8 hours ago
Simran
Two months had slipped by in quiet rhythm—supplements swallowed daily, ovulation tracked with renewed tenderness, lovemaking reclaimed from the calendar’s tyranny and returned to the slow burn of real desire. The flat felt lighter somehow, the air less thick with unspoken worry. And then, one ordinary Tuesday, everything shifted.
Simran’s call came at 4:17 PM while Ravi was still in a client review meeting. Her voice on the phone was soft, almost secretive, laced with something that made his pulse jump before she even spoke the words.
“Ravi, when are you coming home?”
“I’ll reach by 7, jaan. Tell me, anything important?”
“No no, you just come. And listen… okay, you come first.”
He pressed, half-laughing, half-alarmed. “Simran, what is it? Everything okay?”
She only repeated, gentle but firm, “Just come when you can.”
He didn’t wait. The meeting ended early, excuses made, laptop slammed shut. By 5:30 he was pushing through the society gate, heart hammering like a teenager sneaking home after curfew.
She was waiting in the living room, standing near the window in a simple cream cotton kurti and palazzo, hair loose and still damp from an afternoon shower, mangalsutra glinting against the soft swell of her chest. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers twisting nervously, but her eyes—those large, dark, liquid eyes—were shining.
Ravi dropped his bag by the door. “Jaan… what happened? You’re scaring me.”
She took one step toward him, then another, until she was close enough for him to smell the faint jasmine still clinging to her skin.
“Ravi,” she whispered, voice trembling with joy, “we are pregnant.”
The words landed like a thunderclap in the quiet room.
For a heartbeat he just stared, mouth open, brain catching up. Then the joy exploded out of him—raw, unrestrained, the kind of shout that comes when you win the biggest lottery of your life. He lunged forward, scooped her up into his arms like she weighed nothing, her surprised laugh bursting against his neck as he spun her once, twice. He kissed her face everywhere—forehead, cheeks, nose, lips, chin—muttering “Oh my god, oh my god” between each frantic press of his mouth.
Then reality crashed back. Pregnant. She was pregnant.
He set her down immediately, carefully, as though she were made of glass, guiding her to the edge of the bed. She sat, still glowing, still laughing softly at his panic. Ravi dropped to his knees in front of her, hands resting lightly on her thighs, looking up like a devotee at an altar.
“I’m so happy,” he said, voice cracking. “Jaan… I’m so, so happy.”
He leaned in, pressed his forehead to her stomach—still flat, still the same taut midriff he’d kissed a thousand times—and stayed there a moment, breathing her in, letting the miracle settle into his bones.
Then he stood, suddenly energized. “Bhola!” he called toward the hallway. “Bhola, Idhar aana!”
Bhola appeared almost instantly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, expression calm as ever.
“Ji, Sahib?”
“We’re going out. Right now. Get the car ready. We’re celebrating tonight.”
Bhola’s eyes flicked to Simran for a split second—something unreadable passing through them—then he nodded. “Ji, Sahib. Five minutes.”
They chose a beautiful rooftop restaurant in Sector 17, the kind with fairy lights strung overhead, soft jazz floating on the evening breeze, and a view of the city lights twinkling below like scattered stars. They took a corner table, private enough for whispers, ordered champagne (non-alcoholic for her), butter chicken, garlic naan, and all her favorites. The waiter barely left before Simran started talking words tumbling out in a happy rush.
“We have to start planning everything,” she said, eyes bright. “First, the doctor—Preeti, obviously. Regular check-ups. I need to start folic acid if I haven’t already… oh, and no more late nights for you, Ravi. You have to sleep properly now. And the nursery—we can convert the guest room, paint it soft yellow maybe? Or green? Something calm. And names! We should start thinking about names. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter, but I want something strong, something beautiful…”
Ravi just watched her, chin on his hand, smiling like a fool. Every time she paused to breathe, he reached across and squeezed her fingers. “Whatever you want, jaan. All of it.”
Halfway through dessert she pulled out her phone, face flushed from the excitement and one sip too many of sparkling juice. “I have to call Preeti.”
Preeti picked up on the second ring. Simran didn’t even let her say hello.
“Preeti! We’re pregnant!”
A delighted shriek exploded from the speaker. “Simmi! Oh my god! When did you test? How many weeks? Tell me everything!”
They talked for ten minutes—Preeti demanding details, laughing, scolding gently. “Listen, both of you—don’t tell anyone for the next three months. First trimester is crucial. Keep it between us. I’ll see you in the clinic day after tomorrow, okay? And Simmi… I’m so fucking happy for you.”
They hung up, Simran’s eyes misty. Ravi raised his glass. “To us. To the little one.”
“To us,” she echoed. ”But we cant tell anyone. Preeti is right.”
Ravi agreed “Of course, there is enough time to tell everyone.”
They came home late, the city quiet around them. Bhola had already turned in, lights dimmed, the flat smelling faintly of the incense Simran always lit before bed.
In the bedroom, the mood shifted—slow, reverent, almost sacred.
They undressed each other without hurry. Ravi’s hands were careful now, tracing her collarbones, her waist, the still-flat plane of her stomach with something like awe. He kissed her there, long and lingering, murmuring against her skin, “Thank you… thank you for this.”
Simran pulled him up, kissed him deeply, tasting the champagne on his tongue. She guided him onto the bed, climbed over him, her long hair falling like a curtain around them. The lovemaking was tender, unhurried—slow rolls of hips, soft gasps, fingers laced together. He moved inside her with deliberate care, watching her face the whole time, whispering how beautiful she was, how perfect, how he couldn’t believe this was real. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, breathing his name like a prayer as pleasure built in quiet waves.
When they came, it was together—soft, shuddering, intimate—her nails digging lightly into his back, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
Afterward, they lay tangled, her head on his chest, his hand resting protectively over her stomach. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the night-light.
Simran whispered, sleepy and content, “We did it, Ravi.”
He kissed the top of her head. “We did it.”
They fell asleep like that—warm, full, and—for the first time in years—completely at peace.
Two months had slipped by in quiet rhythm—supplements swallowed daily, ovulation tracked with renewed tenderness, lovemaking reclaimed from the calendar’s tyranny and returned to the slow burn of real desire. The flat felt lighter somehow, the air less thick with unspoken worry. And then, one ordinary Tuesday, everything shifted.
Simran’s call came at 4:17 PM while Ravi was still in a client review meeting. Her voice on the phone was soft, almost secretive, laced with something that made his pulse jump before she even spoke the words.
“Ravi, when are you coming home?”
“I’ll reach by 7, jaan. Tell me, anything important?”
“No no, you just come. And listen… okay, you come first.”
He pressed, half-laughing, half-alarmed. “Simran, what is it? Everything okay?”
She only repeated, gentle but firm, “Just come when you can.”
He didn’t wait. The meeting ended early, excuses made, laptop slammed shut. By 5:30 he was pushing through the society gate, heart hammering like a teenager sneaking home after curfew.
She was waiting in the living room, standing near the window in a simple cream cotton kurti and palazzo, hair loose and still damp from an afternoon shower, mangalsutra glinting against the soft swell of her chest. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers twisting nervously, but her eyes—those large, dark, liquid eyes—were shining.
Ravi dropped his bag by the door. “Jaan… what happened? You’re scaring me.”
She took one step toward him, then another, until she was close enough for him to smell the faint jasmine still clinging to her skin.
“Ravi,” she whispered, voice trembling with joy, “we are pregnant.”
The words landed like a thunderclap in the quiet room.
For a heartbeat he just stared, mouth open, brain catching up. Then the joy exploded out of him—raw, unrestrained, the kind of shout that comes when you win the biggest lottery of your life. He lunged forward, scooped her up into his arms like she weighed nothing, her surprised laugh bursting against his neck as he spun her once, twice. He kissed her face everywhere—forehead, cheeks, nose, lips, chin—muttering “Oh my god, oh my god” between each frantic press of his mouth.
Then reality crashed back. Pregnant. She was pregnant.
He set her down immediately, carefully, as though she were made of glass, guiding her to the edge of the bed. She sat, still glowing, still laughing softly at his panic. Ravi dropped to his knees in front of her, hands resting lightly on her thighs, looking up like a devotee at an altar.
“I’m so happy,” he said, voice cracking. “Jaan… I’m so, so happy.”
He leaned in, pressed his forehead to her stomach—still flat, still the same taut midriff he’d kissed a thousand times—and stayed there a moment, breathing her in, letting the miracle settle into his bones.
Then he stood, suddenly energized. “Bhola!” he called toward the hallway. “Bhola, Idhar aana!”
Bhola appeared almost instantly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, expression calm as ever.
“Ji, Sahib?”
“We’re going out. Right now. Get the car ready. We’re celebrating tonight.”
Bhola’s eyes flicked to Simran for a split second—something unreadable passing through them—then he nodded. “Ji, Sahib. Five minutes.”
They chose a beautiful rooftop restaurant in Sector 17, the kind with fairy lights strung overhead, soft jazz floating on the evening breeze, and a view of the city lights twinkling below like scattered stars. They took a corner table, private enough for whispers, ordered champagne (non-alcoholic for her), butter chicken, garlic naan, and all her favorites. The waiter barely left before Simran started talking words tumbling out in a happy rush.
“We have to start planning everything,” she said, eyes bright. “First, the doctor—Preeti, obviously. Regular check-ups. I need to start folic acid if I haven’t already… oh, and no more late nights for you, Ravi. You have to sleep properly now. And the nursery—we can convert the guest room, paint it soft yellow maybe? Or green? Something calm. And names! We should start thinking about names. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter, but I want something strong, something beautiful…”
Ravi just watched her, chin on his hand, smiling like a fool. Every time she paused to breathe, he reached across and squeezed her fingers. “Whatever you want, jaan. All of it.”
Halfway through dessert she pulled out her phone, face flushed from the excitement and one sip too many of sparkling juice. “I have to call Preeti.”
Preeti picked up on the second ring. Simran didn’t even let her say hello.
“Preeti! We’re pregnant!”
A delighted shriek exploded from the speaker. “Simmi! Oh my god! When did you test? How many weeks? Tell me everything!”
They talked for ten minutes—Preeti demanding details, laughing, scolding gently. “Listen, both of you—don’t tell anyone for the next three months. First trimester is crucial. Keep it between us. I’ll see you in the clinic day after tomorrow, okay? And Simmi… I’m so fucking happy for you.”
They hung up, Simran’s eyes misty. Ravi raised his glass. “To us. To the little one.”
“To us,” she echoed. ”But we cant tell anyone. Preeti is right.”
Ravi agreed “Of course, there is enough time to tell everyone.”
They came home late, the city quiet around them. Bhola had already turned in, lights dimmed, the flat smelling faintly of the incense Simran always lit before bed.
In the bedroom, the mood shifted—slow, reverent, almost sacred.
They undressed each other without hurry. Ravi’s hands were careful now, tracing her collarbones, her waist, the still-flat plane of her stomach with something like awe. He kissed her there, long and lingering, murmuring against her skin, “Thank you… thank you for this.”
Simran pulled him up, kissed him deeply, tasting the champagne on his tongue. She guided him onto the bed, climbed over him, her long hair falling like a curtain around them. The lovemaking was tender, unhurried—slow rolls of hips, soft gasps, fingers laced together. He moved inside her with deliberate care, watching her face the whole time, whispering how beautiful she was, how perfect, how he couldn’t believe this was real. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, breathing his name like a prayer as pleasure built in quiet waves.
When they came, it was together—soft, shuddering, intimate—her nails digging lightly into his back, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
Afterward, they lay tangled, her head on his chest, his hand resting protectively over her stomach. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the night-light.
Simran whispered, sleepy and content, “We did it, Ravi.”
He kissed the top of her head. “We did it.”
They fell asleep like that—warm, full, and—for the first time in years—completely at peace.
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