02-08-2025, 12:17 AM
Let me tell you about myself—though sometimes, I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.
I’m Priya Sharma—well, Priya Malhotra now, though I still sometimes forget to respond to my married name. Twenty-six years old, junior architect at AB & Associates, and, according to the whispers that follow me through the office corridors, "that shy little thing with the dangerous curves."
I’ve always been curvy, as my mother would say—but never delicate. Not really. My body betrays me in ways I was never taught to control. My waist dips in sharply, a perfect hourglass that tailors always pause at, their fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long when they measure me. "Twenty-four inches," they murmur, as if they can’t quite believe it. My hips flare out, round and impossible to ignore, no matter how loose my salwars are. And my chest—God, my chest—always seems to strain against my blouses, no matter how modest I try to be.
Vikram used to trace the lines of my body in the dark, his calloused hands mapping the swell of my breasts, the curve of my waist, the softness of my thighs. "You’re perfect," he’d whisper, and for a while, I believed him. But now, with him gone for months at a time, I catch myself staring at my reflection in shop windows, at the way men’s eyes follow me when I walk by.
I wear my hair long—thick, dark waves that tumble down my back, always slipping free from the clips I try to tame them with. My lips are too full, my eyes too big—"like a deer’s," Mr. Malhotra told me once, his gaze lingering just a second too long. And my skin—golden and smooth—flushes too easily, betraying every flicker of embarrassment, every unwanted thrill.
I tell myself I don’t notice the way Rohan from Accounts stares when I bend over a blueprint, or how Mr. Kapoor’s fingers accidentally brush mine when he passes me files. I pretend not to see the way the chaiwalla’s gaze drops to my cleavage when I lean forward to take my cup.
But I do.
Today will be a busy day at office. The jasmine-scented Bangalore air clung to my skin as I hurried through the office parking lot, my silk dupata slipping from my shoulder for the third time that morning. I caught it absently, my fingers brushing against the delicate skin of my collarbone where my wedding chain lay heavy. The gold had left a faint red mark again - Vikram always said I had skin so soft it bruised like fruit.
At the elevator, I pressed myself against the mirrored wall to make room for Mr. Kapoor. His eyes flickered over my reflection - my petite frame swallowed by the crisp linen of my peach kurti, the way the fabric strained just slightly across my chest when I reached to press the button for our floor.
"Late again, Priya?" His voice was light, but his gaze wasn't.
I tucked a loose curl behind my ear, feeling it immediately spring free. "The traffic near Koramangala was..."
His chuckle cut me off. "No need to explain. Though I must say," his eyes dropped to my feet, taking in the strappy sandals that made my legs look longer than they were, "you're making quite the entrance regardless."
The elevator dinged. My cheeks burned as I scurried out, his cologne - something expensive and woody - clinging to my clothes.
My desk was a sanctuary of neat blueprints and sharpened pencils. I smoothed my palms over my thighs, willing the flush to fade. The office AC hummed to life, raising goosebumps on my arms that had nothing to do with the temperature.
"Someone's getting special attention."
I jumped. Meera from HR leaned against my cubicle wall, her smirk making my stomach twist.
"It's not like that. He's just..."
"Married? Twice your age?" She plucked a pencil from my desk, twirling it between manicured fingers. "Doesn't stop him from looking, does it?"
I busied myself with organizing papers that didn't need organizing. My reflection in the computer screen stared back - wide dark eyes, lips still glossy from this morning's hurried application, the neckline of my kurti gaping slightly as I bent forward. I straightened immediately.
The morning passed in a blur of meetings and revisions. At lunch, I escaped to the women's restroom, splashing cool water on my wrists. The mirror showed what everyone else saw - a young woman drowning in her own body. My waist nipped in dramatically, making my hips seem even rounder, my chest fuller. The tailor last week had clucked his tongue measuring me. "Twenty-four inch waist, thirty-six inch..." He'd trailed off, tape measure brushing the underside of my breasts. "You should wear better blouses, madam. This is a crime to hide."
My phone buzzed. Vikram's smiling face flashed on screen.
"Hi!" I answered too brightly.
His voice came through tinny from thousands of miles away. "You sound out of breath."
"I was just...walking. To get lunch." I twisted a curl around my finger, watching it spring back.
"How's the Patel project going?"
I hesitated. Mr. Kapoor had cornered me by the copier this morning, his hand lingering on my back as he "explained" the revisions. His breath had smelled of cardamom and something darker.
"Fine," I said. "Everything's fine."
The silence stretched. I could picture Vikram running a hand through his hair the way he did when he knew I wasn't telling him something.
"Priya..."
"I should go. Meeting soon."
After the call, I stared at my untouched lunch. The office chatter buzzed around me, snippets of conversations about deadlines and divorces and the new restaurant on MG Road.
"Priya?"
I turned to find Rohan from Accounts looming over my desk, his crisp white shirt straining across broad shoulders. He set a stack of files down with exaggerated care.
"Didn't want you straining yourself," he said, eyes crinkling.
I forced a laugh. "I'm not that fragile."
His gaze traveled from my face downward, slow as honey. "No," he murmured. "You're definitely not."
The files suddenly seemed unimportant. My skin prickled where his fingers had brushed mine. The office felt too warm, the air too thick.
At 5:30, I fled. The evening air was a relief against my flushed skin. I paused outside a shop window, adjusting my dupata. My reflection stared back - the way my kurta clung after a long day, the sweat-damp curls at my temples, the gold bangles slipping down my wrist. A man on a bike slowed as he passed. His eyes met mine in the glass.
I looked away first.
Home was a quiet apartment that still didn't feel like mine. I dropped my bag by the door, toes curling against the cool tile. The bedroom mirror showed what the day had done to me - smudged eyeliner, a button popped open at my chest without me noticing.
I touched the spot absently. The skin there was warm.
The shower ran hot, steam curling around my body. I scrubbed until my skin turned pink, but the memory of Mr. Kapoor's lingering touch, Rohan's appreciative glance, the stranger's hungry stare - they clung like the jasmine perfume I couldn't seem to wash off.
Later, wrapped in a towel too small, I stood before the closet. My fingers hovered over tomorrow's outfit - a modest navy salwar. Then, without quite deciding to, I reached past it to the emerald green kurti Vikram had never liked. The one that fit just a little too well.
I laid it out carefully.
The balcony called to me. Bangalore glittered below, alive with possibilities. The night air kissed my damp shoulders as I leaned against the railing. Somewhere in the distance, music played. A woman laughed, low and throaty.
*I'm happy,* I told the stars.
The city lights winked back, as if they knew better.
I’m Priya Sharma—well, Priya Malhotra now, though I still sometimes forget to respond to my married name. Twenty-six years old, junior architect at AB & Associates, and, according to the whispers that follow me through the office corridors, "that shy little thing with the dangerous curves."
I’ve always been curvy, as my mother would say—but never delicate. Not really. My body betrays me in ways I was never taught to control. My waist dips in sharply, a perfect hourglass that tailors always pause at, their fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long when they measure me. "Twenty-four inches," they murmur, as if they can’t quite believe it. My hips flare out, round and impossible to ignore, no matter how loose my salwars are. And my chest—God, my chest—always seems to strain against my blouses, no matter how modest I try to be.
Vikram used to trace the lines of my body in the dark, his calloused hands mapping the swell of my breasts, the curve of my waist, the softness of my thighs. "You’re perfect," he’d whisper, and for a while, I believed him. But now, with him gone for months at a time, I catch myself staring at my reflection in shop windows, at the way men’s eyes follow me when I walk by.
I wear my hair long—thick, dark waves that tumble down my back, always slipping free from the clips I try to tame them with. My lips are too full, my eyes too big—"like a deer’s," Mr. Malhotra told me once, his gaze lingering just a second too long. And my skin—golden and smooth—flushes too easily, betraying every flicker of embarrassment, every unwanted thrill.
I tell myself I don’t notice the way Rohan from Accounts stares when I bend over a blueprint, or how Mr. Kapoor’s fingers accidentally brush mine when he passes me files. I pretend not to see the way the chaiwalla’s gaze drops to my cleavage when I lean forward to take my cup.
But I do.
Today will be a busy day at office. The jasmine-scented Bangalore air clung to my skin as I hurried through the office parking lot, my silk dupata slipping from my shoulder for the third time that morning. I caught it absently, my fingers brushing against the delicate skin of my collarbone where my wedding chain lay heavy. The gold had left a faint red mark again - Vikram always said I had skin so soft it bruised like fruit.
At the elevator, I pressed myself against the mirrored wall to make room for Mr. Kapoor. His eyes flickered over my reflection - my petite frame swallowed by the crisp linen of my peach kurti, the way the fabric strained just slightly across my chest when I reached to press the button for our floor.
"Late again, Priya?" His voice was light, but his gaze wasn't.
I tucked a loose curl behind my ear, feeling it immediately spring free. "The traffic near Koramangala was..."
His chuckle cut me off. "No need to explain. Though I must say," his eyes dropped to my feet, taking in the strappy sandals that made my legs look longer than they were, "you're making quite the entrance regardless."
The elevator dinged. My cheeks burned as I scurried out, his cologne - something expensive and woody - clinging to my clothes.
My desk was a sanctuary of neat blueprints and sharpened pencils. I smoothed my palms over my thighs, willing the flush to fade. The office AC hummed to life, raising goosebumps on my arms that had nothing to do with the temperature.
"Someone's getting special attention."
I jumped. Meera from HR leaned against my cubicle wall, her smirk making my stomach twist.
"It's not like that. He's just..."
"Married? Twice your age?" She plucked a pencil from my desk, twirling it between manicured fingers. "Doesn't stop him from looking, does it?"
I busied myself with organizing papers that didn't need organizing. My reflection in the computer screen stared back - wide dark eyes, lips still glossy from this morning's hurried application, the neckline of my kurti gaping slightly as I bent forward. I straightened immediately.
The morning passed in a blur of meetings and revisions. At lunch, I escaped to the women's restroom, splashing cool water on my wrists. The mirror showed what everyone else saw - a young woman drowning in her own body. My waist nipped in dramatically, making my hips seem even rounder, my chest fuller. The tailor last week had clucked his tongue measuring me. "Twenty-four inch waist, thirty-six inch..." He'd trailed off, tape measure brushing the underside of my breasts. "You should wear better blouses, madam. This is a crime to hide."
My phone buzzed. Vikram's smiling face flashed on screen.
"Hi!" I answered too brightly.
His voice came through tinny from thousands of miles away. "You sound out of breath."
"I was just...walking. To get lunch." I twisted a curl around my finger, watching it spring back.
"How's the Patel project going?"
I hesitated. Mr. Kapoor had cornered me by the copier this morning, his hand lingering on my back as he "explained" the revisions. His breath had smelled of cardamom and something darker.
"Fine," I said. "Everything's fine."
The silence stretched. I could picture Vikram running a hand through his hair the way he did when he knew I wasn't telling him something.
"Priya..."
"I should go. Meeting soon."
After the call, I stared at my untouched lunch. The office chatter buzzed around me, snippets of conversations about deadlines and divorces and the new restaurant on MG Road.
"Priya?"
I turned to find Rohan from Accounts looming over my desk, his crisp white shirt straining across broad shoulders. He set a stack of files down with exaggerated care.
"Didn't want you straining yourself," he said, eyes crinkling.
I forced a laugh. "I'm not that fragile."
His gaze traveled from my face downward, slow as honey. "No," he murmured. "You're definitely not."
The files suddenly seemed unimportant. My skin prickled where his fingers had brushed mine. The office felt too warm, the air too thick.
At 5:30, I fled. The evening air was a relief against my flushed skin. I paused outside a shop window, adjusting my dupata. My reflection stared back - the way my kurta clung after a long day, the sweat-damp curls at my temples, the gold bangles slipping down my wrist. A man on a bike slowed as he passed. His eyes met mine in the glass.
I looked away first.
Home was a quiet apartment that still didn't feel like mine. I dropped my bag by the door, toes curling against the cool tile. The bedroom mirror showed what the day had done to me - smudged eyeliner, a button popped open at my chest without me noticing.
I touched the spot absently. The skin there was warm.
The shower ran hot, steam curling around my body. I scrubbed until my skin turned pink, but the memory of Mr. Kapoor's lingering touch, Rohan's appreciative glance, the stranger's hungry stare - they clung like the jasmine perfume I couldn't seem to wash off.
Later, wrapped in a towel too small, I stood before the closet. My fingers hovered over tomorrow's outfit - a modest navy salwar. Then, without quite deciding to, I reached past it to the emerald green kurti Vikram had never liked. The one that fit just a little too well.
I laid it out carefully.
The balcony called to me. Bangalore glittered below, alive with possibilities. The night air kissed my damp shoulders as I leaned against the railing. Somewhere in the distance, music played. A woman laughed, low and throaty.
*I'm happy,* I told the stars.
The city lights winked back, as if they knew better.
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