Mission Forensic
Part 22: The Committee
The corridor smelled faintly of varnish and warm paper, as though the building itself had been turning over memories all afternoon. Sunlight poured through high windows in slanted beams, striking the tiled floor in long, pale gold rectangles. Edward’s reflection rippled across the glossy surface with every step, his movements slow, deliberate, betraying none of the quickening in his chest.
The faculty wing never carried the chaos of the lawns outside. Here, life moved differently. A door clicked shut somewhere down the hall. Behind another, voices murmured low—snatches of conversation half-lost in the thickness of the walls. A kettle gave a single pop as it cooled, followed by the faint tinkle of porcelain. The air itself seemed measured, as if every sound were rationed carefully.
On his left, framed photographs stared out through glass: convocations from decades past, faculty lined in stiff rows, international guests caught in the awkward stillness of official smiles. On his right, whiteboards leaned with faint smudges of ink still clinging to them—blurred diagrams, ghostly timetables, the shadows of words that once mattered.
Edward slowed as he reached the door he knew too well. Brass letters caught the light in sharp relief:
Dr. Ridhima Sharma — Associate Professor, School of Forensic Science.
For a heartbeat, he stood still, notebook pressed firm against his arm. His reflection wavered faintly in the polish of the nameplate, fractured by the engraved lines. He felt the weight of her name more than the weight of the brass itself.
He raised his hand and knocked. The sound—a soft, precise rap—seemed louder than he intended, as though the wood had amplified his hesitation.
“Come in.”
The voice that answered was clear, composed. A voice that never had to compete with noise, because silence seemed to arrive at its command.
Edward exhaled, turned the handle, and stepped inside.
***
The office mirrored her reputation: exacting, but not without grace. A wide whiteboard gleamed across the wall, untouched, a row of markers lined like instruments beneath it. Journals rose in carefully measured stacks, their spines aligned with architectural precision. A Microscope sat idle in the corner, still but watchful. Yet the austerity was softened by human touches—a vase of marigolds in bloom on the sill, their bright petals spilling color into the room, their scent mingling with a faint thread of sandalwood smoke.
Behind the desk, Dr. Ridhima lifted her head. The ivory of her saree shimmered faintly where sunlight touched it, the pale blue border catching the light like a thread of sky. Her eyes, sharp and steady, held the room in quiet command..
“Edward.” She gestured toward the chair opposite. “Sit.”
He obeyed, with the iPad resting snug beneath his arm, his movements measured against the quiet gravity of the room.
“You’ve always been a student I could rely on,” she began, her tone clipped, deliberate. “Focused, steady, unwilling to cut corners. I saw it again in Gujarat—your paper, the way you held yourself among professionals. You’re ready for more than the rhythm of classrooms.”
Edward felt his pulse quicken, though his face remained composed.
“The Institute will host a five-day Hands-on Forensic Skill Development Workshop next month,” she continued. “A serious event. We expect senior faculty, Forensic Experts, and practitioners. The organising committee has been appointed. Faculty. Staff. All experienced.”
Her gaze settled on him, sharper now. “Except for one student. My student.”
For a moment, the room itself seemed to hold its breath. Edward heard the faint hum of the ceiling fan, felt the press of sunlight against his shoulder, the weight of her words like a seal placed firmly in his chest.
“You will be the student coordinator,” she said. “Not a helper. Not decoration. You’ll shadow the faculty, manage promotions, ensure transitions between sessions. It will be exhausting, invisible work. And failures—” she leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing—“will not be forgiven.”
Edward’s throat tightened, but he found his voice steady. “Yes, ma’am.”
Something flickered in her gaze then—softer, almost maternal, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Good. I don’t offer chances twice. Report to me tomorrow morning for the preliminary briefing.”
***
Edward stepped out of the office into the corridor, the door clicking softly shut behind him. For a moment, he didn’t move. The stillness of the faculty wing clung to him—the sunlight spilling in rectangles across the tiled floor, the faint squeak of a marker on a distant whiteboard, the rustle of papers somewhere behind a half-open door.
He drew in a breath, the air cooler out here, less dense than in the weight of her presence. The responsibility sat in him like a stone, heavy yet steady, not suffocating but undeniable.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, he typed quickly, his fingers almost impatient:
Ridhima ma’am just appointed me to the Organising Committee. Only student. Everyone else is faculty and staff.
The message went, its blue tick flashing back almost immediately. Catherine’s reply followed in less than a breath:
Of course she did. You’re her favourite. And Edward… I’m proud of you.
He stared at the words, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth before he could stop it. In the din of the campus outside, in the looming demands of the committee, her message was a thread that steadied him, pulled him back to ground.
He lingered by the window at the end of the corridor, watching as the lawns below came alive with the afternoon bustle. Students crossed in groups, their laughter spilling across the bright air. A bird skimmed low over the neem trees, its wings flashing silver in the sun.
And yet, despite the ordinary pulse of it all, something inside him had shifted. He could almost feel the days ahead stretching out like an unfamiliar road—hours of work, new eyes watching him, expectations heavy as stone.
But then he pictured Catherine’s face, the way she looked at him when she was proud, the way her hand always found his without hesitation. The stone didn’t feel so heavy.
He slid the phone back into his pocket and stepped toward the stairwell, the sound of his footsteps echoing softly down the quiet hall. Whatever this workshop demanded, whatever shadows or light it brought, he knew one thing with quiet certainty.
With Catherine beside him, he was not walking into it alone.
And that, more than anything, was enough.
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