Chapter 4

Blue Silk and Cold Coffee

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The moment he looks up from his phone, the world goes still.

She’s standing at the top of the staircase, one hand resting on the banister, the blue silk of her saree catching the dim light of the hallway. The fabric clings to the curve of her hip, falls in soft waves around her ankles, and the gold thread woven into the border catches the light like small flames. Her hair is pinned back, loose strands framing her face, and the mangalsutra rests against the hollow of her throat — small, delicate, a declaration of belonging.

He freezes. His thumb hovers mid-text, the screen of his phone glowing uselessly against his palm. His jaw tightens — an involuntary reflex, the body’s first confession — and he lets his eyes travel over her, slow, deliberate, as if memorizing each detail.

She looks down, smoothing the fabric at her shoulder. “Chalo mein ready hun.”

He shoves the phone into his pocket without finishing the message. The assistant can wait. The world can wait.

He walks toward her, his footsteps slow on the marble floor, and stops at the bottom of the staircase. He tilts his head, a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Blue tumpe bahut accha lagta hai. Chalo, car niche wait kar rahi hai.”

He holds out his hand.

---

She takes it. Her fingers are cool against his, and he feels the slight tremor in them — not nervousness, not exactly. Something else. Something that makes him want to hold on tighter.

The car is parked under the shade of a neem tree, and he opens the passenger door for her, waiting until she’s settled before closing it gently. He walks around to the driver’s side, slides in, and starts the engine. The air conditioner hums to life, and he turns to look at her — the way the light falls across her cheek, the way she’s smoothing the saree over her knees, the way she’s looking out the window as if she’s pretending he isn’t watching.

“Tumhaare liye kuch khana peena le lo raste mein?”

She turns to him, one eyebrow raised, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Mujhe khila pila ke moti karna chahte ho kya?”

He snorts, turning the wheel to pull out of the driveway. “Haan, bilkul. Moti hi karna chahta hoon. Kya kar logi meri?”

She doesn’t answer. She just looks at him, her lips pressed together, trying not to smile.

He reaches over and brushes his hand against her knee — light, casual, but deliberate. The silk is cool under his fingers. “Kyun moti karna chahte ho wese?”

He bites his lower lip to hold back a laugh, his thumb brushing slowly over her knuckles where he’s holding her hand. He glances at her, a playful warmth in his dark eyes. “Kyuki tum mere paas rehogi na, moti ho toh tum mujhe aur acchi lagogi.”

She pulls her hand away, covering her face. “Pagal aadmi, kuch bhi bolta rehta hai.”

He laughs, squeezing her hand gently before letting go to shift the car into a higher gear. The sun glints off the silver band of his wedding ring as he rests his hand on the steering wheel. “Main sirf sach bol raha hoon. Tum bilkul bhi nahi samajh rahi ho meri baat.”

She looks at him, her eyes searching. “Kya samjhun? Ese koun kehta hai apni biwi ko moti banane? Sabko patli ladkiyan achi lagti hai.”

He shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping him. He glances at her with that soft, warm look that makes her stomach flip. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting back on her knee. “Sab ki apni pasand hoti hai na. Mujhe tum jaisi ho wohi pasand ho, jo bhi ho. Samajh gayi ab?”

She looks away, her cheeks flushing. “Haan haan samajh gayi, ab bas bhi karo. Mujhe sharam aarahi hai.”

He chuckles, turning the steering wheel to take the exit for the highway. He presses his lips together to hold back more teasing, but he can’t help glancing at her quickly. “Thik hai, chup ho gaya. Raste mein accha coffee pehenge, okay? Tumhe cold coffee pasand hai na?”

“Haan.”

He slows the car to a stop at a red light, turning his head to look at her fully. The sun catches the gold in her earrings, and he reaches over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Waah, sirf ‘haan’ hi bologi? Kya baat hai, sharam itni aayi ab?”

She swats at his hand, but she’s smiling now. “Bas bhi karo na aap. Mujhe chedo mat, warna mummy ji ko bol dungi.”

He grins wide, holding both his hands up in surrender in front of the steering wheel as the light turns green. “Thik hai thik hai, main chedunga nahi. Mummy ji ko bolne ki zaroorat nahi, okay? Chup ho gaya ab.”

“Thik hai.”

He pulls the car into the parking lot of the small café they both like — the one tucked behind the old bookstore, where the coffee is strong and the samosas are always fresh. He turns off the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Main do cold coffee leke aata hoon. Tum car mein baitho, aaj itni garmi bahar hai.”

She nods, and he gets out, slamming the door shut softly behind him. He walks toward the café entrance, pulling his phone out to answer a quick work call, and she watches him through the windshield — the broad shoulders moving under his black shirt, the way he runs a hand through his hair as he talks, the way he laughs at something the person on the other end says.

He ends the call quickly, holding two paper cups with a plastic bag of samosas tucked under one arm. He walks back to the car, opens the driver’s side door, and hands her the cold coffee. The cup is cold against her palm, and she feels the condensation dripping onto her fingers.

“Le lo, extra chocolate add karwa diya hai tumhaare liye, jaise tum pasand karo.”

She takes a sip, and the sweetness hits her tongue — thick, cold, perfect. She looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “Itna samajhdaar kabse ban gaye ho aap?”

He chuckles, biting into a crispy samosa and wiping a crumb from his lip with the back of his hand. He glances at her, one eyebrow raised, his voice warm and amused. “Main hamesha se hi itna samajhdaar hoon. Tumne abhi tak notice nahi kiya bas.”

She sets her coffee down, crossing her arms. “Sadha hua chuza thee aap.”

He chokes on his samosa, coughing loudly while swatting at her arm lightly through the car seat. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, glaring at her half-heartedly, a grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Kya bol rahi ho? Sadha hua chuza kaise ho gaya main?”

She shrugs, picking her coffee back up. “Meri marji.”

He rolls his eyes, finishing off his samosa and crumpling the wrapper into the empty bag. He reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear — a habit now, a gesture that has become a language between them — and his thumb brushes soft against her jaw. “Meri biwi apni marji se mujhe kuch bhi bolegi. Kya kar hi sakta hoon main?”

She looks at him, her eyes holding his for a second too long. “Aap firse flirt kar rahe hai mere saath.”

He grins, leaning in closer across the center console. His breath is warm against her cheek, and she feels the heat of him — the smell of coffee and something clean, like sandalwood and soap. He tilts his head, one eyebrow raised, playful glint in his eyes. “Kya karu, tum itni acchi lag rahi ho aaj. Flirt karne ka maan kar raha hai, chhod du?”

She pushes his face away, but her hand lingers against his cheek. “Hatt. Aap bhi na.”

He catches her wrist gently before she can pull away, holding her hand against his cheek. He presses a soft kiss to her palm, his lips warm and dry against her skin. “Accha, hat gaya. Ab chaliye venue pe?”

She pulls her hand back, but she’s smiling. “Haan chalo.”

He starts the car again, squeezing her hand lightly before putting it back on the steering wheel, and pulls out of the parking lot. The sun filters through the windshield, warming her legs, and he turns on the radio — soft music, an old Bollywood song she used to hum when they were first married.

She hums along, her voice low, and he glances at her every few seconds. A small smile plays on his lips. He rests one hand on her knee, his thumb brushing slow and steady against the silk of her saree.

---

The car turns into the venue’s long, tree-lined driveway, and she sees it — the white marble wedding hall, gleaming through the thick green leaves. The banyan trees stretch their branches over the driveway, casting long shadows across the gravel. He parks the car under one of the large trees and unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to look at her.

“Dehkho, yeh hai na. Kaisa laga pehli nazar mein?”

She leans forward, looking through the windshield. The marble gleams in the late afternoon light, and the garden around it is bursting with marigolds. She feels something settle in her chest — a quiet anticipation, a sense of arrival.

“Yee toh bahut achi lag rahi hai.”

He gets out of the car and walks around to open her door. He holds out his hand, and she takes it, stepping out into the warm air. The gravel crunches under her heels, and the smell of marigolds and wet earth wraps around her.

He laces his fingers through hers, tugging her gently toward the entrance. From the doorway, the manager spots them and begins walking forward, a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Manager saab, hum aagaye,” he says, his voice warm and steady. “Jaisa aapne bola tha.”

She looks at him — at the way his hand holds hers, at the way he’s already scanning the hall, at the way he’s standing just a little closer than necessary. And she thinks, *I could stay here. In this moment. In this hand.*

She squeezes his fingers, just once.

He looks down at her, and his smile softens.

The evening is just beginning.

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