Dawn's gentle light filtered through the kitchen windows, painting the Mehta home in soft gold. Outside, the monsoon clouds still loitered, but the rain had eased to a light drizzle against the terrace tiles. The street beyond was still wet, shining in uneven puddles where the light struck, as if the night had left behind little mirrors to catch the morning.
Inside, the kitchen was alive with warmth and small sounds—the clatter of utensils, the soft whoosh of the gas flame, and the rhythm of a woman moving with quiet purpose.
Anahita Kapoor Mehta stood near the stove, her hair still damp from her bath, dark strands clinging to her neck. A thin cotton dupatta rested loosely on her shoulders. She hummed a tune, almost under her breath, as she heated a well-worn steel kadhai. Its surface bore the faint scratches of years of use, though polished bright by care.
Today she was making poha—flattened rice rinsed gently and sautéed with mustard seeds, turmeric, onions, and a sprinkling of roasted peanuts. As the cumin seeds hit the hot oil, they crackled and released a fragrance that rose like a comforting embrace.
At the dining table, Arjun sat in his usual chair, the morning newspaper spread before him. His fingers smoothed the corner of the page, but his eyes barely scanned the words. Even after a night's rest, faint shadows lingered under his eyes—a residue of surgeries, consults, and the constant weight of decision-making.
The silence between them was companionable, broken only by the simmer of onions and the rustle of newsprint.
Without lifting his gaze, he said quietly, "Light on peanuts."
Anahita glanced over her shoulder. A smile flickered across her lips. "Got it."
Soon, she set a steaming plate before him—yellow poha flecked with coriander, served with a glass of warm lemon water. The simple act carried the quiet intimacy of someone paying attention.
"Thank you," he said, folding the newspaper and placing it aside. His voice was soft but genuine.
She sat opposite him with her own glass of water. The steel plates reflected the morning light in dull gleams, and for a few moments, the only sound was the clink of his spoon. He ate methodically, the surgeon's steadiness even in this.
Anahita rested her chin lightly against her palm, watching him—not in scrutiny, but curiosity.
When he finished, she leaned forward and brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear. It was such a natural gesture that even she didn't pause to consider it. He, however, felt a sudden warmth, unexpected and unsettling. Only days ago, any touch might have stiffened his shoulders. But here, now—it didn't feel intrusive.
"Your turn to speak," she teased gently. "What's on your schedule today?"
He cleared his throat. "I'll need to step out for a while. Some errands."
She nodded, taking a sip of water. "I'll be here when you get back."
He hesitated. "Be careful if you go out. The streets are still wet."
Her smile widened. "I have my yellow rain boots. I'm all set."
He rose, stacking their plates neatly. The habit of tidiness followed him everywhere. "See you later, Anahita."
She leaned back, watching him slip on his jacket and sling the bag over his shoulder. "I love the way you say 'See you later.' Promising."
He paused at the doorway. Their eyes met—hers playful, his reserved but softening. Something flickered in the silence between them, like the faint crackle of fire just starting to catch. He gave her a small smile before stepping out into the drizzle.
Three hours later, Arjun returned. The drizzle had faded, leaving behind a pale, washed sky. The garden outside the house sparkled, each flower crowned with droplets, every leaf shining like a jewel.
He set his bag down and looked around. "Anahita?" he called softly. No answer.
He moved through the living room, listening. The house seemed unusually quiet, its walls heavy with stillness. Then, faintly, he heard the sound of trickling water from outside.
When he stepped onto the veranda, he saw her.
Anahita stood barefoot on the stone path, her kurta hem damp and darkened by water. She leaned over the marigolds, brushing rainwater off their bright orange petals with the tips of her fingers. Her braid, a little loose, rested over one shoulder.
For a moment, he lingered in the doorway, watching. Something about the scene struck him—the unguarded ease of her posture, the way the rain seemed to belong to her.
He walked toward her. "Anahita."
She turned, eyes lighting up. "Oh—you're back. Come, look at this jasmine. It's blooming so quickly after the rain."
He stepped closer, bending toward the vine as she held up a cluster of blossoms. Their fragrance drifted between them. He inhaled, nodding. "It's… beautiful."
She laughed lightly. "I knew you'd say that."
They stood side by side, watching the small garden soak in the last drops of the morning drizzle. The fountain in the middle bubbled softly, a steady sound against the silence.
After a pause, she spoke, almost casually: "We should visit the nearby shops one evening. I'd like to buy a few more plants. Some flowers for that empty corner."
Arjun hesitated. The thought of lingering in crowded shops after long hours did not appeal to him. "I'm busy these days. Take the card and go if you want."
The words came out flat, more dismissive than he intended.
For just a second, her brightness dimmed. She caught herself quickly, tucking it away behind a polite smile. "No need, I'll have my own money." Her voice was even, pleasant, but he caught the faint shift.
He wanted to take it back, to explain—but before he could, she turned toward the house, her steps quick and measured.
Left alone in the garden, Arjun felt a stir of unease. It wasn't typical of him to justify or soften words—his life had trained him to be concise, practical. But with her, it felt different. He wanted her to understand. He didn't like the thought of her feeling dismissed.
He followed her inside, rehearsing an explanation in his mind, but the moment he entered the hallway, his phone rang—sharp, insistent.
"Dr. Mehta, emergency," came the voice on the other end.
His grip on the phone tightened. "I'll be there."
He turned toward her. She was at the sideboard, straightening the folds of her dupatta. She looked up when she heard him.
"I have to go," he said quickly.
She nodded, her expression calm, though unreadable. "Of course. Take care."
For a moment, he stood there, torn between urgency and the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to bridge the distance, to say something—anything—that would undo the quiet disappointment she had hidden so well.
But the urgency of the call pressed down on him.
"I'll… talk when I'm back," he muttered, already reaching for his bag.
And then he was gone again, footsteps hurried, leaving her standing in the quiet house. The drizzle outside had stopped, and for the first time that day, the silence between them felt heavier than the rain.