It was a Monday morning, and the atmosphere
smelled of damp socks and phenol. The chemistry lab at Lotus Valley High sat on the third floor, windows jammed open to let the monsoon draft sneak in and paint everything a darker shade. Aarav was already at the far bench, lining up test tubes like soldiers, when Priya slipped through the door two minutes after the second bell.
She shook droplets from her hair,blue-black, collar-length, impossible to ignoreand scanned the room. The only empty stool was beside him. Of course.
"Partners, partners!" Mrs. D'Silva clapped once, the sound swallowed by lab coats and low chatter. "New rotation. Alphabetical by first name Aarav and Priya both on bench four. Chop-chop, practical starts in four minutes."
Aarav's stomach dipped, a quick precipitate reaction he couldn't filter. Priya dragged her stool. Metal legs screeched, and all heads turned towards her.
"Morning, Lab Captain," she said, dropping her bag between them. "Hope you don't bruise easy."
He kept his eyes on the burette clamp. "Just read the procedure. We're doing an acid-base. No collisions are required."
"Touchy." She pulled out a notebook covered with doodled vines. "But I'll try not to spill acid on your shoes. Deal?"
He almost answered with something sharp, but Mrs. D'Silva began the safety chant. Goggles, aprons, no running. The class mumbled back. Rain drummed the tin roof like loose marbles.
Their task: determine the exact concentration of NaOH using oxalic acid, indicator phenolphthalein. Simple, if the tap didn't stick.
Aarav adjusted the burette, fingers precise. Priya watched. "You always count the seconds between drops?"
"Helps consistency."
"Or gives the drops performance anxiety."
He let that hang and offered the pipette instead. "You want to measure the acid?"
"Sure." She leaned in; her hair brushed his sleeve, smelled of wet coconut and something citrusy. He shifted an inch.
They worked in uneasy rhythm, putting acid into flask, indicator, and swirl. Pink blush spread. Priya placed it under the burette. "Your turn, metronome boy."
He opened the tap. The first drop slid, hung and fell. Nothing happened the second time. The tap jammed.
"Twist harder," she suggested.
"Not like that." He tried gentle torque; the glass neck squeaked, then spat a fat glob of alkali. Pink flashed to garish magenta.
"Great, overshot." He exhaled through teeth.
Priya lifted the flask to eye level. "We can note the overshoot, back-calculate"
"Doesn't work. Whole trial's void." He set it down harder than intended. A faint crack sounded at the flask's base.
She stared. "It's still in one piece."
"For now. Next shock, and it'll split. Do you want glass in your fingers?"
Her jaw tightened. "I didn't jam the tap."
"You distracted."
"Wow." She laughed once, no humor. "Everything neat in Aarav-world. One smudge and the universe implodes."
He felt heat crawl up his neck. Around them, other benches were finishing, numbers scribbled. The rain seemed louder.
Mrs. D'Silva cruised by. "Boys and girls, finish up. Exchange readings for cross-check." She paused at their bench, eyeing the violent magenta. "Problem?"
"Tap fault, ma'am," Aarav said.
Priya added, "And user hesitation."
The teacher raised a brow. "Repeat during lunch, both of you. And check equipment before you start, understood?" She swept away, sari pallu fluttering like a reluctant flag.
Silence settled, thick as chalk dust. Aarav began dismantling the clamp. Priya corked the alkali bottle, movements brisk. When she spoke, her voice was lower. "I don't need babysitting. I've done titrations since ninth."
"New school, new rules," he muttered. "We lose marks, my average dips. Sorry if that matters to me."
She opened her mouth and closed it. Somewhere behind them, a dropper bulb squeaked. Finally, she said, "Your average will survive one botched practical. Promise."
He wanted a comeback, but the bell rang, metallic and flat. Bags zipped, stools scraped. Within seconds, only the two of them and the attendant remained, mopping the aisle.
Aarav packed slower than usual. Priya lingered too, flipping her notebook without seeing it. Rainwater pooled on the windowsill; a leaky gutter sang.
"Look," she said, "I get it. You're top rank, parents breathing down your neck, whatever. Same story everywhere." She tapped the bench. "But we're stuck together six weeks. Can we not turn every class into a war zone?"
He met her eyes,amber flecks in dark brown, alert and impatient. Something in him unclenched, a fist loosening after holding too tight.
"Fine," he said. "Truce. But next time, let me handle the taps."
"Deal only if you let me handle the timing. I've got decent reflexes." She stuck out her hand before he could rethink.
They shook once, quick, lab gloves still on and rubber sliding. Her grip was firmer than he expected.
Lunch break meant the canteen's soggy pav bhaji or sharing benches under the corridor arches. They chose the corridor, marginally drier. Aarav unwrapped a stainless-steel tiffin: parathas, aloo subzi, neatly rolled. Priya had a paper packet of vada pav, chilli-laced steam fogging the plastic.
She offered. "Half? Mum swears by the chutney."
He hesitated, remembering his mother's voice: Don't take food from strangers,but broke a piece anyway. Spice flared; his eyes watered. She laughed. "City secret: never trust a mild vada."
Between bites, they redid the calculation. He sketched tables on the back of her doodle page; she corrected his dilution factor without gloating. When they finally wrote a number, it matched the expected value within 0.05 mL.
"Not bad for a disaster," she admitted.
"Could be better." He wiped the page before gravy stained it. "But acceptable."
"High praise, Captain."
A group of boys barrelled past, splattering rainwater. Priya lifted her notebook; droplets dotted the vines, darker petals on ink. She blotted them with her sleeve.
Aarav watched. "You can draw?"
"Doodles." She shrugged. "Stops my head buzzing.How about you ?"
"Not really." He thought of the neat margins in his own books, every formula boxed. "I keep it tidy."
"Tidy can be art," she said, then seemed surprised she'd spoken.
Before he could answer, the prefect's whistle shrilled: end of break. They rose. Somewhere below, the school's ancient generator coughed, lights flickering like a failing filament.
Priya glanced at the sky. "Rain's not stopping. This means the sports period'll shift to extra chem."
"Lucky us." He meant it dryly, but a small current jumped with shared irritation and almost friendly.
They dumped wrappers and stacked tiffins. As they climbed the stairs, she asked, "Your folks strict?"
The question landed too near the bone. He kept his voice level. "Moderate. Yours?"
"Moderate plus." She mimed a ruler slap. "Dad's bank job keeps transferring us. Mum fills the gaps with 'culture classes'. Bharatnatyam in Pune, violin in Jaipur. Now here, pottery at 6 a.m. on Saturdays."
He snorted despite himself. "Pottery?"
"Clay keeps a girl grounded, apparently." She lifted an imaginary pot. "What about you? Morning maths tuitions?"
"Physics." He didn't mention the JEE foundation course every Sunday, the monthly mock ranks emailed to his father. "Keeps a boy grounded."
She grinned, and for a second, the stairwell felt wider.
The chemistry repeat went smoother. New flask, new tap, silence negotiated. They finished with a pale, enduring pink that stayed steady for ten seconds to perfect the endpoint. Mrs. D'Silva signed their sheet without comment, which felt like applause.
Last bell released a tide of umbrellas and shouting. Aarav usually shot straight to the library; today, he found himself by the gate, rain needling the awning. Priya stood a few steps away, arguing politely with a driver holding a broken mobile.
"Meter's working, didi," the man insisted. "Signal gone, not meter."
She turned, saw Aarav, rolled her eyes. "Andheri auto-wallah logic."
He offered, "Share my cab? Goes via Andheri station."
She considered, rain pinging off her bag's metal buckle. "Sure. But I pay half."
"Fine."
They sprinted across the puddled lane, shoes instantly soaked. Inside the kaali-peeli, windows fogged. The driver cranked old Hindi film music—Lata Mangeshkar lamenting lost monsoons.
Halfway, traffic clotted. Horns layered like discordant brass. Priya wiped a clear oval on the glass. "City's all veins and blockages," she murmured.
Aarav followed her gaze: a kid wringing water from his school shirt, a woman hauling marigold garlands under plastic, and bikes weaving like frantic electrons. He felt the scene settle inside him, a new compound forming with color yet to declare itself.
"Tomorrow we get qualitative," he said. "Cation tests. Flame colors."
She turned. "I'll handle the flame. You keep the colors cataloged."
"Partnership clause?"
"Lab clause number two: play to strengths." She stuck out her little finger.
He hooked it, brief, awkward, before the cab lurched forward. Neither spoke again until Andheri station, where she jumped out, waved once, and vanished into the crowd.
Back home, Aarav's mother asked about his socks, his mark, and the traffic. He answered in monosyllables while his mind elsewhere. In the bathroom, he scrubbed his hands; the faint smell of phenol clung like a stubborn after-image. He thought of cracked glass, of magenta blooming too fast, of a half-shared vada, and a pinkie promise made in stale cab light.
Downstairs, the television blared election promises. Upstairs, rain kept coming. He sat at his desk, opened his journal, and for the first time in months wrote something that wasn't formulae:
Partner: Priya R.
Notes: Truce established. Endpoint achieved.
Variables: unknown.
He underlined the last line twice and then snapped the book shut. Outside, thunder rolled like a loose burette tap, and the city kept titrating its endless alkali of dreams, one uncertain drop at a time.