To Forget and Be Forgotten

As Kavitha stepped into the lecture hall, soft murmurs rippled among the girls seated in the front rows.

“She looks rather handsome, no?” one whispered. “Very striking… almost princely in her bearing.” “So tall and composed. Not like the usual professors at all.”

The comments were quiet, proper, and quickly hidden behind notebooks, but Kavitha caught them clearly. In the restrained atmosphere of Presidency College, even admiration had to wear a veil of decorum. A few of the young men glanced toward the front as well, but said nothing.

Seren stood at the lectern in her usual dark blouse and long skirt, posture straight as a blade. She gave no sign that she had heard the whispers. Her voice, when she began speaking, was calm and measured, carrying easily across the room.

“Today we continue with Wordsworth,” she said. “Not the gentle shepherd of nature many imagine, but a man who understood that memory itself can be a kind of tyranny.”

The lecture flowed with the same quiet intensity as the previous class. Seren spoke not merely of poetry, but of the weight of recollection and how certain moments refused to fade, how they reshaped everything that came after. Kavitha found herself taking notes almost against her will, the words pulling at something raw inside her chest.

When the bell rang, the students began gathering their things. Seren’s voice cut through the noise, clear and deliberate.

“Excuse me. The young lady in the blue sari, near the back row.”

Kavitha froze.

Several heads turned in her direction. She felt heat rise to her face.

Seren’s gaze was steady. “Please come see me in the staff room after your next class.”

A beat of silence. Then Kavitha gave a small, stiff nod.

“Yes, Professor.”

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. When Kavitha finally made her way to the staff room, the corridor outside felt unusually long. She knocked once.

“Come in.”

The staff room was modest with wooden desks, shelves heavy with books, a slow-turning ceiling fan stirring the humid air. Seren was alone, standing near the window with a file in her hands. She looked up as Kavitha entered.

“Close the door, please.”

Kavitha did so. The click sounded louder than it should have.

For a moment Seren simply looked at her. Not as a professor examining a student, but with something heavier. Something older.

“You are Kavitha Raman,” Seren said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

Seren set the file down. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the desk for a second too long.

“I noticed your engagement during the lecture on Wordsworth,” she continued, voice carefully neutral. “You seemed… particularly affected by the discussion of memory.”

Kavitha studied her. The professor’s composure was nearly perfect, but there was a tension beneath it - the kind Kavitha had learned to recognize in herself these past three years.

“I suppose I have reason to be,” Kavitha replied. “Memory doesn’t always ask permission before it returns.”

Seren’s eyes darkened slightly, as if the words had struck deeper than Kavitha intended.

“No,” Seren said softly. “It doesn’t.”

A heavy silence settled between them. Outside, distant voices of students carried faintly through the window. Inside, the fan turned slowly above them.

Kavitha took a small step forward.

“Professor… is there something you wanted to discuss? Or did you call me here simply because I was staring too much during your lecture?”

The corner of Seren’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, something closer to pained amusement.

“You’re direct.”

“I find it saves time.”

Seren exhaled slowly, almost like a sigh she had been holding for a very long time. She gestured toward the chair across from her desk.

“Please sit, Miss Raman.”

Kavitha sat. Seren remained standing for a moment longer, then lowered herself into her own chair with careful grace.

“I called you here because…” Seren paused, choosing her words. “Because I recognize something in you. A weight. The kind that does not leave easily.”

Kavitha’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.

“And what would you know about such weights, Professor?”

Seren looked at her for a long moment. Her eyes held centuries of exhaustion, carefully hidden behind the mask of a literature instructor.

“More than I wish I did,” she said finally.

The fan continued its lazy rotation. The air between them felt suddenly thinner.