Bhargav's POV
Rakesh stretched his arms behind his head and looked at me with mock sternness. "By the way, Mr. Disappearing Dumbbell, are you planning to ever come back to the gym? Or do I have to drag you by your hoodie?"
I groaned, flopping back against the cushion. "Not this again."
"Yes, this again," Rakesh insisted, wagging his finger at me like he was my personal trainer and disappointed father rolled into one. "You ghosted us, bro. I saw an actual cobweb on your treadmill last week. A cobweb. It winked at me."
"I didn't ghost," I muttered. "I've just been… busy."
"Busy staring at Siri, clearly," Indu said under her breath.
A cushion flew across the room. Siri threw it. Indu ducked.
Rakesh stood up dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. "If you don't come to the gym by next week, I swear on every protein shake I've ever had—I'll come to your house, lift you up like a barbell, and toss you straight onto a treadmill."
"Do that," Amma called from the kitchen, her voice full of mischief. "He needs some motivation."
I looked around and sighed theatrically. "I'm surrounded by traitors."
Laughter bubbled up around the room. Rakesh offered a mock bow while Indu grinned like she'd just won a medal. Even Siri was trying not to smile, but the edges of her mouth betrayed her.
Soon Amma called us all outside. The open space between the houses was already lit by the golden hue of the evening. Warm, soft, and slow. Mats were laid out in uneven rows, the housy board already in place, and bowls of murukku and peanuts being passed around like currency.
Kids ran across the chalk-drawn hopscotch lines, shrieking. Someone's auntie fiddled with a Bluetooth speaker until it belted out an old Ilayaraja track, and the uncles had brought their steel tumblers like sacred relics.
"Come, come!" someone shouted. "Game's starting!"
We all shuffled into place. Siri and I ended up next to each other—not by planning, just... convenience. Or so I told myself. Indu took the spot on my other side, and Rakesh plopped down across from us, pencil tucked behind his ear like a soldier prepping for battle.
Numbers were being called, slowly, melodically. The rhythm of community evenings. And then, like clockwork, the background gossip began. Not loud, but intentional.
"So," one uncle leaned toward my dad and Amma, "are we finally seeing the Bhargav-Siri merger?"
"Long overdue," someone else whispered.
I felt Siri go still next to me. Her hand paused midway to the bowl of peanuts.
A little girl, maybe eight or nine, whispered not-so-quietly, "They look like one of those serial jodis. Cute and angry."
"She's older than him, no?" an aunty asked curiously, not critically.
Amma chuckled. "Three years, yes."
"Ayyo, that's nothing!" another aunty exclaimed. "I'm five years older than my husband. He still follows me around like a stray dog I accidentally fed once."
Everyone laughed. The kind of laughter that made the stars feel closer.
I leaned a little toward Siri, my voice just low enough to escape others. "We should charge them for this entertainment."
"Shut up," she whispered, but her smile slipped through.
"But really," someone else added, "have you seen how they look at each other?"
"Like they're already married," came the reply.
"We should take Drishti off them," an elderly neighbor said seriously. "Before they even step inside their homes. Nazar lag jayegi."
"Do it now!" a small boy cried. "They're already blushing!"
Siri and I groaned in sync. The blush was undeniable. My ears were on fire.
"Someone save us," I muttered.
But truthfully, as much as I wanted to bury my face in the mat, a strange warmth had taken root in my chest. This teasing, this affection, the way people smiled at us like we were their favorite storyline—it felt like being blanketed in the kind of love that didn't ask for explanations.
I glanced sideways at Siri. Her eyes were still focused on the board, but her shoulders had relaxed. Her fingers rested lightly against her thigh, no longer clenched. She looked peaceful. Embarrassed, yes. But peaceful.
"You okay?" I asked, quieter this time, careful not to draw attention.
She nodded slowly. "It's embarrassing. But... nice."
I smiled then. I couldn't help it. A real one. The kind that forms slowly and settles into your skin. "Yeah. It kind of is."
Indu leaned across me and whispered, "You both are disgustingly adorable. Please stop. I'm trying to focus on winning here."
"You never win," Rakesh shot back from across the mat. "Even fate has given up on your numbers."
"Fate is overrated," Indu sniffed. "I'm manifesting a line win."
"You can't manifest what you don't mark," I said, peeking over. "You missed two numbers already."
"Betrayal from my own blood," Indu clutched her chest.
Just then, a child screamed "Full Housy!" and all hell broke loose. Claps, cheers, someone knocked over a bowl of mixture. The numbers stopped. Someone turned up the music.
But the warmth lingered. Thick, sweet, undeniable.
Still.
If someone had told me two months ago that I'd be sitting on a mat outside my house while uncles discussed my love life like a cricket match, I'd have laughed and walked away.
But now? I was right here. On a thin mat with fading embroidery, legs folded awkwardly, heart thudding quietly in my chest—not from housy excitement—but from the sideways glances Siri kept shooting at me when she thought no one was looking.
The worst part? Everyone was looking.
"You'd think they're already married," someone behind me said, as if we were invisible. "Did you see the way she handed him that samosa? I thought she was going to feed it to him."
"Arrey, she was hovering," another aunty added. "Like his mouth would vanish if she looked away."
Indu snorted beside me. "Romance by samosa delivery. Iconic."
I reached over and flicked her forehead lightly. "Shut up."
Siri nudged me. "Don't encourage her."
A little boy tugged on my sleeve suddenly. "Anna, are you going to marry Siri akka?"
I blinked. "W-What?"
"You should," he declared with the absolute confidence only six-year-olds possess. "You already sit next to each other like Appa and Amma."
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Siri turned red beside me.
Behind us, Rakesh laughed so hard he choked on murukku. "Oh god, even the kids are in on it now."
And then, like vultures spotting an easy prey, our parents swooped in.
"So," Siri's Amma said loudly, clearly for our benefit, "What's this I'm hearing about them feeding each other samosas?"
Appa chuckled. "Samosa feeding is only one step behind ring exchange, no?"
"Should we start preparing wedding playlists?" Bhargav's Amma added, tone sweet but eyes sharp as a knife.
I looked at Siri, ready to exchange a groan of solidarity, but she was just... smiling. Shy, eyes down, cheeks pink, but not protesting. Not recoiling.
Something in me shifted.
"You know," one of the elderly neighbors began thoughtfully, "my daughter married a boy four years younger. Initially, we were hesitant. But now? They're the most stable couple on our street. He still opens the car door for her every day."
"I open car doors too," I said without thinking, mildly defensive.
Rakesh jumped on it. "Yeah, but only because Siri glares at you until you do."
That earned another round of laughter.
Then Amma leaned in, her voice dipping low but not quiet enough. "Honestly, age difference is such an overrated issue. What matters is—do they bring peace into each other's lives?"
Everyone paused.
It wasn't dramatic. It was just... sincere.
I turned slightly, glancing at Siri. Her fingers were playing with the edge of the mat, eyes still averted. But I could see it—the soft curve of her smile, the way her shoulder shifted slightly toward me.
And I knew the answer to Amma's question.
Yeah. She brought peace. And fire. And silence that wasn't empty, and noise that wasn't annoying.
"She definitely brings something into his life," Appa muttered, sipping tea. "He stopped growling like a bear at breakfast."
"You're welcome," Siri mumbled, deadpan.
To be continued...