Siri's POV
The Ganesh idol at the heart of our colony's tent stood magnificently tall, towering above the crowd like a silent guardian of joy. Draped in layers of fresh jasmine and orange garlands, with his golden crown catching the flicker of overhead lights, Lord Ganesha radiated both serenity and grandeur. The shimmering lights around Him blinked like divine stars, reflecting off the colorful rangoli at His feet and the silver vessels filled with offerings.
Children weaved through the crowd, their laughter rising above the steady thump of DJ music blaring through slightly overworked speakers. Somewhere near the edge of the stage, a group of aunties broke into a spontaneous folk dance, while uncles hovered near the prasad table, pretending not to eye the modaks. The scent of agarbatti mingled with that of hot ghee, camphor, and marigolds, creating a perfume that could only belong to this time of year. It was chaos and celebration woven together, unpolished and beautiful.
I stepped closer to the idol, threading through the sea of voices and movement, and pressed my palms together in a quiet namaste. My eyes fluttered shut, and I took in a slow, trembling breath.
"Please, Lord Ganesha," I whispered beneath the veil of my breath, "give me the strength to carry the weight I've been avoiding... to fix what's broken—in me, in Bhargav, in us. Help us find the pieces we dropped along the way and put them back together, gently this time. Let this second chance be more than just words. Let it be healing. Let it be real."
The prayer left my lips like a secret carried into the incense-smoked air. And for a moment, with my eyes still closed and the world temporarily distant, I felt held—by something ancient, something forgiving.
When I finally opened my eyes, I expected to see the crowd again, the children, the dance, the blinking lights.
Instead, I saw him.
---
Bhargav's POV
She looked ethereal.
Her green and gold saree shimmered like a field of sunlit leaves under twilight—alive, soft, glowing in the strings of marigold-colored light crisscrossing the sky above. The pleats swayed gently with her steps as though the wind had decided to slow down just to match her rhythm. Her braid, adorned with tiny jasmine buds, brushed against her back like a whispered melody. The curve of her jaw caught the light just right, her lashes fluttering like hesitant wings as she whispered her prayer. Even the sway of her tiny jhumkas seemed in sync with something divine.
Everything about her just… stillled time.
I stood a few feet away, momentarily stunned. The crowd buzzed around me—dhol beats thumping, children yelling, aunties gossiping, someone laughing far too loudly—but none of it reached me. Not in that moment. Not when she opened her eyes and saw me.
And then she smiled.
That smile.
It didn't just land—it shattered something inside me, quietly and completely. It was warmth after a long winter, it was sunlight after a storm. It was forgiveness and invitation and mischief all wrapped into one glance.
She took a step toward me, and then another. "Hey," she said, casually, like she hadn't just turned my world upside down.
I tried to play it cool, even as my heart pounded like one of the dhols in the background. "You're really into this prayer thing today," I said, voice a little too low, trying to sound more amused than breathless.
Her eyes sparkled. "It's a secret," she replied, tilting her head ever so slightly. That playful twinkle in her gaze hit me right in the chest.
"Oh yeah?" I said, sliding my hands into my pockets to keep from doing something stupid like reaching out for her. "I'll bribe Ganesha for answers."
She laughed—a soft, melodic sound that rose above the music and lodged itself somewhere in my ribs. "Maybe you already got the answer," she said with a teasing lilt, brushing past me lightly.
My breath caught.
We began walking side by side toward my house, the pathway between us narrowing with each step. The colony was alive with colour and noise—kids racing barefoot with sticky sweet prasad in their hands, uncles yelling over whose music request had been ignored, aunties ushering people toward plastic chairs for snacks. But again, it all blurred.
Because Siri was walking beside me.
Close enough that our arms brushed once.
Then again.
And again.
Every accidental touch sent small ripples across my skin, like static charged by memory and hope. Like my body still remembered her better than I let myself admit.
"You know," I said, breaking the silence, "you're way too dressed up for someone who claims to hate crowds."
She smirked. "Correction—I hate loud crowds. Not festivals. And Amma picked this saree. Said it was 'auspicious.'"
"She was right," I said before I could stop myself.
She glanced sideways, caught the sincerity in my voice, and looked away quickly. But I saw the corners of her lips curve upward.
"You clean up okay too," she added after a beat. "Did Indu threaten you into ironing your kurta?"
I laughed. "How did you know?"
"She told me yesterday she'd burn your shoes if you showed up looking like an 'abandoned mop' again."
"That tracks."
We reached the bend near the playground where the noise dulled a little. The air smelt of incense and roasted cashews. She slowed her steps.
"Bhargav," she said suddenly.
I turned toward her.
She hesitated, looking at the ground for a moment before meeting my eyes. "Thanks for not giving up on talking to me. Even when I was... difficult."
My chest tightened. I wanted to say You weren't difficult. You were hurting. I wanted to say I never stopped wanting to talk to you. But all I managed was:
"Some things are worth waiting for."
And when she smiled again—smaller this time, but more vulnerable—I knew I'd say it a thousand times over if it meant I'd see that look on her face again.
We walked the rest of the way in silence, but it was the kind that didn't need filling. It was companionable. Charged with something quiet but certain.
A beginning wrapped in gold and green and jasmine-scented air.
---
Siri's POV
The moment we stepped through the gate, I knew we were doomed.
Indu stood waiting like she'd rehearsed it all morning—arms folded, one eyebrow cocked like a villain in a teen drama, and a smile so smug it practically needed its own invitation to the pooja.
She took one look at the two of us walking side by side and made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. "Perfect couple," her gesture seemed to say, as she wiggled her eyebrows like she was orchestrating a grand plan. I barely stifled my laughter.
"Oh my god," Bhargav groaned, rubbing his temple. "Indu, shut up."
"What?" she said, holding up her palms, all fake innocence. "I didn't even say anything. I'm just appreciating what the gods have clearly aligned."
I tried not to blush. I really did.
But the heat climbed up my neck anyway, and I knew she saw it because her grin stretched wider. "Oh no," she gasped theatrically. "Siri's blushing. Someone call the fire department! This slow-burn romance is about to combust."
Bhargav shot her a death glare, muttering something about serial-level drama as he tried to walk ahead, but she followed us with the kind of relentless glee only a younger sibling could carry.
Then she turned toward me and softened, just a bit. "You look stunning, Siri. This saree—ugh, it's giving main heroine energy. Like if this was a movie, you'd walk in with background violins playing."
I chuckled. "Thanks, Indu."
Then I turned to Bhargav with a deliberately arched brow. "And? What do you think?"
He froze.
Scratched the back of his neck.
And gave Indu a sideways glance like he was begging for backup, but none came.
"Yeah…" he said finally, voice slightly hoarse. "You look pretty."
Pretty?
Indu actually groaned. "Wow. Just—wow. You really nailed the romance, Bhargav. 'Pretty.' God, even Siri's water bottle could've come up with a better compliment."
"I—" Bhargav began, but Indu cut him off with a dramatic hand wave.
"If someone walked in wearing that saree for me, I'd write them a poem. Maybe faint. Sing at least one AR Rahman song."
"You're very dramatic for someone who still sleeps with a night light," Bhargav mumbled, shaking his head.
I giggled, pressing my fingers to my lips. "To be fair," I said to Indu, "you are setting a very high standard."
"Low," she corrected instantly. "That's the bare minimum. Come on, Siri. You deserve sonnets."
We reached the doorstep, and Indu dashed ahead to dramatically fling the door open. "Enter, oh prince and his mysterious beauty," she declared in her best royal accent. "May your pooja be filled with unresolved tension and whispered glances."
I tried to walk past her without reacting, but she leaned in and whispered, "If he doesn't say something real by tonight, I'm locking you two on the terrace again."
I raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn't."
"Oh, I would. And Amma already promised me an extra poori if I behaved today. So technically I've got some credit."
I rolled my eyes and stepped inside. The house welcomed us with the soft scent of sandalwood and cardamom, the notes of a bhajan floating gently through the living room from Amma's old Bluetooth speaker. Warm lights glowed from the corners, mingling with the marigold garlands Amma had hung earlier.
Bhargav walked ahead without a word, clearly mortified.
I followed slowly, smiling to myself.
Somewhere between Indu's teasing, the jasmine in my braid, and the sound of temple bells faint in the distance, I felt something unspoken settle between Bhargav and me.
Not quite a confession.
Not yet.
But something was stirring.
And this time, I wasn't afraid to feel it.
To be continued...