The same routine followed the next evening.
And the next.
Each evening around 6 p.m., the house would grow quiet except for the gentle thump of music coming from the guest room and the predictable knock that followed minutes later.
A soft tap tap tap, sometimes followed by the faint click of his nails tapping against the door frame.
"Do you want chai?" Arjun's voice would float in, muffled but amused.
"No," Shruti would call back, mid-twirl. "You just brought me coffee twenty minutes ago!"
"Ah, but that was coffee. This is chai," he'd argue, deadpan. "You clearly don't understand the distinction."
She'd laugh despite herself, pausing to catch her breath. "I understand that you're interrupting!"
Another evening, she was halfway through syncing her hand movements to the beat when the door handle turned halfway, stopped by the lock she had wisely secured.
"Arjun!"
"What?" he replied innocently. "I thought I heard a knock from inside. Maybe the music did it."
She padded over and placed both palms flat on the door. "You need to leave me alone."
"You sure you don't want help with footwork? I watched two dance tutorials last night. I'm practically trained."
"Good night, Mr. Practically Trained," she said, trying to sound stern.
He chuckled. "You're shy for no reason, Shruti. You probably look beautiful when you dance."
There was a beat of silence inside the room.
Shruti leaned against the door, her chest rising and falling with quiet breaths. Her cheeks flushed—not just from exertion, but from his words. Honest. Unfiltered.
"That's exactly why I don't want you to see yet," she said finally, her voice quieter now, stripped of sarcasm.
"You're saving it all for the big day, huh?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Let me have this, Arjun. Let me be nervous, messy, and unsure—just for a little while. Let me find myself first."
The quiet on the other side of the door was heavier this time. Not in discomfort—but in understanding.
He didn't tease. Didn't argue.
"All right," he said softly. "Take all the time you need."
And true to his word, the next few evenings passed differently.
There were no more knocks. No excuses about tea, sound systems, or expert opinions on choreography.
Instead, Arjun's presence changed from visible interference to quiet support.
Some nights, she'd open the door to find a water bottle freshly filled, condensation trailing down the plastic. Other times, a soft towel hung neatly on the doorknob, or her phone charger would be plugged into the wall nearby—his silent way of saying, I'm here. Just not inside.
Once, during a break, she opened the door and found a tiny sticky note on the floor:
"Breathe. You're doing better than you think."
— Mr. Practically Trained
Shruti had to sit down on the floor, grinning like a fool as her heart fluttered with too many emotions to name.
Inside that room, her limbs loosened with each session. Her movements grew bolder, surer. She began experimenting again—adding a small flourish to her final pose, spinning until her kurti fanned around her. Every beat of music stitched back a part of her that had felt lost since the marriage, since her world had shifted so quickly.
She no longer practiced like someone trying to meet an expectation.
She danced like someone rediscovering herself.
And outside that room, Arjun never said a word. But every evening, as he passed by the closed door, his hand would pause over the wall. He would stop just long enough to hear the shuffle of her feet, the swish of fabric, the muffled crescendo of music that pulsed with her confidence.
A smile would tug at his lips.
Not the teasing kind this time.
The proud kind.
And he'd whisper just to himself, "You're going to shine, Shruti. And I can't wait to see it."
To be continued...