The blinding flash of a camera bulb was my cue. I plastered on the practiced smile, the one that conveyed polite deference mixed with quiet brilliance. My father, standing a respectful pace behind me, had coached me on it for weeks. Not too wide, Satvik. Confident, but humble. Remember who you are representing.
Who was I representing? The Arya legacy, India's technological future, MIT's finest alumni, the countless engineers who, unlike me, genuinely loved the elegant logic of a circuit board or the raw power of a chemical reaction. They all believed I was one of them. The illusion was nearly perfect.
"Mr. Arya, your contributions to the field of material sciences are truly groundbreaking," His Excellency, the President of India, intoned, his voice resonating with an authority I could only admire. He gripped my hand firmly, the weight of the Padma Vibhushan medal heavy in my palm. The applause swelled, a deafening wave of affirmation that crashed over me, yet left me utterly untouched. It was a sound I'd learned to interpret, to calculate its decibel level and duration, but never to truly feel.
My internal monologue, a constant, nagging companion, began its familiar litany. Too many people. Too much noise. My suit feels stiff, the collar chafes. Is my smile symmetrical? Have I maintained eye contact for the optimal duration? Avoid looking at the woman in the red sari for too long; it will be perceived as staring. Social protocols: initiated. Execute.
My gaze, despite my self-admonition, flickered. There she was again. Standing a little to the left of the diplomatic corps, under the warm glow of a chandelier. Her sari, a rich crimson silk, wasn't just a garment; it was a cascade of color that seemed to breathe with her movements. Her hair, tied back simply, revealed the elegant curve of her neck. Her eyes, dark and intelligent, were currently fixed on the President, a faint, genuine smile playing on her lips. She wasn't performing; she was simply being.
A familiar ache blossomed in my chest, a phantom limb of desire and inadequacy. She was the kind of woman who would effortlessly navigate conversations, her laughter bright and unforced. The kind of woman who, in another life, I would spend hours designing for. Not just a dress, but an entire persona. A silk that would shimmer with her every step, embroidery that would highlight the curve of her collarbone, a subtle cut that would make her feel like the most beautiful woman in any room.
But this was this life. And in this life, I was Satvik Arya: the prodigy who could reverse-engineer a meteorite's composition, design an aerospace propulsion system, or optimize a chemical plant's output, but couldn't string together a coherent sentence to express anything beyond scientific facts. The Satvik Arya who, despite his millions and his genius, had zero female interaction, zero romantic experience, zero… everything that mattered.
The ceremony concluded. More handshakes, more forced smiles. My father, beaming with paternal pride, clasped my shoulder. "You were magnificent, son. A true Arya." His eyes, usually critical, held genuine adoration. It was a burden, that adoration. A golden chain around my neck, pulling me further into a life I secretly loathed.
The after-party was a continuation of the same gilded cage. The grand ballroom of the Ashoka Hotel, transformed into a dazzling display of Indian hospitality. Servers glided through the throngs, offering canapés and champagne. The air buzzed with conversation, laughter, the clinking of glasses. For me, it was a cacophony. Every voice, every gesture, every subtle shift in posture, was a data point my brain processed, trying to find a pattern, a social algorithm I could exploit to just… fit in.
Then I saw her again, the woman in crimson. She was by the buffet, delicately selecting a paneer tikka. She laughed at something a portly, white-haired diplomat said, a sound like wind chimes – light, melodious, utterly genuine.
Now or never, Satvik. A rare surge of something akin to courage, fueled by champagne (two sips, precisely calculated for minimal effect), propelled me forward. My palms felt clammy. My heart hammered an erratic rhythm against my ribs, far from the steady beat of an optimized engine.
I navigated through a cluster of industrialists, forcing myself to nod and offer a polite, "Excuse me." Each step felt like walking through treacle. I reached her, positioning myself slightly to her right, as per the social etiquette guide I'd once compulsively read.
"Excuse me," I managed, my voice a reedy imitation of my usual clear, articulate tone. It sounded like a badly tuned instrument.
She turned, her dark eyes meeting mine. They held no recognition, only polite inquiry. "Yes?"
My mind, capable of deriving complex equations, suddenly felt blank. The carefully constructed opening lines vanished. All that remained was the burning desire to not sound like an idiot. "Ms… I mean, I noticed you earlier. At the ceremony. You… your presence was, ah, analytically pleasing."
Her brow furrowed, a tiny, elegant line. "Analytically pleasing?" A faint, amused smile touched her lips, but it wasn't the kind of smile I wanted. It was the smile of someone trying to understand a confusing child.
"Yes," I blurted, my anxiety spiking. "Your, ah, your attire. The crimson. It provided a stark, yet harmonious, contrast to the predominantly muted palette of the diplomatic uniforms. And the drape, the specific fabric tensile strength, allowed for optimal… flow dynamic." I gestured vaguely, trying to describe the way the sari moved. It sounded utterly ludicrous.
Her smile widened, now clearly one of polite bewilderment. "Thank you, I suppose?" She glanced at the diplomat still beside her, who was trying to suppress a chuckle. "It's just my mother's sari."
My face burned. I could feel the heat. "Oh. Right. Of course." My entire attempt was a spectacular failure. She was trying not to laugh at me. The diplomat definitely was. "Well, I… I must be going. Congratulations on… your presence."
I mumbled an incoherent farewell and practically fled, my cheeks afire. The laughter, suppressed or otherwise, followed me. Another data point: "Satvik Arya, social interaction: failure state. Probability of future successful interaction: negligible."
I found my father, made my excuses about feeling fatigued, and ordered the driver. The limousine, a plush, climate-controlled bubble, felt like a sarcophagus. As we pulled away from the glittering hotel, I saw her, through the tinted window, still talking, still laughing. She hadn't even remembered me. Why would she? I was just the awkward genius who analyzed her sari.
My home, the ancestral Arya mansion, was a sprawling monument to old money and modern success. Twenty acres of manicured gardens, a fleet of luxury cars, a staff of dozens. Yet, as the heavy oak doors closed behind me, the silence that enveloped me was not peaceful. It was deafening. It was the sound of my own loneliness.
I didn't head to my state-of-the-art laboratory, or my massive private library filled with first editions. I didn't even go to my bedroom. Instead, I walked down a seldom-used corridor, past portraits of stern-faced ancestors, to a small, unassuming door. It opened into what used to be a storage room.
Inside, it was a different world. No blueprints for quantum computers, no schematics for hyper-efficient engines. The walls were covered with mood boards: swatches of fabric—silks, satins, organza—pinned beside photos of runway models and classic Hollywood stars. Sketchbooks lay open on a large drafting table, filled not with circuit diagrams, but with intricate fashion designs: flowing gowns, sharp tailored suits, revolutionary cuts. On a smaller table, bottles of pigment, brushes, and mannequin heads with varying skin tones hinted at another secret passion: cosmetology. A laptop hummed quietly, its screen displaying a deep dive into the history of haute couture, interspersed with tutorials on advanced makeup techniques.
This was my real soul. The world saw a brilliant engineer. I saw a canvas. I ran my fingers over a bolt of crimson silk, the same shade as her sari. Her sari was beautiful, but it lacked… intention. It was a garment, not a statement. I picked up a pencil and began to sketch furiously. The woman from the party, but reimagined. Not in her mother's sari, but in my design. A dress that would flow like liquid fire, perfectly accentuating her figure, a subtle shimmer of sequins like distant stars. Her makeup, a delicate balance of light and shadow, highlighting the intelligence in her eyes. She would be stunning. She would be my creation.
I didn't want to possess her. I wanted to create for her. I wanted a muse, a partner, someone to share this secret passion with. Someone to make beautiful, just for me. To see her wear my art, to embody the vision I held within. But I wasn't a fashion designer. I wasn't a cosmetologist. And most painfully, I didn't have a girlfriend. I didn't even have a friend.
I threw the pencil down. The emptiness pressed in. The brilliant mind that could solve the universe's most complex problems was utterly defeated by the simple problem of human connection. I was sick of it. Sick of the accolades, the wealth, the forced smiles, the endless, crushing loneliness.
A thought, cold and clear, cut through the despair. I need to escape. Not just this room, or this mansion, but this life.
I grabbed my car keys, ignoring the protests of the night watchman. I didn't tell him where I was going, because I didn't know myself. I just drove. The city lights of Delhi slowly receded in my rearview mirror, replaced by the darker, more ancient silhouette of the Aravalli hills. I pushed the luxury SUV faster, the powerful engine a roar against the quiet night, mimicking the tempest in my soul.
The air grew cooler, thinner. The winding mountain road, usually a place of peace, felt ominous tonight. Towering rocks, ancient and unyielding, loomed on either side. Moonlight dappled through the sparse trees, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock my directionless journey.
My phone rang. My father. I ignored it. I couldn't face another conversation about my "magnificent" day, another reminder of the chasm between expectation and reality.
A low rumble. It started almost imperceptibly, a deep vibration in the earth, then a sickening crack. The SUV swerved. My engineering mind, ever analytical, registered the immediate threat: mass movement, seismic activity detected, structural integrity of embankment compromised.
My eyes widened. Above me, the side of the mountain was tearing itself apart. Boulders the size of small cars, torrents of loose rock, a furious, unstoppable cascade. It happened too fast for fear, too fast for thought. Just the raw, primal instinct of self-preservation, immediately overridden by the sheer, crushing force of nature.
The world exploded in a symphony of roaring rock and tearing metal. The last thing I felt was the sickening crumple of steel, the last thing I saw was a flash of crimson, not the sari, but the memory of it. And in that final, horrifying microsecond, before darkness consumed me, one thought, clear and agonizing, burned through my dying mind: I never got to make that dress.