04-03-2026, 03:27 AM
A few months later
The German winter had finally settled into a deep, rhythmic freeze. Outside our windows in the Belgian Quarter, Cologne was a monochrome landscape of charcoal trees and frosted cobblestones. But inside the apartment, the "humidity" was higher than ever.
At 6:15 AM, the silence was broken not by an alarm, but by the frantic patter of feet on the hardwood. I sat up just as the bathroom door clicked shut, followed by the unmistakable, rhythmic sounds of Sowmya losing her struggle with morning sickness.
I walked in, the tiles cold under my feet. She was slumped over the porcelain, her charcoal-colored silk nightgown bunched around her knees. Her hair, once a neat braid, was a chaotic halo.
"The Professor... is a very dangerous man," she groaned, her voice a raspy thread as I pulled her hair back and pressed a cold, damp cloth to the nape of her neck.
"It’s just biological feedback, Teacher," I murmured, my thumb tracing the Thali that now rested against a much fuller, more sensitive chest.
"Feedback?" She looked up, her face pale but her eyes shimmering with a fierce, maternal light. "This is a full-scale mutiny. He—and I know it’s a 'he' because he’s as stubborn as you—does not like the smell of German rye bread. Or my prenatal vitamins. Or your favorite coffee."
By noon, the sun made a rare, pale appearance. I bundled her into layers—a thick woollen coat, a cashmere scarf, and boots. We walked to the Volksgarten, her hand tucked firmly into my coat pocket.
As we strolled past the frozen pond, the "Ernakulam secret" was no longer a secret. Beneath her heavy coat, the swell of her belly was undeniable. She was six months along, and the petite 5’3” frame now carried a prominent, beautiful curve that shifted her center of gravity.
"Look at them staring," she whispered, nodding toward an elderly German couple. "They’re probably doing the math, Vicky-chetta. Calculating the months since the wedding."
"Let them calculate," I said, stopping under a snow-dusted oak tree. I pulled her flush against me, my hands resting on the warm, firm mound of her stomach. "You’re a Lecturer at a top university and a wife who didn't want to waste time on variables. You’re a local legend."
She leaned her head against my shoulder, the cold air turning our breath into synchronized puffs of white steam. "He’s kicking, Vickychetta. I think he wants the sun."
I felt it then—a small, sharp thump against my palm. A physical "hello" from the life we had sparked in that rain-lashed hotel room. The 7,500 kilometers felt like a different lifetime.
"We need to talk about the delivery," Sowmya said, her voice turning serious as we watched a group of children sledding. "Dr. Weber is brilliant, and the hospital here is world-class, but... I want the monsoon, Vicky. I want my mother’s rasam. I want the sound of the Periyar river when he’s born."
I looked at her—the woman who had braved a "Spouse Visa" siege to be with me. I knew she was lonely for the village of women that usually surrounds a first-time mother in Kerala.
"I’ve already checked the university calendar," I said, kissing her forehead. "I have a research break in July. We’ll fly back. You’ll have the delivery in Ernakulam, with all the aunts and the gold and the unsolicited advice you can handle."
"And the 'scandal'?" she teased, her fingers playing with the buttons of my coat. "The baby arriving 'early' in the eyes of the neighbors?"
"We’ll tell them the German air has a high concentration of growth hormones," I joked, pulling her closer. "Or we’ll tell them the truth: that we were two people who had waited 7,500 kilometers for a single touch, and we weren't interested in waiting a second longer."
She laughed, a bright, melodic sound that seemed to melt the frost on the branches above us. We headed back toward the apartment, a Professor and a pregnant Lecturer, navigating the German ice with a secret that was growing into a legacy.
The German winter had finally settled into a deep, rhythmic freeze. Outside our windows in the Belgian Quarter, Cologne was a monochrome landscape of charcoal trees and frosted cobblestones. But inside the apartment, the "humidity" was higher than ever.
At 6:15 AM, the silence was broken not by an alarm, but by the frantic patter of feet on the hardwood. I sat up just as the bathroom door clicked shut, followed by the unmistakable, rhythmic sounds of Sowmya losing her struggle with morning sickness.
I walked in, the tiles cold under my feet. She was slumped over the porcelain, her charcoal-colored silk nightgown bunched around her knees. Her hair, once a neat braid, was a chaotic halo.
"The Professor... is a very dangerous man," she groaned, her voice a raspy thread as I pulled her hair back and pressed a cold, damp cloth to the nape of her neck.
"It’s just biological feedback, Teacher," I murmured, my thumb tracing the Thali that now rested against a much fuller, more sensitive chest.
"Feedback?" She looked up, her face pale but her eyes shimmering with a fierce, maternal light. "This is a full-scale mutiny. He—and I know it’s a 'he' because he’s as stubborn as you—does not like the smell of German rye bread. Or my prenatal vitamins. Or your favorite coffee."
By noon, the sun made a rare, pale appearance. I bundled her into layers—a thick woollen coat, a cashmere scarf, and boots. We walked to the Volksgarten, her hand tucked firmly into my coat pocket.
As we strolled past the frozen pond, the "Ernakulam secret" was no longer a secret. Beneath her heavy coat, the swell of her belly was undeniable. She was six months along, and the petite 5’3” frame now carried a prominent, beautiful curve that shifted her center of gravity.
"Look at them staring," she whispered, nodding toward an elderly German couple. "They’re probably doing the math, Vicky-chetta. Calculating the months since the wedding."
"Let them calculate," I said, stopping under a snow-dusted oak tree. I pulled her flush against me, my hands resting on the warm, firm mound of her stomach. "You’re a Lecturer at a top university and a wife who didn't want to waste time on variables. You’re a local legend."
She leaned her head against my shoulder, the cold air turning our breath into synchronized puffs of white steam. "He’s kicking, Vickychetta. I think he wants the sun."
I felt it then—a small, sharp thump against my palm. A physical "hello" from the life we had sparked in that rain-lashed hotel room. The 7,500 kilometers felt like a different lifetime.
"We need to talk about the delivery," Sowmya said, her voice turning serious as we watched a group of children sledding. "Dr. Weber is brilliant, and the hospital here is world-class, but... I want the monsoon, Vicky. I want my mother’s rasam. I want the sound of the Periyar river when he’s born."
I looked at her—the woman who had braved a "Spouse Visa" siege to be with me. I knew she was lonely for the village of women that usually surrounds a first-time mother in Kerala.
"I’ve already checked the university calendar," I said, kissing her forehead. "I have a research break in July. We’ll fly back. You’ll have the delivery in Ernakulam, with all the aunts and the gold and the unsolicited advice you can handle."
"And the 'scandal'?" she teased, her fingers playing with the buttons of my coat. "The baby arriving 'early' in the eyes of the neighbors?"
"We’ll tell them the German air has a high concentration of growth hormones," I joked, pulling her closer. "Or we’ll tell them the truth: that we were two people who had waited 7,500 kilometers for a single touch, and we weren't interested in waiting a second longer."
She laughed, a bright, melodic sound that seemed to melt the frost on the branches above us. We headed back toward the apartment, a Professor and a pregnant Lecturer, navigating the German ice with a secret that was growing into a legacy.
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