Chapter 1
Dhriti's POV
The front door creaked shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the familiar silence of our house. Amma stood by the stove, her back a rigid line, before turning and moving into the kitchen without a word. A sigh, heavy enough to weigh down my shoulders, escaped my lips. Was I truly so inherently flawed that I was born into this family, one that didn't treat me as their own?
Slowly, I climbed the stairs to my room, each step echoing the hollowness in my chest. It was a story etched in the silence of our home. Geetha Akka, the firstborn, had been celebrated simply for arriving first. Then, the unspoken yearning for a son, the subtle disappointment that settled when I, another girl, was born. Three years later, Chetan’s arrival had been a fanfare of joy, and in its bright light, I had simply faded further into the background. Sometimes, a chilling thought would snake its way into my mind: Am I even truly theirs?
“Dhriti! Come downstairs and help me with the chores!” Amma’s voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the quiet.
I hurried down, the familiar throb of resentment a dull ache behind my ribs. Later, as I watched the clock’s hands creep towards 6:30 PM – my tuition time – a small, almost rebellious smile touched my lips. A quick change of clothes, and I slipped out of the house, the familiar scent of the neighbour’s jasmine a welcome change from the stale air inside. My steps quickened slightly as I neared their gate, and I nervously smoothed down the front of my churidar. The path to their house felt like a brief escape, a chance… to maybe catch a glimpse of him.
Rishi Anna’s house always held a different kind of warmth. Tonight, as I approached the door, the gentle aroma of agarbathi mingled with the sweet scent of jasmine, and I could just make out the soft murmur of a woman’s voice and a low chuckle from within. Their house was also home to Anika Paati, Rishi Anna’s grandmother, a woman whose love felt like a warm embrace. And then there was Vikram. Six years older than me… my secret, my silent obsession that had quietly blossomed into something far deeper than a simple crush.
I remembered the day we moved in. The chaos of boxes, the unfamiliar surroundings, and then the sharp, cutting words of Akka and Amma, their voices laced with suspicion as they spoke about me trying to “gain attention” from the neighbours. I had retreated to a quiet corner, the metallic tang of tears on my tongue, when a man had stood before me. Vikram. He had cleared his throat softly, his gaze gentle as he acknowledged what had happened. That was my first experience of true care, the unexpected starting point of my crush.
From then on, my daily visits to get tutored by Rishi Anna were also opportunities to catch a glimpse of Vikram, perhaps tending to the small garden or simply talking quietly with Anika Paati on the porch.
A small, hopeful breath escaped my lips as I raised my hand and knocked on their door, the scent of their agarbathi wafting out as the door began to open, accompanied by the soft sound of Anika Paati’s gentle laughter..
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The door swung open, revealing Anika Paati’s warm, wrinkled face, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled. The scent of agarbathi and something sweet – perhaps Mysore Pak – wafted out, enveloping me in their familiar comforting embrace.
“Ayyo, Dhriti! Come in, my dear,” Paati said, her voice as soft as the silk sarees she always wore. “Rishi just stepped out to get some groceries, but he’ll be back any minute. And Vikram is… somewhere around.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she said his name.
My heart did its usual little flutter. “Good evening, Paati,” I replied, stepping inside. The small living room was bathed in the warm glow of the evening sun filtering through the sheer curtains. A half-finished game of chowka bara lay on the low wooden table, and the air hummed with a quiet domesticity that always felt like a balm to my soul.
“Come, sit down, child. I was just telling Vikram about that funny incident with the monkey on the temple steps,” Paati chuckled, gesturing towards the worn cushion on the floor.
My gaze flickered around the room, searching for him. He wasn’t here. A slight wave of disappointment washed over me, quickly masked by a polite smile for Paati. “That sounds amusing, Paati.”
Just as I settled onto the cushion, a figure emerged from the inner rooms. Vikram. He was wearing a simple white kurta and jeans, his dark hair slightly tousled. He paused as he entered the living room, his eyes meeting mine for a brief, fleeting moment before he offered a polite nod.
“Dhriti,” he greeted, his voice a low, familiar rumble that always sent a shiver down my spine.
“Vikram…,” I began, a barely perceptible pause before the unwanted honorific escaped my lips, the “Anna” sounding softer, almost hesitant, a reluctant concession to the six years that stretched between us like an uncrossable distance, reinforced by the very title I had to use. My cheeks felt warm, and I busied myself with smoothing the imaginary creases in my churidar bottoms, avoiding his gaze.
Paati, oblivious to the sudden tension that had sprung up in the small room, continued her story about the mischievous monkey, her laughter filling the silence. Rishi Anna’s absence suddenly felt more pronounced. He usually acted as a comfortable buffer in these moments, his easy conversation diffusing any awkwardness.
Vikram Anna moved to sit on the armrest of the sofa near Paati, his presence in the room a subtle but undeniable force. I could feel his gaze on me occasionally, a brief, almost impersonal assessment before he turned his attention back to his grandmother’s story.
My mind, however, was a whirlwind. His unexpected appearance, the brief connection of our eyes… it was enough to send my thoughts spiralling. Was there a flicker of something in his gaze, or was it just wishful thinking? Did he even register my presence beyond the polite acknowledgement?
The minutes ticked by, filled with Paati’s anecdotes and the occasional polite interjection from Vikram Anna. I tried to focus, to appear engaged, but my awareness was acutely attuned to his every movement, every subtle shift in his posture, every low murmur of his voice.
Finally, the sound of a scooter pulling into the driveway announced Rishi Anna’s return. The tension in the room eased slightly as he entered, his cheerful greeting filling the space.
“Dhriti! You’re here already. Sorry I took so long; the queue at the vegetable shop was endless,” Rishi Anna said, dropping a bag overflowing with groceries onto the kitchen counter.
“No worries, Anna,” I replied, my smile feeling a little more genuine now. His presence was a welcome anchor in the sea of my unspoken feelings.
Rishi Anna’s cheerful presence immediately lightened the atmosphere. He ruffled my hair affectionately as he passed, heading towards the kitchen to unpack the groceries. “So, Paati kept you entertained with her tales, I presume?” he asked, his voice carrying from the other room.
“As always, Anna,” I replied, a genuine smile finally reaching my eyes. It was always easy to be around Rishi Anna; his warmth was uncomplicated.
Vikram, who had remained seated on the armrest, finally shifted, his gaze now directed towards his brother in the kitchen. He offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod in my direction, a silent acknowledgement before turning his attention to Rishi Anna’s chatter. As I stole glances at him, a faint, almost hopeful flutter stirred in my chest, a silent wish that he would truly see me.
The evening settled into its usual rhythm. Rishi Anna, after helping Paati put away the groceries, joined us in the living room. He picked up the chowka bara board, and soon, a lively game was underway, Paati’s delighted exclamations punctuating the clatter of the dice. Vikram remained a quiet observer, occasionally offering a strategic suggestion to Paati or a dry remark about Rishi Anna’s perpetually bad luck. Once, as Paati recounted a particularly funny anecdote, a ghost of a smile played on Vikram's lips, a fleeting, almost unconscious softening of his features that I barely registered.
I found myself stealing glances at Vikram whenever I could, my gaze lingering on the curve of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed slightly in concentration as he watched the game. A subtle quickening of my pulse accompanied each stolen moment, a secret treasure I tucked away in the quiet corners of my heart.
As the game drew to a close, with Paati declaring a triumphant victory, Rishi Anna glanced at the clock on the wall. “Almost eight. Dhriti, shouldn’t you be heading back home?”
A sudden awareness of the time jolted me. Amma would likely be wondering where I was. “Oh, yes, Anna. It got late quickly.” I stood up, gathering my dupatta. “Thank you for the tuition, Anna, even though we didn’t get much studying done.”
Rishi Anna chuckled. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch up next time. You were good company for Paati.”
I turned to Anika Paati, bending down to touch her feet in a gesture of respect. “Good night, Paati. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, my dear,” she said, her hand patting my head affectionately. “Come early, and we’ll make those vadas you like.”
A genuine smile touched my lips. “I’d love that, Paati.”
Finally, my gaze drifted towards Vikram, who had also stood up. “Good night, Vikram Anna,” I said, the words feeling a little less stiff this time, perhaps because Rishi Anna was present.
“Good night, Dhriti,” he replied, his tone polite and even, offering a small, almost formal nod in return. There was nothing in his expression, nothing in his voice, that hinted at the brief, charged moment of the previous evening. He was Vikram Anna – kind neighbour, older brother, and utterly oblivious to the silent symphony playing in my heart. The distant hum of traffic provided a constant backdrop to the quiet farewell.
With a final wave to Rishi Anna and Paati, I stepped out onto the porch, the cool night air, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine, a stark contrast to the warmth inside. As I walked down their driveway towards my scooter, the image of Vikram's polite, distant nod lingered in my mind. The uncrossable distance felt vast and disheartening under the starlit Bangalore sky, accompanied by the insistent chirping of crickets from the nearby trees
The walk home felt longer than usual, the cool night air doing little to soothe the ache of unspoken feelings. The bright, almost clinical lights of our own house seemed to amplify the usual tension within. As I stepped inside, the aroma of Amma’s cooking – a familiar mix of spices that usually brought comfort – felt heavy and unwelcome in the strained atmosphere.
Appa was already seated at the small dining table, the harsh glare of the television screen reflecting in his impassive eyes. Amma served him rice and rasam, her movements efficient and devoid of any unnecessary warmth towards me. Chetan was still engrossed in his studies at the table, occasionally asking Amma a question about his homework, his voice the only sound breaking the thick silence.
I took my usual spot, the wooden chair feeling cold beneath me. Amma placed a small portion of rice and a ladleful of sambar on my plate, her gaze sliding past mine as if I were a piece of furniture. I picked at the food listlessly, each grain feeling like a lead weight in my mouth, the flavors muted and unsatisfying. The clinking of cutlery against the plates was the loudest sound, a stark contrast to the imagined warmth and laughter of other families at their dinner tables. A tight knot formed in my chest, making each swallow a conscious effort. I kept my gaze fixed on my plate, avoiding the blank indifference that emanated from Appa and the focused absorption of Amma and Chetan.
Swallowing down the lump in my throat and the meager amount of food I’d managed, I mumbled a quiet, “I’m done,” and stood up, the scraping of my chair against the tiled floor seeming jarringly loud in the silence.
Amma merely nodded, her attention already back on Chetan’s physics problem. Appa remained a silhouette against the flickering blue light of the television. Without another word, I retreated upstairs to the sanctuary of my room.
The small space felt instantly more comforting than the cold indifference downstairs. I closed the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment, letting out a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The need for fresh air, for a glimpse of something outside these stifling walls, drew me to the window.
I pushed open the glass panes, the cool night breeze carrying the distant hum of the city and the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine from our small garden. And then I saw him.
Across the narrow lane, in the soft, warm glow spilling from his own window, Vikram stood. He was facing away from his house, his dark hair slightly ruffled by a gentle breeze, the moonlight catching the sharp angle of his jaw. His gaze was lifted towards the inky expanse of the night sky, his expression unreadable from this distance, yet there was a quiet intensity in his posture.
My breath caught in my throat. He was just standing there, still and contemplative, a silhouette against the warm light. But to me, he was everything. My love, my Vikram. The quiet strength in his posture, the gentle curve of his neck, the way his hands were clasped loosely behind his back… every detail was etched into my heart.
He seemed lost in his own world, unaware of my gaze fixed upon him from across the lane. A silent, yearning ache bloomed in my chest. I wanted to call out his name, to bridge the physical distance that separated us, but the invisible wall of the age gap and his perceived indifference held me captive.
I simply stood there, bathed in the cool night air, my eyes glued to his figure. In that quiet moment, under the vast expanse of the night sky, he was my silent solace, the focus of a love I held close and secret within the confines of my own lonely heart.
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