Shaadi Ka Contract: Terms and Conditions of the Heart

Monday mornings were never kind, but this one felt especially cruel.

Aarohi stepped into the staff room with a tightened jaw and zero expectations. Her usual spot near the window was taken—by someone who definitely knew it was hers. And someone had "accidentally" unplugged her laptop charger from the wall. Again.

Petty, whispered sabotage. Classic.

She walked past the murmuring clusters of teachers, each conversation halting the moment she neared. Some wouldn't meet her eyes. Others offered fake, polite smiles. A few looked genuinely apologetic, but none said a word.

As if defending Kabir had turned her into a walking scandal.

"Morning," Aarohi said with forced calm, setting her laptop bag down.

Only one voice replied, quietly: "You really stirred the pot, huh?"

She turned. Mr. Mehta, the music teacher, leaned against the counter, sipping his tea. He didn't sound mocking—just tired.

"I didn't realize standing up for a student was a revolutionary act," Aarohi muttered, pulling out her lesson plan folder.

Mehta gave her a shrug. "These walls hear everything. And they talk louder than they should. Be careful."

She didn't respond. He meant well, but she was tired of warnings.

By the time her first period math class rolled around, the weight of suspicion hung over everything like smog. Kabir was absent.

Not surprising.

Some students glanced around nervously; others kept their heads down. No one dared ask where he was. The room felt different—like a trust had quietly unraveled between them all.

Aarohi set down her chalk. "We're not going to pretend this week hasn't been strange," she said suddenly.

A few eyes lifted to hers.

"I'm not going to talk about what's going on with Kabir. But I will say this—jumping to conclusions helps no one. If you hear something, question it. And if someone around you needs support, offer it. We are not a school of silence."

A silence followed that was heavier than before, but not as cold. A few students nodded, one or two whispered a quiet "yes, ma'am."

By the end of the period, the class had regained a sliver of its normal rhythm.

But it didn't last.

As she was returning to the staff room, Principal Sharma's voice echoed down the hallway. "Ms. Desai."

Aarohi turned slowly. "Yes, sir?"

He motioned for her to follow. "Meeting. Now."

In the conference room, the same panel from Friday waited. The vice principal, the board member with the pointed glasses, and—surprise—Mr. Batra from the legal department.

Aarohi sat down without waiting to be offered a chair.

"This isn't about Kabir," Sharma said flatly, lacing his fingers together. "This is about your conduct."

She raised an eyebrow. "My conduct?"

"You undermined the school's internal disciplinary process. You publicly questioned a board decision in front of students. And you brought unnecessary attention to a sensitive issue."

Aarohi's voice was calm, but steel-threaded. "I asked for fairness. That's my job. Or am I mistaken?"

"You're walking a thin line, Ms. Desai," said the woman from the board, barely looking up from her papers. "We hope you'll find your footing again. For your own sake."

It wasn't a warning. It was a threat dressed in bureaucratic niceties.

When she finally left the room, she found herself standing outside the building, unsure how she'd even gotten there. Her breath came in short, tight waves.

It's not just Kabir anymore, she realized. They want me quiet. Compliant. Erased.

The breeze rustled a few pages from her notebook. She didn't stop them from fluttering away.

A message pinged on her phone.

Papa 👨‍🔧: Beta, I'll be home late today. Don't skip dinner.

She stared at the screen, a strange ache blooming in her chest. Her father's quiet strength was her anchor, even when unspoken.

She turned the phone in her hand before texting back.

Aarohi: Can we talk tonight?

No reply yet. He was probably busy at the temple or finishing up some work.

Back in her classroom during her free period, she opened Kabir's file on her laptop. There was still no concrete evidence. Just a timestamped email and an accusation. No digital footprints proving Kabir had opened it. No follow-up. Nothing that screamed guilt—just enough to justify punishment.

She needed answers.

And that meant stepping into dangerous territory.

Later, just before the last bell rang, she noticed a quiet figure standing near the stairwell.

Kabir.

He didn't have his usual backpack. His uniform was slightly rumpled, and his shoulders looked smaller somehow.

"Hey," she said softly, walking over. "You okay?"

He nodded quickly, eyes still fixed on the ground. "I wanted to say sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble for you."

Aarohi's heart squeezed. "Kabir, you didn't do anything wrong."

He looked up, tears brimming. "They said I might not be allowed to apply for college next year. That my name could be blacklisted."

Aarohi crouched slightly to meet his eyes. "I promise you, I'm not done fighting this. And you are not alone in this mess."

His lower lip trembled. "They told my parents not to make it public. Said it would ruin my future even more."

"Of course they did," Aarohi muttered bitterly. "They're hoping the silence will make this disappear."

Kabir nodded, looking defeated. "I'll be gone for a few days. Mom's pulling me out until it 'blows over.'"

She wanted to scream. Wanted to shake the walls of this school until they cracked.

But all she could do was place a gentle hand on his shoulder. "This isn't over. Not if I can help it."

As he walked away, the final bell rang.

The hallway filled with chatter and chaos once more.

But in the middle of it all, Aarohi stood still, as if a storm was gathering behind her ribs.

Because something was coming.

And this time, she wouldn't stay silent.

One vote could save Kabir. Okay, not really, but it'll make me smile like my mom seeing my masi.