Punit Verma
Chapter 1: The Scent of Silence
The train to Jaipur had arrived late, and by the time Naina Kapoor reached the haveli, the sun had already begun its descent behind the sand-kissed domes. Her taxi curved through the narrow lanes of the old city, honking past cows, scooters, and spice-laden carts, before halting before a tall wrought-iron gate. Beyond it stood Rathore Haveli — ancient, quiet, and steeped in the kind of forgotten grace that makes you instinctively lower your voice. The caretaker opened the gate with a creak, and she stepped into a world of fading frescoes, cracked sandstone steps, and a courtyard blooming with night jasmine. The air was thick with the scent — not floral and sweet, but musky and intoxicating, like an old memory that still knew how to seduce.
Armaan Rathore met her at the archway. Tall, with a sharp jaw and dusk in his eyes, he wore a cotton kurta rolled to his elbows, a quiet intensity about him that felt rehearsed over many silences. “Ms. Kapoor,” he said in a voice deeper than she expected. “Welcome to Rathore Haveli.” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t need to. His presence was enough to still the noise in her mind. She thanked him, following as he walked her through the pillared corridors. Each corner of the haveli held whispers — from painted gods fading into the walls to the way light filtered through jharokhas and landed on mosaic floors. She wondered how many stories these walls remembered, how many women before her had stood under that same tree where jasmine now bloomed.
Her room overlooked the central courtyard, with a carved wooden balcony and brass knobs that refused to turn without effort. A ceiling fan spun slowly above an antique bed, the kind with four posters and a mosquito net that felt more romantic than practical. She unpacked quietly, arranging her sketchbooks, fabric samples, and measuring tapes like ritual objects. That night, as she sat by the jharokha, watching the lanterns flicker in the courtyard below, she heard music — a sarangi, slow and soulful, its notes drifting like incense through the still air. She leaned over, trying to locate its source, but saw only shadows. It felt like the haveli itself was playing, exhaling sadness and seduction in equal measure.
She didn’t sleep for long that night. Something about the place — its silence, its scent, the echo of that music — kept her restless. At one point, she stood by the window, barefoot, watching the moonlight soak the courtyard. She could almost feel eyes watching her from somewhere within the haveli’s maze. But she wasn’t afraid. Instead, her body felt strangely aware — as if waking up from a long hibernation. And in that moment, surrounded by stone and shadow, she knew: this place was going to change her. Not with noise, not with drama. But with the quiet ache of something forgotten returning to life.
Chapter 2: Unspoken Invitations
The morning in Rathore Haveli began not with alarms or doorbells but with the soft clinking of brass vessels and the fluttering rustle of pigeons. Naina woke early, drawn by the golden light that filtered through the latticed jharokha. She stepped onto her balcony to find the courtyard transformed — the night’s sensual mystery replaced by a sun-drenched elegance. Below, two women swept the floor with neem branches, and the scent of sandalwood lingered faintly in the air. She made her way to the dining verandah where a table was set for one. There were silver bowls of papaya, almonds, and mint tea — and a note tucked under the glass tray: “Feel free to explore the gallery space after breakfast. — A.R.” No signature, just those initials. She smirked. Armaan Rathore was as formal in handwriting as he was in person.
The gallery, as it turned out, was a long hall beside the inner courtyard, lined with dusty canvases, rolled-up rugs, and light that came in sideways through stained glass. As she walked through it, sketchpad in hand, Naina could almost see the transformation — arches becoming textile frames, alcoves turning into soft-lit display corners. She knelt beside a forgotten trunk, lifting it to find a mix of old Rajput motifs and hand-embroidered fabric, faded but exquisite. Just then, she heard footsteps. Turning, she saw Armaan at the doorway, watching her with an unreadable expression. “You have an eye for the past,” he said. She didn’t know if it was admiration or caution in his voice. “It’s all in the texture,” she replied, rising. Their eyes met, and for a moment, something held — not attraction, not yet — but an awareness. A tension. As if both of them were waiting for the other to blink first.
That evening, the sky grew dark with an incoming storm. The haveli, with its candle-lit hallways and ancient walls, shimmered with flickers of shadow and warmth. A sudden downpour drowned the city, and the power went out just as Naina was sorting her sketches on the floor. She opened her door to find Armaan already there, holding a lantern. “Old houses,” he said, “never liked modern wires.” He stepped inside, placed the lantern on the table, and helped her gather the scattered papers. Their hands brushed once, twice — neither pulling away too quickly. The lantern’s glow threw shadows across his face, softening the sharp lines, warming the brooding stillness. As he stood to leave, she said, without thinking, “Do you always move this quietly?” He paused, a small, unreadable smile flickering across his lips. “Only when I’m curious.” And then he was gone. Left in the golden silence of flickering light and the soft tap of rain, Naina stood still — heart humming with a question she couldn’t name, pulse blooming under her skin like jasmine in the dark.
Chapter 3: The Skin Remembers
The next morning, the sky still wore the soft haze of leftover monsoon, and Naina found herself restless, craving movement beyond the haveli walls. When she mentioned a visit to the nearby indigo village to explore dyeing techniques, Armaan offered to accompany her. “You won’t find the place on GPS,” he said, already picking up his keys. They drove out of the city in his open jeep, the road narrowing into earthen paths flanked by wild grass and crumbling stone fences. He was quieter than usual, eyes on the road, hands firm on the wheel, but there was an ease in his silence — not aloofness, but a practiced calm, like someone who had taught himself to live without needing to explain too much. She liked that. She didn’t want to be explained to either. At the village, they watched artisans stir vats of blue, the dye bubbling like liquid dusk. Naina took notes, touched fabrics, inhaled the rich scent of earth and salt and labor. Armaan stood beside her, never interrupting, just watching — occasionally offering small details about the origin of a pattern or a story his grandmother had told.
On the way back, thunder cracked in the distance, and the sky turned the color of wet slate. Somewhere along the broken road, the jeep stalled. They pulled over near a wide, lonely lake fringed with neem trees and silence. “This happens,” Armaan muttered, stepping out to check the engine. Naina, unconcerned, walked toward the water, her sandals sinking slightly into the soft mud. The lake smelled like petrichor and stillness. He joined her eventually, brushing off grease from his palms, and they sat on a flat stone, side by side, watching the ripples move. “You don’t ask many questions,” she said. He tilted his head slightly. “And you don’t offer many answers.” She hesitated, then said, “I was supposed to get married last year.” The words dropped like stones. He didn’t flinch. Just said, “Why didn’t you?” Her voice was steady. “Because I chose myself.” A long pause, then his own confession, “I lost my brother. After that, polo felt like a betrayal. So I stopped playing.” The wind picked up, and neither of them moved. But something between them had. Not pity, not comfort — but recognition. The shared weight of things unspoken.
Back at the haveli, night had fallen with an intensity that felt almost deliberate. Lanterns lit the corridors again, and the scent of jasmine floated thicker than usual. Naina couldn’t sleep. She wandered out onto the terrace he’d once mentioned — a forgotten space above the eastern wing. It was empty, except for a cracked marble bench and a view of the moon-kissed courtyard below. She sat there, sketching absently, until she heard footsteps behind her. Armaan. Holding two cups of steaming masala chai. He didn’t say anything as he handed her one. Just sat beside her, their shoulders nearly touching. The city hummed faintly in the distance, but up there, it was just the two of them — skin warm, hearts full of quiet ache, and the unspoken thrill of nearness. They didn’t touch. But the silence between them was no longer empty. It was alive. It remembered.
Chapter 4: Velvet Shadows
The gallery space was coming alive, bit by bit. Sunlight filtered through colored glass and spilled over newly polished floors, reflecting off folded silks and handwoven textures that Naina had arranged with obsessive care. That afternoon, while searching for an unused stretch of fabric in a storeroom she hadn’t explored before, she discovered a battered teak trunk wedged behind two antique mirrors. Curious, she pried it open. Inside, among faded sketchbooks and loose charcoal pencils, lay a set of hand-drawn portraits — bodies in fluid motion, naked in fragments, incomplete yet strikingly intimate. Each curve, each line, spoke not of voyeurism but reverence. One in particular — a woman reclining, her hair falling like ink across a bare shoulder — felt familiar. The soft dip of collarbone, the tension in the hips. It wasn’t her, but it could have been. She held the drawing in her hand longer than necessary, wondering what kind of man carried this tenderness in his fingers yet kept it locked away behind dust and disuse.
When she brought it up that evening, he didn’t deny it. They stood in the same gallery room, golden light trailing across stone walls, dust motes dancing like secrets in the air. “You drew them,” she said, voice low, holding out the sketch. Armaan looked at it, then at her — unreadable, as always. “Years ago. Before the haveli took over.” There was no shame in his tone, only the worn edge of something once urgent now tucked away. “Why did you stop?” she asked. His reply came like breath on skin: “Because no one looked at me the way I looked at them.” That sentence sat between them like an open invitation. The silence that followed was thick, pulsing. She stepped closer. Her hands weren’t trembling, but her heart was. “Draw me,” she whispered, her voice more daring than she felt. “But not with your hands.” His eyes darkened — not with shock, but understanding. He stepped forward, gently took the sketchbook from her fingers, and set it aside.
The room held its breath as she stood still, allowing him to study her — not undress her, not touch her — just see her. His gaze roamed her face, her throat, the soft rhythm of breath rising beneath her kurta. And though no fingers touched, she felt the stroke of each glance like a brush dipped in fire. He moved slowly, circling her, letting his presence press close but never invasive. “Don’t move,” he murmured, voice thick. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Light pooled at her feet, shadows danced on the wall, and when his hand finally brushed the side of her waist, it was not to claim but to anchor. A simple touch, reverent. Electric. Later, when she returned to her room, her lips still tingled with a kiss that hadn’t happened. Her skin buzzed with a memory that hadn’t fully formed. But something had shifted. Deeply. Quietly. Like silk sliding off shoulders in the dark.
Chapter 5: Fever Dreams
The monsoon arrived in full, turning the world outside Rathore Haveli into a blur of silver streaks and wet stone. For three days, the city slowed under the weight of rain, and inside the haveli, time thickened. Naina stopped sketching. Armaan stopped pretending to stay away. On the second afternoon, when the downpour turned the courtyard into a mirror, he came to her room, rain-drenched and silent, his shirt clinging to him like second skin. He said nothing — just stood at the threshold until she stepped aside. The door closed behind them, muffling thunder, muting the city. And then, finally, they kissed. No rush, no collision — just the slow unfolding of longing that had waited too long to speak. His lips on hers were warm, aching, and deliberate. She tasted rain and restraint, felt his hands move with a reverence that made her tremble. Her fingers buried in his damp hair, her body arching into his like it had been waiting for this exact shape, this exact surrender.
The bed, with its creaking wood and ivory netting, became their world — soft sheets, bare skin, and breaths caught between pleasure and disbelief. He undressed her as if he were learning her — not stripping away layers, but discovering them. Every inch of her skin received attention, not just as flesh, but as something sacred. She touched him too — traced scars, learned muscle memory, memorized the way his body responded not to control but to care. Their lovemaking was not rushed or ravenous. It was slow — maddeningly slow — the kind that builds in waves, soft and then soaring, deep enough to blur past from present, grief from desire. There were moments she felt like crying, not from pain but from the fullness of being seen, tasted, needed. The storm outside swelled, and inside the haveli, moans and whispers filled the quiet spaces where ghosts once lived. No ghosts remained. Not anymore.
They stayed like that for hours — in pauses, in heat, in shared silence. Afterwards, wrapped in a single bedsheet, Naina lay on his chest, tracing circles on his skin, listening to his breath slow beneath her ear. He told her about his childhood — games in the marble corridors, sneaking mangoes from the orchard, the brother who always ran faster. She spoke of her mother’s quiet strength, of learning to say no, of the way Delhi never let her sleep. They didn’t make promises. There were no declarations. Just the feeling of home — not in places, but in each other. Later, he fell asleep first, and she watched the way the lantern light carved soft lines across his jaw. Outside, the rain slowed, and the jasmine tree bowed under the weight of water. Inside, her body ached with new memory — not just of touch, but of truth. She hadn’t known she was starving until he fed her with something that wasn’t just lust, but devotion. It felt dangerous. It felt divine.
Chapter 6: Letters Never Sent
The rain left behind a different kind of stillness — not the seductive hush of before, but the tender silence that comes after bodies have spoken every language they know. For the next two days, Naina and Armaan moved like water around each other — not avoiding, not clinging — just flowing. She found herself sketching again, this time not just patterns but curves, shadows, the shapes of moments. He brought her fresh pomegranates in the morning, still wet from the garden, and in the evenings, they sat on the terrace, drinking strong chai and watching peacocks dance in the damp. There was no urgency to define what they were. But beneath the surface, something restless stirred — not in the desire between them, but in the parts of Armaan he still held back. He was present, but sometimes too quiet. His eyes, though warm, carried the weight of something left unsaid, a grief folded neatly and kept just out of reach.
One afternoon, while preparing the west wing for a preview exhibit, Naina was sorting through an old chest of lanterns and textiles when she discovered a weathered wooden drawer wedged behind a stack of paintings. Inside it were letters — dozens of them — yellowed and unsent, each addressed to Aarav Rathore. The handwriting was unmistakably Armaan’s, sharp and clean, even where the ink had smudged. She read one, then another. They were love letters disguised as apologies. Letters soaked in guilt, in regret, in the quiet confession of a brother who survived when another didn’t. One read, “I didn’t stop you. And maybe that’s why I never played again.” Her throat tightened. She closed the drawer gently, the letters untouched now but etched in her heart. That evening, she didn’t mention them. But when Armaan joined her on the terrace, she placed her hand on his without a word. He looked at her, something breaking open in his gaze — and in that moment, she knew he knew. She didn’t need to say it. She just needed to stay.
That night, it rained again, but not in torrents. Just a soft drizzle that made the air bloom with petrichor and longing. Naina walked into the courtyard barefoot, dressed in a cotton kurti damp at the hem, her hair untied and falling in waves down her back. Music played faintly from somewhere — an old film song on radio crackle — and she began to dance. Slowly. Not for anyone. Just for herself. The sky glowed slate blue, and she spun once, twice, arms lifting like wings. Armaan appeared at the archway, drawn by the sound or the sight — maybe both. He didn’t interrupt. He just stepped out into the rain, fully clothed, watching her like she was the first good thing he’d seen in years. And when she walked up to him, breathless, smiling, he kissed her with the kind of depth that made time irrelevant. There, beneath the jasmine tree heavy with rain, they made love again — slower this time, with tenderness born from sorrow and salvation. Not to forget the past, but to forgive it.
Chapter 7: Jasmine and Goodbyes
The days that followed unfolded like the final notes of a long, haunting melody — beautiful, aching, and impossible to hold. Naina spent her time finishing the exhibit, but her mind often drifted to the moments between their moments — the way Armaan would pause mid-sentence to look at her, the way her fingers would linger on the folds of his kurta longer than necessary. The intimacy they shared had gone beyond skin and sighs; it had embedded itself into the fabric of daily life. But sometimes, even in the most quiet of loves, reality knocks — and one such knock came in the form of an email. The Maison De L’Art in Paris wanted to feature her textile work in an international exhibition. It was prestigious, career-defining, and demanding. Six months in Europe. Her dream. The one she’d always chased, before the haveli, before Armaan. She stared at the screen for a long time that night, the smell of jasmine drifting through her open window, the echo of his voice still humming in her bones. She didn’t know whether to be elated or hollow.
When she told him, his face was unreadable — not surprised, not broken, just still. “You should go,” he said simply, as if it cost him nothing. But she heard it in his breath, in the way his jaw tightened slightly. “And what about this?” she asked. Not accusingly. Just honestly. Armaan stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “This was never meant to be a forever kind of story, Naina. We’re both just… passing through each other’s pages.” She wanted to scream, to argue, to tell him how wrong he was. But something in his tone — the quiet ache of self-preservation — stopped her. Maybe he truly believed he was only capable of being an interlude in someone else’s life. Maybe his grief had built such strong walls that love felt like a trespass. That night, they didn’t fight. They simply lived it all — one last time. The lovemaking was different — no urgency, no fire. It was slow, like a goodbye whispered between kisses. They moved with reverence, memorizing each other with hands and mouths, storing touch like memory. And when they finally lay still, bodies entwined under a single cotton sheet, nothing was said. There was no need. The silence spoke fluently now.
At dawn, before the city stirred, Naina left. She didn’t wait for a farewell. She couldn’t bear the look in his eyes if he tried to pretend he was fine. As the car pulled away, she looked back once — at the terrace where they’d danced, the jharokha where she had first heard music, the courtyard where jasmine still bloomed. In her hand, she clutched a pressed flower — one he’d left on her sketchbook without a note. A piece of him, small but unforgettable. She didn’t cry. Not yet. That would come later, when she stood in Paris, surrounded by lights and applause, wearing silence like a shawl, and wondering if love was meant to be this — fleeting, fragrant, and unfinished.
Chapter 8: The Haveli Still Blooms
Paris was everything it promised — luminous, distant, and full of possibility. Naina’s collection, Midnight Jasmine, opened to critical acclaim in a gallery nestled by the Seine, the kind of white-walled perfection artists dream of. Her fabrics — each dyed with the muted tones of monsoon skies, etched with delicate motifs resembling falling jasmine, monoprinted with shadows that echoed haveli arches — drew hushed admiration. People asked about her inspiration, and she always gave the same rehearsed smile: “A summer in Rajasthan.” But within her, the story remained unspoken — the feel of Armaan’s fingertips tracing her spine, the way silence had turned into music between them, the smell of rain on old stone. Some nights, she stood alone by the wide French windows of her rented flat, watching lights ripple across the river, and missed the darkness of the courtyard, the uneven flicker of lanterns, the hum of something old coming back to life. She told herself she had made the right choice — but the heart doesn’t always clap for career.
Seasons passed. And then, one evening in Delhi, while setting up her first solo showcase on Indian soil, she caught a scent that stopped her mid-step. Jasmine. Not the perfumed kind sprayed in boutiques, but the real thing — earthy, sensual, haunting. She turned instinctively. At the far end of the gallery, standing near a minimalist installation of her indigo work, was Armaan Rathore. Dressed simply, as always. White shirt, sleeves rolled. Eyes just as unreadable. For a moment, neither moved. The crowd, the music, the wine trays disappeared. All that remained was the quiet ache of time that hadn’t dulled a single memory. She walked up to him, heart thudding like monsoon rain on a tiled roof. “I didn’t think you’d come,” she said, her voice steady but soft. He looked at her — not with longing, not with apology — but with the calm of someone who had finally found his way through a storm. “You left,” he said gently, “but you never really left me.”
They didn’t speak much more that night. They didn’t need to. After the exhibit, he waited while she wrapped up, then walked with her into the Delhi night, quiet and humming. At a roadside tea stall, they sipped steaming kulhads under streetlight shadows and spoke of everything but the past — books, colours, stupid dreams. And then, without a script, he took her hand and said, “Come home.” She didn’t ask which home. She just nodded. A few weeks later, back at the haveli, the jasmine had bloomed again, wildly, almost as if it had been waiting. They stood in the same courtyard, now lit not with lanterns but soft fairy bulbs strung carelessly across arches. He kissed her there — not with desperation, but with ease. And this time, it wasn’t an ending or an interlude. It was return. Not dramatic. Not perfect. But real. She had gone to find the world. And he had stayed to build one. And when they finally came back to each other, the haveli, silent and ancient, bloomed once more — not just with jasmine, but with something softer, steadier: love that knew its own name.
End
