Chapter 9 – The Professor’s House

             The admission notice did not arrive like a revelation.  It came folded inside routine…white paper, black ink, an official seal pressed without emotion. Kamal read it standing near the window of his rented room, sunlight cutting across the floor like a quiet witness. Outside, bicycles passed, voices rose and fell, tea glasses clinked somewhere in the lane. Life went on, unaware that a door had just reopened itself.

            He read the college name once.  Twice.  Then a third time, slower now, as if language itself had learned a new weight.

            The subject was the one he had chosen deliberately…carefully, stubbornly…against advice, against ease, against safer options. It was the subject he had once watched from the side, through corridors and chalk dust and silences that were heavier than lectures. The subject that had once been taught to him not from books, but from a house where evenings smelled of ink, old paper, and unsaid things.

            He folded the letter back into its envelope and sat down.

            Destiny, he realized, did not announce itself loudly.  It simply placed familiar stones back on the road and waited to see if you would recognize them.

***

            The college stood on the edge of the town, where noise softened and trees began to gather confidence. Its gate was tall but tired, paint peeling where generations of hands had pushed it open. Kamal paused before entering, not from fear, but from an odd reverence…like someone stepping into a memory that had been sealed for years.

            Students moved past him in clusters. Laughter, arguments, first-day nervousness. Bags new, hopes newer. No one noticed the way Kamal’s steps slowed, or how his eyes searched not for buildings, but for echoes.

            Inside, the campus unfolded gradually. Long pathways shaded by trees that seemed older than the institution itself. Notice boards crowded with schedules and warnings. Classrooms with open doors and half-formed conversations drifting out.

            And somewhere among them, he knew, stood a man who had once been his distance and his shelter at the same time.

            The orientation hall was full. Names were called. Departments explained. Rules recited with practiced seriousness. Kamal listened without really hearing, his attention snagging on one line spoken almost casually:

            “The core paper will be handled by Professor D'Souza”

            The surname landed gently but stayed.

            He did not move.  Did not react.

            But something inside him leaned forward.

***

            The confirmation came a week later.

            The timetable was posted on the board outside the department office. Kamal scanned it the way people scan faces in a crowd…searching for one detail they pretend not to need. When he saw it, there was no shock. Only a slow settling, like dust finding its place.

            Professor D'Souza,  Monica’s father.  Teaching the subject he had chosen.  In the same college.

            Fate, it seemed, had a sense of irony that bordered on humor.

            He stood there long after others had moved on, his finger hovering near the printed name but never touching it. The corridors smelled of fresh paint and old decisions. Somewhere nearby, a bell rang. Time announced itself.

            Kamal turned away.

***

            The first lecture was scheduled for a quiet afternoon. The classroom filled gradually, students taking seats with the casual authority of those who believed the future waited politely for them.

            Kamal chose a seat near the side wall.

            Old habits survived long silences.

            The door opened without drama. Conversations softened. Chairs adjusted. The man who entered carried no grand presence…just a stack of notes, a pen clipped to his shirt, and a face that had aged into calm rather than distance.

            Professor D'Souza looked around the room, eyes steady, observant. He did not smile immediately. He did not need to.

            When his gaze passed over Kamal, it paused.

            Just briefly.

            Just enough.

            Recognition did not rush. It arrived carefully, like someone opening a long-locked drawer. The professor’s eyes narrowed slightly…not in suspicion, but in recollection.

            Then, very gently, his expression returned to neutral.

            He began the lecture.

            His voice was exactly as Kamal remembered…measured, patient, unhurried. Each sentence placed deliberately, as if meaning deserved time. Kamal listened with an attention that surprised even himself. The subject unfolded, layered and thoughtful, no shortcuts offered.

            At one point, the professor asked a question.

            Silence followed. Students looked at their notes, at the floor, at the idea of volunteering and rejected it silently.

            Kamal raised his hand.

            The professor looked at him again…longer this time.

            “Yes,” he said.

            Kamal answered without performance, without excess. Just clarity. Just understanding earned not only from study, but from years of watching how knowledge could be lived.

            The professor nodded once.

            “Good,” he said. “Sit.”

            Nothing more.

            But something unspoken had passed between them.

***

            Tuition was suggested the following week.

            Not announced.  Not offered.

            Suggested.

            The professor spoke to the class about the depth of the subject, the need for guidance beyond lectures. “Those who feel they require additional support,” he said, “may come by my house in the evenings.”

            The address was written on the board.

            Kamal did not copy it.

            He already knew the way.

            That evening, he stood outside the gate longer than necessary. The house had not changed much. The paint was older. The plants wilder. But the windows were the same…the same quiet witnesses to evenings of study and restrained emotion.

            He rang the bell.

            The sound traveled inward, familiar and unforgiving.

            The door opened.

            The professor stood there, surprise flickering briefly before settling into composure.

            “Kamal,” he said.

            It was not a question.

            “Yes, sir.”

            A pause followed…filled not with awkwardness, but with history. The professor stepped aside.

            “Come in.”

            The house smelled of books and tea and time. Kamal removed his shoes automatically. The living room looked unchanged…same shelves, same clock, same chairs that had once held conversations that never finished.

            They sat.

            Tea arrived, placed quietly on the table by hands Kamal did not see. The sound of cups touching saucers carried weight.

            “So,” the professor said at last, “you chose this subject.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Deliberately?”

            “Yes.”

            Another pause.

            “Good,” the professor said. “It is not an easy choice.”

            Neither of them mentioned Monica.

            Names, Kamal knew, could disturb still water.

***

            Tuition sessions became routine.

            Twice a week.  Evenings.

            Other students came and went, carrying questions and notebooks and ambitions. Kamal remained quieter than most, speaking only when necessary, listening more than required.

            Sometimes, when the room emptied, silence lingered.

            One evening, as Kamal gathered his books, the professor spoke again.

            “You’ve grown,” he said, not looking up.

            “So have you, sir.”

            A faint smile touched the professor’s lips.

            “Life insists on it,” he replied.

            They spoke of the subject, of academia, of how understanding deepens when patience survives. They did not speak of the past.

            But the past sat between them anyway.

***

            It was inevitable.

            One evening, Kamal heard footsteps on the staircase.

            Not hurried.  Not hesitant.

            Familiar.

            He did not turn immediately. Some recognitions demanded time.

            When he did, Monica stood there.

            Older.  Quieter.  Eyes carrying the same honesty, now sharpened by years.

            For a moment, neither spoke.

            Destiny, having opened the door, watched silently.

            “Kamal,” she said.

            “Monica.”

            Her voice did not tremble. Neither did his. But something inside both of them leaned dangerously close to memory.

            “I didn’t know,” she said.

            “Neither did I.”

            They smiled…softly, carefully…the kind of smile shared by people who knew smiling was safer than explaining.

            The professor watched them from his chair, understanding more than either realized.

            Monica left soon after, carrying tea cups back into the kitchen, leaving behind a silence thick with everything unsaid.

***

            Old emotions did not return dramatically.

            They arrived quietly.

            In shared glances.  In half-finished sentences.  In the way Kamal noticed the clock on the wall again.

            One evening, Monica joined them with a book, sitting at a distance that respected years but questioned them too.

            “You’re studying well,” she said.

            “So are you,” he replied.

            She smiled. “Some habits don’t leave.”

            “Some shouldn’t,” he said.

            Their words carried layers neither attempted to peel.

            Consequences arrived gently, like warnings wrapped in familiarity.

            The professor watched carefully. Not with suspicion, but with responsibility. He understood fate’s cruelty as well as its generosity.

            One night, after Kamal left, he spoke to his daughter.

            “Some doors,” he said, “open again only to see if we are wise enough not to walk through them blindly.”

            Monica listened.

            “I know,” she said.

            But knowing, Kamal would later realize, did not always equal control.

***

            Exams approached. Pressure mounted. Tuition sessions intensified.

            One evening, Kamal stayed back longer than usual. Monica was in the next room, reading.

            The professor closed a book.

            “You came here deliberately,” he said.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Because of the subject?”

            “Yes.”

            “And nothing else?”

            Kamal met his gaze.

            “Yes.”

            The professor studied him, then nodded.

            “Good,” he said again. But this time, the word carried weight.

            When Kamal left that night, the road outside felt familiar again. The same road they had once smiled on. The same road now watching them return, older, careful, aware that destiny did not promise reunion without consequence.

            Some doors reopened not to offer comfort…but to test restraint.

            And some reunions, Kamal understood as he walked away, were not about reclaiming the past, but about surviving its echo without losing the present.

            The road remained.

            And once again, they only smiled on it.

***

            The house did not expect them to be alone together.

            It had learned, over years, to hold people separately…voices overlapping but never colliding, footsteps crossing without pausing.  That evening, it stood unusually alert, as if its walls had sensed a pause in routine.

            Monica’s parents had left early.

            A distant relative’s anniversary.

            A social obligation neither of them could avoid.

            The professor had checked his watch twice, reminded Monica to lock the back door, and told her, almost casually, that Kamal might come for tuition if he wished.

            “If he comes,” he had said, adjusting his spectacles, “don’t let the tea get cold.”

            The words were ordinary.

            The meaning was not.

            The car disappeared down the road, its sound dissolving into the evening. Monica stood at the window for a moment longer than necessary, watching the dust settle back into place. The house exhaled.

            She turned toward the living room.

            Silence waited there…not empty, but expectant.

***

            Kamal arrived ten minutes later.

            He rang the bell once, lightly, as if unsure whether he had the right to disturb the quiet. Monica opened the door herself.

            For a second, both hesitated.

            Not because they were strangers again…but because familiarity, after distance, demanded care.

            “They’re not home,” she said.

            “I know,” Kamal replied. “Sir mentioned they had to go out.”

            A pause.

            “Come in,” she said.

            The door closed behind him with a soft finality.

            Shoes were removed. Habits returned without invitation.

            The living room looked larger without her parents’ presence. Or perhaps emptier. Kamal placed his bag beside the chair he usually avoided, choosing instead the one closer to the window.

            Monica moved toward the kitchen.

            “Tea?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

            “Yes,” he said. “If it’s not trouble.”

            She smiled faintly. “Some things are never trouble.”

            The kettle’s sound filled the house, replacing the quiet with something domestic and grounding. Kamal stood by the window, watching the sky fold into evening. The road outside lay stretched and patient, as if waiting for someone to walk it with unfinished sentences.

            When Monica returned, she placed the cups on the table carefully.

            They sat opposite each other.

            Steam rose between them…brief, visible, then gone.

            For a few moments, they spoke of nothing important.

            The weather.

            The exam schedule.

            How the subject grew heavier as it deepened.

            Safe ground.

 

            Then Monica said, “Do you ever think about what comes after this?”

            Kamal looked at her.

            “After college?”

            “After certainty,” she corrected.

            He considered the question, turning the cup slowly in his hands.

            “I think,” he said, “most of us mistake plans for destinations. We plan because not planning feels like falling.”

            “And are you afraid of falling?” she asked.

            He smiled…not lightly, but honestly. “Only when I forget how many times I’ve already survived it.”

            Monica lowered her eyes to her tea.

            “I want to teach,” she said suddenly. “Not immediately. Maybe after a few years. I want to understand people before I try to shape minds.”

            “That sounds like you,” Kamal said.

            She looked up. “Does it?”

            “Yes. You always listened first. Even when you disagreed.”

            She smiled, this time warmer. “And you always stayed quiet until you knew exactly what to say.”

            “And sometimes,” he added, “even after.”

            They shared a small laugh…careful, restrained, but real.

            “What about you?” she asked. “What do you want?”

            Kamal leaned back slightly.

            “I want a life that doesn’t require pretending,” he said after a moment. “Work that feels earned. Silence that doesn’t feel lonely.”

            She nodded. “That’s a rare ambition.”

            “Rarer still,” he said, “to admit it.”

***

            Time moved without announcing itself.

            The clock ticked, ignored.

            Outside, evening thickened into night.

            Monica refilled their cups once. Kamal noticed her hands…steadier than before, older somehow. He wondered what she noticed about him.

            “Do you think destiny knows where it’s taking us?” she asked softly.

            He did not answer immediately.

            “I think,” he said slowly, “destiny opens doors and watches what we do with them. It doesn’t always push.”

            “And what if we walk through the wrong one?”

            “Then,” he said, meeting her eyes, “we learn why it was wrong.”

            She held his gaze longer than necessary.

            “And what if it feels right?” she asked.

            The question did not tremble.

            The answer did.

            “Then,” Kamal said quietly, “it becomes harder to walk away.”

            Silence followed…not awkward, not heavy. Just aware.

            Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. The sound reminded them both that walls could listen.

***

            An hour passed without either of them counting it.

            When Kamal finally stood, it felt like waking from a careful dream.

            “I should go,” he said.

            “Yes,” Monica replied. “They’ll be back soon.”

            He picked up his bag, then hesitated.

            “Monica,” he said.

            “Yes?”

            “I’m glad we talked.”

            “So am I,” she said. “Even if we don’t know what it means yet.”

            He smiled. “Especially because of that.”

            At the door, they paused again…not to say more, but to leave something unsaid on purpose.

            When the door closed behind him, Monica remained standing for a while, listening to his footsteps fade.

            The house settled back into stillness.

            Destiny, having watched quietly from the corners, said nothing.

            It never did.

            It only waited.

***

            The door closed behind Kamal without sound.

            Not because he shut it carefully…but because the house itself seemed unwilling to echo what had just passed through it.

            He stepped onto the road and stood still for a moment, his bag hanging loosely from his shoulder. The air had cooled. Night had settled into its rightful place, not hurried, not dramatic. The streetlamp across the way flickered once, then steadied, casting a pale circle on the ground like a quiet boundary.

            He did not look back at the house.

            Some instincts survived years for a reason.

            The road stretched ahead, familiar in shape, unfamiliar in feeling. It was the same road where bicycles had once rested side by side, where laughter had traveled farther than courage, where smiles had carried more than words ever dared to. Tonight, it felt narrower. Or perhaps he had grown wider…with memory, with caution.

            He began to walk.

            Each step seemed to arrive after thought, as if his body needed permission from his mind. The gravel shifted softly under his shoes. Somewhere, a dog barked and then decided silence was better. Windows glowed briefly and went dark again. Lives closing their chapters for the day.

            Kamal’s thoughts did not rush. They circled.

            Monica’s voice returned first…not the words, but the steadiness of them. The way she had spoken about the future without urgency. Without expectation. He realized that what unsettled him was not the past reopening, but the present standing calmly beside it.

            They had not spoken of what once was.

            And that, somehow, had said everything.

            He paused near the old tea stall at the corner…closed now, its wooden shutters pulled down, bench turned upside down like an ended conversation. He remembered standing there once, pretending the night was endless, pretending that endings were choices.

            He smiled faintly.

            Age did not make one wiser, he thought.  It only made consequences clearer.

            He resumed walking.

            With every step away from the professor’s house, a quiet conflict sharpened inside him. He had entered that house believing himself prepared. Years had passed. Distance had taught discipline. Silence had taught restraint.

            But destiny, it seemed, did not care how carefully one rebuilt balance. It merely tested it.

            “What do you do,” he murmured to the empty road, “when something feels familiar but no longer belongs to the same version of you?”

            The road offered no answer.

            It never had.

            He thought of the way Monica had held her cup…firmly, confidently. No tremor. No hesitation. She was not the girl he had once known. She was someone who had lived, chosen, adapted.

            And so was he.

            That was the danger.

            Not longing.  Not regret.  But compatibility rediscovered.

            At a crossing, he stopped again.

            Two directions opened before him…one leading back to his rented room, the other curving toward the quieter part of town. He chose the longer route, not because he was lost, but because he was avoiding arrival.

            He replayed the hour in fragments.

            Tea steam rising.  Her question about destiny.  His answer that had felt honest and dangerous at the same time.

            He realized something then, with a clarity that surprised him.

            The past had not returned to claim him.  The present had invited him to reconsider it.

            That was worse.

            Because returning was easier than choosing again.

***

            A motorcycle passed, its headlight briefly illuminating his face. He caught his reflection in a darkened shop window…older eyes, thoughtful, guarded. He wondered what Monica had seen when she looked at him.

            Did she see safety?  Or unfinished sentences?

            He exhaled slowly.

            The professor’s words returned to him: Some doors open again only to see if we are wise enough not to walk through them blindly.

            Wisdom, Kamal thought, was knowing when a step forward was actually a step backward disguised as courage.

            Yet wisdom did not quiet the heart. It only trained it to stay silent.

***

            By the time he reached his room, the night had settled completely.

            He unlocked the door and stepped inside, switching on the light without ceremony. The room welcomed him with its simplicity…bed, table, books, nothing that demanded emotional negotiation.

            He placed his bag down and sat on the edge of the bed.

            For the first time since leaving the house, he allowed himself to feel it fully.

            The reunion had not hurt.

            That, perhaps, was the most unsettling part.

            He lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the fan hum steadily above him. Life continued. Tomorrow would arrive. Classes would resume. Tuition would continue.

            Destiny had not overturned anything.

            It had merely leaned in and whispered, Be careful.

            Kamal closed his eyes.

            On the road outside, someone laughed briefly, then moved on.

            And somewhere behind him, on a quieter street, a house stood with its lights on…holding two cups, one conversation, and a future that had just begun to question itself.

            The road remained.

            And once again, Kamal understood why they had only ever smiled on it…because anything more would have asked for a price he was not yet sure he was ready to pay.

***

            The house welcomed them back quietly.

            No laughter from the party followed them in. No stories were exchanged in the doorway. The professor unlocked the door with the same measured patience he applied to everything in life. His wife stepped in first, setting her purse down, already loosening the fatigue from her shoulders.

            “Long evening,” she said.

            “Yes,” he replied. “Necessary ones usually are.”

            The clock in the living room read a little past ten.

            Too late for routine.  Too early for sleep.

            He switched on the light and paused.

            Two cups sat on the table.

            Not carelessly placed.  Not forgotten.

            Just… there.

            He did not comment. He never did, not when observation could do the work more accurately than questions. His wife noticed them too but said nothing. She had lived with him long enough to understand the language of silence.

            “I’ll go rest,” she said softly. “You should too.”

            “In a while,” he replied.

            When she left the room, the house exhaled again.

            The professor walked to the table and picked up one cup. It was cold now. He turned it slightly, noting the faint mark at the rim where someone had paused between thoughts.

            Two people, he concluded.  Not students.

            He placed the cup back gently.

            Monica stood in the doorway, unsure how long she had been there.

            “You’re back,” she said.

            “Yes.”

            She did not move.

            Neither did he.

            “How was the party?” she asked.

            “Predictable,” he replied. “How was the evening?”

            “Quiet.”

            He looked at her then…really looked.

            Her posture was composed, but her eyes carried something unsettled, like a page that had been reread too many times. He had seen that look before. Not often. But enough to recognize its origin.

            “Tea?” he asked.

            She nodded.

            As he poured water into the kettle, he spoke without turning around.

            “Kamal came.” It was not a question.

            “Yes,” she said.

            A pause.

            “For tuition,” he added…not as denial, but as acknowledgment.

            “Yes,” she repeated.

            The kettle clicked off.

            He carried two fresh cups to the table, replacing the cold ones without ceremony. They sat across from each other, the same distance he had once maintained between discipline and care.

            “Did you talk?” he asked.

            “Yes.”

            “About studies?”

            “And other things.”

            He nodded slowly.

            He had not expected anything else.

            Fathers, he believed, learned early that control was an illusion. Guidance was all one could offer, and even that required restraint.

            “You both are older now,” he said. “Older than circumstances.”

            Monica listened.

            “Age,” he continued, “does not make decisions easier. It only makes them heavier.”

            She met his gaze.

            “I know.”

            He smiled faintly…not in approval, not in concern. Just recognition.

            “I won’t ask you what you feel,” he said. “Because feelings answer only when they choose to.”

            She looked down at her cup.

            “I trust you,” he said quietly. “That is not permission. It is responsibility.”

            Her throat tightened.

            “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she said.

            “I know,” he replied. “That is precisely why this is difficult.”

            They sat in silence for a while, the kind that did not demand resolution.

            Finally, he stood.

            “Kamal is a good student,” he said. “And a thoughtful man.”

            She did not respond.

            “He was then,” he added. “And he is now.”

            With that, he turned off the light and walked toward his room.

            At the doorway, he paused.

            “Some roads,” he said without looking back, “teach us why we once stopped walking on them.”

            Then he left.

***

            Monica remained seated long after the house went quiet.

            She looked at the cups…one untouched now, one cooling slowly.

            Destiny had not spoken loudly.

            It had not insisted.

            It had only placed people back in the same room and waited to see if wisdom had grown faster than longing.

            Outside, the road lay silent.

            Inside, a daughter understood that her father had seen everything…and had chosen, deliberately, not to ask.

            Because some answers, once spoken, demanded action.

            And some fathers loved enough to let time speak first.