What happens when a monsoon night in Ahmedabad cracks open more than just the sky? Four friends, a deck of Uno, and a tale that’s anything but ordinary—welcome to the edge of trust, where rain and desire blur the lines. Dive into the first ripple of this sultry, stormy series.
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The Ahmedabad sky had turned
traitor by late afternoon, its once-placid blue drowned in a restless gray
shroud that spilled over the city’s jagged edges. The air thickened with the
musk of rain yet to fall, a humid promise that clung to the skin like a lover’s
breath. Inside a modest flat on the eighth floor of a Maninagar high-rise, the
faint tang of turmeric lingered from a midday meal—dal chawal spiced just so,
now a ghost threading through the open balcony door. Beyond it, the scent of
wet earth crept in, a quiet herald of the storm, teasing the edges of a
Saturday evening that felt both mundane and electric.
The living room buzzed with the
comfortable chaos of old friends—two couples tangled in a ritual of shared
meals and teasing jabs, their laughter a threadbare quilt stitched over years.
The walls, a sun-bleached peach, bore life’s scars: a crooked frame from a
rain-drenched Mussoorie getaway, its glass fogged with memory; a shelf
cluttered with brass trinkets—Ganeshas and peacocks dulled by time—and
dog-eared novels, their spines cracked from restless hands. The sofa, a sagging
green beast, groaned under their weight, its cushions flattened by too many
nights like this.
Rohan lounged with one leg hooked
over the armrest, his indigo kurta creased at the elbows, the cotton worn soft
from countless lazy weekends. His stubbled jaw tightened as he grinned,
flipping a deck of Uno cards between his fingers, their edges frayed and
curling like monsoon leaves. “You’re too good at this, Priya,” he said, his
voice a playful rumble that rolled through the room like distant thunder.
“Every time I’m close to winning, you swoop in—some secret strategy, huh?” His
dark eyes glinted, catching the tube light’s flicker overhead, a spark of
bravado dancing in their depths.
Priya sat cross-legged on the
floor, her mustard-yellow dupatta streaked with silver, draped loosely over one
shoulder, its end trailing onto the tiles like a forgotten ribbon. She smirked,
flicking her hair back, the messy bun teetering as she slapped a draw-four card
onto the pile with a flourish. “No secrets—just skill,” she shot back, her
kohl-lined eyes sparking with mischief, sharp as a blade’s edge. “You’re just
mad I’ve crushed you three times already. Bow to the Uno queen.” Her laugh rang
out, a bright, jagged thing, skimming the room like a stone across the
Sabarmati’s glassy surface.
Neha perched on a mismatched
chair across the table, her short bob swaying as she leaned forward, her maroon
kurti catching the light in soft, rippling waves. She tossed her cards down
with a theatrical sigh, scattering them like fallen petals across the chipped
wood. “Enough, I’m out,” she declared, her voice laced with mock exhaustion, a
velvet ribbon fraying at the ends. “This game’s stale—and I’m starving. Let’s
switch it up.” Her silver bangles clinked as she stretched, a yawn slipping
free, her gaze drifting to the balcony where the first raindrops tapped a
tentative rhythm against the rusted railing, a quiet Morse code spelling out
the storm.
Vikram sprawled beside her on the
sofa, his faded black tee sporting a peeling Led Zeppelin logo, one arm slung
over the cushion in a lazy claim of territory. He scratched his scruffy beard,
tilting his head as the rain’s murmur swelled, a low growl beneath the room’s
hum. “She’s right,” he said, his voice rough from a week of shouting over
jackhammers and cement dust. “Uno’s done—let’s move. Rain’s picking up—balcony
sounds good, some fresh air to shake off the monotony.” His grin flashed, all
teeth and trouble, and he nudged Rohan with a bare foot, calloused from site
boots. “What say, man?”
Rohan discarded the cards with a
flick, the deck skittering across the table as he stretched, his kurta riding
up to bare a sliver of skin above his chinos—taut, sun-browned, a glimpse of
the man beneath the jest. “Deal,” he said, rising with a groan that cracked the
air like a twig underfoot. “But I’m ordering dalvada—rain without dalvada is a
crime around here. Crisp, hot, with that green chutney? Non-negotiable.” He
pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbing open the Zomato app with the focus
of a man plotting a heist, his grin a crescent of boyish delight.
Priya unfolded herself from the
floor, her dupatta trailing like a comet’s tail as she followed, bare feet
slapping the cool tiles with a rhythm that matched the rain’s tentative pulse.
“Dalvada?” she said, her voice lifting with delight, a note of hunger threading
through it. “Yes, please—fresh out of the kadhai, dripping with flavor, that
first bite crunching through the storm. I’m sold.” She stepped onto the
balcony, the rain’s breath brushing her face, cool and sharp as a lover’s
whisper. She leaned against the railing, her kurti fluttering as the wind
sharpened, the city sprawling below—rooftops slick with wet, streetlights
flickering like dying stars, the Sabarmati’s shimmer swallowed by the storm’s
gray blur.
Neha joined her, rain threading
silver into her bob, her kurti clinging faintly to her shoulders as she
breathed deep, the damp air filling her lungs with Ahmedabad’s raw essence.
“Smell that,” she murmured, eyes half-closed, lashes glistening with stray
drops. “Diesel, water, a touch of mud—pure, unfiltered Ahmedabad, stripped bare
by the rain.” Vikram trailed behind, phone in hand, humming a half-forgotten
tune—some Kishore Kumar relic—as he scrolled for music, his faded tee damp at
the edges from the balcony’s misty reach. They settled into a loose
semicircle—Rohan on a wobbly plastic chair, its legs scarred from monsoon wars;
Priya and Neha at the railing, shoulders brushing; Vikram cross-legged on the
floor, back to the wall, the concrete cool against his spine—the rain a soft
veil stitching them into its quiet embrace.
“Order’s in,” Rohan announced,
pocketing his phone with a satisfied nod, rain streaking his hair into dark,
messy spikes. “Fifteen minutes—hope the Zomato guy doesn’t drown out there,
pedaling through this mess.” He paused, then grinned, a spark igniting in his
eyes, warm and reckless. “This vibe needs more—let’s crack open a bottle. Wine
or scotch—rain, dalvada, and a drink? That’s a party, not just a night.”
Vikram chuckled, shaking his
head, his beard catching a stray drop that slid down to his collar. “Good luck
with that,” he said, voice dry with the cynicism of a man who’d navigated
Gujarat’s dry-law labyrinth one too many times. “Zomato’ll bring your dalvada,
but booze? Not in this state—unless they’ve started sneaking it in with the
chutney, hidden under a stack of fried onions.” His tone carried the weight of
a local who’d seen the hypocrisy up close—bootleggers thriving in shadows while
the law turned a blind eye.
Neha turned from the railing, her
smile sly, a secret curling its edges like smoke rising from a hidden flame.
“No need for luck,” she said, voice low and teasing, a velvet thread weaving
through the rain’s hum. “We’ve got stock—picked up some Sula wine and Royal
Stag on that Udaipur trip last month. Tucked away downstairs, safe from prying
eyes. Rules or no rules, home’s a free zone—our little rebellion.” She winked,
a glint of defiance in her eyes, and Priya’s laugh spilled out, bright and
jagged against the storm’s hush, cutting through the damp air like a shard of
glass.
“Udaipur haul for the win,” Priya
said, clapping her hands, her bangles chiming a merry rebellion. “I knew that
trip was gold—forts, lakes, and a little contraband stashed in the boot. Cheers
to that.” She nudged Neha, their shoulders brushing, a shared spark flickering
between them—two women who’d smuggled more than liquor past the state’s pious
borders, their laughter a quiet pact against the mundane.
Rohan stood, brushing rain from
his hair with a quick swipe, droplets scattering like tiny stars. “Sold—I’ll
grab it. Vikram, cue some music—something fun, not your usual rock racket that
makes my ears bleed.” He disappeared inside, his slippers slapping the tiles
with a wet, staccato beat, while Vikram fiddled with his phone, Tumsa Nahi
Dekha spilling out, its retro rhythm threading through the storm’s pulse—a
relic of simpler nights, now laced with the rain’s restless edge.
Neha leaned back against the
railing, rain streaking her maroon kurti, the fabric clinging to her curves as
she tilted her head, voice dipping into a reflective murmur. “The dry law
here,” she mused, “it’s all for show, isn’t it? Scratch the surface—half the
homes have a bottle stashed somewhere, maybe more. Web series make it look so
casual—Mirzapur, Sacred Games—everyone’s got a glass in hand, sipping like it’s
water, no fuss. Ahmedabad’s got its own underground vibe; we just don’t flaunt
it onscreen.” Rainlight caught the curve of her jaw, sharpening her features, a
quiet rebellion simmering beneath her words.
Priya nodded, wiping a drop from
her cheek with a flick of her wrist, her mustard-yellow dupatta now a damp
twist over her shoulder. “True—TV glams it up,” she said, voice softening, a
thread of wonder weaving through it. “Scotch on the rocks, late-night vibes,
all that polished chaos—it makes you wonder what’s real and what’s just a good
edit. Those shows—they’re not just selling drinks; they’re selling a whole
mood.” Her tone dipped, the rain’s patter filling the pause, a gentle hymn
underscoring her curiosity.
Vikram set his phone down, the
song’s tempo climbing as he stretched his legs, rain dripping from his hair
onto the concrete. “It’s not just the drinking,” he said, voice cutting through
the hush, rough as gravel underfoot. “These new shows—Made in Heaven,
Challengers, all that OTT jazz—they’re pushing everything. LGBTQ stories,
casual hookups, even threesomes—like it’s no big deal. That throuple scene in
Made in Heaven? Three people, zero fuss, just living it. Feels like they’re
saying this is life now—Bollywood’s old script is dead, and we’re all just
catching up.” He scratched his beard, a grin tugging his lips, half-amused,
half-skeptical—a man who’d seen too many trends crash against reality’s hard
edges.
Neha’s eyes sharpened, a flicker
of depth stirring beneath her casual shrug, her voice steady, deliberate, a
quiet thread weaving through the storm’s hum. “It’s not just for show,” she
said, leaning forward, rain streaking her hair into dark, glistening strands.
“They’re showing it because it’s out there—bisexuality, free sex,
threesomes—it’s not some elite fantasy cooked up in a Mumbai studio. Sex is
turning into a vibe, a game, a pulse you can feel if you stop pretending it’s
taboo. Even here, in Ahmedabad, it’s not so wild anymore—people just don’t talk
about it over chai.” Her words landed soft but heavy, rainlight glinting off
her bangles, her maroon kurti a damp canvas framing her defiance.
Rohan reappeared, Sula red in one
hand, Royal Stag in the other, glasses clinking in his grip like a smuggler’s
bounty, rain smudging the labels into a blur. “What’s that, Neha?” he said,
setting them on the ledge, his grin wide but his eyes probing, a flicker of
curiosity beneath the jest. “Threesomes? In real life? This is Ahmedabad—people
here blush at the word ‘sex’ even after ten years of marriage, fumbling under
the sheets with the lights off.” His laugh boomed, a thunderclap against the
rain’s murmur, but his gaze lingered on her, testing, teasing, a man who’d spun
that fantasy in his head more times than he’d admit.
Priya tilted her head, bangles
clinking as she crossed her arms, her voice light but laced with a thread of
wonder tugging her closer to Neha’s words. “Yeah, Neha, really?” she said, rain
streaking her mustard-yellow kurti, clinging to her like a second skin. “I get
the representation angle—LGBTQ stories breaking through, all that—but
threesomes? Here? I’d sooner believe a UFO landing on CG Road, buzzing past the
paan stalls.” Her laugh was bright, but her eyes darted to Neha, restless, a
spark of intrigue igniting beneath her mischief.
Neha smirked, leaning forward,
her kurti damp against her skin as she met their gazes, voice low, a velvet
ribbon curling through the rain’s murmur. “You’d be surprised,” she said,
pausing to let the weight settle, the balcony shrinking to their circle, the
city’s hum swallowed by the storm’s gray veil. “I’ve seen it—right in front of
me, no screen, no edits—just real.” Her words hung there, a seed dropped into
the rain-soaked air, its roots curling beneath their laughter, tugging at
questions they hadn’t yet dared to shape.
Vikram leaned in, elbows on his
knees, his voice a hushed nudge cutting through the rain’s rhythm. “Seen what?
Where? Come on, Neha—don’t drop a teaser and cut to ads like some cliffhanger
episode!” His grin flashed, but his eyes narrowed, a builder’s pragmatism
wrestling with a flicker of hunger—curiosity clawing past his cynicism.
Neha’s grin widened, a crescent
of mischief carved by the storm’s glow, and she tucked a wet strand of hair
behind her ear, rainlight glinting off her bangles like tiny, defiant stars.
“Alright, alright,” she said, voice slipping into a storyteller’s hush, soft as
the rain but sharp as its sting. “Last Tuesday, I’m stuck late at work—past 8,
slogging through an audit report that’s sucking the life out of me. The office
is a ghost town—lights low, chairs stacked, dead quiet, just the hum of the AC
and my own breathing. I’m headed to the pantry for a chai break, something to
wake me up, passing the senior accountant’s cabin. The blinds—half-open—catch
my eye, slats crooked like they’re daring me to look. I glance in, and there’s
Shalini—you know, the HR girl, always in those soft sarees, all pastel silks
and shy smiles—caught between two guys. One’s kissing her lips, slow and deep,
the other’s at her neck, hands roaming, a full-on moment in that dim cabin
light, papers still scattered on the desk like they’d paused mid-meeting for
this.” She paused, savoring their gasps, the rain’s rhythm a steady drumroll
under her tale, her voice a thread pulling them into the shadows of that
office.
Rohan’s jaw slackened, then
snapped shut as he let out a low whistle, sharp against the storm’s hum.
“Shalini?” he said, voice thick with disbelief, his fingers tightening on the
Sula bottle. “The one who barely talks in meetings, hiding behind her files
like a mouse? No way—no bloody way!”
Neha nodded, her grin a quiet
triumph, rain streaking her bob as she leaned back, her maroon kurti clinging
like a confession. “The very same,” she said, voice softening, a thoughtful
edge creeping in. “I couldn’t believe it either—all prim and proper by day,
handing out memos with that tight little smile, but there she was, in it deep,
no apologies. I didn’t hang around—went straight for my chai, heart pounding
like I’d walked in on a crime—but it was real. Not hearsay, not some office
gossip whispered over samosas—my own eyes saw it, clear as this rain. And she
didn’t look scared or guilty, not a flicker of shame. She looked… free—alive in
a way I didn’t expect.” Her words settled heavy, the balcony’s damp air
thickening with their weight, the storm’s glow catching the flicker in her
eyes.
Priya’s breath hitched, her
fingers tightening on the railing, rain streaking her kurti as she stared at
Neha, voice a murmur blending shock and curiosity. “In the office?” she said,
her laugh trembling, a bright thread fraying at the edges. “That’s bold—reckless,
even. What if someone else walked by—security, the night shift? She’d be toast,
out the door with a pink slip by morning!” Her mind spun—Shalini, flanked by
two shadows, a secret unfolding in the quiet, a freedom she couldn’t quite pin
down, wild and vivid as a scene from Challengers, all sweat and stolen glances.
Vikram chuckled, leaning back
against the wall, rain dripping from his hair onto his faded tee, his voice
warm with amusement but edged with doubt. “Bold or bonkers—take your pick,” he
said, scratching his beard, a wry grin tugging his lips. “But two guys at once?
That’s some serious game—logistics alone, forget the rest. Psychologically,
how’s that not a mess? No one gets jealous, wondering who’s got the upper
hand?” His tone was light, but his eyes lingered on Neha, probing, a man who’d
built walls against chaos and wasn’t sure he wanted them breached.
Neha tilted her head, rainlight
catching the flicker in her eyes, her voice a slow burn threading through the
storm’s hymn. “Maybe it’s not about jealousy,” she mused, fingers tracing the
ledge’s wet curve, leaving faint trails in the damp. “Maybe it’s about craving
more—more connection, more heat, more life than two can give you alone. I’m no
shrink, no PhD in threesomes like that Scoats guy, but Shalini didn’t seem
tangled in who got what. She was just… there, in the moment, rules be
damned—office blinds and all. Like it wasn’t a mess—it was a map, and she was
charting it.” Her words hung there, a quiet dare, the rain’s rhythm a heartbeat
beneath them, pulling the balcony into a tighter knot.
The storm wept on, a silver veil
cradling their silence, the city’s hum a distant murmur beneath its tender
glow. Rohan’s bottle rested unopened, Priya’s dupatta clung damp to her
shoulder, Vikram’s phone hummed its retro tune, and Neha’s tale lingered—a seed
sown in the rain-soaked air, its roots curling beneath their easy laughter,
tugging at shadows they hadn’t yet dared to name. The night stretched ahead,
restless and alive, a canvas waiting for the next stroke.
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