Siri's POV
After housy ended, the crowd slowly thinned out like sugar dissolving in warm water. Kids scattered in every direction, chasing sparklers with wild whoops, their silhouettes darting past flickering lights. Aunties began their quiet clean-up routine—gathering steel bowls of half-eaten murukku, folding banana leaves, and scolding children who tried to sneak one more sweet from the dessert trays.
The older folks, without any grand announcement, naturally migrated to the big neem tree at the edge of the courtyard. Chairs scraped gently against stone, arranged into a neat semi-circle like some evening summit of elders. Under its dark canopy, with the soft buzz of insects and the lingering scent of jasmine and roasted peanuts, it almost felt ceremonial.
My Appa and Amma settled on the left side, chatting amiably with Bhargav's parents, their words drifting through the night like smoke—casual, measured, familiar.
Except... it wasn't casual. Not tonight.
"I'm telling you," Indu whispered beside me, leaning in with a mischievous glint in her eyes, "this is the parent version of scheming. You guys are the secret agenda tonight."
I turned just slightly to glance at the so-called "conference."
Rakesh had just dragged a red plastic stool into the center like a self-appointed moderator. He sat cross-legged, arms folded like a seasoned panchayat head, scanning everyone with mock authority. The slight tilt of his chin, the smug little nod—he was clearly up to no good.
I groaned, already regretting showing up tonight. "Please don't," I muttered.
Beside me, Bhargav chuckled low, his voice brushing against my ear. "We're doomed."
"Nope," Rakesh declared suddenly, clapping his hands once as if to bring order to the imaginary court. He pointed dramatically at us. "Tonight is the night we air out the obvious."
Bhargav's Amma raised a perfectly shaped brow. "What obvious?"
He didn't miss a beat. "Them," he said, thrusting a finger toward us like we were a case study. "Siri and Bhargav."
There was a ripple of chuckles. Bhargav's dad coughed to hide a grin. My Amma and Appa exchanged a look—one of those long-suffering, 'we saw this coming' types.
Amma gave a knowing smile, tapping her fingertips together. "Ah. That."
Appa cleared his throat, his voice mildly amused. "Well... they do spend a lot of time together these days."
Bhargav's dad nodded slowly. "There's a calmness in Bhargav lately. A maturity. He's… more grounded."
"That's Siri's effect," my Amma said with a quiet pride. "She needs someone who sees her. And he… he sees her."
My cheeks lit up like a paper lantern, a slow flush climbing from my neck to my ears. I looked down at my lap, mortified but weirdly warm inside.
"But she's three years older," Appa said next, not in protest but like he was weighing it out loud. "Not that it matters now, but still..."
"And?" Bhargav's Amma shrugged, unbothered. "Age matters in school. Not in love."
Bhargav's dad smiled, glancing at us with an affectionate shake of his head. "We always hoped he'd find someone mature. Someone who wouldn't just go along with his stubbornness, but could match it. And somehow, Siri does. She keeps him in check."
"Balance," Amma agreed. "They hold each other accountable. That's rare."
"Exactly!" Rakesh exclaimed, throwing both hands up. "Which is why we need to test this chemistry. Confirm their feelings. Make it undeniable."
Bhargav gave a resigned sigh. "Here we go."
"Plan A," Rakesh began, standing like he was about to present a TED Talk. "Accidental locked room scenario. Just them. A candle, maybe some mild background flute music. One confession is all it takes."
"Rejected," Indu said before he even finished. "Too filmi. Too obvious."
Rakesh rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine. Plan B. We pretend there's a relative's wedding—say in Madurai or something. We all pretend to go, leave the house to them. Emotional bonding ensues. Home-alone test. Come on, genius, right?"
Amma laughed, adjusting her shawl. "You've clearly been watching too many serials."
"Daily dose of inspiration," Rakesh said with pride.
Bhargav's Amma just shook her head, grinning. "Honestly, I already consider Siri family. With or without plans."
Something in my chest tightened and softened at the same time. My gaze darted to Bhargav, who didn't look at me but rubbed the back of his neck again—his tell. He felt it too.
"And I already warned Appa," Amma added, looking pointedly at my father, "If he even thinks of finding another match for Siri, I'll put chilli powder in his coffee."
Everyone burst into laughter. Bhargav nearly choked on his breath. Even the silent neighbors chuckled from the sidelines.
Appa threw his hands up, mock-offended. "Fine, fine! No matches. But someone has to tell me—if this is real. I'm not a mind reader!"
Suddenly, all heads turned toward us.
I held up both hands. "Don't look at me. We're just friends."
Bhargav cleared his throat, eyes focused somewhere near the ground. "Just friends," he repeated, his voice a tad too soft.
"That's code," Indu whispered in her best TV anchor tone, "for slow-burn romance."
Bhargav's ears went pink.
"Plan C!" Rakesh shouted, snapping his fingers. "We all go inside, pretend to sleep, and leave them alone on the terrace. Nature will do the rest."
"Subtle," Bhargav muttered.
Bhargav's dad was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his murukku. "This boy, I swear."
And then from the darker edges of the circle, a familiar aunty's voice rang out, a little too proud: "Three-year difference? My daughter's husband is eight years younger. She bosses him around and he worships her. It's the perfect setup."
A few others hummed in agreement, nodding with the wisdom of lived experience.
One of the kids piped up, voice full of authority, "They're like chocolate and chilli. Different but yum."
There was a pause.
And then—chaos.
"Chocolate and chilli!" Rakesh hollered. "That's it! That's their couple name now. Choco-Chilli! I love it. I'm printing T-shirts tomorrow."
"Oh no," I groaned, covering my face.
Bhargav groaned louder. "I hate this place."
But he was smiling. That rare, unguarded smile—the one that curled slowly at the edges and warmed his eyes.
And I smiled too, despite myself. Despite the noise and the embarrassment and the infinite teasing.
Because somehow, in this tiny corner of the world filled with murukku crumbs, sparklers, terrible matchmaking plans, and endless laughter—we weren't just a maybe anymore.
We were a soft yes.
Still unspoken.
Still growing.
But real.
And beautifully, undeniably real.
To be continued...