Underlined terms will be explained at the end of the chapter for any non-desi readers. Feel free to ask me any questions if you are confused.

Having no option but to explore the temporary prison I was trapped in, I let myself fall into a nearby divan that was placed against the wall about a foot from the door. The room had a small corridor, like a narrow entrance, where I now sat, leading to the main bedroom.

The divan on which I sat on felt cozy with its rich, warm color palette and eclectic decor. It was a low and cushioned, covered in a colorful mix of patterned fabrics, including shades of mustard yellow, blue, and purple. A variety of throw pillows in complementary colors and textures added to the inviting and comfortable feel of the space.

From my vantage point, I could see the rest of the room, a complete contrast to my own.

It was a vibrant and cozy bedroom highlighted by its bold use of color. The walls were painted in some shade of beige, providing a warm and inviting backdrop for the rest of the decor. The bed was the centerpiece of the room, dressed in richly patterned bedding featuring a mix of deep blues, golds, and magentas. A mustard yellow and magenta throw blanket was draped over the foot of the bed and patterned pillows neatly arranged in a single file.

Aren't there too many pillows?

Above the bed, an ornate fabric canopy in a rich golden yellow draped gracefully from the ceiling, framing the sleeping area. Next to the bed, a side table held additional decorative lanterns and a few candles.

Directly opposite the room's entrance, a set of glass doors opened onto the balcony decorated with potted plants, adding a touch of greenery and creating a perfect spot for enjoying fresh air and natural light.

The floor was covered with a vibrant, patterned rug that tied together the room's color scheme and added a sense of warmth underfoot.

As I sank into the divan, I couldn't help but feel a sense of calm wash over me despite the circumstances. The room, with its warm colors and eclectic mix of textures, seemed to embrace me in a comforting cocoon.

I couldn't help but compare it with my bedroom. Suddenly it felt like the most boring place on the planet. Maybe I could add in some color when I got back. A couple pillows perhaps, I played with one in my hands.

My eyes caught a glimpse of the mirror set in the corner against the balcony wall. Next to it stood a study table, with a stethoscope and some notes neatly arranged. My reflection was barely visible in the dim light. I sighed, closed my eyes, and rested my head against the cool wall behind me.

Just as I did, I heard a click, followed by the squeaky turning of a knob. Instinctively, I looked towards the entrance, only to find the door still jammed and the knob lying in my palm. Confused, I furrowed my eyebrows and turned back towards the room. That's when I saw it—strands of hair hovering in the air.

What the fuck?

My eyes widened in realization as a woman emerged from what seemed to be the washroom. Her long, luscious wet hair shielded my presence from her immediate view.

I wanted to say something, and I opened my mouth to do so, but it went dry as her figure walked across the room.

It was like everything was happening in slow motion.

She rubbed her thick hair with a towel, her hair tossed to the side, an unwanted barrier between us. Her hands bore rings on each ring finger, but they did not look like engagement rings.

Not that it would bother me if they were.

Droplets of water slid down her back, almost completely exposed because of the saree blouse she was wearing, the dori still undone. When she was halfway across the room, she flipped her hair to the other side, repeating the drying process. That's when I saw her.

She stood there, a vision of grace and effortless charm. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her shoulder like a silken waterfall, catching the light in a dance of shadow and shine. Her oval face was framed perfectly by her flowing tresses; I resisted the urge to reach out and touch her.

Her eyes were a dark, deep shade of brown—windows to a soul rich with stories untold, filled with a gentleness that drew me in like a magnet. Her well-defined eyebrows accentuated her expressive gaze, each look a symphony of unspoken emotions.

A straight, delicate nose led down to lips that were full and naturally pink, curved into a slight frown that I wanted nothing more than to turn into a smile.

She wore a saree, not yet pinned up. Her pallu wasn't secured, instead tucked into the middle of her cream blouse in the front. The navy-blue cloth highlighted her skin, which was somewhere between fair and brown.

I gulped, my heart racing faster with each second I stared at her.

As she walked in front of the mirror, I tensed, scared she would notice my presence in her room. I only noticed a plate of cut apples and a knife when she reached for a piece, set on the table beside the mirror.

Her soft lips parted to bite the apple slice, and my own parted without my knowledge.

I watched as a water droplet ran down her smooth back, all the way to her waist until it disappeared into the fabric. Except for a thin strip of cloth across her back for the blouse, there was nothing covering her flawless skin.

I had no right, but yet, I couldn't look away.

What the hell was happening to me?

Through her reflection in the mirror, I could see another drop slide down her neck, forming serpentine patterns as it approached the curve of her chest.

The knob I was holding slipped out of my hands as I got distracted, falling to the ground with a clank.

Her eyes caught mine, midway through putting on earrings. Her eyes widened for a split second before she reached for the knife, turned around, and chucked it straight at me with such precision that it nicked my ear as I made an attempt to move away.

Her scream was loud and definitely drew the attention of everyone in the house, probably even the neighbors. Within seconds, I heard what couldn't be anything but a stampede outside the door, followed by someone trying to barge into the room.

She was startled by the sound of the repeated banging on the door, breathless, and with her chest heaving from all the screaming. I stood up from my place on the divan, and she took a step backward, her hand on her heaving chest, the fabric tucked in doing nothing to conceal the top of her cleavage. I even caught a glimpse of a small birthmark peeking out.

Bloody hell, she was beautiful.

I'd never seen anyone so beautiful. And I'd never felt this way before for anyone. Never did I feel the need to be so...

The room was suffocating with tension as she, suddenly conscious of her appearance, wrapped her saree around herself in a hurried movement. Her glare at me was as if I had just passed an obscene comment, but I hadn't uttered a word. My attention, against my will, had gone to her waist as she hurried. I caught a glimpse of her curves before she covered herself up, and my mind refused to cooperate with my desire to look away.

Her horror morphed into anger, likely triggered by my staring. My stupid brain and eyes weren't cooperating, betraying me at the worst possible moment. The wind blew in, fanning her hair across her face. She moved her hand to tuck the hair behind her ears, and in that instant, I felt a sense of thrill and dread. We were trapped in the room together, our families making extra effort to barge through the door.

After a few more attempts, they managed to succeed, and the door flew open. The room buzzed with a whirlwind of activity. Her mother fussed over her, hands moving frantically as she checked for any signs of injury. Other family members crowded the doorway, their eyes darting between Rima and me, confusion and concern etched on their faces.

"Rima, are you hurt?" Her mother's voice trembled with worry.

Rima. I tested her name in my head, but it didn't feel right.

"I'm fine, Mom," Rima replied, her voice steady despite the lingering shock in her eyes. She looked at me, her gaze hardening, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

"What are you doing here?" demanded a man who I assumed was her father, his voice booming and authoritative. He took a step toward me, his eyes narrowing.

"Sir! He was trying to help me! I'd tripped over the chair and then the door got jammed," the worker from earlier interjected from behind the gathered crowd.

Her father didn't seem convinced, but he relaxed a little. He looked at his daughter, silently asking if I had done anything wrong. She briefly locked eyes with me again, and an unsettling feeling built in my chest, waiting for her answer. Would she sell me out in front of our families? Tell them how I was shamelessly gawking at her while she was getting ready? I could've alerted her about my presence but I was frozen. Would she let it slide?

"Nothing happened, Dad." She paused and tore her brown eyes away from me. "We were trying to get the door to open but, he broke the knob. I thought the door would come off the hinges, so I yelled." The precision with which she told the story was so convincing that even I believed it had happened that way.

Her father narrowed his eyes and then looked at the knob on the floor, which was rattling as another gust of wind blew in. My mother put her hand on my shoulder, and I looked at her as she softly smiled at me.

"Uncle," I called out to him, doubtful of his reaction, and before the matter got out of hand, I wanted to dissolve it. "I didn't mean to come in here. But the circumstances earlier resulted in this situation. I assure you, it was not my intent to disrespect you or your daughter. I apologize for this confusion."

He simply nodded his head and rubbed his temples.

"Sanjay," my father called out to him, and he tore his threatening glare away from me. "Let's go downstairs, shall we? I'm sure Madhurima needs her privacy now."

Madhurima. Madhu. Now that felt much better.

"Yes, of course," Sanjay uncle said, then looked at his wife. "We'll be waiting downstairs." She nodded in understanding, and we all left the room. My mother insisted on staying behind to help out, and we all went downstairs.

What an evening.

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1949 words

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glossary for my non-desi readers

• divan : is a piece of couch-like sitting furniture

• saree blouse :  a tight-fitting top worn with a saree

• dori : strings or threads that typically have decorative hangings that are used to tie the blouse in the back

• pallu : the loose end of a sari worn over one shoulder

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You're reading Vikram.