The professor was a tall woman with short, silver-streaked hair that caught the sunlight streaming through the windows, and eyes sharp enough to pierce through any pretense.
She carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who had seen countless first-years stumble, flail, and try to charm their way through life—and failed.
Her nameplate read Dr. Anika Madhavan, but her presence alone made it clear that no one would ever forget it.
"Good morning, everyone," she said, her voice calm but firm, like a gentle wind that could suddenly turn into a storm. "Welcome to your first semester of Foundations of Applied Literature and Creative Arts. I am Dr. Anika Madhavan, your professor for this course."
A murmur of polite greetings rose across the room.
"Morning…"
"Hi…"
"Wait, is she… supposed to be scary?" whispered a voice somewhere behind me.
"Don't look at me, I didn't sign up for this," came another, and I suppressed a laugh.
Dr. Madhavan continued, gliding along the front row, her hands clasped behind her back as if she were inspecting a garden of delicate but unpredictable blooms.
"This course will involve readings, writing assignments, group discussions, and presentations. You will explore not only the theory behind creative writing but also the practical aspects of constructing narratives, developing characters, and building immersive worlds. Your participation is essential."
I tried to appear engaged.
Dr. Madhavan paused, letting silence fill the room, which only made everyone more aware of the occasional scratch of a pen or shuffle of paper.
"That means no distractions from phones, no sleeping during lectures, and definitely no copying someone else's work. You will be graded on effort, originality, and consistency. Are we clear?"
A chorus of "Yes, ma'am" erupted, though a few of the students' eyes darted nervously toward their phones tucked under their desks.
"And while I understand that enthusiasm for music, social media, or even YouTube channels is common among college students," she continued, raising one eyebrow with almost surgical precision in the direction of a few guilty fiddlers, "those interests should never interfere with your responsibilities here. Your creativity is welcome, but your attention must remain on the task at hand."
Vikram elbowed me softly, his whisper tinged with awe. "Dude… she looks strict. Like, terrifyingly strict."
I nodded, trying to hide my own slight shiver. "Yeah… she's the kind who would probably know if we even thought about cheating."
As if to prove our unspoken fear, Dr. Madhavan's gaze swept across the classroom like a hawk circling a flock. When it landed on someone fidgeting in the back, that student suddenly straightened, palms sweaty.
"Now," Dr. Madhavan said, her voice softening just slightly, "before we dive into the syllabus, I want each of you to introduce yourselves. Name, where you're from, one interesting fact, and perhaps a small detail about what drives your creativity. We'll start from the left side of the room."
"Interesting fact?" whispered a girl two rows ahead of me. "Do they really want to know that I can recite all the dialogue from my favourite movie by heart?"
"Probably not," muttered another, rolling her eyes.
The introductions rolled on, each student trying to stand out in their own way, and the classroom buzz grew livelier.
A tall boy with thick glasses spoke next. "Hello, I'm Karan from Trichy. I write short mystery stories and love plotting twists that no one sees coming. I think my obsession with puzzles drives my creativity."
A petite girl with a braid nervously adjusted her notebook before speaking. "I'm Ananya Rao from Bengaluru. I enjoy writing poetry and sometimes turning everyday moments into little stories. I guess I'm inspired by people's emotions—what makes them tick."
…
As the students were taking turns introducing themselves, my eyelids grew heavier with boredom, drooping like curtains in a windless room. I could almost feel the dull hum of the classroom lulling me into a peaceful nap. Just five more minutes… just one more yawn…
"Good morning,"
The voice sliced through my near-slumber like sunlight breaking through a heavy morning fog. Sweet, gentle, and impossibly clear. My brain, which had been in sleep mode, immediately jumped to full alert. My eyes snapped open, and my heart skipped—not a beat, but a full-on stuttering rebellion.
The voice—the soft, melodic tone—hit me like a thunderclap. My mind froze, and a shiver ran down my spine. That's the same voice… the one I heard in the auditorium… humming…
No… it can't be…
And yet, there she was. Right in front of me. In my class. She wasn't just standing—she was there, like someone had painted her presence into reality with strokes of light and warmth. Calm. Composed. Effortlessly poised at the center aisle near the front. My pulse skyrocketed, and all the carefully rehearsed rules of "don't fall for anyone" collapsed in an instant.
She cleared her throat lightly, just enough to announce her presence without stealing the world's attention.
"My name is Thara Venkatesh, native of Chennai. I'm a first-year student in Creative Arts and Literature. I… enjoy music, particularly composing and experimenting with rhythms. I also write occasionally, mostly short stories inspired by folklore and everyday life."
The words seemed to wrap around me like a gentle breeze, stirring something I thought had been long buried. Thara. The name itself felt like a melody—soft, fragile, unforgettable. Every detail she shared—the music, the rhythm, the writing—echoed like fragments of a world I had kept hidden from everyone else.
"And… um, I guess I also like exploring new places and I travel a lot. Hidden streets, old temples, abandoned libraries… anything with a story to tell." She tilted her head slightly, a soft smile spreading across her face—the kind that didn't try, didn't announce itself, yet somehow illuminated everything in its path. Warm. Genuine. Dangerous.
It was jarring. In the auditorium earlier, she had carried that quiet, reserved aura—the one that made her look untouchable, cloaked in introversion, walls built high around her solitude. But here… now… that smile, that tone, shattered every expectation I had. I felt the floor of my heart give way beneath me.
"So, you really write short stories? That's… kinda cool," a girl with braided hair said, leaning forward.
Thara nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, I try. Mostly little stories inspired by folklore. Some are silly, some… a bit melancholic. But I love seeing how small things—like an old street or a forgotten temple—can spark imagination."
A boy in glasses raised his hand tentatively. "Do you… ever perform your music live? Or is it all just private?"
Her smile softened, and she tilted her head thoughtfully. "I've played at a few small gatherings. It's nerve-wracking to share something so personal, but… I like seeing how it makes people feel."
Dr. Madhavan, sitting at his desk, cleared his throat. "Thank you, Thara. Very precise, very concise. And I appreciate your attention to detail. Excellent introduction. Let's continue with the next student."
When it was my turn, I dragged myself to the front, moving like a ghost through a sea of half-interested faces. I opened my mouth, keeping it short and simple.
"My name is Aditya… I'm from Madurai… first-year, Creative Arts and Literature."
The words fell flat, dead in the air. No laughter, no impressed nods—just a few polite glances and murmurs. My voice carried that perfect combination of dullness and monotony that could lull someone to sleep.
Of course, there was one exception.
Vikram, sitting a few rows back, decided my "boring" introduction was his cue for theatrics. He waved his arms like a man conducting an invisible orchestra, let out a dramatic "Bravo!" and even gave a little bow toward me.
"Really, dude?" I muttered under my breath, but my irritation didn't last because my eyes immediately darted to her.
Thara… naturally… was looking back, chatting with a friend behind her, completely oblivious to me standing awkwardly in the aisle. She had no idea I existed for the past thirty seconds, and honestly, it hurt in the best way.
I could almost hear the mental commentary screaming inside me: Of course, she doesn't notice. Why would she?
You're invisible.
You're just… you.
I shuffled back to my seat, keeping my head low, trying not to die of embarrassment. Vikram, of course, was still waving frantically and shouting "Encore!" like I'd performed some world-shattering monologue. My cheeks burned, but I couldn't help sneaking glances at her every few seconds.
The day dragged on like a stubborn cow standing in the middle of a National highway, refusing to budge even if a thousand horns blasted at it. Every tick of the clock stretched, every lecture felt like an eternity. And through all of it, my eyes betrayed me, wandering again and again toward the same direction.
Thara.
From the moment she introduced herself that morning—soft voice, polite smile, and that calm, poised presence—something inside me shifted. I'd told myself I came here for education, for my "bright future," but the entire first day had turned into a slow-motion film reel starring her.
My body sat in a classroom, but my mind hovered three rows ahead, tracing the arc of her hair every time she moved, memorizing the rhythm of her handwriting as she filled page after page of notes.