04-11-2025, 01:20 PM
Auto Ride with Priya Didi: Close Enough to Burn
The auto waited at the edge of the gate, its familiar yellow paint dulled by the sun, the thin plastic roof rustling slightly in the breeze. Ravi lingered behind, watching Priya Didi gather her saree pallu as she stepped forward with effortless grace.
She moved slowly, deliberately, almost aware of the space around her, yet seemingly unaware of him, as if the world could pause for just this moment.
She climbed in first, lifting herself carefully onto the narrow bench on the right side, her back straight, shoulders squared, the dupatta settling across her chest like a practiced, natural elegance.
Ravi’s chest tightened at the sight. “She looks… perfect, even now. Even with all the anger, the hurt, she is still the most beautiful person I have ever seen.” His heart thudded as he slid in beside her, carefully adjusting his position so that his left side pressed gently against her right.
The seat was narrow.
There was no escaping proximity, not that he wanted to.
Every inch mattered, the brush of her arm, the faint warmth radiating from her body. He tried not to let his awareness show, but inside, every nerve was alert.
The auto started with its familiar lurch.
As it rolled forward, the wind caught the loose strands of Priya’s hair, making them sway gently near her cheek. Ravi couldn’t stop his gaze from lingering for just a second longer.
There was something about the simplicity of her, the neat pleats of her saree, the faint curve of her jaw, the gentle movement of her hand holding the edge of her pallu, that made her beauty almost unbearable to look at.
It was as if she were effortlessly graceful, even in the smallest movements.
He turned away quickly, forcing his eyes to the passing road. But his mind stayed with her, trapped in that moment. In her presence.
She sat quietly beside him, the small gold earring at her ear glinting with the sunlight every time they passed a tree’s shadow.
The soft jingle of her bangles when the auto hit a bump, small, almost imperceptible sounds that should have felt like nothing, yet they became the soundtrack to his own quiet desperation.
The auto waited at the edge of the gate, its familiar yellow paint dulled by the sun, the thin plastic roof rustling slightly in the breeze. Ravi lingered behind, watching Priya Didi gather her saree pallu as she stepped forward with effortless grace.
She moved slowly, deliberately, almost aware of the space around her, yet seemingly unaware of him, as if the world could pause for just this moment.
She climbed in first, lifting herself carefully onto the narrow bench on the right side, her back straight, shoulders squared, the dupatta settling across her chest like a practiced, natural elegance.
Ravi’s chest tightened at the sight. “She looks… perfect, even now. Even with all the anger, the hurt, she is still the most beautiful person I have ever seen.” His heart thudded as he slid in beside her, carefully adjusting his position so that his left side pressed gently against her right.
The seat was narrow.
There was no escaping proximity, not that he wanted to.
Every inch mattered, the brush of her arm, the faint warmth radiating from her body. He tried not to let his awareness show, but inside, every nerve was alert.
The auto started with its familiar lurch.
As it rolled forward, the wind caught the loose strands of Priya’s hair, making them sway gently near her cheek. Ravi couldn’t stop his gaze from lingering for just a second longer.
There was something about the simplicity of her, the neat pleats of her saree, the faint curve of her jaw, the gentle movement of her hand holding the edge of her pallu, that made her beauty almost unbearable to look at.
It was as if she were effortlessly graceful, even in the smallest movements.
He turned away quickly, forcing his eyes to the passing road. But his mind stayed with her, trapped in that moment. In her presence.
She sat quietly beside him, the small gold earring at her ear glinting with the sunlight every time they passed a tree’s shadow.
The soft jingle of her bangles when the auto hit a bump, small, almost imperceptible sounds that should have felt like nothing, yet they became the soundtrack to his own quiet desperation.
.
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