Bhargav's POV
It was just after six when my phone buzzed with a message.
I was sprawled across the bed, one leg dangling off the edge, the other tangled in the loosely crumpled blanket that still carried the scent of fever sweat and eucalyptus balm. The late evening sun spilled in through the half-closed blinds, painting lazy golden stripes across the cluttered floor—scattered books, a lone sock, an empty ORS packet Amma had forced me to drink, and the untouched assignments that seemed to mock me from my desk.
The fan above creaked rhythmically, its slow revolutions echoing the sluggish tempo of my thoughts. It had been like this all day—fever blurring the lines of time, memories of Siri in the rain playing like a scratched-up cassette on repeat in the back of my mind. I hadn't even had the energy to pick up a pen or brush my hair.
The screen of my phone lit up again, brighter against the dimming room. It was Rakesh.
Rakesh:
"Oye gym dropout, you alive or what? Haven't seen you in a month."
A low chuckle escaped me—scratchy and brief, like something unused for days. I hadn't heard from him in weeks, but the tone in his message—irritated, dramatic, and oddly comforting—made something shift in my chest.
I stretched, shoulder joints crackling in protest, and thumbed out a reply, eyes still half-lidded from the fever's grip.
Me:
"I should be the one asking that. Thought you were buried under a pile of protein bars."
His response came almost instantly. Classic Rakesh.
Rakesh:
"Tch. Don't deflect. Where have you been? No gym, no calls, no texts. What's going on?"
I stared at the screen for a long moment, letting the weight of his question settle in.
Where had I been?
Not physically, but… in spirit?
I swallowed, throat raw from the fever, and shifted onto my side, the phone warm in my palm. The truth was—I'd been lost. Since the day Abhi landed, it felt like something inside me had hit pause. The days blurred together, consumed by half-said apologies, the fear in Siri's eyes when she first saw him, the ache in my chest after we spent that night talking on the terrace like we used to before everything went wrong.
I'd pulled away from everything else—college friends, gym, even Rakesh. Not deliberately. It just… happened. Like my world had narrowed, all lines converging toward one axis: her.
Me:
"Just busy. College stuff, family stuff… life."
Even to my own eyes, the message felt like a lie. Too bland. Too generic for everything that had churned inside me the past few weeks.
I watched the three dots bounce as he typed.
Rakesh:
"Liar. Anyway, I'm coming tomorrow. It's Ganesh Chaturthi. Don't hide."
A quiet smile touched my lips—genuine this time. I'd forgotten it was Ganesh Chaturthi tomorrow. The house would smell of incense and jaggery, and Amma would be in a frenzy of flower garlands, coconut bowls, and devotional songs playing from her ancient Bluetooth speaker.
And now Rakesh was coming over.
God.
Me:
"Like I have a choice. See you."
I dropped the phone onto the mattress beside me and let my head fall back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. The fan spun on, unchanged, uncaring.
Seeing Rakesh would be good. Maybe even grounding. But a part of me—the anxious, tightly-wound part that never slept anymore—wondered if I could face him without unraveling.
Would he ask about Siri?
Would I tell him the truth?
About the way my heart had started behaving like it belonged to her again?
About the guilt I felt for still not saying the things that needed to be said?
About the rain?
I closed my eyes, the room dim now except for a faint amber glow slipping in through the curtains. The soft murmur of evening prayers began in someone's house nearby, harmonizing with a child's laughter from the street and the occasional bark of a distant dog. It was the kind of ordinary, everyday lull that used to calm me.
Now, it only made me restless.
I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead. Still warm. But not as bad as this morning. Maybe the fever was breaking.
Maybe tomorrow wouldn't be so bad.
I exhaled, deep and slow, letting my chest rise and fall like I was preparing for something more than just a friend's visit.
Because honestly? I was.
The next day.
Indu was pouting at the mirror with such dramatic intensity that anyone walking in might have assumed she'd just been betrayed by her own reflection. She tugged at the neckline of her blouse, her fingers slipping on the stubborn fabric.
"Amma!" she hollered toward the kitchen, her voice echoing through the house, "This blouse is choking me. Who stitched this? My ribs are begging for mercy!"
From the kitchen came Amma's unbothered voice, slightly muffled by the sizzle of something frying. "That's because you refused to give proper measurements, kanna. You stood there fidgeting like you were being sentenced to hang."
"I was!" Indu groaned theatrically. "Because tailors are terrifying! I said thirty-four and he wrote down thirty-six! Now I look like a flying squirrel ready for takeoff!"
I was just passing by her room, still brushing my damp hair with a towel around my shoulders, when I paused at the doorway. She was standing in front of the full-length mirror, dressed in a bright pink half-saree that shimmered under the yellow lights, the blouse slightly puffed at the shoulders thanks to the overestimated inches. She had one arm flung upward like she was about to break into interpretive dance and a bindi stuck awkwardly to her cheek.
I blinked once. Then twice.
"You look like a very festive squirrel though," I said flatly. "Excellent work. Ganesh ji will be pleased."
Her eyes narrowed in the mirror like a sniper locking target. Before I could retreat, a pink hairbrush came whizzing toward me. I dodged—barely.
"One more word," she growled, pointing the brush like a dagger, "and I'll wear your hoodie to the pooja. That faded grey one. Try me."
I raised both hands in mock surrender, the towel nearly slipping from my head. "Whoa, whoa. No need to bring out the nuclear threats. Sorry ma'am."
She huffed and turned back to the mirror, rearranging her bangles with a delicate clink-clink, muttering under her breath, "Everyone in this house is against me. Even the tailor."
Behind us, Amma's voice carried from the kitchen again, "You better not be threatening your brother again. And please come eat something before your glucose levels drop and you faint like last year."
"That was one time!" Indu cried, flailing dramatically and knocking over a box of jasmine flowers. They spilled across the floor like fragrant confetti. She sighed, defeated, and dropped to her knees to gather them.
I watched her for a second, then leaned against the doorframe, amused. "Do squirrels faint from glucose deficiency?"
She shot me a death glare over her shoulder, eyes sparkling despite herself. "You're really pushing your luck, Bhargav."
I held up a finger. "Last one, I promise. But hey—if you actually faint during the pooja, I am calling the tailor first. Just saying."
Siri's POV
The scent of sandalwood, fresh marigolds, and burning camphor clung to the morning air like devotion itself—thick, sacred, and familiar. It wound through the house, weaving between garlands on the doors and the crisp new dhotis drying on the line, a gentle reminder that today was special.
I stood before the mirror in Amma's room, trying to get the pleats of the green and gold saree to fall just right. The border kept misbehaving, folding in on itself like it had its own opinion. Amma had insisted I wear this one today—said it was lucky. I hadn't fought her. Maybe some part of me wanted the blessing too.
The fabric shimmered with a quiet richness, catching the sunlight that streamed in through the open window, turning the gold into warm honey against my skin. I tilted my head and studied my reflection. The girl looking back at me... she didn't look broken. Not today. Not in this.
"Siri!" Amma's voice floated in from the kitchen, warm and bossy as always. "Come here, kanna. Let me do your hair before the poojari shows up and we're still looking like we just got out of bed!"
I rolled my eyes with a smile and walked over to the dining room, where she stood near the table stringing jasmine into a garland, her pallu tucked into her waist. She wiped her fingers on the edge of her saree and pointed to the wooden stool beside her.
"Sit. Don't start arguing."
"I didn't even say anything," I laughed, sitting obediently.
"But you were going to," she smirked, already beginning to part my hair with a practiced hand.
I stayed still, letting her fingers work through the strands, separating, twisting, tucking. It was a kind of love only mothers knew how to give—without words, through touch, through rituals, through jasmine buds and oiled hair.
"You've got Amma's magic fingers," I murmured, eyes closing briefly.
"You only say that on festival days," she teased, gently pulling my hair into a braid. "Other days, I'm a dictator."
"You are a dictator," I replied, grinning. "But you're my dictator."
That earned a small chuckle. She began pinning the jasmine into my braid. "There's something about today, hmm?" she said softly. "Feels like a fresh page."
I didn't reply. I wasn't sure what to say. But I felt it too. Like something had shifted in the air—between Bhargav and me. Between the past and whatever came next.
"You know," she said casually, "Bhargav might stop breathing when he sees you today."
"Amma!" I groaned, but couldn't stop the smile creeping up my face.
"What? I'm just being honest," she said with exaggerated innocence. "Why do you think I made you wear this saree? It's not just lucky. It's deadly."
I shook my head, laughter bubbling in my chest. "You sound like Indu."
"She's not wrong either," Amma said. "You young people spend too much time thinking and not enough time... feeling."
"I've felt too much lately," I muttered, quieter now. "It's hard to know what to do with all of it."
She paused behind me, her hands still for a second. "Then do nothing for now," she said gently. "Let life come to you. Let people show you who they are. The truth always rises, Siri. It just needs silence sometimes."
Her words nestled somewhere deep, wrapping around the part of me that had been so afraid. So uncertain.
"Amma," I said quietly, "do you think... things can go back to how they were? Between Bhargav and me?"
She finished tying the end of my braid and placed a soft hand on my shoulder. "No," she said honestly. "But maybe they can become something better."
I turned to look at her. She was smiling, but her eyes shimmered a little—just like mine.
"You look beautiful," she whispered, tucking a final flower behind my ear. "Like the girl I prayed would come back."
That undid me. I blinked fast, not wanting tears to ruin the kohl she'd insisted I wear.
"I love you Amma," I said, voice wobbly.
Amma leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "I know, I love you more."
Just then, Indu barged into the room wearing half a saree and full panic. "Aunty! The laddu fell! The poojari is here in twenty minutes, and Uncle is still watching TV like it's a Sunday cricket match!"
Amma let out an exasperated sigh. "Siri, go light the diya. I'll handle your father and the Great Laddu Crisis."
As I got up, I stole a final glance at the mirror.
The girl looking back at me? She wasn't just radiant.
She looked ready.
To be continued...