16-06-2025, 02:31 AM
A Room Full of Sarees and Glances
The car slid into a quiet parking lane beside a community hall that sparkled under the morning sun.
The walls were wrapped in rows of mango leaves and marigold garlands, and distant music—soft nadaswaram notes and a rhythmic mridangam beat—floated through the open doorway.
Madhavi fixed her hair in the mirror. "Thank you for this, Abhi. You being here... means something."
He looked at her. "Anytime."
Abhi stepped out slowly, brushing imaginary creases from his crisp cream shirt. His fair skin caught the light, his neatly combed hair gleaming just slightly.
He wasn’t dressed like the rest of the men who had dropped off their daughters or nieces and left.
He was younger, sharper, and clearly out of place—but in the most striking way.
Madhavi emerged from the passenger side, adjusting the pallu of her saree.
The gold borders shimmered as they caught the light, wrapping around her body like a whisper.
Her sleeveless blouse, rich in tone, left her arms bare and graceful, the edge of her shoulder blade brushing into the air as she locked the car.
She turned and gave Abhi a soft smile. “You look a little... overwhelmed,” she teased, letting her eyes trail over him with both amusement and affection.
“A little?” he muttered. “You said you needed a drop. You didn’t say it was an army of sarees and gold chains.”
She laughed. “Welcome to a half-saree function, mister software engineer. You’ll survive.”
She looped her arm into his—not too firmly, but close enough to make him stiffen slightly with awareness.
The brush of her arm, the scent of her soft jasmine perfume, the slow sway of her saree beside him—it sent a quiet shiver down his back.
Inside the hall, the colors exploded. Dozens of young women, most around his age, stood in groups, chatting and posing for photos.
Their half-sarees sparkled—peacock blues, magenta silks, sun-gold weaves—flowing around their waists with long pleats and soft chiffon veils across one shoulder.
A few turned as he entered.
Some stared.
A few whispered.
And Abhi, tall, fair, shyly composed, walked into the middle of it all with Madhavi beside him.
She stopped and introduced him to a few of her cousins—most in their late twenties. “This is Abhiram,” she said. “My neighbor from the apartment.
He was kind enough to bring me today since Sandeep got called into work.”
There were polite hellos.
The car slid into a quiet parking lane beside a community hall that sparkled under the morning sun.
The walls were wrapped in rows of mango leaves and marigold garlands, and distant music—soft nadaswaram notes and a rhythmic mridangam beat—floated through the open doorway.
Madhavi fixed her hair in the mirror. "Thank you for this, Abhi. You being here... means something."
He looked at her. "Anytime."
Abhi stepped out slowly, brushing imaginary creases from his crisp cream shirt. His fair skin caught the light, his neatly combed hair gleaming just slightly.
He wasn’t dressed like the rest of the men who had dropped off their daughters or nieces and left.
He was younger, sharper, and clearly out of place—but in the most striking way.
Madhavi emerged from the passenger side, adjusting the pallu of her saree.
The gold borders shimmered as they caught the light, wrapping around her body like a whisper.
Her sleeveless blouse, rich in tone, left her arms bare and graceful, the edge of her shoulder blade brushing into the air as she locked the car.
She turned and gave Abhi a soft smile. “You look a little... overwhelmed,” she teased, letting her eyes trail over him with both amusement and affection.
“A little?” he muttered. “You said you needed a drop. You didn’t say it was an army of sarees and gold chains.”
She laughed. “Welcome to a half-saree function, mister software engineer. You’ll survive.”
She looped her arm into his—not too firmly, but close enough to make him stiffen slightly with awareness.
The brush of her arm, the scent of her soft jasmine perfume, the slow sway of her saree beside him—it sent a quiet shiver down his back.
Inside the hall, the colors exploded. Dozens of young women, most around his age, stood in groups, chatting and posing for photos.
Their half-sarees sparkled—peacock blues, magenta silks, sun-gold weaves—flowing around their waists with long pleats and soft chiffon veils across one shoulder.
A few turned as he entered.
Some stared.
A few whispered.
And Abhi, tall, fair, shyly composed, walked into the middle of it all with Madhavi beside him.
She stopped and introduced him to a few of her cousins—most in their late twenties. “This is Abhiram,” she said. “My neighbor from the apartment.
He was kind enough to bring me today since Sandeep got called into work.”
There were polite hellos.
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