The rain’s gone, but the storm’s echo lingers—Neha and Vikram’s truth settles into the morning after. Four friends, a quiet flat, and the ripple of a night that bent their edges—trust, shame, and possibility collide in this final chapter. Ready to feel it fade?
--------------------------------------------------------
The Ahmedabad sky had shed its
tears by morning, the storm’s silver veil replaced with a pale, hesitant blue
that crept over the city’s jagged edges like a lover tiptoeing out at dawn. The
air hung heavy still, thick with the musk of sodden earth and diesel, a humid
ghost of the night before that clung to the eighth-floor flat in Maninagar.
Inside, the living room lay quiet, its sun-bleached peach walls bathed in the
soft glow of a new day—yesterday’s chaos distilled into stillness. The crooked
frame from Mussoorie glinted faintly, brass trinkets on the shelf catching the
light, the sagging green sofa silent now, its cushions bearing the dents of
their weight. On the balcony, the concrete gleamed wet, rain’s last kiss drying
in uneven patches, the railing streaked with rust and memory.
Rohan slumped at the kitchen
counter, his indigo kurta swapped for a rumpled gray tee, hair a dark, tousled
mess from a night of restless sleep. He nursed a steel tumbler of
chai—ginger-sharp, steam curling up like a question mark—his stubbled jaw tight
as he stared at the balcony door, its glass fogged with the morning’s breath.
The dalvada packet, crumpled and grease-stained, sat discarded beside the sink,
the Sula and Royal Stag bottles empty sentinels on the ledge outside, their
labels peeled by rain into a confession of their own. His dark eyes flickered,
replaying Neha’s words—we’ve lived it—a seed that had taken root in the damp
earth of his mind, its tendrils curling through his bravado, tugging at shadows
he hadn’t dared to name.
Priya emerged from the guest
room, her mustard-yellow dupatta traded for a loose white kurti, hair spilling
free from its messy bun, a cascade of ink-black waves brushing her shoulders.
She padded barefoot across the tiles, her bangles chiming a faint, restless
tune as she poured herself chai from the pot, the clink of the ladle sharp
against the morning’s hush. “Sleep well?” she asked, voice lilting with a
teasing edge, but her kohl-lined eyes glinted with something deeper—wonder,
unease, a hunger stirred by the night’s fire. She leaned against the counter
beside him, her kurti brushing his arm, the scent of rain and turmeric
lingering on her skin like a memory of the storm.
Rohan’s grin flickered,
half-hearted, his fingers tightening on the tumbler as he shrugged, voice a low
rumble threading through the quiet. “Barely,” he said, rainlight from the
balcony catching the tension in his jaw. “Kept seeing Shalini—two guys, that
desk. Then Neha and Vikram—three bodies, no script. Psychologically, it’s a
tangle—hot as hell, sure, but after? I’d be pacing, wondering who got more of
you, Priya. Jealousy’s a beast—can’t shake it.” His laugh was a rough boom, but
his eyes lingered on her, bravado cracking under the weight of her gaze, a man
wrestling a fantasy he’d spun too long in the dark.
Priya sipped her chai, the steam
fogging her lashes as she tilted her head, mischief blooming into a restless
spark. “Jealousy’s a beast ‘til you tame it,” she murmured, her kurti shifting
as she leaned closer, bare foot brushing his under the counter. “Neha said
it—psychologically, it’s work, not ruin. Shalini looked free—Vikram said
they’re stronger. What if it’s not about losing? What if it’s… more? That coach
wrote it—afterglow’s a gamble, sure, shame or thrill, but they chose thrill. I
keep seeing it—two guys, me in the middle, wanted so bad it burns. Scary, yeah,
but alive.” Her voice trembled, a bright thread steadying in the morning’s
glow, her fingers tracing the tumbler’s rim, rainlight glinting off her
bangles.
Neha stepped out from the
bedroom, her maroon kurti traded for a simple black tee and jeans, her short
bob still damp from a shower, silver bangles replaced with a single wristwatch
ticking softly against her skin. She yawned, stretching with a grace that
belied the night’s weight, her voice a velvet ribbon curling through the
kitchen’s hush. “Alive’s right,” she said, pouring chai with a steady hand, her
gaze flicking between them. “Morning after’s the test—psychologically, it’s
where the cracks show, or don’t. Vikram paced that first dawn, too—thought I’d
drift, thought he’d hate me. But we talked—every twinge, every fear—‘til the
sun burned it clean. No shame, no whispers—just us, closer.” Her smile curled,
a quiet triumph, rainlight catching the curve of her cheek, her fire steady,
unapologetic.
Vikram trailed behind, his faded
Led Zeppelin tee swapped for a navy polo, beard trimmed but still scruffy, his
voice rough as gravel underfoot as he grabbed a tumbler, chai sloshing over the
rim. “Closer’s damn right,” he said, leaning against the wall, rainlight
glinting off his faded jeans. “Psychologically, it’s a hammer—smashes your ego,
your rules, everything you thought held you. I felt alone that night—her with
him, me watching, even in it. Like that story—alone in a loved one’s embrace,
body spent but mind racing. But we faced it—talked ‘til my throat burned, tamed
the beast. No fallout, just truth—stronger than before.” His grin flashed, a
builder’s grit softened by memory, his eyes meeting Neha’s, a silent pact
shimmering in the morning’s glow.
Rohan set his chai down, the
clink sharp against the counter, his voice a hushed rumble weaving through the
quiet. “Truth, huh?” he murmured, rubbing his jaw, rainlight catching the
flicker in his eyes. “Psychologically, that’s the kicker—watching Priya, even
once, I’d feel it—jealousy, hurt, the whole mess. Studies say it—afterglow’s a
coin toss, exhilaration or crash. You flipped thrill, sure, but most? They’d
burn—whispers at work, shame in the mirror. Ahmedabad’s not Somerville—no
rights, just stares. How’d you dodge that?” His bravado softened, curiosity
overtaking jest, a man peering past his cage at a freedom he couldn’t quite
grasp.
Neha sipped her chai, the steam
curling up like a secret, her voice a slow burn rolling through the kitchen’s
hush. “Dodged it because we owned it,” she said, leaning against the counter,
her black tee clinging faintly to her frame. “Psychologically, it’s a
mirror—shows what you fear, what you crave. Whispers? Sure—Ahmedabad’s got eyes
everywhere, aunties clucking over chai, HR drafting memos. But we kept it
ours—one night, no leaks, no shame. Poly folks fight that—stigma, closets,
losing kids to judges who don’t get it. We didn’t go poly, but we tasted
it—freedom, not chaos. After? We rebuilt—trust deeper, love wider, no cracks.”
Her words landed heavy, rainlight glinting off her watch, her fire a steady
pulse against the morning’s calm.
Priya’s fingers stilled on her
tumbler, her breath catching as she tilted her head, voice a murmur threading
through the quiet. “Wider, not broken,” she echoed, rainlight streaking her
white kurti, her eyes glinting with a mix of awe and doubt. “Psychologically,
that’s… wild. I’d feel it—watching Rohan, alone even with him there, like that
story said—body spent, mind a mess. But you’re saying it’s growth? That coach
warned—shame, worthlessness, all that—but you chose more. Shalini’s moment,
your night—it’s not just thrill, it’s… compersion? Joy in their joy?” Her laugh
trembled, mischief steadying into a restless hunger, rainlight sharpening her
features into something fierce, alive.
Vikram chuckled, draining his
chai, the tumbler clinking onto the counter as he scratched his beard, voice
rough with a grudging smile. “Compersion’s fancy—call it surviving, then
thriving,” he said, rainlight glinting off his navy polo. “Psychologically,
it’s a gut punch—seeing her wanted, free, not scared? Twinges hit,
sure—jealousy’s sneaky, not dead. But I talked—we talked—‘til it wasn’t alone,
just us. Afterglow’s real—exhilaration, not crash—because we faced it. Stigma’s
out there—site guys’d rib me, ‘Vikram’s wife’s loose’—but it’s ours, not
theirs. Stronger, not shattered.” His eyes flickered to Neha, pride beneath his
cynicism, a builder’s grit reshaped by trust’s quiet forge.
Rohan leaned back, his gray tee
stretching across his chest, voice a low rumble cutting through the morning’s
hush. “Stronger—not shattered,” he murmured, rainlight catching the flicker in
his eyes. “Psychologically, that’s a leap—watching Priya, me there, not pacing
but… feeling it? Aftermath’s the beast—studies say it—hurt sticks, trust
wobbles. Poly’s got rights fights—Somerville, laws—but here? Whispers’d kill
it—Ahmedabad’s not ready. You dodged that, sure, but me? I’d crash—jealousy’s
my wiring, not my choice.” His laugh was softer, a rough boom fading into
doubt, his bravado bending under their truth, rainlight sharpening the tension
in his jaw.
Neha’s smile widened, a crescent
of mischief carved by the morning’s glow, her voice a velvet ribbon curling
through the kitchen. “Crash ‘til you don’t,” she said, setting her tumbler
down, the clink a faint echo against the counter. “Psychologically, it’s not
wiring—it’s will. We weren’t ready ‘til we were—talked ‘til dawn, faced every
shadow. After? No wobble—just us, wider, like Priya said. Shalini’s free ‘til
she’s not—we chose forever, one night’s ripple. Stigma’s real—Ahmedabad’s eyes,
society’s script—but it’s your mirror, not theirs. Poly’s wave’s
coming—freedom, not shame—and we rode it once, no regrets.” Her words settled
heavy, rainlight glinting off her watch, her fire a steady pulse weaving them
into the morning’s quiet.
Priya stepped closer to the
balcony door, her white kurti brushing the frame, rainlight streaking her hair
as she stared out, voice a whisper threading through the hush. “No regrets,”
she murmured, her laugh a bright thread steadying in the glow. “Psychologically,
that’s… everything. Alone with you there—scary, messy, beautiful—like that
story, body spent, mind alive. But you chose trust, not shame—compersion, not
crash. Shalini’s desk, your night—it’s not chaos, it’s… possibility.
Ahmedabad’s whispers, society’s cage—maybe we bend it, too?” Her eyes glinted,
hunger blooming into a fierce spark, rainlight catching the curve of her cheek,
a woman teetering on freedom’s edge.
Vikram joined her, his navy polo
dark against the glass, voice a low growl softened by memory as he leaned
against the frame. “Possibility’s right,” he said, rainlight glinting off his
faded jeans. “Psychologically, it’s a river—shifts, flows, never the same
twice. We bent once—talked ‘til we couldn’t, trusted ‘til it held. After? No
whispers touched us—just us, stronger. Poly’s fight—rights, stigma—ain’t ours,
but we get it. One night, one truth—ripple’s still here.” His grin flashed,
cynicism cracked wide, a builder’s hands steady on a new foundation, rainlight
catching the pride in his eyes.
Rohan followed, his gray tee
clinging damp from the morning’s humidity, voice a hushed rumble weaving
through the quiet. “Ripple, huh?” he murmured, standing beside Priya, rainlight
streaking his hair into dark spikes. “Psychologically, it’s a twist—jealousy’s
my beast, but you tamed it—growth, not ruin. Afterglow’s real—exhilaration,
maybe, if I dared. Stigma’s heavy—Ahmedabad’s not Somerville—but you bent it.
Me? I’d pace—unless we talked ‘til dawn, too.” His laugh was a low boom,
bravado softening into wonder, his shoulder brushing hers, rainlight sharpening
the flicker in his gaze.
Neha lingered by the counter, her
black tee a shadow against the peach walls, voice a velvet ribbon curling
through the morning’s glow. “Talk ‘til dawn—or don’t,” she said, rainlight
glinting off her watch, her smile a quiet fire. “Psychologically, it’s yours—mirror,
not cage. We rode the ripple—Shalini’s still riding hers, somewhere. Poly’s
wave, society’s fight—it’s out there, bending boxes. We’re us—stronger, not
shattered—one night’s truth.” Her words hung heavy, rainlight streaking her
bob, her fire weaving them into the morning’s quiet embrace.
The balcony door stood open, the city’s hum a faint murmur beneath the pale blue sky, its wet concrete a testament to the storm’s passage. The flat held them—chai steam curling, tumblers clinking, voices threading through the silence—a crucible of possibility, its edges softened by the monsoon’s tender echo. Rohan’s bravado bent, Priya’s hunger bloomed, Vikram’s cynicism cracked, and Neha’s fire burned steady, their circle reshaped by a ripple that lingered, wild and alive, in the morning’s fragile light.
--------------------------------------------------------------
No comments:
Post a Comment