05-12-2025, 05:29 AM
The soft glow of the single kitchen bulb fell on Gayathri as she stood at the counter, her mind not on the potatoes she was peeling. It was past eleven, and the winter night was quiet. Balaji, her son, was in his room, likely on his laptop. Her husband, Venkat, was asleep. The house was still, but her thoughts were a gentle hum. She was preparing baingan ka bharta for tomorrow; Balaji loved it, and the winter vegetables were so fresh at the market. She wore a simple, faded saffron nightie, the thin cotton clinging softly to her form in the cool air. The fabric dbangd over her hips and the curve of her back, her structure visible in the dim light as she moved between the counter and the stove.
Her thoughts drifted. Balaji was so tired today. Working so hard in that IT company. He needs good food. And Venkat… he didn’t even notice I mended his shirt collar. Men. They live in their own worlds. A small smile touched her lips. But they are my world.
The quiet was broken by a soft knock on the back door. She turned, wiping her hands on a cloth. It was Elango from next door. He smiled, holding up a small packet. “Gayathri? Sorry to disturb so late. I got some murukku from the shop. Fresh. Thought Balaji might like it.”
“Oh, Elango! Come in, come in. It’s so cold outside,” she said, opening the door wider. A chill breeze followed him in, making her shiver slightly.
Elango stepped into the warm, spice-scented kitchen. His eyes, sharp and appreciative, took in the scene: the homely disorder, the simmering pot, and Gayathri in her saffron nightie, the light outlining her. He quickly looked away, placing the packet on the table. “And this,” he said, pulling out a small container, “is for you. Ginger bajji. My mother used to say it heats the body in winter.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Gayathri said, genuinely touched. She took the container, her fingers brushing his briefly. The warmth of the bajji seeped into her palms. So thoughtful. He remembers small things. Venkat would never think of ginger bajji. “Please, sit. Let me get you some tea.”
“No, no, don’t trouble yourself,” Elango protested, but he pulled out a chair and sat, his eyes following her as she moved to the stove. He watched the way the nightie shifted with her movements, the fabric whispering against her skin. Her back, the gentle swell of her hips, the dip of her waist—it was all so… natural, so womanly. A stark contrast to the silent, male-dominated emptiness of his own house since his wife passed. His gaze was not lecherous, but it was intensely observant, hungry for a warmth he no longer had.
Gayathri felt his eyes on her. It was a subtle pressure, a different kind of attention than she was used to. It made her conscious of her attire, of her bare feet on the cool floor. I should have worn a robe. But he’s like a brother, almost. A good man. She poured tea into a steel tumbler, her thoughts continuing. Look at him. All alone, raising that girl by himself. And still, he finds time to think of others. Bringing snacks for Balaji, bajji for me. He is a very caring person. The feeling blossomed in her chest, a warm gratitude mixed with a maternal pity.
She placed the tea before him, sitting across the table. “How is your daughter? Studies going well?”
“Yes, yes. She’s a bright girl,” Elango said, sipping the tea, his eyes now fixed on her face. “Sometimes too bright. Asks questions I don’t have answers for.”
Gayathri laughed softly, taking a ginger bajji. The flavour was perfect—spicy, crisp, comforting. “This is wonderful, Elango. Thank you.” She ate quietly for a moment, then said, “It must be very difficult for you. Managing everything.”
Elango sighed, a genuine sound of weariness. “Some days are harder than others. The house feels very big, very empty.” His eyes held hers for a second too long, and Gayathri felt a flutter of something—not alarm, but a deep, empathetic ache.
He is so lonely, she thought, looking down at her tea. All he does is work and care for his child. And he still has kindness left to give. What a strong, good heart. Her own heart softened further. “You must come for dinner properly one day. Not just snacks. A full meal. Bring your daughter.”
“I would like that very much,” Elango said, his voice sincere. He finished his tea and stood up. “I should let you rest. You have a full day tomorrow with the painters again.”
“Yes,” Gayathri said, rising with him. “Thank you again, Elango. For everything.”
He walked to the door, then paused. “Goodnight, Gayu.” He used the shortened name tentatively, a step closer.
“Goodnight, Elango,” she replied, smiling.
She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, the silence of the house returning. But it felt different now. The simple act of kindness, the hot bajji in her hand, the look of lonely gratitude in his eyes—it all wove together in her mind. He is such a caring person, she thought again, the conviction solidifying. A truly good, caring man.
In the darkness outside, Elango walked the short distance to his own gate. He could still see the image of her in the yellow kitchen light, the silhouette through the thin saffron cloth imprinted on his mind. The curve of her hip, the line of her spine. She was so beautiful, so warm, so unlike the cold silence that awaited him. He thought of her smile, her offer of dinner, the easy way she had accepted his presence. A plan began to form in his mind, not malicious, but deliberate. A way to be near that warmth, that kindness, more often. He unlocked his door, the image of Gayathri in her nightie the only thing that fought off the chill of his empty home.
Inside, Gayathri cleared the cups, her movements slower now. She put the murukku in Balaji’s tiffin box for tomorrow and placed the bajji container in the fridge. As she turned off the kitchen light and walked down the dark hall to her bedroom, her final thought of the night was of her neighbor. A smile played on her lips. In a world where her own husband and son were often absent in spirit, the attentive, caring nature of Elango felt like a small, unexpected solace. She slipped into bed beside the sleeping Venkat, her mind at ease, completely unaware of the nature of the thoughts that had followed Elango into the night, or of the careful, patient design that had just taken root in his mind. She felt only the comfort of being seen and considered, a feeling that had been dormant in her for a long, long time.
Her thoughts drifted. Balaji was so tired today. Working so hard in that IT company. He needs good food. And Venkat… he didn’t even notice I mended his shirt collar. Men. They live in their own worlds. A small smile touched her lips. But they are my world.
The quiet was broken by a soft knock on the back door. She turned, wiping her hands on a cloth. It was Elango from next door. He smiled, holding up a small packet. “Gayathri? Sorry to disturb so late. I got some murukku from the shop. Fresh. Thought Balaji might like it.”
“Oh, Elango! Come in, come in. It’s so cold outside,” she said, opening the door wider. A chill breeze followed him in, making her shiver slightly.
Elango stepped into the warm, spice-scented kitchen. His eyes, sharp and appreciative, took in the scene: the homely disorder, the simmering pot, and Gayathri in her saffron nightie, the light outlining her. He quickly looked away, placing the packet on the table. “And this,” he said, pulling out a small container, “is for you. Ginger bajji. My mother used to say it heats the body in winter.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Gayathri said, genuinely touched. She took the container, her fingers brushing his briefly. The warmth of the bajji seeped into her palms. So thoughtful. He remembers small things. Venkat would never think of ginger bajji. “Please, sit. Let me get you some tea.”
“No, no, don’t trouble yourself,” Elango protested, but he pulled out a chair and sat, his eyes following her as she moved to the stove. He watched the way the nightie shifted with her movements, the fabric whispering against her skin. Her back, the gentle swell of her hips, the dip of her waist—it was all so… natural, so womanly. A stark contrast to the silent, male-dominated emptiness of his own house since his wife passed. His gaze was not lecherous, but it was intensely observant, hungry for a warmth he no longer had.
Gayathri felt his eyes on her. It was a subtle pressure, a different kind of attention than she was used to. It made her conscious of her attire, of her bare feet on the cool floor. I should have worn a robe. But he’s like a brother, almost. A good man. She poured tea into a steel tumbler, her thoughts continuing. Look at him. All alone, raising that girl by himself. And still, he finds time to think of others. Bringing snacks for Balaji, bajji for me. He is a very caring person. The feeling blossomed in her chest, a warm gratitude mixed with a maternal pity.
She placed the tea before him, sitting across the table. “How is your daughter? Studies going well?”
“Yes, yes. She’s a bright girl,” Elango said, sipping the tea, his eyes now fixed on her face. “Sometimes too bright. Asks questions I don’t have answers for.”
Gayathri laughed softly, taking a ginger bajji. The flavour was perfect—spicy, crisp, comforting. “This is wonderful, Elango. Thank you.” She ate quietly for a moment, then said, “It must be very difficult for you. Managing everything.”
Elango sighed, a genuine sound of weariness. “Some days are harder than others. The house feels very big, very empty.” His eyes held hers for a second too long, and Gayathri felt a flutter of something—not alarm, but a deep, empathetic ache.
He is so lonely, she thought, looking down at her tea. All he does is work and care for his child. And he still has kindness left to give. What a strong, good heart. Her own heart softened further. “You must come for dinner properly one day. Not just snacks. A full meal. Bring your daughter.”
“I would like that very much,” Elango said, his voice sincere. He finished his tea and stood up. “I should let you rest. You have a full day tomorrow with the painters again.”
“Yes,” Gayathri said, rising with him. “Thank you again, Elango. For everything.”
He walked to the door, then paused. “Goodnight, Gayu.” He used the shortened name tentatively, a step closer.
“Goodnight, Elango,” she replied, smiling.
She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, the silence of the house returning. But it felt different now. The simple act of kindness, the hot bajji in her hand, the look of lonely gratitude in his eyes—it all wove together in her mind. He is such a caring person, she thought again, the conviction solidifying. A truly good, caring man.
In the darkness outside, Elango walked the short distance to his own gate. He could still see the image of her in the yellow kitchen light, the silhouette through the thin saffron cloth imprinted on his mind. The curve of her hip, the line of her spine. She was so beautiful, so warm, so unlike the cold silence that awaited him. He thought of her smile, her offer of dinner, the easy way she had accepted his presence. A plan began to form in his mind, not malicious, but deliberate. A way to be near that warmth, that kindness, more often. He unlocked his door, the image of Gayathri in her nightie the only thing that fought off the chill of his empty home.
Inside, Gayathri cleared the cups, her movements slower now. She put the murukku in Balaji’s tiffin box for tomorrow and placed the bajji container in the fridge. As she turned off the kitchen light and walked down the dark hall to her bedroom, her final thought of the night was of her neighbor. A smile played on her lips. In a world where her own husband and son were often absent in spirit, the attentive, caring nature of Elango felt like a small, unexpected solace. She slipped into bed beside the sleeping Venkat, her mind at ease, completely unaware of the nature of the thoughts that had followed Elango into the night, or of the careful, patient design that had just taken root in his mind. She felt only the comfort of being seen and considered, a feeling that had been dormant in her for a long, long time.
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