Bhargav's POV
The sun hadn't even fully risen yet, but the chaos had.
I was still trying to rub the crust of sleep from my eyes when it started.
The first drawer slammed open like someone was being evicted. A cupboard door followed, banging hard enough to shake the weak old hinges. A chorus of fast footsteps echoed between the hallway and the bedroom, bouncing off the walls like some kind of early morning riot. The bathroom door screeched open as if it were protesting its own existence, and then came the tell-tale thud of it being shut with way too much force.
Indu.
No one else in the house conducted their morning with the energy of a heist gone wrong.
I groaned, dragging the blanket over my head, trying to pretend I was still somewhere in the middle of a dream. My head was foggy. My body, heavy. I was not ready to be alive yet.
"Indu!" I growled under my breath like a bitter prayer.
From across the wall, I heard her cursing herself—"Why do I even bother ironing if I'm gonna lose it the next day!"
I was this close to lobbing my pillow at the wall. Some of us are still human in the morning, I wanted to scream. But instead, I settled for grumbling into the mattress.
And that's when my phone buzzed.
Siri.
> Siri: I can't find my bike keys. I'm pretty sure I dropped them somewhere dumb. Can you drop me at work? Please?
I squinted at the screen, the brightness stabbing my retinas like punishment for not charging my soul overnight. I blinked the blur away and typed slowly.
> Me: I kept them at your gate. Didn't you see it?
I waited. A second later, another reply popped in:
> Siri: Yeah. But I kept them somewhere else. I forgot. Hehe
Followed by a crying emoji. And then, just to drive the dagger in further—a GIF of a puppy. Big teary eyes. Trembling lower lip. The picture of innocent guilt.
I stared at the phone, groaned into my palms, and muttered, "She definitely planned this."
But of course—I couldn't even be annoyed.
> Me: Give me 5 mins. I'll be at your gate.
I shoved the blanket away with a sigh of a man being summoned by fate. Rolled out of bed with the grace of a dying robot. One of my socks was blue. The other, black with a hole near the toe. My hoodie had toothpaste on the sleeve. Hair? A bird's nest had more organization.
I didn't care. I just needed enough energy to not crash the bike.
When I reached her gate, she was already there—leaning against the iron bars like a poster girl for lazy elegance. Her hair was tied in a messy braid, one that had clearly been done in a rush but somehow still looked like effort. She wore a pale blue kurta, soft cotton with tiny white flowers embroidered near the collar. Loose white leggings. Jhumkas. The delicate kind with tiny pearls. She looked too coordinated for someone who "couldn't find her keys."
She gave me a smile—small, sheepish, and utterly unconvincing in its innocence.
"Troubled hero reporting for duty," I mumbled, trying to mask my yawn.
She chuckled, climbing onto the backseat like she did this every other day. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Like it had always been this way.
But just as I was about to turn the key in the ignition—
"Siri!"
The voice cut through the air like a chisel.
We both froze in sync, like two characters in a crime show caught mid-escape.
I didn't have to turn. I'd know that voice anywhere. Calm. Clear. But sharp like glass.
Siri's mom.
We turned our heads slowly, like suspects awaiting sentencing.
Her mother stood at the top of the steps, halfway out the door, arms wet and dripping with dishwater. A faded dishtowel hung over one shoulder like she was too busy to care about appearances, but her eyes? Her eyes missed nothing.
She looked at the two of us, her expression unreadable.
"Why aren't you taking your bike?" she asked. Her tone was casual. But the calm in it was the type that warned you—don't try to lie to me.
"I, uh…" Siri stammered. "Forgot my keys."
Her mom's gaze narrowed just slightly, sharp enough to pierce the lie. "Didn't you put them in your handbag a moment ago? I saw you do it before breakfast."
I turned to look at Siri, slowly, like I was witnessing a person being roasted over open fire.
Her fingers gripped the edge of her kurta. Her eyes darted around like she was suddenly fascinated by clouds, birds, the distant sound of a passing auto.
"Oh," she said with a blink. "Did I? Maybe I… didn't check properly?"
She gave a little laugh. It sounded like something between a dying engine and a wounded goat. Even I winced.
Her mom tilted her head, folding her arms. "You didn't check?"
"I must've… misplaced it," Siri muttered.
The silence that followed was excruciating.
I couldn't take it anymore.
"I'll drop her, Aunty," I interjected quickly, offering a disarming smile. "Just for today. She messaged me while I was awake anyway."
Her mother looked at me, then at Siri, then back at me again. The pause stretched long enough to feel like a final exam question with no right answer.
Then, finally, she nodded once.
"Okay," she said, calm as ever. "Wear your helmet, Siri."
"Yes, Amma," Siri mumbled, her tone an odd mixture of relief and secondhand shame.
As we rode away, I could feel her trying not to breathe too loudly.
We passed the neighborhood temple, the banyan tree that wrapped around the wall, and a few early walkers. I didn't say anything. Not at first.
But as we reached the end of the lane, I finally leaned slightly and said, "You planned that."
"I did not," she huffed behind me, her voice high-pitched with false innocence.
"You so did."
"I only mildly hoped you'd offer."
"That's called plotting."
She didn't reply. But her hands didn't let go of my hoodie either.
---
Back home
I parked the bike near the usual spot by the gate, kicking the stand down and stretching slightly. The morning had warmed up, and my brain was finally starting to reboot. I rubbed the back of my neck, ready to shuffle inside and collapse.
But then I saw her.
Amma was sitting on the front ledge, a stainless steel tumbler of coffee in hand. Her sari was damp near the edge—she must've just finished the morning wash. Her hair, tied in a bun, had half-fallen out, strands clinging to her neck. She didn't look at me.
Her gaze was fixed across the street.
I followed her line of sight without thinking.
There stood Siri's mother, still near the gate, the dishtowel now folded and slung over one shoulder. She wasn't glaring. Wasn't scowling. Just… thinking.
Then, without a word, both women made eye contact.
And something passed between them.
Not a conversation. Not a confrontation.
A smile.
Small. Brief. Barely there.
But knowing.
The kind of smile women share when they've been mothers long enough to see things before they're said aloud.
A look that said: We saw that. And we know where this is going.
I glanced at Amma, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
She didn't respond. Just took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes still soft with amusement.
Then she said, almost offhandedly, "She wore jhumkas today."
I blinked. "You noticed her earrings?"
"Of course," she said, the corner of her mouth lifting. "She only wears jhumkas when she wants someone to notice."
I stared at her, mouth half-open. "Okay… weirdly observant."
"And," she added with a smirk, "you looked at them twice."
I groaned. "Oh my god."
She raised her eyebrows like a cat who caught a mouse mid-yawn.
"I didn't mean to look at them twice," I argued.
Amma chuckled softly. "You just accidentally admired them with affection twice. Right."
I rolled my eyes, half-laughing, half-defeated. "I'm going inside."
I turned, escaping before she could dig deeper. But even as I closed the door behind me, the warmth of that morning—chaotic, ridiculous, and quietly beautiful—settled inside me.
And I smiled.
To be continued...