16-05-2025, 09:06 PM
(This post was last modified: 17-05-2025, 06:20 AM by yodam69420. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The morning air was crisp with dew, carrying the sweet scent of damp earth and hibiscus blooms after a brief drizzle at dawn. The trees swayed lightly, their leaves glistening in soft gold, and birds chirped in scattered bursts as if waking the sleepy street. Sakshi stepped out onto the side veranda with a woven basket of freshly washed laundry balanced on her hip. Her faded, well-worn house saree was tucked high at the waist, revealing her calves as she moved barefoot across the stone tiles. The loose pallu was pinned neatly over her shoulder, brushing against her upper arm with every step.
Her hair was messily bunched into a high knot, several damp tendrils curling against her neck where the steam from her early morning bath still lingered. She breathed deeply, her chest lifting in rhythm with the slow calm of the morning.
She approached the thin, sagging clothesline strung diagonally across the small courtyard. A blue blouse, a pair of her son’s tiny shorts, a towel—each item was carefully shaken out and pinned with wooden clips. Her movements were practiced, rhythmic, almost meditative. Her thoughts, however, were less still.
She was still half-lost in the memory of the previous day—the swish of silk, Ramu’s laughter, the teasing glance he gave her in the trial room, the way his voice had dipped when describing how the blouse should fall on her back.
“Sunlight suits you.”
She startled slightly and turned. Ramu stood just outside the gate, one hand resting on the latch, the other cradling a steel tumbler of steaming tea. He looked disarmingly casual—white vest clinging slightly to his chest, lungi tied loosely around his waist, his salt-and-pepper hair still tousled from sleep. But his gaze was alert, playful, fixed firmly on her glowing face and the bare skin of her arms.
“You’re always up early,” she said, fighting a smile as she turned back to her clothes.
He raised his tumbler in mock salute. “Beats the crowd at the tea stall. And the sunrise is better when it’s falling on someone worth watching.”
She rolled her eyes, though her smile deepened. “Is that your version of a good morning?”
“Only for those who earn it,” he replied, stepping inside the gate with the confidence of a man who knew he wasn’t unwelcome.
Sakshi shook out another piece of cloth and pinned it up, not looking at him. “You’re impossible.”
“And you pretend not to enjoy it.” He leaned casually against the pillar, watching her work. “I was thinking about that plum saree.”
She paused. “Oh?”
“The blouse,” he said, lowering his voice just a little. “That deep cut you picked. I keep wondering how it’ll catch the light when you move.”
She turned slowly to face him, crossing her arms. “So you’re imagining me in it now?”
He didn’t blink. “I paid for it. Seems fair I get a few daydreams out of the deal.”
She laughed, a low teasing sound. “You’ll see it soon enough. But keep your hands to yourself.”
“Who said anything about touching?” he asked innocently. “I’m a patient man. I can wait. Watching has its own charm.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You really do know how to flirt in broad daylight.”
“Only when the woman makes the morning brighter than the sun,” he said, and sipped his tea with a slow grin.
Unbeknownst to either of them, Murugan stood at the kitchen window, half-hidden behind the curtain. He had come to refill his cup but froze when he heard Sakshi’s voice outside. Now he watched—still, silent—as the banter floated to him. The familiarity, the comfort, the faint flirtation in every word. It twisted something inside him.
His jaw tightened. He looked down at his cup, still empty.
Ramu glanced toward the house, sensing the movement behind the curtain. “Should I be worried?” he asked softly.
Sakshi barely glanced upward. “Let him stew. He had more than enough chances.”
Ramu chuckled. “I’ll bring tea tomorrow. Strong, fresh, and exactly how you like it.”
She gave him a long, sideways look. “If you add a pinch of scandal, I just might accept.”
They both laughed, their voices mingling and drifting softly through the courtyard. The morning sun climbed higher, pouring honeyed light across the hanging clothes, the cracked walls, and the barely bridled tension shimmering between them.
Inside, Murugan turned away slowly, his grip on the steel tumbler tightening as he poured hot water into it with mechanical precision.
He didn’t drink it.
---
The midday sun filtered lazily through the kitchen window, spilling soft golden light across the tiled floor. The scent of simmering sambar filled the air, mingling with the faint trace of jasmine oil still clinging to Sakshi’s hair from her morning bath. She stood at the counter in a cotton saree, sleeves slightly damp from splashes, absentmindedly stirring the bubbling pot as her mind drifted. Her phone buzzed next to the spice box, its screen lighting up with Meena’s name.
She wiped her hands hastily on her pallu and picked up the call. “Hello?”
“Sakshi!” Meena’s voice burst through the speaker, full of mischief and excitement. “You didn’t call me back yesterday, madam! You survived the Ramu shopping adventure, or should I be preparing a rescue mission?”
Sakshi let out a small laugh, setting the ladle down and lowering the stove flame. “Survived? Barely. It was less shopping and more... theater. He didn’t just help me choose—he practically choreographed the entire fitting. Saree, blouse, even the neckline. And Meena… you should’ve seen his face. Like a boy unwrapping a secret present.”
Meena cackled. “Oh no, don’t tell me he made you go full backless?”
Sakshi’s voice turned teasing. “Not completely. But it’s... minimal. Low cut. Thin doris. All his suggestions. He said he wanted people to guess where the blouse ends and imagination begins.”
“Oh my god, that man is dangerous,” Meena said, nearly choking on her laughter. “And Murugan? Did he see the ‘imagination blouse’?”
Sakshi rolled her eyes and leaned against the tiled wall, stirring her tea with one hand. “He didn’t even need to. The moment he saw Ramu carrying my bags and giving me advice, he turned silent. Frowned through dinner like he bit a green chili.”
Meena snorted. “And this is only the beginning! We haven’t even reached the real field trip. Wait till the hotel check-in.”
Sakshi chuckled, then lowered her voice slightly. “Meena… I’m nervous.”
Meena's tone softened. “What happened?”
“It’s one thing to flirt in shops, tease over tea, or brush fingers while handing over a blouse,” Sakshi said, her voice dropping. “But the trip… it’s going to be overnight. Close quarters. Shared space. Late nights. It’s different. I haven’t done anything like this. Not since...”
She trailed off, but Meena filled in the silence with knowing warmth. “Not since you stopped being seen.”
Sakshi inhaled slowly. “Exactly. And now someone’s looking. Deeply. And I—”
“You like it,” Meena finished for her.
“Yes,” Sakshi whispered. “It’s not just physical. When he talks to me, I feel… unzipped. Like I don’t need to hide the parts of me I shelved long ago. And that scares me, Meena. Because I want more. I want to feel that way without guilt.”
Meena was quiet for a beat. Then, with her usual confidence, she said, “Are you scared of what you’ll do… or scared of how right it’ll feel?”
Sakshi smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the small swirl of steam rising from her cup. “Both. He told me he wants to walk into that wedding hall with me, like we’re already something. Not hiding. Not pretending. And I keep hearing that in my head.”
“Then maybe it’s time you stop hiding too,” Meena said softly. “You know your heart, Sakshi. Don’t let fear wrap it back up.”
“I wish you were coming with us,” Sakshi said. “Just to buffer the chaos a little.”
“I’ll be there in spirit—and on speed dial,” Meena said. “Now, tell me. What are you really packing for the trip?”
Sakshi’s laugh bubbled out, warm and shy. “Not over the phone, you wicked woman. Let’s just say… I’m not packing like a guest.”
They both laughed, the sound brightening the kitchen like a breeze. And for a little while, the knot in Sakshi’s chest—twisting with excitement, dread, longing—uncoiled just enough to breathe.
-----
Late afternoon sunlight poured over the veranda as the delivery boy wheeled in two garment bags and a small box wrapped in brown paper. The air shimmered with heat, cicadas chirping lazily in the background. Ramu signed the slip with a quiet nod and a flash of anticipation behind his eyes. He thanked the boy, then lifted the bags with careful reverence—garments, after all, were more than cloth today. They were symbols of something bolder, riskier, something dangerously delicious.
Instead of heading inside, he peeled the navy sherwani from its protective cover and dbangd it over his shoulders right there on the veranda. The gold embroidery caught the sunlight like flame against deep sea. He straightened the collar, smoothed down the front, adjusted the sleeves until they sat just right, and admired the transformation in the mirror panel near the door. For a moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of feeling like a groom.
Across the courtyard, Murugan sat on the living room divan, legs crossed, flipping through a dog-eared magazine he wasn’t reading. The moment he heard footsteps approach, his eyes darted toward the source. He looked up and paused, frozen. There stood Ramu, dressed like he was about to host the wedding, not attend it.
What the hell is he trying to prove? Murugan thought, swallowing back the sudden dryness in his throat. His gaze stayed fixed too long on the intricate gold embroidery, the confident way Ramu carried himself. He’s not the groom. But he sure looks like he’s playing one.
"Delivery came early," Ramu said casually, stepping over the threshold with his usual easy swagger. His voice was calm, but it had that undertone of mischief. "Thought I’d bring them in myself. And figured I’d test this beauty out on the way."
Murugan raised his brows, voice dry. "You sure you’re not headed for a photoshoot instead?"
Ramu chuckled and ran his hand along his sleeve. "Just making sure the lighting does it justice."
Murugan tried to mask the unease curling in his gut. "Well, if Sakshi doesn’t try hers on now, we’ll all be outshined."
"That’s the idea," Ramu replied with a light smile.
He called toward the kitchen, where the clink of steel dishes hinted at activity. "Sakshi! The outfits are here. Come check."
Sakshi emerged a few seconds later, drying her hands on a towel, the ends of her hair still damp from an afternoon rinse. Her eyes locked instantly on Ramu’s sherwani. She blinked, then gave a slow, approving smile.
"You didn’t wait for me?"
"Couldn’t help myself," Ramu said, spreading his arms playfully. "You can’t unwrap a gift like this and just leave it lying around."
Murugan gave a tight smile. "You better go change too, Sakshi. Or else we’ll have to roll out a red carpet for him alone."
She chuckled and picked up the box and blouse. As she turned toward the bedroom curtain, a sharp wail came from the toddler’s room.
"You take care of him," she said, gesturing toward Murugan with mock urgency. "I need to try this."
Murugan stood, reluctant. "Right now?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, now. You’ve got two hands, haven’t you?"
With a sigh and mutter, he disappeared into the room with their son.
Sakshi vanished behind the curtain. Moments later, fabric rustled, bangles clinked, and the sound of hooks being secured drifted out.
Ramu looked toward the curtain and called out, this time with a teasing lilt, loud enough for Murugan to hear, "Murugan, mind if I steal a peek? Just to make sure my selection fits right."
From the other room, Murugan replied with dry humor, "As long as you remember she’s my wife and not your mannequin."
"Fair point," Ramu said with a grin. "I’ll leave the final unveiling to her husband, then."
Sakshi’s laugh rang out from behind the curtain, amused by both of them. Then she called out, playful but firm, "No peeking, Ramu—even through your jokes. Let the magic happen one reveal at a time."
She emerged minutes later, fully dbangd, stepping in front of the mirror. The plum silk shimmered with elegance, hugging her figure. The blouse elevated her presence into something regal.
Murugan returned, child dozing on his shoulder. He stopped mid-step.
"Well… at least now you match his drama," he said, attempting levity, but his tone carried something else.
Ramu, still watching her intently, added, "You’ll stop traffic at that wedding."
Sakshi gave him a sly smile. "Let’s see how well you keep up, Mr. Sherwani."
She walked over and circled him slowly, her fingers brushing the embroidery on his chest. Murugan’s eyes followed her hand, narrowing subtly.
"You’ll outshine the groom," she said softly. "But maybe not me."
Murugan sat again, gently patting their son’s back. He offered a scoff, amused on the surface, but something deeper burned under his skin.
They’re both glowing. And I’m the shadow in the room, he thought, watching how Sakshi smiled wider than he’d seen in weeks.
Ramu stood proud, his stance confident, unbothered by Murugan’s presence. Sakshi stood beside him like she belonged there.
Between them, an invisible current pulsed—faint to anyone passing by, but undeniable to those who knew where to look.
And Murugan knew. Oh, he knew.
He just didn’t know what to do with it.
------
The late afternoon sun filtered through the bathroom window in warm, honeyed shafts, dancing on the tiled walls as Sakshi stood in front of the small, slightly speckled mirror, wrapped in a thin cotton towel that clung damply to her curves. The door was locked—not merely for privacy, but because this moment was sacred. It belonged to her, and only her. No baby cries, no domestic interruptions, no husband’s eyes. Just the quiet hum of her own breathing, and the whisper of steam curling from the copper pot by her feet.
She dipped her razor into the bowl of warm water and began gliding it carefully over the soft slope of her underarm. Her skin shimmered in the golden light, dewy and supple. Each stroke felt like a reclamation—of attention, of time, of care. These rituals had once been routine, done for someone else. But today, they were done for herself, with the image of another man’s gaze etched warmly in her mind.
After finishing one side, she turned slightly, her hips shifting with instinctive grace, and continued on the other. Her breath moved in rhythm with her strokes, measured, steady. When she finished, she examined her reflection. Her collarbones peeked out from under the towel, the hollows of her shoulders catching the light. There was color in her cheeks, a soft flush that hadn’t been there just weeks ago. Something was changing. Something had awakened.
She reached for the small vial of sandalwood-saffron oil and uncorked it. The scent rose instantly—deep, warm, and just a touch seductive. She poured a few drops into her palm and began smoothing it into her arms with long, fluid strokes. Her fingers traced her neck, down to her chest, across her belly and the backs of her knees. Her skin drank it in. She tilted her body toward the mirror, twisting just enough to admire the angle of her lower back.
She imagined Ramu’s eyes—how they had paused at the sharp dip of her spine during their fitting, the hunger in his gaze when she’d asked his opinion about the blouse. He hadn’t spoken much. He hadn’t needed to. His eyes had said everything.
She turned to mimic the angle she remembered, slowly running her hands over the sides of her waist.
“He’ll notice this,” she whispered with a small, knowing smile.
Her fingers moved to her feet next, massaging cream into her heels, toes, arches. She lingered there longer than usual, enjoying the sensation of being tended to—even if by herself. She dusted her skin with talcum powder at the base of her neck, at the bend of her elbows, and behind her knees. Her next reach was for the slender glass perfume bottle tucked behind a comb on the shelf.
She spritzed the air, stepped into it, then dabbed at the insides of her wrists, behind each ear, and the narrow strip of skin just above her navel. She felt dbangd in more than scent—she felt wrapped in anticipation.
She loosened the towel slowly and let it fall in a gentle heap at her feet. She stepped into a deep wine-colored petticoat and then lifted the matching blouse. It was snug, newer than the others. The neckline curved just above her breasts, while the back plunged low with crisscrossing doris that tied at her spine. She tugged the strings tight and studied herself in the mirror.
Ramu would see this. And not as a stranger or admirer, but as something more. She straightened, adjusted her bust gently, and bit back a smile that made her eyes sparkle.
She adorned her wrists with bangles, slipped on her earrings, and gave her head a small shake, letting her hair tumble naturally over her shoulders. She looked radiant, alive.
Just then, the door handle clicked gently.
“Sakshi?” came Murugan’s voice, uncertain but curious.
She paused, catching her reflection one last time. “Just a minute,” she replied, with a sweetness that masked her fire.
When she emerged, fully dressed, a faint glow on her cheeks, Murugan was standing in the hallway, arms folded across his chest. His eyes moved from her freshly oiled arms to the way her blouse clung to her back.
“You getting ready for something?” he asked, trying for casual.
“Just taking care of myself,” she said lightly, brushing past him with an elegance that made even her simplest words feel pointed.
He didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered longer than he intended on the dori tied across her back, on the smell of sandalwood that followed her down the hallway like a breeze after a storm.
“I see,” he said at last.
But he didn’t ask more.
And she didn’t turn around.
The soft click of her anklets faded down the hall, along with the last golden thread of afternoon light, leaving Murugan staring at a closed door, and a version of his wife he hadn’t seen in years.
-----------
The evening air had cooled, casting a quiet stillness through the house. Only the kitchen lights glowed, golden and gentle, and a soft yellow bulb hummed above the dining table like an old friend clinging to silence. The smell of roasted mustard seeds and curry leaves floated through the air. Sakshi stood at the counter preparing dinner, her bangles clinking faintly as she stirred the sambar with one hand and wiped the rim of a plate with the other. Her movements were practiced, seamless—yet beneath the smooth rhythm, her eyes flicked toward the hallway now and then. Alert. Watchful.
Murugan sat at the table, hunched slightly, fingers tapping against the wooden surface. He wasn’t reading the newspaper spread before him. The television in the next room was off. The child’s toys were scattered but untouched. He was watching her. Not openly, but through those quiet glances filled with thought. His jaw worked slowly as if chewing on questions rather than food.
“How many blouses did you get stitched?” he asked, the words springing from the silence like a stone tossed into still water. His tone was casual, but his eyes stayed locked on her.
“Just the ones I needed for the wedding,” Sakshi replied evenly, not turning from her ladle.
“Blouse seemed a bit... low,” he murmured, lowering his gaze to his plate like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
She smiled, spooning sambar into a small steel bowl. “Ramu picked it. Said if heads aren’t turning, why bother dressing up?”
The clang of spoon against plate was sharper this time.
“Did he, now?” Murugan said, too slowly.
She turned, ladling sambar into his plate with deliberate care, eyes amused. “Don’t act so shocked. He has good taste. Better than yours, anyway. You always pretended like blouses didn’t exist.”
He forced a laugh, low and stiff. “Didn’t know necklines were a... shared activity now.”
Sakshi turned away with a shrug, the sway of her hips carrying a silent retort. Her silence said more than her words, and it rattled him.
Murugan ate slowly, chewing but not tasting. His mind churned.
*What was happening here?*
He wasn’t naïve. He saw the way Ramu looked at her—the heavy, deliberate gaze that lingered too long. He noticed the change in Sakshi. Her new perfume. The time she took getting ready. The way she hummed while doing chores. The extra shimmer in her bindi. The way she pressed her lips together when thinking, as if replaying a moment that didn’t belong to their house.
Even the way she spoke had changed. Less guarded. More playful. Not with him. Not anymore.
There was a distance. Not angry or dramatic, but deep—like the sea pulling back before a wave. She moved through the house like someone lit from within. Someone with secrets.
And it scared him.
*What if she’s slipping away? And I’m too slow to catch her?*
He watched her from across the table as she finally sat down with her plate, adjusting the pleats of her saree, sliding her hair back behind her ear. She didn’t fill the silence like she used to. She let it linger, as if comfortable in her own private world.
He cleared his throat. “You’re looking different these days.”
She looked at him over her glass of water. “Different how?”
“Just... different. Glowing. Not tired like before.”
Her head tilted slightly, amused. “That’s good, right?”
He nodded slowly. “Different enough to make me wonder if I’m still part of that world.”
She smiled—warm, but distant. “You’re always part of the world, Murugan. Whether you notice the view or keep staring at the same corner... that’s your choice.”
He didn’t speak after that. Even long after dinner was cleared. After she sang their son to sleep with a lullaby she hadn’t sung in years. After she emerged from his room quietly, adjusting her blouse as if already preparing for someone else’s gaze.
Later, when the lights were off and she lay beside him in bed, her back to him, her breathing calm and even, Murugan stared at the ceiling fan. The rhythmic creak of its blades seemed louder tonight.
*She’s right here,* he thought, *but she’s not mine anymore, is she?*
She hadn’t left. She hadn’t cheated. She hadn’t yelled or fought. But she was somewhere else. She had crossed a line he couldn’t see, and now she was dancing on the other side with someone who wasn’t afraid to watch her sparkle.
He turned slightly, careful not to disturb her. The outline of her shoulder in the moonlight looked both familiar and unreachable.
He wanted to ask her to come back. But how do you ask someone to return when you never noticed they were leaving?
His heart thudded against his ribs, thick with a guilt he hadn’t earned that day—but perhaps had collected over years.
He couldn’t afford to push her. He couldn’t risk a confrontation. One wrong word and the fragile rope between them would snap.
And then what?
He would be left with memories. With routines. With the ache of what he never said.
So he stayed quiet. Watched the ceiling. Held the sheets a little tighter.
*I love her,* he thought. *Even if she’s slipping through my fingers.*
And as her perfume lingered softly in the dark, he whispered to himself the one vow he hadn’t made on their wedding day:
*I won’t make her feel trapped ever again.*
------
Ramu’s phone buzzed just after sunset, while he was seated outside on the veranda sipping a strong cup of evening filter coffee. The breeze was picking up, and the scent of the tulsi plant mixed with the sharp edge of roasted chicory. He glanced at the screen—Ismail.
He answered with a chuckle. "Aiyo, bhai! You’re calling at last. Planning already done or more chaos added?"
Ismail’s voice was rich with excitement, tinged with pride. “Not chaos, my friend. Upgrade! The wedding’s moved—destination wedding style! It’s happening in Agra now. Venue confirmed today. We’re making it big. Palatial hotel, gardens, lights, everything. A proper royal celebration.”
Ramu blinked, eyebrows raising as he adjusted his lungi. “Agra? That’s far. What about the logistics? Guests, rooms?”
“All arranged,” Ismail assured him. “We’ll send you itinerary and stay details tomorrow. Just come prepared. I want you there, and I want her there too. I want everyone to see the queen you’re bringing.”
Ramu laughed heartily, his chest swelling with a mixture of nerves and pride. “I’ll tell her. She’ll like that news.”
They exchanged a few more details before ending the call.
Moments later, Ramu pushed himself up, walked across the veranda, and stepped into the house where Sakshi was rearranging a stack of blouses in her closet.
“Sakshi,” he said, his voice laced with that slow amusement he reserved only for her. “Change of plans.”
She looked up, curious. “What now?”
He leaned against the doorframe. “Agra. Destination wedding. Fancy venue. Lights, gardens... royalty types. That’s where we’re headed now.”
Her eyes widened, mouth parting slightly in surprise. “Agra? Really?”
He nodded. “It’s official. Meena needs to tell the story now. She’ll have to inform your husband too. Better the change comes from her. It keeps the lie intact.”
Sakshi nodded slowly, already calculating. “You’re right. He’ll believe it more if it comes from her mouth.”
Ramu pulled out his phone and held it up. “Call her. Time for her to play her part.”
---------
Sakshi closed the closet slowly, her mind already racing ahead. She picked up her phone, stepped into the next room, and dialed Meena. The call connected quickly.
“Hey,” Meena answered, her voice light, almost teasing. “What now, bride-to-be?”
Sakshi chuckled but didn’t waste time. “Change of plans. Ramu just got a call from his friend. The wedding is now a destination affair. Agra. Fancy palace venue, big crowd. Everything’s shifted.”
“Agra? Seriously?” Meena gasped. “That’s a big jump. And Murugan still thinks this is happening locally?”
“Exactly why I’m calling you,” Sakshi said, lowering her voice. “We need to update the story. You have to call him. Make it sound natural. Just mention it like an official update from your side. Tell him the wedding’s been shifted. Same people, same family. Just a new location.”
Meena groaned. “You’re lucky I love drama. Okay, I’ll do it. When?”
“Half an hour,” Sakshi replied firmly. “He’ll be home. I’ll place the phone on the table and go to the bathroom. You talk like it’s meant for me, but he’ll answer. Just play along, okay? Don’t go overboard. Just enough to convince.”
Meena snorted. “Fine, fine. But if I win an award for this performance, you better give a speech for me.”
Sakshi grinned. “Deal. Just be ready. We only get one take.”
They hung up, and Sakshi leaned back against the wall, inhaling slowly. The web was tightening, but it was holding—for now.
-----
The late evening was quiet, the hum of the ceiling fan the only sound filling the living room as Murugan sat with a cup of tea in hand. Sakshi had just stepped into the bathroom, her towel and comb in hand. The phone vibrated gently on the table, the screen flashing: Meena Calling.
Murugan glanced around, then picked it up. “Hello?”
There was a moment of hesitation before Meena’s voice came through, sweet and slightly sheepish. “Oh! Murugan anna? I thought Sakshi would answer. But maybe it’s better I speak with you directly.”
He furrowed his brow. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes. Nothing bad. Just... change of plans.” She exhaled for effect. “The wedding, the one we talked about? It’s been shifted. It’s now in Agra. Destination wedding. And it’s become a full seven-day affair.”
“Seven days?” Murugan blinked, leaning back in his chair. “Agra? But that’s—”
“I know,” Meena interrupted gently. “Believe me, it shocked all of us too. Big venue, huge celebration, both families are going all out. And... as you already know, I won’t be able to go. Amma’s condition hasn’t improved, and there’s too much here at home. But I really think Sakshi should still attend.”
Murugan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t respond immediately. His mind played images of Sakshi—smiling, glowing, talking to Ramu with an ease that gnawed at him.
“She’s been so excited about this trip,” Meena continued, her tone steady. “She’s done so much planning already. She deserves something like this. It’s not just about the wedding anymore—it’s a break. A reset. And she won’t be alone. Ramu uncle is going. He knows the crowd. She’ll be fine.”
“It’s seven days,” Murugan repeated, his voice barely above a murmur.
“I know it sounds like a lot,” Meena said gently, “but she’ll call often. She’ll update you, video chat, everything. You just have to trust her. And believe me, if you try to stop her now, it’ll feel like you’re trying to clip her wings when she’s only just started to fly again.”
There was a pause, then Meena added with a hint of mischief, “Besides, would you really want her cooped up here while Ramu uncle’s off charming the whole wedding crowd alone? You’ll make yourself jealous for no reason.”
Murugan gave a strained chuckle, one that barely masked the sharp twinge behind his ribs. “It’s not that. I just… it’s a long time. A long distance.”
“And she’s strong. She can handle it,” Meena said, tone soft but certain. “And she’ll come back to you. Maybe even more herself than ever before.”
Murugan rubbed his forehead. That strange combination of pride and fear twisted deeper. He didn’t want to be the villain. He didn’t want to be the reason she looked back at this moment with resentment.
“Alright,” he said finally, exhaling slowly. “She can go.”
Meena sighed in relief. “Thank you, Murugan anna. Really. She’ll be so happy. And you’ve done the right thing.”
They hung up.
Murugan sat alone, staring at the empty cup in his hand. He had said yes. Because he didn’t know how to say no without losing her completely.
------
The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the faint clang of utensils in the kitchen. A faint scent of jasmine hung in the air, mixed with the moisture of fresh bathing. Sakshi emerged from the bathroom, towel slung over her shoulder, hair still damp and curling around her cheeks. Droplets trailed down the side of her neck as she passed the mirror, humming softly under her breath. She walked toward the bedroom to check on her son, pausing briefly to glance at the clock, when Murugan’s voice stopped her.
"Sakshi..."
She turned slowly, towel mid-fold in her hands. His voice was unusually soft, uncertain.
Murugan stood near the dining table, one hand resting on the chair, the other holding her phone. The light from the kitchen threw a shadow across his face, exaggerating the tiredness in his eyes. The call with Meena had just ended minutes ago, and the silence between them felt heavier than the fan’s dull rhythm overhead.
“She called,” he said, his voice cracking slightly at the edges.
Sakshi raised her eyebrows, waiting. Her heartbeat quickened—not with fear, but anticipation she tried hard to hide.
He cleared his throat. “Meena. The wedding… it’s not local anymore. They’ve moved it. It’s in Agra now. A full seven-day affair.”
She blinked, taken aback even though she knew the plan. "Seven days? Agra?"
He nodded, eyes fixed on the floor like they might betray more emotion if they met hers. "Destination wedding. Some palace venue. Meena said everything’s already arranged. Big celebration."
There was a pause. Sakshi watched him, expression neutral, lips slightly parted. Her hands tightened around the towel, her chest tightening with suppressed excitement.
"And..." Murugan’s voice faltered again. He let out a shaky exhale. "She said you should go. That you’ve been involved so much already, and she can’t attend herself. She wants you to experience it. She said you’ve earned this."
A faint smile began to form on Sakshi’s lips, but she pressed them together, attempting composure.
“I told her you could go,” he added after a long pause, his voice low and hoarse. “If you want to.”
Sakshi stepped forward slowly, each footfall soft on the cool floor tiles. "You told her that?"
He looked up, his eyes damp but not tearful. "Yes. I... didn’t want to be the one who says no. Not when it’s something you’ve looked forward to."
Before Sakshi could respond, the front gate creaked open. The iron hinges groaned lightly in the dusk air. A knock followed, firm but familiar.
"Ramu," Murugan muttered, not surprised.
He walked to the door and opened it. Ramu stood there in a crisply pressed cream shirt, the collar stiff, an envelope in one hand and a gentle smile playing on his face.
"I brought the official invite," Ramu said, holding it out. "Didn’t want to be too late in delivering the big news."
Murugan stepped aside. "No. She just heard."
Ramu entered, eyes shifting quickly to Sakshi. His expression softened. "Seven days, Sakshi. Agra. Lights, music, palaces… and plenty of free time. You still up for it?"
Sakshi tried to contain the grin that rose unbidden. For years, she had dreamed of visiting Agra—of standing before the Taj Mahal, of tracing its white marble with her eyes, of walking through those historic archways like a queen reborn. The idea had always lingered in the corners of her mind, distant and unattainable. And now, without warning, the dream had stepped forward into her reach, dressed in silk and celebration. Her eyes shimmered with a quiet, restrained thrill. She nodded slowly. “I think I am.”
Murugan watched their interaction from a distance. The subtle way her body leaned slightly toward Ramu, how his words lit something behind her eyes. The room felt suddenly smaller. He turned away without a word, moving toward the table again, his spine stiff.
“She’s all packed,” he muttered, not looking at either of them. More to himself than to anyone else.
Sakshi’s eyes followed him. For the first time, she noticed how the light didn’t catch in his eyes like it once did. How his frame, once broad with pride, looked smaller, folded in by years and quiet sacrifices.
She stepped toward him, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.
Murugan gave a small nod, the tension in his jaw relaxing just enough to acknowledge her touch. But his eyes didn’t lift.
Behind her, Ramu stood watching with a quiet, unreadable expression. He didn’t speak, but something in the way he straightened his shoulders suggested he understood the weight of the moment.
Sakshi’s excitement swelled like a tide, uncontainable, but underneath it pulsed a quiet ache. One man’s silence, another’s offer, and her own restless heart beating right at the edge of choice and consequence.
The afternoon sun slanted through the window blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor of Ramu’s room. Outside, the distant sound of traffic and the occasional horn were muffled by the thick summer air. Inside, it was still—comfortably quiet.
Sakshi stepped in with a tiffin box, her pallu tucked neatly at her waist, eyes flickering with something between nerves and excitement. Ramu, seated on the edge of his cot, smiled up at her as she placed the box down.
“I thought I’d feed you something before we finalize plans,” she said lightly.
He chuckled. “If I knew travel discussions came with lunch service, I’d have started these meetings sooner.”
They both laughed, the sound soft, familiar.
As they ate, they talked—about train timings, the guest schedule, and how they’d avoid unnecessary questions. Murugan would be in the office until late tomorrow, and that gave them the perfect window to leave without fuss.
“Rajdhani Express," Ramu said, sipping water. "I checked. They have private compartments in the sleeper coach—just one compartment, two beds. Curtains. Privacy. A little world of our own.”
Sakshi didn’t respond right away, just continued eating, but her lips curled slightly.
He glanced at her sideways. “Just us, no distractions. ”
She raised an eyebrow playfully. “That generous, hmm?”
“You deserve it. After all, you’re packing the magic.”
Her eyes met his then—steady, unwavering. “I did pack something. Something special.”
His brow lifted. “For the wedding?”
“For you,” she replied simply.
He leaned back, lips parted in amused surprise. “And what might that be?”
She stood, gathering the tiffin slowly. “That’s for you to discover. One evening at a time.”
Ramu stood too, closer now. Their eyes locked in that hush between breaths.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked, voice softer.
Sakshi nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than ever.”
Outside, a bird chirped from the terrace wall. But inside, time had folded around them—past, present, and whatever came next. All suspended in that golden light.
The afternoon sun slanted through the window blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor of Ramu’s room. Outside, the distant sound of traffic and the occasional horn were muffled by the thick summer air. Inside, it was still—comfortably quiet.
Sakshi stepped in with a tiffin box, her pallu tucked neatly at her waist, eyes flickering with something between nerves and excitement. Ramu, seated on the edge of his cot, smiled up at her as she placed the box down.
“I thought I’d feed you something before we finalize plans,” she said lightly.
He chuckled. “If I knew travel discussions came with lunch service, I’d have started these meetings sooner.”
They both laughed, the sound soft, familiar.
As they ate, they talked—about train timings, the guest schedule, and how they’d avoid unnecessary questions. Murugan would be in the office until late tomorrow, and that gave them the perfect window to leave without fuss.
“Rajdhani Express," Ramu said, sipping water. "I checked. They have private compartments in the sleeper coach—just one compartment, two beds. Curtains. Privacy. A little world of our own.”
Sakshi didn’t respond right away, just continued eating, but her lips curled slightly.
He glanced at her sideways. “Just us, no distractions. ”
She raised an eyebrow playfully. “That generous, hmm?”
“You deserve it. After all, you’re packing the magic.”
Her eyes met his then—steady, unwavering. “I did pack something. Something special.”
His brow lifted. “For the wedding?”
“For you,” she replied simply.
He leaned back, lips parted in amused surprise. “And what might that be?”
She stood, gathering the tiffin slowly. “That’s for you to discover. One evening at a time.”
Ramu stood too, closer now. Their eyes locked in that hush between breaths.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked, voice softer.
Sakshi nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than ever.”
Outside, a bird chirped from the terrace wall. But inside, time had folded around them—past, present, and whatever came next. All suspended in that golden light.
Her hair was messily bunched into a high knot, several damp tendrils curling against her neck where the steam from her early morning bath still lingered. She breathed deeply, her chest lifting in rhythm with the slow calm of the morning.
She approached the thin, sagging clothesline strung diagonally across the small courtyard. A blue blouse, a pair of her son’s tiny shorts, a towel—each item was carefully shaken out and pinned with wooden clips. Her movements were practiced, rhythmic, almost meditative. Her thoughts, however, were less still.
She was still half-lost in the memory of the previous day—the swish of silk, Ramu’s laughter, the teasing glance he gave her in the trial room, the way his voice had dipped when describing how the blouse should fall on her back.
“Sunlight suits you.”
She startled slightly and turned. Ramu stood just outside the gate, one hand resting on the latch, the other cradling a steel tumbler of steaming tea. He looked disarmingly casual—white vest clinging slightly to his chest, lungi tied loosely around his waist, his salt-and-pepper hair still tousled from sleep. But his gaze was alert, playful, fixed firmly on her glowing face and the bare skin of her arms.
“You’re always up early,” she said, fighting a smile as she turned back to her clothes.
He raised his tumbler in mock salute. “Beats the crowd at the tea stall. And the sunrise is better when it’s falling on someone worth watching.”
She rolled her eyes, though her smile deepened. “Is that your version of a good morning?”
“Only for those who earn it,” he replied, stepping inside the gate with the confidence of a man who knew he wasn’t unwelcome.
Sakshi shook out another piece of cloth and pinned it up, not looking at him. “You’re impossible.”
“And you pretend not to enjoy it.” He leaned casually against the pillar, watching her work. “I was thinking about that plum saree.”
She paused. “Oh?”
“The blouse,” he said, lowering his voice just a little. “That deep cut you picked. I keep wondering how it’ll catch the light when you move.”
She turned slowly to face him, crossing her arms. “So you’re imagining me in it now?”
He didn’t blink. “I paid for it. Seems fair I get a few daydreams out of the deal.”
She laughed, a low teasing sound. “You’ll see it soon enough. But keep your hands to yourself.”
“Who said anything about touching?” he asked innocently. “I’m a patient man. I can wait. Watching has its own charm.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You really do know how to flirt in broad daylight.”
“Only when the woman makes the morning brighter than the sun,” he said, and sipped his tea with a slow grin.
Unbeknownst to either of them, Murugan stood at the kitchen window, half-hidden behind the curtain. He had come to refill his cup but froze when he heard Sakshi’s voice outside. Now he watched—still, silent—as the banter floated to him. The familiarity, the comfort, the faint flirtation in every word. It twisted something inside him.
His jaw tightened. He looked down at his cup, still empty.
Ramu glanced toward the house, sensing the movement behind the curtain. “Should I be worried?” he asked softly.
Sakshi barely glanced upward. “Let him stew. He had more than enough chances.”
Ramu chuckled. “I’ll bring tea tomorrow. Strong, fresh, and exactly how you like it.”
She gave him a long, sideways look. “If you add a pinch of scandal, I just might accept.”
They both laughed, their voices mingling and drifting softly through the courtyard. The morning sun climbed higher, pouring honeyed light across the hanging clothes, the cracked walls, and the barely bridled tension shimmering between them.
Inside, Murugan turned away slowly, his grip on the steel tumbler tightening as he poured hot water into it with mechanical precision.
He didn’t drink it.
---
The midday sun filtered lazily through the kitchen window, spilling soft golden light across the tiled floor. The scent of simmering sambar filled the air, mingling with the faint trace of jasmine oil still clinging to Sakshi’s hair from her morning bath. She stood at the counter in a cotton saree, sleeves slightly damp from splashes, absentmindedly stirring the bubbling pot as her mind drifted. Her phone buzzed next to the spice box, its screen lighting up with Meena’s name.
She wiped her hands hastily on her pallu and picked up the call. “Hello?”
“Sakshi!” Meena’s voice burst through the speaker, full of mischief and excitement. “You didn’t call me back yesterday, madam! You survived the Ramu shopping adventure, or should I be preparing a rescue mission?”
Sakshi let out a small laugh, setting the ladle down and lowering the stove flame. “Survived? Barely. It was less shopping and more... theater. He didn’t just help me choose—he practically choreographed the entire fitting. Saree, blouse, even the neckline. And Meena… you should’ve seen his face. Like a boy unwrapping a secret present.”
Meena cackled. “Oh no, don’t tell me he made you go full backless?”
Sakshi’s voice turned teasing. “Not completely. But it’s... minimal. Low cut. Thin doris. All his suggestions. He said he wanted people to guess where the blouse ends and imagination begins.”
“Oh my god, that man is dangerous,” Meena said, nearly choking on her laughter. “And Murugan? Did he see the ‘imagination blouse’?”
Sakshi rolled her eyes and leaned against the tiled wall, stirring her tea with one hand. “He didn’t even need to. The moment he saw Ramu carrying my bags and giving me advice, he turned silent. Frowned through dinner like he bit a green chili.”
Meena snorted. “And this is only the beginning! We haven’t even reached the real field trip. Wait till the hotel check-in.”
Sakshi chuckled, then lowered her voice slightly. “Meena… I’m nervous.”
Meena's tone softened. “What happened?”
“It’s one thing to flirt in shops, tease over tea, or brush fingers while handing over a blouse,” Sakshi said, her voice dropping. “But the trip… it’s going to be overnight. Close quarters. Shared space. Late nights. It’s different. I haven’t done anything like this. Not since...”
She trailed off, but Meena filled in the silence with knowing warmth. “Not since you stopped being seen.”
Sakshi inhaled slowly. “Exactly. And now someone’s looking. Deeply. And I—”
“You like it,” Meena finished for her.
“Yes,” Sakshi whispered. “It’s not just physical. When he talks to me, I feel… unzipped. Like I don’t need to hide the parts of me I shelved long ago. And that scares me, Meena. Because I want more. I want to feel that way without guilt.”
Meena was quiet for a beat. Then, with her usual confidence, she said, “Are you scared of what you’ll do… or scared of how right it’ll feel?”
Sakshi smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the small swirl of steam rising from her cup. “Both. He told me he wants to walk into that wedding hall with me, like we’re already something. Not hiding. Not pretending. And I keep hearing that in my head.”
“Then maybe it’s time you stop hiding too,” Meena said softly. “You know your heart, Sakshi. Don’t let fear wrap it back up.”
“I wish you were coming with us,” Sakshi said. “Just to buffer the chaos a little.”
“I’ll be there in spirit—and on speed dial,” Meena said. “Now, tell me. What are you really packing for the trip?”
Sakshi’s laugh bubbled out, warm and shy. “Not over the phone, you wicked woman. Let’s just say… I’m not packing like a guest.”
They both laughed, the sound brightening the kitchen like a breeze. And for a little while, the knot in Sakshi’s chest—twisting with excitement, dread, longing—uncoiled just enough to breathe.
-----
Late afternoon sunlight poured over the veranda as the delivery boy wheeled in two garment bags and a small box wrapped in brown paper. The air shimmered with heat, cicadas chirping lazily in the background. Ramu signed the slip with a quiet nod and a flash of anticipation behind his eyes. He thanked the boy, then lifted the bags with careful reverence—garments, after all, were more than cloth today. They were symbols of something bolder, riskier, something dangerously delicious.
Instead of heading inside, he peeled the navy sherwani from its protective cover and dbangd it over his shoulders right there on the veranda. The gold embroidery caught the sunlight like flame against deep sea. He straightened the collar, smoothed down the front, adjusted the sleeves until they sat just right, and admired the transformation in the mirror panel near the door. For a moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of feeling like a groom.
Across the courtyard, Murugan sat on the living room divan, legs crossed, flipping through a dog-eared magazine he wasn’t reading. The moment he heard footsteps approach, his eyes darted toward the source. He looked up and paused, frozen. There stood Ramu, dressed like he was about to host the wedding, not attend it.
What the hell is he trying to prove? Murugan thought, swallowing back the sudden dryness in his throat. His gaze stayed fixed too long on the intricate gold embroidery, the confident way Ramu carried himself. He’s not the groom. But he sure looks like he’s playing one.
"Delivery came early," Ramu said casually, stepping over the threshold with his usual easy swagger. His voice was calm, but it had that undertone of mischief. "Thought I’d bring them in myself. And figured I’d test this beauty out on the way."
Murugan raised his brows, voice dry. "You sure you’re not headed for a photoshoot instead?"
Ramu chuckled and ran his hand along his sleeve. "Just making sure the lighting does it justice."
Murugan tried to mask the unease curling in his gut. "Well, if Sakshi doesn’t try hers on now, we’ll all be outshined."
"That’s the idea," Ramu replied with a light smile.
He called toward the kitchen, where the clink of steel dishes hinted at activity. "Sakshi! The outfits are here. Come check."
Sakshi emerged a few seconds later, drying her hands on a towel, the ends of her hair still damp from an afternoon rinse. Her eyes locked instantly on Ramu’s sherwani. She blinked, then gave a slow, approving smile.
"You didn’t wait for me?"
"Couldn’t help myself," Ramu said, spreading his arms playfully. "You can’t unwrap a gift like this and just leave it lying around."
Murugan gave a tight smile. "You better go change too, Sakshi. Or else we’ll have to roll out a red carpet for him alone."
She chuckled and picked up the box and blouse. As she turned toward the bedroom curtain, a sharp wail came from the toddler’s room.
"You take care of him," she said, gesturing toward Murugan with mock urgency. "I need to try this."
Murugan stood, reluctant. "Right now?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, now. You’ve got two hands, haven’t you?"
With a sigh and mutter, he disappeared into the room with their son.
Sakshi vanished behind the curtain. Moments later, fabric rustled, bangles clinked, and the sound of hooks being secured drifted out.
Ramu looked toward the curtain and called out, this time with a teasing lilt, loud enough for Murugan to hear, "Murugan, mind if I steal a peek? Just to make sure my selection fits right."
From the other room, Murugan replied with dry humor, "As long as you remember she’s my wife and not your mannequin."
"Fair point," Ramu said with a grin. "I’ll leave the final unveiling to her husband, then."
Sakshi’s laugh rang out from behind the curtain, amused by both of them. Then she called out, playful but firm, "No peeking, Ramu—even through your jokes. Let the magic happen one reveal at a time."
She emerged minutes later, fully dbangd, stepping in front of the mirror. The plum silk shimmered with elegance, hugging her figure. The blouse elevated her presence into something regal.
Murugan returned, child dozing on his shoulder. He stopped mid-step.
"Well… at least now you match his drama," he said, attempting levity, but his tone carried something else.
Ramu, still watching her intently, added, "You’ll stop traffic at that wedding."
Sakshi gave him a sly smile. "Let’s see how well you keep up, Mr. Sherwani."
She walked over and circled him slowly, her fingers brushing the embroidery on his chest. Murugan’s eyes followed her hand, narrowing subtly.
"You’ll outshine the groom," she said softly. "But maybe not me."
Murugan sat again, gently patting their son’s back. He offered a scoff, amused on the surface, but something deeper burned under his skin.
They’re both glowing. And I’m the shadow in the room, he thought, watching how Sakshi smiled wider than he’d seen in weeks.
Ramu stood proud, his stance confident, unbothered by Murugan’s presence. Sakshi stood beside him like she belonged there.
Between them, an invisible current pulsed—faint to anyone passing by, but undeniable to those who knew where to look.
And Murugan knew. Oh, he knew.
He just didn’t know what to do with it.
------
The late afternoon sun filtered through the bathroom window in warm, honeyed shafts, dancing on the tiled walls as Sakshi stood in front of the small, slightly speckled mirror, wrapped in a thin cotton towel that clung damply to her curves. The door was locked—not merely for privacy, but because this moment was sacred. It belonged to her, and only her. No baby cries, no domestic interruptions, no husband’s eyes. Just the quiet hum of her own breathing, and the whisper of steam curling from the copper pot by her feet.
She dipped her razor into the bowl of warm water and began gliding it carefully over the soft slope of her underarm. Her skin shimmered in the golden light, dewy and supple. Each stroke felt like a reclamation—of attention, of time, of care. These rituals had once been routine, done for someone else. But today, they were done for herself, with the image of another man’s gaze etched warmly in her mind.
After finishing one side, she turned slightly, her hips shifting with instinctive grace, and continued on the other. Her breath moved in rhythm with her strokes, measured, steady. When she finished, she examined her reflection. Her collarbones peeked out from under the towel, the hollows of her shoulders catching the light. There was color in her cheeks, a soft flush that hadn’t been there just weeks ago. Something was changing. Something had awakened.
She reached for the small vial of sandalwood-saffron oil and uncorked it. The scent rose instantly—deep, warm, and just a touch seductive. She poured a few drops into her palm and began smoothing it into her arms with long, fluid strokes. Her fingers traced her neck, down to her chest, across her belly and the backs of her knees. Her skin drank it in. She tilted her body toward the mirror, twisting just enough to admire the angle of her lower back.
She imagined Ramu’s eyes—how they had paused at the sharp dip of her spine during their fitting, the hunger in his gaze when she’d asked his opinion about the blouse. He hadn’t spoken much. He hadn’t needed to. His eyes had said everything.
She turned to mimic the angle she remembered, slowly running her hands over the sides of her waist.
“He’ll notice this,” she whispered with a small, knowing smile.
Her fingers moved to her feet next, massaging cream into her heels, toes, arches. She lingered there longer than usual, enjoying the sensation of being tended to—even if by herself. She dusted her skin with talcum powder at the base of her neck, at the bend of her elbows, and behind her knees. Her next reach was for the slender glass perfume bottle tucked behind a comb on the shelf.
She spritzed the air, stepped into it, then dabbed at the insides of her wrists, behind each ear, and the narrow strip of skin just above her navel. She felt dbangd in more than scent—she felt wrapped in anticipation.
She loosened the towel slowly and let it fall in a gentle heap at her feet. She stepped into a deep wine-colored petticoat and then lifted the matching blouse. It was snug, newer than the others. The neckline curved just above her breasts, while the back plunged low with crisscrossing doris that tied at her spine. She tugged the strings tight and studied herself in the mirror.
Ramu would see this. And not as a stranger or admirer, but as something more. She straightened, adjusted her bust gently, and bit back a smile that made her eyes sparkle.
She adorned her wrists with bangles, slipped on her earrings, and gave her head a small shake, letting her hair tumble naturally over her shoulders. She looked radiant, alive.
Just then, the door handle clicked gently.
“Sakshi?” came Murugan’s voice, uncertain but curious.
She paused, catching her reflection one last time. “Just a minute,” she replied, with a sweetness that masked her fire.
When she emerged, fully dressed, a faint glow on her cheeks, Murugan was standing in the hallway, arms folded across his chest. His eyes moved from her freshly oiled arms to the way her blouse clung to her back.
“You getting ready for something?” he asked, trying for casual.
“Just taking care of myself,” she said lightly, brushing past him with an elegance that made even her simplest words feel pointed.
He didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered longer than he intended on the dori tied across her back, on the smell of sandalwood that followed her down the hallway like a breeze after a storm.
“I see,” he said at last.
But he didn’t ask more.
And she didn’t turn around.
The soft click of her anklets faded down the hall, along with the last golden thread of afternoon light, leaving Murugan staring at a closed door, and a version of his wife he hadn’t seen in years.
-----------
The evening air had cooled, casting a quiet stillness through the house. Only the kitchen lights glowed, golden and gentle, and a soft yellow bulb hummed above the dining table like an old friend clinging to silence. The smell of roasted mustard seeds and curry leaves floated through the air. Sakshi stood at the counter preparing dinner, her bangles clinking faintly as she stirred the sambar with one hand and wiped the rim of a plate with the other. Her movements were practiced, seamless—yet beneath the smooth rhythm, her eyes flicked toward the hallway now and then. Alert. Watchful.
Murugan sat at the table, hunched slightly, fingers tapping against the wooden surface. He wasn’t reading the newspaper spread before him. The television in the next room was off. The child’s toys were scattered but untouched. He was watching her. Not openly, but through those quiet glances filled with thought. His jaw worked slowly as if chewing on questions rather than food.
“How many blouses did you get stitched?” he asked, the words springing from the silence like a stone tossed into still water. His tone was casual, but his eyes stayed locked on her.
“Just the ones I needed for the wedding,” Sakshi replied evenly, not turning from her ladle.
“Blouse seemed a bit... low,” he murmured, lowering his gaze to his plate like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
She smiled, spooning sambar into a small steel bowl. “Ramu picked it. Said if heads aren’t turning, why bother dressing up?”
The clang of spoon against plate was sharper this time.
“Did he, now?” Murugan said, too slowly.
She turned, ladling sambar into his plate with deliberate care, eyes amused. “Don’t act so shocked. He has good taste. Better than yours, anyway. You always pretended like blouses didn’t exist.”
He forced a laugh, low and stiff. “Didn’t know necklines were a... shared activity now.”
Sakshi turned away with a shrug, the sway of her hips carrying a silent retort. Her silence said more than her words, and it rattled him.
Murugan ate slowly, chewing but not tasting. His mind churned.
*What was happening here?*
He wasn’t naïve. He saw the way Ramu looked at her—the heavy, deliberate gaze that lingered too long. He noticed the change in Sakshi. Her new perfume. The time she took getting ready. The way she hummed while doing chores. The extra shimmer in her bindi. The way she pressed her lips together when thinking, as if replaying a moment that didn’t belong to their house.
Even the way she spoke had changed. Less guarded. More playful. Not with him. Not anymore.
There was a distance. Not angry or dramatic, but deep—like the sea pulling back before a wave. She moved through the house like someone lit from within. Someone with secrets.
And it scared him.
*What if she’s slipping away? And I’m too slow to catch her?*
He watched her from across the table as she finally sat down with her plate, adjusting the pleats of her saree, sliding her hair back behind her ear. She didn’t fill the silence like she used to. She let it linger, as if comfortable in her own private world.
He cleared his throat. “You’re looking different these days.”
She looked at him over her glass of water. “Different how?”
“Just... different. Glowing. Not tired like before.”
Her head tilted slightly, amused. “That’s good, right?”
He nodded slowly. “Different enough to make me wonder if I’m still part of that world.”
She smiled—warm, but distant. “You’re always part of the world, Murugan. Whether you notice the view or keep staring at the same corner... that’s your choice.”
He didn’t speak after that. Even long after dinner was cleared. After she sang their son to sleep with a lullaby she hadn’t sung in years. After she emerged from his room quietly, adjusting her blouse as if already preparing for someone else’s gaze.
Later, when the lights were off and she lay beside him in bed, her back to him, her breathing calm and even, Murugan stared at the ceiling fan. The rhythmic creak of its blades seemed louder tonight.
*She’s right here,* he thought, *but she’s not mine anymore, is she?*
She hadn’t left. She hadn’t cheated. She hadn’t yelled or fought. But she was somewhere else. She had crossed a line he couldn’t see, and now she was dancing on the other side with someone who wasn’t afraid to watch her sparkle.
He turned slightly, careful not to disturb her. The outline of her shoulder in the moonlight looked both familiar and unreachable.
He wanted to ask her to come back. But how do you ask someone to return when you never noticed they were leaving?
His heart thudded against his ribs, thick with a guilt he hadn’t earned that day—but perhaps had collected over years.
He couldn’t afford to push her. He couldn’t risk a confrontation. One wrong word and the fragile rope between them would snap.
And then what?
He would be left with memories. With routines. With the ache of what he never said.
So he stayed quiet. Watched the ceiling. Held the sheets a little tighter.
*I love her,* he thought. *Even if she’s slipping through my fingers.*
And as her perfume lingered softly in the dark, he whispered to himself the one vow he hadn’t made on their wedding day:
*I won’t make her feel trapped ever again.*
------
Ramu’s phone buzzed just after sunset, while he was seated outside on the veranda sipping a strong cup of evening filter coffee. The breeze was picking up, and the scent of the tulsi plant mixed with the sharp edge of roasted chicory. He glanced at the screen—Ismail.
He answered with a chuckle. "Aiyo, bhai! You’re calling at last. Planning already done or more chaos added?"
Ismail’s voice was rich with excitement, tinged with pride. “Not chaos, my friend. Upgrade! The wedding’s moved—destination wedding style! It’s happening in Agra now. Venue confirmed today. We’re making it big. Palatial hotel, gardens, lights, everything. A proper royal celebration.”
Ramu blinked, eyebrows raising as he adjusted his lungi. “Agra? That’s far. What about the logistics? Guests, rooms?”
“All arranged,” Ismail assured him. “We’ll send you itinerary and stay details tomorrow. Just come prepared. I want you there, and I want her there too. I want everyone to see the queen you’re bringing.”
Ramu laughed heartily, his chest swelling with a mixture of nerves and pride. “I’ll tell her. She’ll like that news.”
They exchanged a few more details before ending the call.
Moments later, Ramu pushed himself up, walked across the veranda, and stepped into the house where Sakshi was rearranging a stack of blouses in her closet.
“Sakshi,” he said, his voice laced with that slow amusement he reserved only for her. “Change of plans.”
She looked up, curious. “What now?”
He leaned against the doorframe. “Agra. Destination wedding. Fancy venue. Lights, gardens... royalty types. That’s where we’re headed now.”
Her eyes widened, mouth parting slightly in surprise. “Agra? Really?”
He nodded. “It’s official. Meena needs to tell the story now. She’ll have to inform your husband too. Better the change comes from her. It keeps the lie intact.”
Sakshi nodded slowly, already calculating. “You’re right. He’ll believe it more if it comes from her mouth.”
Ramu pulled out his phone and held it up. “Call her. Time for her to play her part.”
---------
Sakshi closed the closet slowly, her mind already racing ahead. She picked up her phone, stepped into the next room, and dialed Meena. The call connected quickly.
“Hey,” Meena answered, her voice light, almost teasing. “What now, bride-to-be?”
Sakshi chuckled but didn’t waste time. “Change of plans. Ramu just got a call from his friend. The wedding is now a destination affair. Agra. Fancy palace venue, big crowd. Everything’s shifted.”
“Agra? Seriously?” Meena gasped. “That’s a big jump. And Murugan still thinks this is happening locally?”
“Exactly why I’m calling you,” Sakshi said, lowering her voice. “We need to update the story. You have to call him. Make it sound natural. Just mention it like an official update from your side. Tell him the wedding’s been shifted. Same people, same family. Just a new location.”
Meena groaned. “You’re lucky I love drama. Okay, I’ll do it. When?”
“Half an hour,” Sakshi replied firmly. “He’ll be home. I’ll place the phone on the table and go to the bathroom. You talk like it’s meant for me, but he’ll answer. Just play along, okay? Don’t go overboard. Just enough to convince.”
Meena snorted. “Fine, fine. But if I win an award for this performance, you better give a speech for me.”
Sakshi grinned. “Deal. Just be ready. We only get one take.”
They hung up, and Sakshi leaned back against the wall, inhaling slowly. The web was tightening, but it was holding—for now.
-----
The late evening was quiet, the hum of the ceiling fan the only sound filling the living room as Murugan sat with a cup of tea in hand. Sakshi had just stepped into the bathroom, her towel and comb in hand. The phone vibrated gently on the table, the screen flashing: Meena Calling.
Murugan glanced around, then picked it up. “Hello?”
There was a moment of hesitation before Meena’s voice came through, sweet and slightly sheepish. “Oh! Murugan anna? I thought Sakshi would answer. But maybe it’s better I speak with you directly.”
He furrowed his brow. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes. Nothing bad. Just... change of plans.” She exhaled for effect. “The wedding, the one we talked about? It’s been shifted. It’s now in Agra. Destination wedding. And it’s become a full seven-day affair.”
“Seven days?” Murugan blinked, leaning back in his chair. “Agra? But that’s—”
“I know,” Meena interrupted gently. “Believe me, it shocked all of us too. Big venue, huge celebration, both families are going all out. And... as you already know, I won’t be able to go. Amma’s condition hasn’t improved, and there’s too much here at home. But I really think Sakshi should still attend.”
Murugan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t respond immediately. His mind played images of Sakshi—smiling, glowing, talking to Ramu with an ease that gnawed at him.
“She’s been so excited about this trip,” Meena continued, her tone steady. “She’s done so much planning already. She deserves something like this. It’s not just about the wedding anymore—it’s a break. A reset. And she won’t be alone. Ramu uncle is going. He knows the crowd. She’ll be fine.”
“It’s seven days,” Murugan repeated, his voice barely above a murmur.
“I know it sounds like a lot,” Meena said gently, “but she’ll call often. She’ll update you, video chat, everything. You just have to trust her. And believe me, if you try to stop her now, it’ll feel like you’re trying to clip her wings when she’s only just started to fly again.”
There was a pause, then Meena added with a hint of mischief, “Besides, would you really want her cooped up here while Ramu uncle’s off charming the whole wedding crowd alone? You’ll make yourself jealous for no reason.”
Murugan gave a strained chuckle, one that barely masked the sharp twinge behind his ribs. “It’s not that. I just… it’s a long time. A long distance.”
“And she’s strong. She can handle it,” Meena said, tone soft but certain. “And she’ll come back to you. Maybe even more herself than ever before.”
Murugan rubbed his forehead. That strange combination of pride and fear twisted deeper. He didn’t want to be the villain. He didn’t want to be the reason she looked back at this moment with resentment.
“Alright,” he said finally, exhaling slowly. “She can go.”
Meena sighed in relief. “Thank you, Murugan anna. Really. She’ll be so happy. And you’ve done the right thing.”
They hung up.
Murugan sat alone, staring at the empty cup in his hand. He had said yes. Because he didn’t know how to say no without losing her completely.
------
The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the faint clang of utensils in the kitchen. A faint scent of jasmine hung in the air, mixed with the moisture of fresh bathing. Sakshi emerged from the bathroom, towel slung over her shoulder, hair still damp and curling around her cheeks. Droplets trailed down the side of her neck as she passed the mirror, humming softly under her breath. She walked toward the bedroom to check on her son, pausing briefly to glance at the clock, when Murugan’s voice stopped her.
"Sakshi..."
She turned slowly, towel mid-fold in her hands. His voice was unusually soft, uncertain.
Murugan stood near the dining table, one hand resting on the chair, the other holding her phone. The light from the kitchen threw a shadow across his face, exaggerating the tiredness in his eyes. The call with Meena had just ended minutes ago, and the silence between them felt heavier than the fan’s dull rhythm overhead.
“She called,” he said, his voice cracking slightly at the edges.
Sakshi raised her eyebrows, waiting. Her heartbeat quickened—not with fear, but anticipation she tried hard to hide.
He cleared his throat. “Meena. The wedding… it’s not local anymore. They’ve moved it. It’s in Agra now. A full seven-day affair.”
She blinked, taken aback even though she knew the plan. "Seven days? Agra?"
He nodded, eyes fixed on the floor like they might betray more emotion if they met hers. "Destination wedding. Some palace venue. Meena said everything’s already arranged. Big celebration."
There was a pause. Sakshi watched him, expression neutral, lips slightly parted. Her hands tightened around the towel, her chest tightening with suppressed excitement.
"And..." Murugan’s voice faltered again. He let out a shaky exhale. "She said you should go. That you’ve been involved so much already, and she can’t attend herself. She wants you to experience it. She said you’ve earned this."
A faint smile began to form on Sakshi’s lips, but she pressed them together, attempting composure.
“I told her you could go,” he added after a long pause, his voice low and hoarse. “If you want to.”
Sakshi stepped forward slowly, each footfall soft on the cool floor tiles. "You told her that?"
He looked up, his eyes damp but not tearful. "Yes. I... didn’t want to be the one who says no. Not when it’s something you’ve looked forward to."
Before Sakshi could respond, the front gate creaked open. The iron hinges groaned lightly in the dusk air. A knock followed, firm but familiar.
"Ramu," Murugan muttered, not surprised.
He walked to the door and opened it. Ramu stood there in a crisply pressed cream shirt, the collar stiff, an envelope in one hand and a gentle smile playing on his face.
"I brought the official invite," Ramu said, holding it out. "Didn’t want to be too late in delivering the big news."
Murugan stepped aside. "No. She just heard."
Ramu entered, eyes shifting quickly to Sakshi. His expression softened. "Seven days, Sakshi. Agra. Lights, music, palaces… and plenty of free time. You still up for it?"
Sakshi tried to contain the grin that rose unbidden. For years, she had dreamed of visiting Agra—of standing before the Taj Mahal, of tracing its white marble with her eyes, of walking through those historic archways like a queen reborn. The idea had always lingered in the corners of her mind, distant and unattainable. And now, without warning, the dream had stepped forward into her reach, dressed in silk and celebration. Her eyes shimmered with a quiet, restrained thrill. She nodded slowly. “I think I am.”
Murugan watched their interaction from a distance. The subtle way her body leaned slightly toward Ramu, how his words lit something behind her eyes. The room felt suddenly smaller. He turned away without a word, moving toward the table again, his spine stiff.
“She’s all packed,” he muttered, not looking at either of them. More to himself than to anyone else.
Sakshi’s eyes followed him. For the first time, she noticed how the light didn’t catch in his eyes like it once did. How his frame, once broad with pride, looked smaller, folded in by years and quiet sacrifices.
She stepped toward him, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.
Murugan gave a small nod, the tension in his jaw relaxing just enough to acknowledge her touch. But his eyes didn’t lift.
Behind her, Ramu stood watching with a quiet, unreadable expression. He didn’t speak, but something in the way he straightened his shoulders suggested he understood the weight of the moment.
Sakshi’s excitement swelled like a tide, uncontainable, but underneath it pulsed a quiet ache. One man’s silence, another’s offer, and her own restless heart beating right at the edge of choice and consequence.
The afternoon sun slanted through the window blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor of Ramu’s room. Outside, the distant sound of traffic and the occasional horn were muffled by the thick summer air. Inside, it was still—comfortably quiet.
Sakshi stepped in with a tiffin box, her pallu tucked neatly at her waist, eyes flickering with something between nerves and excitement. Ramu, seated on the edge of his cot, smiled up at her as she placed the box down.
“I thought I’d feed you something before we finalize plans,” she said lightly.
He chuckled. “If I knew travel discussions came with lunch service, I’d have started these meetings sooner.”
They both laughed, the sound soft, familiar.
As they ate, they talked—about train timings, the guest schedule, and how they’d avoid unnecessary questions. Murugan would be in the office until late tomorrow, and that gave them the perfect window to leave without fuss.
“Rajdhani Express," Ramu said, sipping water. "I checked. They have private compartments in the sleeper coach—just one compartment, two beds. Curtains. Privacy. A little world of our own.”
Sakshi didn’t respond right away, just continued eating, but her lips curled slightly.
He glanced at her sideways. “Just us, no distractions. ”
She raised an eyebrow playfully. “That generous, hmm?”
“You deserve it. After all, you’re packing the magic.”
Her eyes met his then—steady, unwavering. “I did pack something. Something special.”
His brow lifted. “For the wedding?”
“For you,” she replied simply.
He leaned back, lips parted in amused surprise. “And what might that be?”
She stood, gathering the tiffin slowly. “That’s for you to discover. One evening at a time.”
Ramu stood too, closer now. Their eyes locked in that hush between breaths.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked, voice softer.
Sakshi nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than ever.”
Outside, a bird chirped from the terrace wall. But inside, time had folded around them—past, present, and whatever came next. All suspended in that golden light.
The afternoon sun slanted through the window blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor of Ramu’s room. Outside, the distant sound of traffic and the occasional horn were muffled by the thick summer air. Inside, it was still—comfortably quiet.
Sakshi stepped in with a tiffin box, her pallu tucked neatly at her waist, eyes flickering with something between nerves and excitement. Ramu, seated on the edge of his cot, smiled up at her as she placed the box down.
“I thought I’d feed you something before we finalize plans,” she said lightly.
He chuckled. “If I knew travel discussions came with lunch service, I’d have started these meetings sooner.”
They both laughed, the sound soft, familiar.
As they ate, they talked—about train timings, the guest schedule, and how they’d avoid unnecessary questions. Murugan would be in the office until late tomorrow, and that gave them the perfect window to leave without fuss.
“Rajdhani Express," Ramu said, sipping water. "I checked. They have private compartments in the sleeper coach—just one compartment, two beds. Curtains. Privacy. A little world of our own.”
Sakshi didn’t respond right away, just continued eating, but her lips curled slightly.
He glanced at her sideways. “Just us, no distractions. ”
She raised an eyebrow playfully. “That generous, hmm?”
“You deserve it. After all, you’re packing the magic.”
Her eyes met his then—steady, unwavering. “I did pack something. Something special.”
His brow lifted. “For the wedding?”
“For you,” she replied simply.
He leaned back, lips parted in amused surprise. “And what might that be?”
She stood, gathering the tiffin slowly. “That’s for you to discover. One evening at a time.”
Ramu stood too, closer now. Their eyes locked in that hush between breaths.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked, voice softer.
Sakshi nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than ever.”
Outside, a bird chirped from the terrace wall. But inside, time had folded around them—past, present, and whatever came next. All suspended in that golden light.
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