Ira Devyani Sen
It was the kind of evening that carried warmth on its skin — not from the sun, but from the longing that hung in the air like unspoken words. The rain had stopped just an hour ago, leaving behind a breathless hush. The windows were still misted, half open to the scent of soaked earth and hibiscus. She stood by the sill, fingers tracing the wooden frame, her saree a soft rustle of maroon and gold wrapped tightly around her curves, as if the fabric itself remembered touch.
Down below, the courtyard glistened — bricks slick with rain, a puddle catching a lone bougainvillea petal that drifted in from somewhere. Somewhere was where he had come from, too. A guest of her cousin’s wedding, a man whose name she had heard once but hadn’t tried hard to remember. Yet when he entered the haveli that morning, water beading on his lashes, the air around her changed — the kind of change the body senses before the mind can catch up.
He hadn’t looked at her for long. Just enough. Enough for her spine to stiffen and then soften like melting wax. She had turned away, of course. She had offered the grace of not staring. But her breath, that betrayed her — shallow, then stolen. The room was full of noise — aunties clinking bangles, uncles thumping backs, cousins giggling. But she heard only the sound of her anklet shifting slightly on her foot, the way it always did when she was nervous.
He had a mole just above his upper lip — tiny, almost invisible. She noticed it when he smiled at her brother. Not at her. Never directly at her. And yet she felt it — that attention that touches you without hands. That evening, she caught herself rearranging her hair three times without reason. Her mother was calling from the kitchen. Her sisters were laughing over mehendi designs. But she kept drifting to the same thought — would his eyes follow her again?
They did. Briefly. When she stepped into the garden with a brass plate full of jasmine garlands. She bent to place them on the swing, and when she looked up, he was already looking away. But it was enough. Her heartbeat had already changed rhythm.
Now, at twilight, the house had calmed. The elders were napping. The caterers had left. She remained by the window, the chill on the glass cooling her breath. Her blouse was damp at the back — the silk clung where the rain had touched her earlier. She should have changed. But she liked how the wetness felt. It made her feel like she was holding a secret under her skin.
She didn’t hear him come in. Not until he cleared his throat, gently, like someone afraid of breaking a dream. She turned slowly, and there he was — not in the courtyard, not across the swing — but here. In her grandfather’s old study room, quiet and smelling faintly of mothballs and rose attar. He stood by the doorway, hesitant, the candlelight catching the drop of water still clinging to his earlobe.
“I didn’t mean to disturb,” he said softly.
“You didn’t,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt.
“I was just… looking for a quiet place.”
She nodded. “There’s not much quiet left in this house anymore.”
He smiled. That smile with the almost-invisible mole. “I could leave.”
She paused. “You could stay.”
Something about the way she said it made the room warmer. Or maybe it was just her. Her skin, her breath, the way her fingers curled against the folds of her saree. He stepped inside, careful, like he was entering a sacred space.
They didn’t speak for a while. He walked to the shelf, picked up a faded book of Bengali poems. She stayed by the window, her reflection watching his in the glass. The silence between them was not awkward — it was ripe. Heavy with possibilities. His fingers brushed a verse, but his eyes flickered to her back.
“Do you read Tagore?” he asked.
“I grew up with him,” she said, turning just enough for the candlelight to catch the curve of her cheek.
He nodded. “Figures. You carry something… poetic.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerously close to a line.”
“Only if it works.”
She laughed, a low, velvet sound that seemed to belong to the room more than to her. “And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll have to find better metaphors.”
He placed the book back. She watched the way his hand lingered on the spine. His fingers were long, gentle. She imagined how they might feel on other spines — hers, perhaps, if she let them.
She turned away again, pretending to be distracted by the flicker of flame in the antique lamp. But she was not distracted. She was gathering courage. Or surrendering to something that had already begun.
The silence returned, deeper now. He walked closer, his footsteps careful on the wooden floor. He stood behind her — not too near, not yet. But near enough that she could smell the monsoon on him — damp earth, rain, and a hint of musk. Her body tensed. Then softened again.
“You smell like saffron,” he murmured.
She blinked. “I wasn’t cooking.”
“I didn’t say you did. But you do.”
She felt the words on the back of her neck. Not his breath. Just the thought of it. That was enough. Her saree slipped slightly from her shoulder. She made no move to adjust it.
“You shouldn’t say such things,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because someone might hear.”
“There’s only us.”
And in that moment, there truly was. The world shrank to the space between his words and her silence. Her heart was loud now. She wondered if he could hear it. She wished he would. She wished he would say nothing else and just step closer.
He did.
She didn’t move.
Their reflections in the window met first — lips almost brushing in the glass. Then his hand reached forward, slowly, to touch the edge of her pallu. He held it like it was a question. She answered it by not stopping him.
Outside, the rain had begun again — soft, persistent, like fingertips tapping at a memory. The candle fluttered. The wind stirred a curtain. And inside, in the hush of the old room, saffron and rain met in silence.
The saree slid further from her shoulder, a slow sigh of silk against skin. His fingers hadn’t pulled, only lingered — yet the fabric surrendered, like it too had been waiting. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t fix it. She let the moment stretch between them, a string drawn tight, humming with awareness.
His hand hovered for a moment, then fell back. He stepped away — not in hesitation, but in control. That, more than anything, made her pulse quicken. It would have been easier if he had lost himself. But he didn’t. He watched her with eyes that held both restraint and heat — a quiet storm contained inside a man too careful with his fire.
She turned toward him, fully now, her back no longer an invitation but a confrontation. Her bare shoulder gleamed where the candlelight touched it. A raindrop — maybe from her earlier walk, maybe imagined — trailed down her collarbone. His eyes followed it, but he said nothing.
“You’re a dangerous guest,” she said.
He tilted his head. “You make me sound like a thief.”
She stepped forward. “Only those who leave with things that don’t belong to them are thieves.”
“And what if something wants to be stolen?”
The question settled on her skin like heat. She looked up at him — truly looked. His hair was still damp near the temples, and his shirt, though clean, carried a crease that suggested travel. He wasn’t perfect. But he was present. Entirely here. In a room full of half-lived lives, he was alive in full.
“You don’t look like someone who steals,” she said softly. “You look like someone who waits until it’s given.”
He didn’t smile this time. Just watched her, eyes still, expression unreadable. “And would you give it?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned again, walked to the table in the corner. There was a box — sandalwood, old, carved by her great-grandfather. She opened it gently and took out a piece of saffron-soaked cotton. Her grandmother had used it to scent linens. Now it smelled of old silk and faint spice — the kind that lingers long after touch.
She walked back to him and placed it in his hand.
“There,” she said. “Start with this.”
He looked at it, then at her. “What am I stealing?”
“A memory,” she said. “Before it becomes one.”
The air between them changed again. It thickened, as if rain had seeped through the very walls. He tucked the saffron cloth into his pocket, reverently, like one might keep a prayer leaf. Then he reached out — not to touch, but to ask. His fingers barely brushed the edge of her hand.
This time, she didn’t move away.
The candlelight cast long shadows on the wall, where their shapes blurred together. There were still voices in the distant kitchen, still the sound of water dripping off tiled roofs. But the room — this room — belonged to something else now. Something slower. Deeper.
He stepped closer again. His hand found hers, warm and sure. Their fingers tangled, not tightly, but intimately — like people who had touched in dreams and were now remembering how. She could feel the slight tremble in his thumb as it traced the pulse in her wrist.
“Are you cold?” he asked, almost a whisper.
“No,” she said. “Just… aware.”
He exhaled slowly. “You make the air feel heavy.”
She smiled. “And you make it still.”
He raised her hand to his lips, not kissing, just holding it near — close enough for her to feel his breath. It sent a ripple through her, a delicate flutter somewhere deep in the belly, where restraint turns to longing.
“I should go,” he said finally, though he didn’t move.
“Why?”
“Because I want to stay.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“It could be.”
“Then let it be.”
It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t boldness. It was softness, sharpened by certainty. She had lived too long watching others have moments they didn’t earn. She wasn’t about to let hers pass in silence.
She stepped closer, her chest nearly brushing his. She tilted her face slightly upward, and he leaned in — not kissing, not touching — just hovering near enough that their breaths merged. Her lashes lowered. Her lips parted. But still, she waited.
So did he.
The anticipation was its own seduction. The way his knuckles brushed her cheek. The way her sari’s edge fluttered near his hand. The way her navel quivered as if sensing his nearness. They were not rushing toward a moment. They were drawing it out, making it last.
When he finally touched her waist, it was with reverence — a slow glide of fingers over silk and skin, the pressure feather-light. She arched slightly, just enough for him to feel how ready she was. Not desperate. Just open. Fully, completely, achingly open.
His mouth found her shoulder — not with urgency, but devotion. A warm breath, a lingering graze. She exhaled into his name, not loudly, just enough for the candle to flicker.
The room grew smaller still. The rain steadied outside, a lullaby in rhythm. And the two of them, wrapped in scent and warmth and breath, became something suspended — not lovers yet, not strangers anymore, but a story beginning to unfold… drop by drop.
She hadn’t realized her eyes were closed until his lips left her shoulder, and the absence made her breath catch. Her lashes fluttered open slowly, and he was looking at her — not hungrily, not with conquest — but like a man caught in prayer, startled by the divinity of the moment.
The candle between them flickered again, as if the air had grown too thick with longing. The shadows on the wall stretched and curled like bodies tangled under a monsoon moon. Her fingers moved almost involuntarily, tracing the collar of his kurta, feeling the damp fabric clinging to his chest. Beneath her touch, his heartbeat was steady, firm — but it quickened when her thumb brushed the skin just above his neckline.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the hills. Inside, their silences grew louder.
“You smell like wet earth,” she murmured, her voice barely audible, as if speaking it too clearly would ruin it.
He smiled faintly, then leaned in so slowly it felt like the air between them parted on its own. His forehead touched hers, his breath warming her lips, and when his hands cupped her waist, he did it like one would hold a secret — precious and dangerous.
“I’ve never wanted to be careful,” he said softly, “until now.”
She drew back just enough to look at him, and in that look was every answer she hadn’t yet spoken. Her fingers trailed down his chest and stopped at the first button. Her pulse drummed at her wrist, and he felt it. She didn’t ask for permission. She didn’t need to. She undid the button — one — then paused.
His hands slid slowly up her back, finding the knot that held her blouse together. But he didn’t tug. He let his fingers rest there, waiting, while she unfastened the second. Her breath came faster now, though her body remained still — like a flame growing from within.
“You don’t have to,” he said, voice rough, the edge of restraint fraying.
“I know,” she replied, opening the third.
Then came the silence where skin meets skin, where clothes stop being cloth and start becoming memory. He stepped back for a moment — just a moment — to look at her. The saree clung to her hips, low, soaked slightly from earlier rain, tracing the shape of her curves as if sculpted from spice and silk. Her blouse gaped just enough to reveal the delicate rise of her chest, the skin glowing like honey under candlelight.
And she stood still, unashamed, watching him watch her. She was not a woman undressing. She was a woman revealing the truth of herself — and he received it as though she had opened a shrine.
When he came closer again, his touch was firmer. He pulled her gently to him, letting her feel every part of him — warm, solid, ready. Her fingers clutched the fabric at his back, her nails digging in slightly as he kissed her — finally, fully, deeply. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t soft. It was exactly what she had imagined — all slow fire and deep breath, lips tasting lips like names being memorized.
Her back arched into him, and he followed — hands moving down, anchoring her to the present moment. She tasted of cinnamon and breathlessness. He smelled like first rain and desire. Together, they moved without choreography, only instinct — the kind that lives in skin and wakes when called.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
The swing outside creaked softly in the wind. Somewhere, a bell rang faintly in the temple courtyard. But neither sound reached them. They were wrapped in their own monsoon — not just the one outside, but the one pulsing between two bodies learning each other, inch by inch, exhale by exhale.
He lifted her then — not in a show of strength, but as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She clung to him, saree folding and slipping, her legs wrapping around his hips as he pressed her gently against the cool wooden wall. Her hair tumbled free from its bun, cascading over her shoulders like a night unspooling.
Their breaths were short now, their bodies warmer than they had ever known. The rain had begun again in earnest, a steady percussion that matched the rhythm of their heartbeats. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the slope where shoulder meets soul. She shivered — not from cold, but from recognition.
She held his face in her hands, looked into his eyes, and saw it — the same hunger, the same awe, the same surrender.
He whispered her name, and she smiled.
Outside, the storm roared.
Inside, the world fell away.
The night deepened, and with it, their shadows grew longer on the worn wooden floor. Her fingers curled in his hair as his lips moved lower, mapping her skin as if it were a language he’d always longed to learn. Each kiss was deliberate — not rushed, not claimed, but discovered, like an old melody remembered by heart. Her body was an invitation, and he responded with reverence.
The rain grew heavier outside, but inside the room, the storm had quieted into something slower. She held him tighter, her head thrown back, hair falling in waves down her spine. He kissed the hollow of her throat, lingered there, and she let out a breath that trembled.
Their rhythm shifted from urgency to tenderness, and then again, like tides. When he placed her gently on the divan, it creaked under their weight, but neither of them noticed. The cotton sheet was cool against her back, but he warmed her instantly, lowering himself with care, his body shielding hers from the rest of the world. His hands slid under the folds of her saree — past the pleats, past the layers — until his palm met her bare waist. She gasped softly, not from surprise, but from the slow, aching build of it all.
She looked up at him through half-closed eyes, her lashes heavy, her lips parted. He leaned down again, kissing her forehead first, then the tip of her nose, and finally, her mouth — a kiss that lingered like saffron soaked in warm milk, slow to fade and impossible to forget.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, and his voice, hoarse now, asked, “Are you sure?”
She nodded, but then added, “Not sure. Certain.”
That word — certain — unlocked something in him. The last of his restraint dissolved in her warmth. Their bodies tangled again, limbs wrapping, mouths meeting, hearts pounding against ribs that had never held such sweetness before. Her fingers traveled the line of his back, feeling the tension and the release. His hands slid up her thighs, slowly, as though memorizing each breath.
The candle had burned lower now, its flame flickering, shadows dancing madly on the walls. Her blouse lay discarded beside them, the gold thread catching the light for one final shimmer before fading into the folds of the rug. His kurta followed soon after, and the sight of his bare skin — sculpted but soft — made her reach for him with quiet hunger.
They moved together like monsoon winds over quiet rivers, not crashing, not rushing, but flowing — constantly adjusting, constantly learning. She felt the moment build, gather inside her like lightning, just before it strikes. He kissed her again — slower now, deeper — as if he were anchoring her, even as she floated away.
She arched into him as his lips grazed her stomach, her ribs, the underside of her breast. His touch was neither greedy nor shy. It was knowing — the way old music knows how to stir a dancer’s feet. Her saree slipped away entirely now, pooling beside them like a second skin they no longer needed.
The sound of her moan was quiet, but in that room, it was thunder.
Their breath came faster, warmer, tangled in each other’s mouths. Her hands found his hips, pulling him closer, her eyes dark with need. He kissed her shoulder again, then her wrist, then the inside of her elbow — like tracing the map of someone you never wish to leave.
When they finally came together, it was not an explosion but a bloom — a slow unfurling of something deep, something sacred. Her fingers gripped his back, her legs wrapped tightly around him, her head buried against his throat as she whispered his name like a secret only the rain should know.
He moved inside her with devotion — not just passion. Each motion was a promise, and each pause, a confession. Their bodies spoke what words could not. The world outside disappeared, and all that remained was breath, sweat, skin, and the aching rhythm of love unfolding.
Long after the rain had softened and the candle had melted into a pool of gold, they lay still. Her fingers traced lazy patterns across his chest, and his arm cradled her like she was something rare — something he wasn’t quite sure how to deserve.
She didn’t speak. Neither did he. There was no need. The silence was no longer anticipation. It was completion.
A thunderclap rumbled far away, as if nature itself were echoing the surrender they had just shared.
And somewhere beneath the warmth of that night, under the scent of rain, rose petals, and saffron, they fell into sleep — not alone, not unsure, but entangled, entirely, in each other.
Morning arrived like a whisper. The sky outside was still heavy with rain, soft and grey, as if the clouds had not yet finished weeping. The room glowed in a muted haze, the candle long dead, the scent of saffron lingering faintly in the folds of her pillow. She stirred slowly, her bare shoulder brushing against his chest, the warmth of his body grounding her in the present.
He was awake before her, watching her with the kind of stillness that comes not from sleep, but from awe. Her hair was splayed across his arm, wild and damp in places, her lips slightly parted, breath soft. A single strand had fallen across her cheek. He reached to tuck it behind her ear, careful not to wake her, but her eyes fluttered open anyway — slow, lazy, like sunlight warming stone.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They lay there, tangled in silence, limbs wrapped in memory and bedsheet. Then she smiled — not the smile of flirtation or ceremony, but of knowing. Of waking up and finding the night was real.
“Hi,” she said, her voice like velvet, hoarse from sleep and last night’s breathless sighs.
“Hi,” he replied, brushing a kiss across her forehead.
Her fingers curled on his chest. “It rained all night.”
“I heard,” he said. “But I only listened to you.”
She laughed quietly, burying her face in his neck. He held her tighter, his hand slipping down her spine to the small of her back where he drew circles, slow and gentle. Neither of them moved to leave the bed. Outside, the world stirred with the clatter of cups, the soft rustle of sarees, and the temple bell ringing somewhere down the road. But in this room, time was in no hurry.
“You’ll be missed at breakfast,” she murmured.
“So will you.”
“We’ll be found out.”
He nuzzled the hollow beneath her ear. “Let them wonder.”
She sighed, her hand gliding down his side, over the curve of his waist. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He paused, lifting his head to look at her. “Do you regret it?”
She met his gaze, honest and open. “No. But it frightens me how much I don’t.”
He kissed her then, softly, slowly, like sealing an unspoken truth between them. She wrapped herself around him again, pulling the sheet over them as their bodies remembered each other without thought. There was no urgency now — only reverence. Their mouths met in half-smiles, their hips moved like they had all the time in the world. It wasn’t about desire anymore. It was about belonging.
When they finally rose from the bed, the rain had quieted into a light mist. She gathered her saree carefully, folding the pleats that had once come undone in his hands. He helped her with the blouse hooks, his fingers slower than necessary, grazing her skin more than needed. She didn’t stop him. She leaned back slightly against his chest, letting him adjust the fall of the pallu over her shoulder.
She turned to face him. “Will you come again tonight?”
“Only if you’ll let me.”
Her eyes danced. “What if I want more than one night?”
He stepped closer. “Then I’ll stop pretending I’m just a guest.”
Their lips met again — brief, warm, meaningful.
When she left the room, she walked barefoot through the quiet corridor, her wet hair clinging to her back, her smile betraying nothing and everything. The others in the house looked up when she entered the courtyard — cousins teasing, an aunt asking where she’d been. She answered with practiced calm, her voice steady, her heart not.
He followed half an hour later, dressed as neatly as before, but with eyes that had seen her completely. They exchanged no glances. No touches. But their silence throbbed with memory. When she handed him a cup of tea with the others watching, her fingers brushed his for the briefest second — and it was more electric than the night’s first kiss.
That evening, as the sky turned molten with the setting sun, she found herself alone again in the garden. The swing where the jasmine garlands had been tied now hung empty, the petals wilted, scentless. She sat on it, her bangles jingling softly, and let the wind pull at her saree. The breeze carried traces of him — his cologne, his breath, his warmth that had soaked into her skin.
She didn’t know if he would come again. She didn’t know what she would do if he didn’t.
But she remembered every place his lips had lingered.
And the saffron that still clung to her wrists.
That night, the house was restless. The drums had returned, beating from a nearby pandal in celebration of the final wedding rituals. The women’s laughter rose like waves from the verandah, and somewhere in the background, she could hear her younger cousins arguing over sweets. The air was thick with perfume, sandalwood smoke, and the leftover scent of turmeric and oil from the bride’s haldi.
She should have joined them, she knew. Should have sat cross-legged beside her sisters, giggled, whispered, performed the part of the cheerful, glowing niece. But instead, she found herself upstairs again, in the old study where shadows remembered. The candle had been lit anew, placed where the wax stain from the last night still clung to the corner of the table. She stood by the mirror, watching herself — not to admire, not to prepare, but simply to see what he might see.
Her saree tonight was deeper — a rich wine red, edged with gold, the kind that darkened with each breath. She had wrapped it differently, looser, draped to fall lower on her back. Her blouse dipped gently between her shoulder blades, revealing the barest hint of spine. Her eyes lined darker, her lips tinted with the red of pomegranate. But it wasn’t vanity. It was ritual.
She waited, not anxiously, not nervously. Just knowingly.
And then she heard the door.
Not the knock — he wouldn’t knock — but the soft click as it opened, and then the sound of it shutting gently behind him. She didn’t turn. Not immediately. She wanted him to see her like this — unaware but aware, composed but aching.
When she did turn, their eyes met like they had already touched.
He looked different tonight. Sharper. As though the restraint from the night before had turned into something more deliberate. His kurta was black, his sleeves rolled, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw catching the golden light.
She stepped toward him.
“You’re late,” she said softly.
“I was watching you from the garden.”
Her brow rose. “What did you see?”
He smiled slowly. “The way your hair falls when you think you’re alone. The way your fingers touch the window when you wait.”
She moved closer, until their breath warmed the space between them. “And now that you’re here?”
“I want to unsee everything else.”
This time, it was she who reached for him first — her fingers slipping around the back of his neck, pulling him down, her lips finding his with hunger that had simmered through the day. The kiss was deeper now, fuller, their mouths opening as though they had forgotten how not to crave. He lifted her without effort, placing her on the edge of the table, her legs wrapping around him instinctively. Her bangles clinked as she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer until their bodies were pressed, chest to chest, heartbeat against heartbeat.
His hands slid along her thighs, pushing the saree higher with each breath. She gasped against his mouth when his fingers found the soft, heated skin just above her knee. He didn’t rush. He explored — slowly, reverently, as though each inch of her was sacred ground.
Her blouse slipped from one shoulder, and his lips followed. He kissed the curve where her collarbone ended and the slope of her shoulder began, trailing heat in every press. Her body arched, responding, craving more. She leaned back slightly on the table, her breath catching as his mouth moved lower, tracing the line of her ribs through the thin fabric. He looked up at her once — just once — and she nodded, giving him everything without saying a word.
The blouse opened. Her chest rose and fell beneath his touch, soft and bare and alive. He kissed between the swell of her breasts, slow, open-mouthed, letting his breath and tongue paint reverence where his words could not. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles pale, her thighs tightening around him. She bit her lip, holding back a sound that might have shattered the silence around them.
He lifted her then, not to the bed, but to the window ledge. The glass behind her was cool against her back, the mist of rain outside clouding the view. But inside, there was fire. Her saree fell completely now, pooling around her waist, revealing the curve of her hips, the golden chain at her navel, the mark of saffron still faint where his lips had been last.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, kneeling before her.
She let her legs part, slow and sure, placing one ankle against his shoulder. He kissed the inside of her thigh, the skin trembling under his mouth. Her head fell back against the wall, her breath sharp now, her chest heaving as he worshipped her with every kiss, every touch, every unspoken plea.
When she finally cried out, it wasn’t loud — it was deep, from somewhere hidden, like a name carried by wind in the middle of the night. He rose, kissing her again, holding her as her body shook, her arms tight around his neck. She buried her face in his shoulder, and he whispered nothing — only held her until she calmed, until the rhythm of her breath found its way back.
When they lay down again, it wasn’t in fever. It was in quiet ruin.
Her fingers laced with his. Their feet tangled. Their skins still warm. The moon outside had risen, pale and silver, watching them through the misted glass.
And in that stillness, as she lay wrapped in his arms, she whispered, “This is no longer a secret.”
He answered, “Let it be a promise, then.”
The next morning came dressed in hush. Not silence, but something gentler—like music softened beneath a veil. A faint grey light poured in through the old window grills, casting wavy shadows over the bedsheets crumpled in proof of everything they had shared. She stirred first. Her body ached in places touched too deeply, but it wasn’t pain—it was remembrance. Her skin still bore traces of him: the graze of his stubble, the brush of his palms, the bite of his mouth where he’d lost control for just a second. She reached out, eyes half-open, and found the warmth of his chest beside her. His breath was steady, eyes closed, but his arm instinctively wrapped around her waist as she moved. That possessiveness, even in sleep, made something melt inside her.
She lay still, watching him. The black kurta he’d worn now lay in a careless heap on the floor. His hair was tousled, his lips slightly parted. A softness had returned to his jaw—the kind that only comes after need has been met and memory made flesh. She traced her fingers along the line of his collarbone, not to wake him, but to feel real what still felt dreamt. His hand moved lower on her waist, fingers slipping beneath the loose end of the sheet, resting just at her hip. She shivered. Not from cold. But from that slow return of want.
His eyes opened.
At first, he didn’t speak. Just looked at her like he’d found a forgotten poem, one he didn’t want to read too quickly. Then he whispered, “Are you real this morning too?”
She smiled, pressing her lips to his bare shoulder. “You tell me.”
He pulled her close, pressing his forehead against hers. They lay there, tangled in warmth and sleep-streaked breath, until a knock sounded faintly from the downstairs hall. A reminder of life beyond their room. A reminder that the world hadn’t stopped with them.
She sighed, pulling the sheet around her and sitting up. Her back was bare, the deep red saree from last night now creased and waiting on the chair. He sat up behind her, running a lazy hand down her spine, slow as silk.
“You’re leaving this room like that?” he murmured.
She looked over her shoulder. “Like what?”
“Like a storm that doesn’t know what it’s done.”
She laughed, quiet and full of heat. “Then stop me.”
He did. With his mouth. With his body. With his weight pinning her gently back to the bed as the sheet slipped again and their morning began not with sunlight—but with a sigh.
When they did finally leave the room, it was nearly noon. She stepped into the corridor first, her saree neatly draped again, a red bindi on her forehead, a silver anklet chiming faintly with each step. She looked untouched. Almost.
But he knew the truth. And so did she.
That day passed in slow motions. Family filled the house—some leaving, others arriving. Her aunt called her thrice to help with the luggage, the tea trays, the next ritual. But her mind wandered. Her hands paused too long over tea cups, her eyes drifting toward staircases and windows and corridors. At lunch, he brushed past her in the kitchen—just enough for her dupatta to catch on his button. She didn’t pull it away. And in that one second of stillness, with his hand resting lightly on her back, it all came rushing again.
By evening, a drizzle had started. A fine, teasing kind. The type that danced on rooftops and whispered on cheeks. The type that didn’t soak you, only tempted.
She stood in the courtyard, barefoot, arms folded, watching the drops fall from the mango leaves. A soft wind lifted the pallu of her saree. Somewhere behind her, she heard the faint creak of the wooden stairs. She didn’t turn. Not even when the wind brought his scent to her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, voice low.
“And yet,” he replied, “here you are.”
She smiled.
“I keep seeing you in the mirror,” he added, “even when you’re not there.”
She turned now, slowly, her eyes catching his. “That’s how possession begins.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s how obsession begins. Possession… comes later.”
She looked at him long—then stepped back, just once. “Then don’t follow me,” she said, voice softer than the rain. And walked toward the garden.
But of course he followed.
Through the side gate. Down the path lined with hibiscus and mud. Her steps were sure. Her back was straight. And when she turned behind the old storage shed, they were out of sight.
He reached her just as the first streak of thunder cracked across the grey.
She pressed him against the shed wall before he could speak. Her hands gripped his kurta, pulling him down, her mouth fierce and sudden on his. The rain wet their skin, their clothes, their hair. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the urgency that bloomed like fire between soaked cloth and burning skin.
He lifted her, again, without hesitation. She wrapped herself around him like monsoon wind—hungry, wild, necessary. The wooden wall was rough against her back, the rain loud in their ears. But they didn’t stop.
Hands found flesh. Lips found secrets. They moved together like they had memorized each other’s body in another life. Her moan was swallowed by the rain. His groan muffled in her neck. And when they shattered, it was not in silence. It was in storm.
Later, when the rain had softened and they stood still, holding each other in the breathless hush after, he kissed her forehead and whispered, “You don’t belong to this place anymore.”
She nodded. “Neither do you.”
They walked back in silence. Two shadows, soaked and spent, holding hands beneath saffron clouds.
The rain had stopped by evening, but the scent of it still clung to the earth. Petrichor curled up from the soil, damp clothes hung by the kitchen window, and her hair held the ghost of a breeze that had once howled between their bodies. She sat near the bedroom mirror, slowly untangling her wet locks, a silent rhythm to her motions, as if each stroke of the comb helped calm something else inside her. Behind her, his reflection stood—half-shadowed, fully watching.
She said nothing. He didn’t need her to.
He walked to her slowly, his bare feet silent on the old teak wood floor. Reaching out, he took the comb from her hand and continued where she’d left off. With each gentle pull through her strands, he found a kind of peace he hadn’t known he craved. Her back rose and fell gently, her shoulder blades elegant beneath the blouse, her breath catching slightly when his knuckles brushed her neck.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low, “what you’re thinking.”
She looked at his reflection, her eyes unreadable. “That it shouldn’t be this easy… this dangerous… to want someone.”
“And yet?”
“And yet,” she whispered, “here we are.”
He put down the comb and placed his lips on the nape of her neck, a kiss that lingered—soft but deliberate. Her eyes closed. Her lips parted slightly. He moved to her shoulder, drawing the pallu aside just enough to reveal the bare skin beneath. She didn’t stop him. She never did.
The mirror caught everything: his mouth, her breath, his hand sliding over her waist. They made love again, without needing to speak. There was no rush, no firestorm this time. Only the poetry of slow touches, whispered names, and the hush of surrender. When she arched into him, she didn’t break eye contact. When she cried out, it wasn’t pain—it was something deeper, older, made of roots and rivers.
Afterward, they lay together in silence. Her fingers moved lazily across his chest. His hand rested over her hip, thumb stroking the curve absentmindedly.
“I leave tomorrow,” she said finally, voice barely a breath.
He didn’t respond right away. Just turned to her, pulling her into him.
“Then tonight,” he said, “we don’t sleep.”
And they didn’t.
They wandered through the old haveli like ghosts—two lovers caught between dusk and dawn, barefoot on cold stone floors, stealing kisses in doorways, whispering secrets in the dark. She showed him an old diary tucked behind the cupboard, its pages filled with ink-smeared verses written by her sixteen-year-old self. He read them aloud, letting the words tremble in the hush. She laughed when he found one about forbidden kisses, then gasped when he recreated one.
He showed her the scar on his forearm—a thin white line he got from jumping off a wall at seventeen for a dare. She kissed it. Not out of sympathy, but reverence. Every flaw of his body, she claimed like treasure.
In the dead of night, they climbed to the terrace. The stars were shy that night, the clouds still thick and swollen. But the wind had returned, and it tangled her saree like a lover, lifting it from her waist as if trying to remind him what it had already seen.
He pulled her into him again. There was a hunger in that kiss—like they’d been starving even after a feast. Like the ache of knowing this might end only made the moment more urgent.
When dawn finally broke, it was quiet.
No birds yet. No footsteps. Just the fragile blue of morning pressing into the sky.
She stood near the window, already dressed in a soft yellow cotton saree. Her suitcase waited in the corner. Her hair was pinned up, her lips lightly glossed. She looked like any woman leaving her grandmother’s house after a family visit. But he knew better. So did she.
He came to her, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and said nothing. There were no promises. No theatrics. Only a single truth wrapped around them like silk: what had happened between them would never be undone.
Her cab honked.
She stepped away, slowly, deliberately. He didn’t follow her out. He stood at the window, watching as she placed her bag in the trunk, turned once to glance at the house—and paused.
Their eyes met from across the distance. No wave. No smile. Just a look deep enough to write novels.
Then she got in, and the car drove away.
But long after she’d vanished into the city fog, her scent lingered on his pillow.
And he knew, without a doubt, that she’d left behind more than a memory.
She’d left behind him.
The silence in the haveli was the first thing he noticed. No bangles clinking from the hallway. No soft hums in the kitchen. No flicker of yellow silk near the carved wooden railings. The house felt hollow, like a song missing its refrain. He moved through the rooms slowly, each corner bearing her ghost. The pillow still smelled like the oil she used in her hair. The teacup she’d left on the windowsill had a faint imprint of her lipstick. When he touched it, he felt foolish—but also real, like everything that happened hadn’t just been a fever dream wrapped in rain.
He had her number. Her name. Her social media profile, of course. But what he didn’t have was the right to call. What they’d created was suspended in time, like a raindrop hanging from the edge of a leaf. And some things, if touched too soon, fall and break.
She hadn’t texted. Not the first day. Nor the second.
He didn’t either.
But on the third night, after three whiskeys and an old song on the radio that sounded too much like her sigh, he typed one word: “Awake?” and sent it.
It was past midnight.
The reply came five minutes later: “Always.”
His fingers hovered. There was too much he could say. Too much he feared. So instead, he asked: “Is your pillow cold?”
There was a pause. Then: “Only on the side you slept.”
That was all they exchanged that night. But something shifted. Like the tremble before the storm, like the hush before the thunder. The distance between them wasn’t just miles. It was stitched with restraint, stitched with reality. And yet, their silence was threaded with longing.
He started writing again. Stories. Letters. Not sent, just scribbled in old diaries. One evening, he wrote a full page describing how her hand felt when it rested on his chest at night—how it moved slightly with each breath, like it was trying to memorize the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Meanwhile, in a high-rise flat across the city, she stood by a window watching the rain lash the glass. Her parents assumed she was back to her normal self—poised, responsible, composed. But she spent hours rereading his messages, brushing her fingers over her lips like his kiss might reappear if she remembered hard enough.
They didn’t meet again.
Not for weeks.
But the day it happened, it was accidental. Or perhaps the universe was tired of their distance.
She was at a bookshop. He walked in from the other end. They froze—not like strangers, but like a song heard again after too long. She wore a dark green kurti. He had a faint stubble. They looked like two people who hadn’t slept right in days.
She blinked first. “I was hoping I wouldn’t see you.”
He smiled, the kind that hurt. “And I came here hoping I would.”
She held a book between them. A poetry collection. He took it gently from her hand, flipped through the pages, then stopped. He handed it back open to a verse:
“Some lovers are not made for daily light—
they bloom in the dark,
like jasmine in rain.”
Her breath hitched.
They didn’t say anything else. Didn’t buy the book. Didn’t walk out together. But something passed between them again. Not resolution. Not closure.
Permission.
From that day, their messages became regular. At first, cautious. Then unguarded. She’d text him pictures of her coffee, bare feet on balcony railings, the shadows her bangles made on the wall. He’d send her voice notes reading lines from old Bengali poems, or the sound of rain falling on the roof.
They didn’t say I miss you. They didn’t have to.
One night, she wrote: “If I showed up at your door at 2 AM, would you open it?”
He replied: “It would already be open.”
But she didn’t come.
Not then.
The ache wasn’t always beautiful. Some days it gnawed at him. Some nights he lay awake imagining the weight of her on the bed, her hair fanned across his chest, the warmth of her ankle over his thigh. He craved the conversations between kisses, the half-sighs in the dark, the rhythm of their bodies finding each other without needing to ask.
She sent him a picture one night—of her wearing a saffron saree. No words. Just that. The fabric clung to her, the way memory clings to skin. He stared at it for minutes, then sent back one line:
“I could still taste you.”
No reply came.
Until the next evening. A voice note. Just one second long.
Her exhale.
It told him everything.
He never knew if that breath was a goodbye or a promise. It hovered in his inbox for days, like a flame that wouldn’t go out, even as the wick shrank low. He didn’t reply. What could he say that her silence hadn’t already said louder?
The monsoon passed. The streets dried. The air changed. But inside, something stayed damp.
One evening, he found himself walking the lanes near the sea again. Not expecting her, not even hoping. But the body remembers what the mind tries to forget. His feet knew where she had once stood in the rain, barefoot and laughing, her saree clinging like second skin. The breeze smelled of salt and turmeric, of all the things he could never name when they happened, but now recognized too easily.
He sat on the low wall near the rocks, lit a cigarette he didn’t want to smoke, and stared out at the darkening horizon. He thought of her cheek under his palm, how it warmed slowly like dough rising under a cotton cloth. He thought of the way she said his name—not the name itself, but the pause before it.
And then… he heard anklets.
He didn’t turn immediately. He thought he was imagining it. But then he heard that familiar soft hush of saree against skin, and he knew.
She was behind him.
He turned.
There she stood. No umbrella. No pretense. Just her. In the same saffron saree. Hair tied loose, a few strands brushing her temple. Her eyes didn’t sparkle—they burned.
Neither spoke.
She walked forward and sat beside him. Close enough that their shoulders touched, but not so close that the ache disappeared.
She said, finally, “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”
He replied, “I wasn’t sure if I could breathe if you didn’t.”
A silence fell between them again, thick and trembling. He looked at her wrist. She wasn’t wearing bangles.
He said, “You forgot something.”
She raised her eyes. “No. I left them.”
He understood. The clinking was a memory. This—this was now.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Just let her settle, like rain finally soaking into soil.
“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered.
“It doesn’t have to be anything,” he replied. “It just has to be real.”
Her fingers found his. Intertwined. Tight.
He kissed her knuckles. Slowly. One by one.
They sat like that till the streetlights came on, painting gold over the wet stone. No declarations. No explanations. Just the slow, honest rhythm of two people remembering how to be whole beside each other.
Later, in the quiet of a dim hotel room overlooking the sea, he traced her spine with a fingertip like it was poetry. Her sighs were no longer haunted—they were here, present, filled with the heat of choice.
She whispered against his throat, “I want to stay until the saffron fades.”
He smiled, kissing her temple, “Then I’ll never let you wash it off.”
Outside, the night poured again—not as a storm, but as a lullaby.
And beneath the sheets, skin remembered skin. Breath found breath.
No past. No future.
Only saffron kisses.
END
