Fridays always smell different in this house.
Not the scent of "weekend"—more like the smell of warm cables after the power has been cut and reconnected: relief, with a wire of caution still running through it. Outside, Bengaluru has been loud since dawn. Inside, the rhythm stays the same—as if the calendar is just decoration.
That evening, after my second school session ended—not the public school I survive every morning, but the private afternoon program whose curriculum is never named on any brochure—the house returned to its Friday pulse.
Armaan was already there.
Not with orders. Not by lifting his wristwatch to my face. He simply appeared at the doorway of the study room, touched the doorframe with the tip of his finger—a small habit that signals time has shifted. His gaze was brief, warm, then firm.
"Ready?" he asked.
One word. But he said it the way Pa asks a team if they're ready before a major meeting: not small talk, not a threat. An invitation loaded with responsibility.
On the table, my book was waiting. Not new. Not expensive. On purpose.
Beside it, a small card—plain paper, no logo, no family emblem. Handwritten. Upright. Ink saved.
SILENCE TRAINING
18:00 – 19:00
No explanation.
I sat down. Tara wasn't joining today. She said she had another agenda with Dr. Meera and Kiran—something involving sound and public smiles. Fridays often separate us cleanly: Tara goes to the visible world. I go to the one that isn't.
The instructor was already waiting in the inner room.
His name is never said in full. We call him Sir.
Indian face. Age is hard to guess. Average posture—too average for eyes that sharp. His English is clean, no standout accent. But whenever he switches languages, my body straightens on reflex.
"Sit," he said.
Not an order. More like a reset.
I sat. Back straight. Hands on the table. Not touching the book.
Armaan stood at the side of the room—not as a guard, not as a supervisor. More like an older brother making sure the family ritual runs without error. In our house, the staff aren't furniture. They're partners. Work-siblings. And we—children—know exactly how to respect that.
Sir began without preface.
"Today, no notes," he said flatly.
"No reactions."
"No face."
His eyes held mine a fraction longer.
"Only intake."
Then he spoke in a language that wasn't Hindi, or English. The consonants were hard, the rhythm clipped—like a military code not meant to be learned, only obeyed.
"Ne zapominay slova. Zapominay namereniye."
(Don't memorize the words. Memorize the intent.)
I didn't ask anything. In this training, questions aren't proof of intelligence—most of the time, they're proof you're not ready.
I opened the book.
The pages smelled faintly of dust and cheap ink—the same smell as my public-school textbooks. Maata chose that contrast on purpose. So our brains don't chase comfort. So they chase function.
The clock ticked.
Then it didn't.
Not because it stopped—because my mind stopped chasing the sound.
Sir started walking, slowly. His leather shoes made no noise. He spoke while moving—about the paragraph I was reading, about how a sentence can pretend to be neutral while pushing a decision, about the word rational and how often it's used to hide fear.
"Don't underline," he said softly.
"Your biology will flag it.
Read with instinct—not your eyes."
I read without marking.
By line four, the pattern showed itself. Not the content—the direction. One sentence stalls. One sentence guides. One sentence builds an excuse so a lie can wear the costume of care.
My body recorded it on its own—like muscles remembering the first fall.
At minute twenty, Armaan shifted one step. Not closer. Not farther. Just enough to close a corner of the room as the sun began to drop. I didn't look. But I knew.
In this house, presence doesn't need announcements.
Sir stopped directly behind me. He switched languages again—lower this time. Closer.
"لا تترك أثراً في وجهك."
(Don't leave a trace on your face.)
A pause.
"اتركه في القرار."
(Leave it in the decision.)
I gave a small nod. Not as an answer. As an entry code.
The wall clock read 18:57 when Sir's phone buzzed—short, professional. He didn't check the screen. He looked at me.
"Enough," he said.
Training ends not because time runs out—because capacity is reached. Armaan glanced at the wall clock. Then at me.
"We move," he said.
I closed the book without a sound. A question almost rose—then I swallowed it. It was Friday. If time moves, the next step has already been decided.
What came out instead was something else.
"Is Ma coming?" I asked quietly.
Armaan shook his head. Not a spontaneous reaction—more like procedural confirmation.
"No," he said.
"Info from Major Varma."
"Official reason?" I asked, half-joking.
"Not required," Armaan replied.
Then, after half a second, he added—flat, in Pa's exact manner:
"Tonight needs a face that can stay neutral."
I nodded, holding back a smile.
Neutral.
Maata and neutral rarely share a sentence.
In my mind, the reasons lined up on their own, without being summoned.
Maybe Maata said she was finishing a draft she couldn't abandon for even a second. Or the saree she wanted wasn't dry yet—though it had been dry since morning, just not dry enough to sit for two hours. Or her classic, unbeatable excuse: my body doesn't feel good, which usually means her mind is too active to pretend to be polite.
Or—most likely—Maata did her own micro-research and concluded the event offered not a single interesting pastry, too many formal dining tables, and conversations that make her head ache: long, neat, careful discussions filled with cautious politeness—the kind that demands a calm face, a thin smile, and a mind that must pretend it isn't sprinting.
And Pa?
Pa definitely tried persuading her. With logic. With a schedule. With promises to go home early. And—I'm sure—with tiramisu from Maata's favorite pastry shop. Or a "so you don't have to think about anything today" transfer.
And of course it failed.
Because Maata is never defeated by persuasion.
If she ever loses, she only loses to curiosity—without mental fatigue.
And tonight was clearly not interesting enough.
Armaan walked ahead. I followed.
I checked the time once more.
19:02.
Silence Training was over.
And as always—
the lesson had only just begun.
A soft vibration against my wrist. Not a normal notification—an encrypted ping from the family channel. A transparent interface lit briefly at the edge of my vision, then dimmed like breathing.
A message from Maata.
Honey,
During your training today, don't forget to screen too.
Maybe there's a candidate for a new Mama / Madam in there.
Another message followed immediately—fast, like she remembered something crucial at the last second.
I already sent the checklist to Armaan.
I closed the interface slowly. Holding back a smile.
Of course she sent it to Armaan too.
Of course.
Ahead of me, Armaan walked without turning—posture clean, steps calm. But I knew: the same ping had just landed on his device.
Random?
Yes.
Excessive?
Always.
But somehow, in this family, even Maata's jealousy has a system—and a checklist.
***
Major Varma was waiting on the terrace, not in the garage. His posture was upright but not intimidating—more like a flagpole that's learned to stand in any wind. No weapon in his hand. Just habit: left hand behind his back, right hand lazily spinning the car keys as if counting seconds without a clock.
He stepped closer and tapped Armaan's shoulder once.
Then Major Varma turned to me. His eyes weren't sharp—just penetrating. The look of someone who has watched too many gifted kids get reckless the moment they start feeling safe.
"Dhruv," he said, low.
I didn't answer immediately. I waited half a second—a newer reflex he planted: don't rush a response just because you can.
Major Varma nodded, satisfied.
"If an adult tries to bait a story out of you," he continued,
"remember three things."
He raised three fingers, clean.
"One: breath.
Two: face—don't be too friendly, don't be too cold.
Three: hands—if your hands get restless, other people feel you're lying."
I swallowed slowly and nodded.
Major Varma stepped in, then straightened my collar with two fingers—a gesture a father might do for a son, but executed with military precision: fast, exact, finished.
"Good," he said.
He patted my back once—hard enough to push, gentle enough to anchor.
"Chalo," he said.
"Go. Clean work."
Only then did he nod toward the car waiting nearby—nothing new, nothing flashy, but kept with quiet discipline. Dark grey paint that's hard to identify at a glance. No institutional stickers. No emblem. Just a clean plate and windows that aren't too dark.
Armaan opened the front door and slid into the driver's seat with minimal movement. He didn't sit like someone driving—he sat like someone keeping the road's rhythm. Hands on the wheel: not stiff, not relaxed. Mirrors checked once, not twice.
I took the back-left seat. The same seat as always.
Not because it's written.
Because everyone knows: in Bengaluru traffic, that position draws the least attention—and exits the fastest if needed.
The engine started.
No music.
No opening conversation.
We merged into the evening flow: motorbikes weaving like small fish, half-empty school buses, and white cars that always look more important than they actually are. No one looked at us.
That was the point.
Red light.
Green light.
The city moved.
A thin screen lit on my wrist. Not loud. Just a short, controlled vibration.
Tara.
I opened the audio channel. Armaan didn't turn. But I knew he registered it—his right shoulder shifted a fraction of an inch. Enough.
"Bhaiya," Tara's voice came through. Soft. Too soft for a thirteen-year-old who's usually dramatic.
That alone was a sign.
"I'm listening," I said.
Behind her: glass clinks, chairs pulling back carefully, and that overly polite adult conversation tone. I immediately knew where she was.
"This seminar," she whispered,
"lots of senior experts. Lots of wives with perfectly arranged smiles."
I kept my breath thin.
That wasn't an event description.
That was a field report.
"We're seated in the second row. Kiran on the right. I'm on the left," Tara continued.
"What's the drill?" I asked.
"When someone talks for too long, don't cut them," she answered quickly, like naming a game.
"Don't over-nod. Just… inhale their rhythm."
I could picture it: Tara small, sitting sweet, big eyes, innocent face—while a social diagram runs in her head.
"And the result?" I asked.
"Interesting," she said, almost cheerful.
"One aunty spent five full minutes talking about her gifted child. I stayed silent. Kiran stayed silent. By minute four, her voice lowered on its own."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"And then?" I asked.
"She finally asked me," Tara continued, clearly holding back a grin,
'Which school are you in, dear?'"
I already knew the answer.
We all did.
"And what did you say?"
"Public school," Tara said lightly.
"No explanation."
A small pause in the channel.
Not signal.
Tara giving space.
"Effect?" I asked.
"She switched topics instantly," Tara replied, pleased.
"To the weather."
From the front seat, I heard Armaan exhale—so quietly it was almost imaginary. But I caught it.
Tara giggled—childlike. Still a child.
"Oh—one more thing," she rushed.
"Aunty Meera said if we can stay silent without freezing, we're ready to sit in dangerous rooms."
I opened my eyes.
Dangerous—spoken by my little sister like she was naming an ice cream flavor.
"Stay safe," I said.
"Always," Tara replied lightly.
"And Bhaiya—you too. Don't forget: if someone smiles too long, it's not friendly."
The channel cut.
The car turned into the meeting building's parking area. Armaan shut the engine off. He didn't get out immediately.
Then we did.
The door closed softly. In the air: bitter coffee and recycled AC cold, mixed together.
I adjusted my pace half a second behind Armaan. In this city, being unseen is the safest form of presence.
***
The venue wasn't a glamorous hotel. But it also wasn't just anywhere.
Low building. Quiet. Heavy glass doors that never open in a hurry. The lobby was clean and cold—not excessive AC cold, but deliberate cold. Too silent for Bengaluru at this hour, like a space built so important people's voices don't mix with the city.
There was chicory in the air and expensive perfume used sparingly—not to seduce, but to signal class: I know I'm here, and I don't need to prove it.
Near the reception desk, a small statue sat neatly. Not spiritual decor for photos. More like an unspoken agreement: even the most rational people in this room still leave one crack open for things older than logic.
Pitaa was already inside. Armaan and I didn't sit at his table. We moved. During the drink break, the room loosened its breath.
Glass clinked softly. The coffee machine sighed steam. Someone laughed—not freely, more like a marker that the topic was safe to close. Near the brochure rack, two men compared their children's schedules without really looking at each other; one nodded too fast, the other smiled while checking his watch.
A man with thinning hair approached Armaan. His shirt was crisp, but his collar had lost stiffness—the sign of long work hours that have become habit, not burden. He smiled first—the smile of someone who shared a line, a test, a generation.
"Armaan, haan?" he said, friendly, still measuring.
Armaan answered with a small nod. Not too much. Not retreating.
"You don't usually come to events like this," the man continued, sipping coffee.
"Major Varma healthy?"
"Healthy," Armaan said.
"He sends regards."
That was enough. The name functioned like an ID card without being shown.
The man glanced at me—quick, then back to Armaan.
"And this…?"
Armaan shifted half a step, body automatically forming a clean line—not protective, but clear.
"My younger brother," he said. Nothing more.
"Ah." The man smiled at me now.
"Just looking around?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
One word. No accent. No story.
He nodded back, satisfied with a reply that didn't open any extra doors.
"Good," he said lightly, a safe sentence for any room.
"Kids these days need to see the real world too."
Behind him, his wife passed by, guiding their child away from the pastry table. "Later," she whispered—not banning, just delaying. The child clicked his tongue, then obeyed.
The man turned back to Armaan.
"Still at that school?"
"Not moving," Armaan replied.
"Good," the man said.
"Stability is underrated."
He chuckled—not mocking, more like reminding himself. I lifted my glass of water and took a sip. Cold. Neutral. Safe.
No one waited for my reaction.
That was correct.
The man left with a nod, returning to his group. Our conversation ended neatly—no tail, no hole.
From a safe distance, I caught fragments from Pitaa's table.
"—if the dependency is still single-node, the failure isn't if, it's when," one man said, drawing an invisible diagram in the air—no screen.
His gestures were economical, like someone who's explained the same thing to too many committees. Across from him, someone nodded once. No notes.
"Hmm. We can federate. Architecturally it's safe."
"Architecture, yes," another replied, slowly turning his cup.
"The regulatory layer is tricky. State-level override is still grey. But we can sandbox it."
"Public narrative?" a woman cut in with a smile, lifting her saree pallu so it wouldn't touch the table.
"We can shape that. As long as the rollout doesn't look like replacement—frame it as augmentation."
No voices rose. No sentence truly closed. Everything stayed as open branches in private minds. A man laughed lightly—transition laughter, not humor.
"Okay. Park it. Next."
In another corner, two people stood too close to the kaapi station and hot-water kettle, speaking while waiting their turn—not because they were thirsty, but because in rooms like this you need an excuse to stop moving without looking idle.
"Your son's still in robotics?"
"Dropped. AI ethics track now. Apparently robotics is 'too deterministic.'"
"Oh."
A nod.
"Fair."
Near the coffee bar, a man in a grey shirt slid into Pitaa's orbit without interrupting. His smile arrived first—old alumni energy, entering without asking permission.
"Arre, A. ke saath… always mystery, yaar," he said lightly, raising his glass.
"Hard to pin you down."
Pitaa replied with a small nod. Thin smile. No step closer.
The man scanned the room, then lowered his voice half an octave—private enough to feel private.
"And your wife?"
The question landed casually. But shoulders adjusted nearby. Someone paused mid-sugar-pour. A woman beside him—simple necklace, neat nails—smoothed it over with a smile, as if closing a gap.
"She's well, no? I heard… she has that seasonal thing."
The word seasonal was spoken softly, wrapped in rehearsed empathy. The man nodded fast, grateful for a usable term.
"Haan, haan… intermittent selective mutism, right?" he said lightly, almost clinical. Then without any pause, he added:
"Kids around tonight, or are you running this one solo?"
He didn't look at Pitaa. He looked at his own reflection in the coffee machine—safe way to ask without asking.
Pitaa shifted his weight slightly—enough to mark a boundary. His hand stayed in his pocket.
"They have other agendas," he said low. Not defensive. Not overly friendly.
"According to rhythm."
"Ah." The man smiled, accepting an answer that didn't open doors.
"Good. Busy days."
The woman nodded quickly.
"Children these days," she said, like weather—topic closed.
Pitaa lifted his water glass. One sip. Silence. The conversation moved on cleanly, leaving no trace. At the next table, someone whispered with a small laugh:
"Let's park the ethics, focus on scale. We'll circle back once we've 'tamed' the regulation."
Someone else replied:
"Sure."
No one circled back.
I stood a few steps away. I didn't watch faces. I watched hands.
A finger tapping when risk is mentioned.
A cup placed too gently when opportunity is named.
A smile timed perfectly after the word manage.
I stayed near a pillar, turning my water glass slowly. My gaze swept the room—not hunting faces, hunting triggers.
Near the window, I saw her.
A woman. Around thirty-five. Dark linen saree—functional, no excess jewelry. She didn't speak much. But when she did, Pa didn't just listen. Pa rotated his shoulder ten degrees toward her.
And the most crucial detail: Pa's right hand—the one that usually checks his phone every three minutes—stayed still in his pocket.
Under the table, my fingers moved on a transparent interface only I could see.
G2 | B | S,L,P | Q | PING
One second later, a short vibration on my wrist. A reply from Armaan across the room:
ACK. VALIDATED.
At home, I knew Maata was seeing that notification while sipping her tea—probably smiling with satisfaction.
Behind me, someone said to their child, "Not now." The child stopped. Waited. No protest.
I inhaled and reset my rhythm.
Silence here wasn't passive.
Silence here was choice.
I stared down at my water glass.
In my head, Sir's voice returned—colder now. The second sentence he taught us, in another language, sharp accent. He had looked at each of us like we were tools that could hurt if held wrong:
"لا تترك أثراً في الوجوه. اتركه في القرارات."
(Don't leave a trace on faces. Leave it in decisions.)
I suddenly understood why this drill is only one hour.
Because one hour is enough…
…to change how someone exists without standing out.
Moves without being seen.
Disappears without ever truly leaving.
And in rooms like this, that isn't a skill. It's survival equipment.
_________________________________________________________________________________
MAATA'S CHECKLIST
(Sent 19:04 | Mode: "Concerned but Efficient")
A. THE ONES ALREADY IN THE FILE
Note: Don't react. Don't stare. Don't act smart. This is observation, not drama.
☐ Old name resurfacing
Former female colleague from Pa's early movement era (Pa in his 20s–30s)Usually appears as "guest panelist" or "advisor"Signature: never approaches, but stays within Pa's sight radius
☐ Ex with intellectual footprint
Background: policy, ethics, education reform, neuroscience, or data governanceSpeech style: short sentences, never explains herselfDanger: when Pa listens more than he speaks
☐ Ex who is "already married"
Arrives with spouse, but stands level—not behindIf Pa lowers his voice → log it
B. NOT IN THE FILE
New is more dangerous because there is no data.
☐ New woman, age 30–42
Too calm for a first-time attendeeDoesn't chase spotlightDoesn't ask muchBut everyone turns when she speaks
☐ Younger woman (25–32) with strange authority
Not an assistantNot "someone's wife"Yet seniors listenCross-discipline language (tech + society + ethics)
☐ Woman who does NOT try to look attractive
This is Pa's typeSimple hair, functional clothingDoesn't laugh loudDoesn't interruptYet Pa completes his sentence after she speaks
C. SPECIAL FILTER — PA'S FAVORITE TYPE (HISTORICAL DATA)
Based on Maata's observation since Pa was still "poor idealism."
☐ Doesn't praise Pa
☐ Doesn't ask for access
☐ Corrects Pa calmly
☐ Makes Pa go quiet after discussion
☐ Makes Pa shift small decisions without debate
⚠️ If ≥2 indicators show on the same person → mark red.
D. MICRO-GESTURES TO MONITOR
This is not paranoia. It's statistics.
☐ Pa drops his shoulder when standing near her
☐ Pa adjusts body position to align
☐ Pa delays moving locations despite tight schedule
☐ Pa doesn't touch phone while she speaks
☐ Pa repeats one word she used
E. TECH TASKS
Dhruv:
☐ Log patterns, not names
☐ Send color code (Green / Yellow / Red)
☐ No conclusions. No jokes. No creativity.
Armaan:
☐ Validate movement, not conversation content
☐ Ensure no private corridor too long
☐ Ensure your boss is not isolated in two directions (physical & cognitive)
F. SPECIAL NOTE (NON-TECH, BUT CRITICAL)
☐ If all clear → report briefly
☐ If unsure → report faster than "later"
☐ Don't treat "nothing happened" as a result
__________________________________________________________________________________
MAATA | QUICK CODE v.2040
(One-line format / send in intervals)
I. GENERAL STATUS
G0 = clean / no anomaly
G1 = light attention detected
G2 = recurring pattern detected
R = high focus / needs attention
II. SUBJECT TYPE
A = from old file
B = new (not in archive)
C = unclear / hybrid
III. INTERACTION FLAGS
S = aligned body positioning
L = Pa listens more than speaks
D = small decision shifts
T = time runs long
P = phone untouched
IV. CONTEXT
M = public / crowded
Q = semi-private
X = too quiet
V. OUTPUT
OK = no follow-up
CHK = keep monitoring
LOG = archive
PING = needs discussion (not urgent)
VI. EXAMPLE SEND
G2 | B | S,L | Q | LOG
PS (MUST READ BEFORE GOING HOME):
"Ma doesn't want drama. Ma wants data. If you come home with no results, tomorrow Ma will go herself—and you know, that's always more troublesome."
—To be Continued—