11-06-2025, 11:41 AM
The Lady Next Door
The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the iron grills of the balcony, casting narrow shadows across the apartment floor. Abhiram leaned against the cool railing, a cup of chai warming his fingers, eyes wandering across the small colony of flats facing his. It was a quiet Sunday.
Abhi just moved into this two-bedroom rental in Hyderabad — a step toward independence after graduating and landing his first job. It wasn’t flashy, but it was his. For a boy raised in a joint family, this solitude was strange… but also, a little thrilling.
He took a slow sip. That’s when he noticed her again.
From the balcony to his left, a woman stepped out, holding a towel between her fingers. She looked like she is her late twenties, with skin so fair it almost shimmered in the afternoon light. There was an effortless elegance in the way she moved, a quiet rhythm that made it impossible to look away. She is in a soft lilac cotton saree, her hair was tied in a loose bun, small strands sticking to her damp neck. Her posture was graceful.
She glanced in his direction, eyes meeting his for a split second. Then she gave a small, polite smile, just... warm.
Abhi nodded back, clearing his throat, suddenly more aware of his stubble and the faint wrinkles on his T-shirt.
She hung the towel over the railing, then turned and disappeared inside.
He stood there a moment longer, heart beating a little faster for reasons he couldn’t quite name.
That evening, as he walked toward the gate to buy milk, he passed her again—this time near the elevator. She was locking her door, the soft jingle of bangles accompanying her every movement.
“Hi,” she said, this time fully acknowledging him. “You moved in just last week, right?”
“Yes,” Abhi said, pausing. “Flat 203.”
“I’m Madhavi,” she said, offering a smile. “202. Welcome to the building.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
She looked at him a moment longer, something unreadable in her gaze. “If you need anything—filter, groceries, gas connection help—just knock.”
“I will,” he said, feeling the words stick in his throat. She smelled faintly of sandalwood and talcum, a scent that lingered even after she walked past him down the stairs.
That night, lying in bed, he kept hearing her voice in his head. "If you need anything... just knock."
He didn’t.
But he wanted to.
The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the iron grills of the balcony, casting narrow shadows across the apartment floor. Abhiram leaned against the cool railing, a cup of chai warming his fingers, eyes wandering across the small colony of flats facing his. It was a quiet Sunday.
Abhi just moved into this two-bedroom rental in Hyderabad — a step toward independence after graduating and landing his first job. It wasn’t flashy, but it was his. For a boy raised in a joint family, this solitude was strange… but also, a little thrilling.
He took a slow sip. That’s when he noticed her again.
From the balcony to his left, a woman stepped out, holding a towel between her fingers. She looked like she is her late twenties, with skin so fair it almost shimmered in the afternoon light. There was an effortless elegance in the way she moved, a quiet rhythm that made it impossible to look away. She is in a soft lilac cotton saree, her hair was tied in a loose bun, small strands sticking to her damp neck. Her posture was graceful.
She glanced in his direction, eyes meeting his for a split second. Then she gave a small, polite smile, just... warm.
Abhi nodded back, clearing his throat, suddenly more aware of his stubble and the faint wrinkles on his T-shirt.
She hung the towel over the railing, then turned and disappeared inside.
He stood there a moment longer, heart beating a little faster for reasons he couldn’t quite name.
That evening, as he walked toward the gate to buy milk, he passed her again—this time near the elevator. She was locking her door, the soft jingle of bangles accompanying her every movement.
“Hi,” she said, this time fully acknowledging him. “You moved in just last week, right?”
“Yes,” Abhi said, pausing. “Flat 203.”
“I’m Madhavi,” she said, offering a smile. “202. Welcome to the building.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
She looked at him a moment longer, something unreadable in her gaze. “If you need anything—filter, groceries, gas connection help—just knock.”
“I will,” he said, feeling the words stick in his throat. She smelled faintly of sandalwood and talcum, a scent that lingered even after she walked past him down the stairs.
That night, lying in bed, he kept hearing her voice in his head. "If you need anything... just knock."
He didn’t.
But he wanted to.
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