respect, and affection for many, many decades. Our ties run deep, through generations.”

Rohan glanced at Anya. She was standing beside her parents, her expression unreadable, her eyes fixed on his father. He wondered if she, too, felt the weight of tradition pressing in on this gathering.

“And it is with immense joy,” Mr. Mehra continued, a genuine smile radiating across his face, “that my wife and I, after much thought and consultation, have decided to deepen this cherished bond even further.” He reached for his wife’s hand, a gesture of shared purpose. “We have had the great fortune of seeing our son, Rohan, grow into a fine young man. And our dear friends, the Sharmas, are blessed with an equally accomplished and virtuous daughter, Anya.”

Anya’s eyes widened, her gaze snapping back to Rohan, who stood a few feet away, equally stiff, equally still. The air crackled with unspoken tension. The name… Anya. It resonated with him now, no longer just a vague familiarity. A student. His student. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He felt a sudden, cold dread wash over him, a sickening lurch in his stomach.

Mrs. Mehra, beaming, stepped forward, her voice filled with unconcealed happiness. “It is our heartfelt wish that our two families unite in a sacred bond. We would be honored, dear Sharmas,” she said, turning directly to Anya’s parents, her voice softening with emotion, “if you would consider our son, Rohan, for your precious daughter, Anya. We formally ask for Anya’s hand in marriage for our Rohan.”

The words, though expected by Rohan, still struck him like a thunderclap. He felt the blood drain from his face. His mother’s radiant smile, his father’s proud stance, the joyous murmurs of the relatives – it all blurred into an oppressive wave. He dared a glance at Anya.

Her face was pale, her lips slightly parted in a silent gasp. Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, were fixed on him, filled with a mixture of shock, horror, and a dawning, terrifying comprehension. The subtle acknowledgment they had shared in the classroom, the intellectual spark, was now brutally recontextualized. He saw the exact moment the dots connected for her, just as they had for him.

The room erupted in applause, celebratory shouts, and congratulatory well-wishes. Mr. and Mrs. Sharma, their faces wet with tears of joy, embraced Mrs. Mehra, accepting the proposal with heartfelt gratitude. The families were overjoyed, their long-cherished dream now a tangible reality.

But in the midst of the jubilant chaos, Rohan and Anya stood frozen, separated by a sea of smiling faces, their gazes locked. The celebratory sounds faded into a muffled roar in their ears. The world had just tilted on its axis. Their comfortable, clearly defined roles – professor and student – had shattered into a million pieces, replaced by the terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly forbidden reality of becoming husband and wife. The true nature of their 'homework' had just been unveiled, and it was a task neither of them had ever anticipated.

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