The Stapled Face

Thursday morning begins with a sound before it begins with light.

It is the kettle’s first complaint—soft at the edges, then sharper—like it is clearing its throat for the day.

Priya wakes to it and to the faint, familiar cold that sits on the quilt as if it has decided to stay. For a second she forgets what day it is, and then she remembers the desk woman’s drawer-voice:

Tomorrow. Ten.

She sits up quickly and the cold bites her ankles in retaliation.

On the stool near the plastic folder, the passport photos lie like little identical strangers: Priya’s face, twice, printed too smooth and too serious. In the studio yesterday she tried not to smile too hard; now she looks like someone who knows where she is going.

Arjun notices them first, because Arjun notices anything that looks like it might be used to tease.

He comes out rubbing his eyes and says, “Didi (big sister), you are looking like bank manager.”

Priya flicks a corner of the photo strip at him. “Go brush,” she says.

Sunita pours tea into steel tumblers and glances at the photos without touching them, as if to touch would be to jinx.

“Keep them inside the folder,” she says. “Don’t fold. Don’t lose.”

Priya slides the photo strip into the plastic folder, between the BA confirmation slip and the home-row practice sheet, and the plastic makes that little sealed sound she has started to love.

The extra Aadhaar copy—fresh, bright—goes in too.

Outside, the fog isn’t as thick as yesterday, but it is still present in the way a neighbour is present: you don’t see them always, but you feel their eyes on the lane.

Priya checks the time.

08:22.

She plugs her keyboard into her phone for exactly five minutes—not because she needs to, but because it settles her hands.

She types:

clinic 10

and then, on a new line:

photo + aadhaar

and then, after a pause:

don’t hurry because of faces

She reads it once and unplugs.

Rakesh is awake today. He sits on the charpai in the inner room, rubbing his forehead as if he is trying to iron out a thought.

“Going again?” he asks.

“Haan (yes),” Priya says, and then adds, because she is learning to speak like her lists, “Ten o’clock.”

Rakesh nods. His eyes move briefly to the folder in her hand.

“Careful,” he says.

It is the same word he uses for the gas knob, for Arjun crossing the road, for money. It is not dramatic. It is an instruction.

At the bus stand, Chai Uncle has already made the first round of glasses shine. He sees Priya and raises an eyebrow like a small flag.

“Second day,” he says, and it is not a question.

Priya smiles. “Second day.”

He pours her chai and adds a little extra adrak (ginger) without asking. “Cold is making everyone feel like old people,” he declares. “All bones complaining.”

A man nearby scrolls his phone and reads out loud again, as if the act of saying it will push it away. “Fog warning,” he announces. “Drive carefully. Visibility very less.”

“We are driving with hope,” Chai Uncle says, and someone laughs.

Priya warms her fingers around the glass. The fog makes the distances strange; a shared auto that looks close is suddenly far. A dog that looks alone is suddenly in a group.

When the auto comes, she sits in the back again, folder pressed to her stomach as if it is a small animal.

On the Lucknow side roads, the morning opens a little. There are more buses, more horns, more people walking with their shoulders lifted against the cold.

Near a crossing, she sees a man selling marigold garlands—bright yellow circles against the grey. For a moment, the colour looks almost rude.

“Kal basant panchami hai (tomorrow is Vasant Panchami),” a woman says as she passes, holding a yellow dupatta against her chest.

Priya hears it and files it away with all the other near-future things: Republic Day posters that will come soon, school practice songs, the next BA assignment Sana will mention.

The clinic board appears on time today.

Inside, the desk woman looks up when Priya enters.

“Photos?” she asks immediately.

Priya pulls out the strip.

The desk woman takes it the way she takes everything—efficient, without ceremony—and tears two photos off with a practiced thumb.

“And Aadhaar copy,” she says.

Priya hands over the paper.

The desk woman opens a drawer, makes a small pile, and then points at a single-sheet form. “Fill this. Your details.”

Priya’s stomach dips.

Her own details.

She sits at the edge of the counter and picks up the pen. The form has boxes that are familiar now: Name. Father’s name. Address. Mobile number. Pin code.

Her hand hesitates at the mobile number, not because she doesn’t know it, but because it feels suddenly important in a new way. A wrong digit here would not be a small mistake. It would be a door that doesn’t open.

She writes slowly.

One digit at a time.

When she reaches pin code, her fingers remember the six numbers the way they remember home-row bumps.

226301.

She looks at it, then looks again, then underlines nothing—just trusts it.

The desk woman takes the filled sheet and glances over it quickly. “Okay,” she says, and then, almost as an afterthought: “PAN you don’t have?”

“No, madam,” Priya says.

“Later you make,” the desk woman says, as if PAN cards grow on trees and can be plucked when the season is right. “Not today.”

Priya nods, relieved, and watches as the desk woman staples one passport photo to the top corner of the form.

The stapler makes a sharp, satisfied sound.

Click.

Priya’s own face is now attached to paper that is going into a drawer.

For a second she feels like she has been pinned gently into the world.

The first patient arrives while she is still watching.

The desk woman slides the register toward Priya. “Start,” she says.

Today the work moves faster, not because Priya is suddenly fast, but because she is less afraid of the sequence. Register first. Computer second. Print when needed. Ask when unclear.

A man gives a phone number too quickly.

Priya lifts her eyes. “Number not clear—please tell again,” she says.

He repeats it, a little slower. She types it. She repeats the last two digits back.

He nods.

The desk woman does not praise. She does not scold. She keeps the pen moving.

That calm is starting to feel like an atmosphere.

By mid-morning, the waiting area fills in layers. People come in with scarves and complaints and small folded papers that have names written by someone else.

A mother hands Priya a slip. “This is my child’s date of birth,” she says. “Write correct.”

Priya looks at the numbers on the slip and feels a brief wave of gratitude for the fact that paper, at least, stays still.

She enters it carefully.

The printer behaves today, but the paper tray is already part of Priya’s awareness—like a stove you keep checking even when the flame is low.

At one point, the doctor steps out and says something quick to the desk woman about medicines running low.

The desk woman turns to Priya. “Make list,” she says, and points to a notepad.

Priya writes the medicine names as the desk woman dictates—half Hindi, half English, the spellings strange but steady.

When she isn’t sure of a letter, she asks.

The desk woman pauses, repeats, and Priya writes it again.

No one gets angry.

That is a new kind of luxury.

Near noon, a man in a wool cap says loudly, “Tomorrow holiday, no?”

Another man replies, “Basant panchami,” and laughs like the word itself is sweet.

Priya feels the day of tomorrow press up against today like a page under another page.

At 12:10, the desk woman finally nods at Priya’s bag. “Eat,” she says. “Five minute.”

Priya opens the roti Sunita packed. The pickle is sharp and wakes her mouth. The clinic smells faintly of antiseptic and winter clothes that have not dried properly.

While she eats, the desk woman holds Priya’s filled form up again and writes something at the bottom.

Then she looks at Priya. “Tomorrow also you come,” she says. “Ten. Then we see.”

Priya swallows.

“Yes, madam,” she says, and tries to keep her face normal even as something inside her wants to bounce.

Then we see.

It is not a yes. It is not a no.

It is the space between.

When Priya leaves at one-thirty, the desk woman counts notes again and places them on the table.

“Two hundred,” she says.

Same as yesterday.

Priya takes them and feels the paper edges bite her palm lightly—proof with corners.

Outside, the air is brighter. The fog has pulled back to the edges of the day. People walk faster now, as if they can finally see where they are going.

On the way home, Priya stops at Sharma Ji’s shop because her mind has already become a list of next steps.

Sharma Ji looks up from his screen. “Clinic?” he asks.

Priya nods.

He makes a sound that could be approval or indigestion.

“PAN they asked?” he says, as if he can smell bureaucracy.

Priya blinks. “Yes. But madam said later.”

Sharma Ji grunts. “Later means soon. Bring Aadhaar. Bring photo. Bring mobile. We can do.”

He does not ask if she has money for it. He does not offer sympathy. He just lays out the requirements like he is setting spoons on a tray.

Priya nods and feels strangely comforted. Paperwork, at least, has a shape.

At home, Sunita is rolling leftover til laddoo (sesame-sweet) mixture into small balls for tomorrow. “For Saraswati,” she says, as if Saraswati also likes sesame.

Priya hands her the two notes.

Sunita smooths them and puts them into the tin.

“Tomorrow you will go again?” she asks.

“Yes,” Priya says. “Madam said come. Then we see.”

Sunita’s mouth lifts at one corner. “Achha (okay),” she says. “Then we see also.”

Arjun appears with a school notebook and says, too casually, “Our PT sir said Republic Day practice starting. We have to sing ‘Vande Mataram’ also.”

He says it in English-heavy pronunciation, making it sound like a foreign dish.

Sunita throws a sesame crumb at him. “Sing properly then.”

Priya laughs, and the laugh feels like it comes from somewhere that has loosened.

In the evening, she plugs in her keyboard and opens her phone.

She types a new list:

tomorrow: clinic 10

carry: aadhaar copy (1), pen

Then she adds a new line, because life keeps adding lines:

PAN: ask Sharma Ji

Finally, she writes the sentence that has started to feel like a rule and a prayer at once:

don’t guess.

She sets the timer.

Fifteen minutes.

Outside, someone in the lane is already calling out for marigolds. Yellow is moving closer.

Inside, Priya’s fingers find the bumps on F and J without looking, and the keys answer back with their small, steady sound—like footsteps in a place she is slowly learning to belong to.