Name on the Screen

The fog is thinner today, as if it has finally heard enough complaints and decided to behave. It still hangs over the lane, but now it feels like a shawl instead of a wall.

Priya notices this first because she can see the neem tree properly, each leaf edged in damp.

Inside, the house is running its morning in a low voice.

Rakesh has come back from a night shift before dawn and is asleep with one arm over his eyes, the newspaper folded near his pillow like a promise he will keep later. Sunita moves around him the way you move around someone you love—carefully, without resentment. Arjun is up too, but only because school is back and the universe is cruel.

At the doorway, Priya warms her hands around a steel tumbler of chai and watches steam curl up like handwriting.

“Don’t go early,” Sunita says. It is advice disguised as instruction. “Today is Thursday. That shop gets full on Thursdays.”

Priya nods. She already knows. Forms have their own weekdays.

Arjun appears, buttoning his shirt wrong on purpose so someone will fix it.

Sunita fixes it without comment.

Priya is about to laugh when she remembers her plan.

Fifteen minutes. Three days.

Today is day three.

Her plastic folder is under her arm as always, but the newest thing inside it is not a receipt or a status printout. It is Sharma Ji’s scrap paper with as df and jk kl underlined twice, like a teacher’s impatience turned into ink.

While Arjun searches for his other sock and Sunita counts rotis in her head, Priya sits on the edge of the cot and places her fingers on her own knee.

A-S-D-F.

J-K-L-;.

She moves slowly, tapping on fabric. The pattern feels ridiculous and also strangely calming. It is like reciting a prayer you don’t fully understand yet.

Arjun catches her and makes a face. “You’re doing magic on your leg.”

“It’s practice,” Priya says.

Arjun leans in, suddenly interested in the way people are interested in anything that can become a competition. “Show.”

Priya slides the scrap paper toward him.

Arjun reads it, mouth moving. “as df… jk kl.” He looks up. “This is like… ant walking.”

“It becomes words,” Priya repeats, because the sentence is now part of her.

Arjun makes a sound that could be agreement or mockery. Then he steals her idea and starts tapping his own thigh quickly, too fast, like speed will impress the universe.

He stops after three seconds. “My fingers are not listening.”

Priya feels a small pride bloom—quiet, not mean. “Mine also didn’t, yesterday.”

Sunita glances at them and says, “At least do it after eating. Otherwise you will faint with all this… finger-finger.”

Arjun groans at the word and grabs his school bag.

When he leaves, the house exhales.

Priya helps Sunita wash the peas she bought yesterday. They are small and bright, stubbornly green, like they refused to become winter. Sunita flicks off the ends and says, “We’ll make matar-aloo—peas and potato—today.”

Priya imagines the peas rattling in the bag again and feels oddly grateful that a simple vegetable can carry so much promise.

Before she goes out, she checks her phone once.

No new message.

The portal still says: Application under review.

She doesn’t read it twice. She puts the phone away.

That is also practice.

---

By the time she reaches the bus stand, the day has warmed by half a degree. It is still cold, but now the cold is negotiable.

Chai Uncle sees her and lifts his eyebrows. “Typing madam?”

Priya tries to look casual. “Only for a little.”

Chai Uncle pours chai and says, “If you keep going little-little, one day you will wake up and your fingers will be educated.”

“Educated fingers,” Priya repeats, amused.

He nods seriously. “Haan—yes. Like you. Education doesn’t enter with drum. It enters like fog—slow, and then suddenly you can’t see anything else.”

Priya laughs because it is too philosophical for a tea stall and also perfect.

He hands her the tumbler. “Soft hands,” he reminds her again.

Priya takes three sips, warms her palms, and makes herself leave before she can get comfortable.

Sharma Ji’s shutter is open fully today, and the shop is packed—the Thursday kind of packed, where people hold papers like offerings and the printer keeps coughing.

Sharma Ji sees Priya and points at a stool. “Later,” he says. “Sit.”

Priya sits with her folder on her lap, familiar with waiting—banks, portals, queues. Her fingers itch, not because she can fix anything, but because she wants her fifteen minutes.

It is not a movie. It is not a treat. It is work.

But it is her work.

After a while, Irfan appears at the doorway, shakes fog off his hair like a dog, and steps inside.

He sees Priya and gives her a small nod.

“Crowd,” he says, as if stating weather.

Priya nods back. “Thursday.”

Irfan smiles, just a little. “Forms have their own calendar.”

Sharma Ji snaps, “Both of you, if you are writing poetry, do it outside.”

Irfan raises his hands in surrender and comes to stand near Priya anyway.

“What are you here for?” Priya asks.

“Train ticket for my cousin,” he says. “And…” He glances at the keyboard, then at Priya. “You still doing typing?”

Priya feels her cheeks warm and hates that it can happen from a simple question. “Yes. Today is third day.”

Irfan’s eyebrows lift. “Good. Third day is the one where people stop.”

Priya looks at him. “How do you know?”

He shrugs. “I’ve stopped many things.”

The honesty lands softly between them.

Sharma Ji calls Irfan’s name sharply to come scan an ID. Irfan goes. Priya stays. The shop keeps exhaling paper.

Finally, around noon, the crowd thins the way fog thins—slowly, without announcement.

Sharma Ji points at the computer. “Come. Fifteen minutes. Then go.”

Priya’s stomach flips like she is about to take an exam, which is ridiculous because the only thing at stake is her own pride.

She sits.

Fingers on F and J.

The bumps are there, tiny and certain.

“Eyes on screen,” Sharma Ji says.

Priya nods.

Today, Sharma Ji does not start with straight lines of letters. He opens a blank document and types something himself, fast, without looking.

Then he deletes it.

He turns to her. “Type your name.”

Priya blinks. “In English?”

“In this computer, what else?” Sharma Ji replies.

Priya inhales.

She types slowly:

P-r-i-y-a.

She pauses, unsure about the next letter, then remembers the big bar at the bottom.

Space.

V-e-r-m-a.

Her name appears on the screen like a small, neat signboard.

Priya feels something in her chest unclench.

It is not the same as a receipt stamp. It is not official proof.

But it is a kind of proof.

Sharma Ji grunts. “Okay. Again.”

She types it again, a little faster.

Again.

She makes mistakes. She backspaces. She keeps her eyes on the screen. The letters wobble into place.

Outside, a bike horn blares and someone shouts about a missing document. Inside, Priya’s world becomes the narrow rectangle of the monitor and the soft clack of keys.

Sharma Ji slides her back into patterns.

as df as df

jk kl jk kl

Her fingers obey more today. Not perfectly. But more.

Halfway through, the power flickers.

The fan slows, then groans back to life.

The monitor blinks.

Priya freezes instinctively, as if her hands can protect electricity.

Sharma Ji thumps the table once. “Continue. If power goes, we stop. That’s also lesson.”

She continues.

The power holds.

When fifteen minutes end, Sharma Ji looks at the clock and says, “Bas—enough.”

Priya lifts her hands off the keyboard carefully, like she is putting down something fragile.

Sharma Ji reaches under the counter and pulls out a scrap of paper, this time slightly cleaner than yesterday’s.

He writes:

• Priya Verma (x5)
• as df (x10)
• jk kl (x10)

He shoves it toward her. “At home. Ten minutes. Not more. Otherwise you will think you are in some office already.”

Priya laughs, surprised by how good it feels.

Irfan, who has finished his ticket, watches her tuck the paper into her folder.

“Name on the screen,” he says quietly, like he can see it still.

Priya nods. “It looked… serious.”

“Everything looks serious on a computer,” Irfan says. “Even mistakes.”

Priya smiles.

Outside, the day is clearer now. The fog has retreated to the edges of fields, sulking.

On her way home, Priya buys a small packet of biscuits for Arjun—not as a bribe, exactly, but as a peace offering to the person who shares your house and your irritation.

At home, Sunita is stirring peas and potatoes in the pressure cooker. The smell of cumin rises into the room and makes the day feel anchored.

Arjun returns from school, throws his bag down, and immediately hunts for food like a person who has done hard labour instead of sitting on a bench.

Priya holds out the biscuit packet.

Arjun takes it, suspicious. “Why?”

“Because you exist,” Priya says.

Arjun laughs despite himself.

Later, when the light is best and the house is quiet again, Priya opens her notebook.

• Typing practice: Day 3 (15 minutes)

She draws a box.

She ticks it.

Below that, she writes:

• Home: Priya Verma x5
• as df x10
• jk kl x10

No tick yet.

She can feel the future sitting there, small and patient, like an unfilled checkbox.

At night, when she checks the portal once—only once—it still says under review.

But now, there is another line in her mind, bright and plain:

Priya Verma.

On the screen.

It is not a stamp.

It is not a confirmation.

Still, it is enough to help her sleep with her hands relaxed, as if they too are learning to trust what comes next.