English · Lover
yesterday
The train pulled into Ahmedabad junction with a lurch that sent my stomach tumbling. Not from the movement. From the weight of what I was about to do.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. Blue jeans, white t-shirt, sneakers. Dipak’s uniform. The boy my mother kissed goodbye this morning, the one who said he was visiting a college friend for the weekend. The lie had tasted bitter on my tongue, but the promise of tonight—of her—made it worth every swallowed guilt.
My phone buzzed.
“Platform 2. Near the tea stall. I’m wearing a grey shirt.”
Sachin.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I walked. The crowd parted around me, oblivious. A family with screaming children. An old man pulling a suitcase. No one looked twice at the thin boy with the smooth face. They never did. That was the cruelty of it—I passed as unremarkable, when inside I was screaming to be seen.
Then I saw him.
Grey shirt. Dark jeans. Hair slightly messy, like he’d been running his fingers through it. He was scanning the crowd, and when his eyes found mine, something in his face softened. He smiled.
I forgot to breathe.
“Dip—” He caught himself. Glanced around. Then, quieter: “Hey.”
“Hey,” I managed.
We stood there, two feet of concrete between us, the distance feeling both too large and too small. Then he stepped forward, pulled me into a quick hug, and whispered against my ear: “You’re here. You’re actually here.”
“I’m here.”
The cab ride was a blur of his hand finding mine in the backseat, fingers interlacing, thumbs tracing lazy circles on my palm. The driver didn’t notice. No one ever noticed.
The hotel was a modest one in the Navrangpura area. Sachin had booked it—a room on the fourth floor, corner end. Privacy, he’d said. I’d nodded, not trusting my voice.
The door clicked shut behind us.
The room was clean. White sheets. A window overlooking the city. A mirror on the wardrobe door that caught my reflection—jeans, t-shirt, the boy I wore like a costume.
Sachin stood by the bed, watching me. “You want to… change?”
I nodded. My bag felt heavy as I carried it to the bathroom.
The mirror in there was unforgiving. Fluorescent light, harsh and clinical. I saw Dipak staring back at me. Flat chest. No curves. Skin that had never known the weight of a bangle.
I unzipped my bag.
The red saree came out first. Silk, with a gold border that caught the light. I’d saved for three months to buy it. Then the blouse—deep neck, backless, a secret I’d kept hidden in my wardrobe under old sweaters. The wig, long and black with soft waves. The makeup pouch, stuffed with foundation and eyeliner and the dark red lipstick I’d practiced applying a hundred times in the dark of my room.
I shed Dipak like a snake sheds skin.
Piece by piece. The jeans folded. The t-shirt set aside. Underwear replaced with something lacy, something that hugged my hips and made me feel seen. The blouse went on next, the fabric cool against my skin. The saree I wrapped with hands that only trembled a little—I’d practiced this too, in front of my phone camera, watching tutorials until my eyes blurred.
The wig settled over my short hair like a crown.
Makeup was ritual. Foundation, contour, the careful shaping of eyebrows. Eyeliner that flicked up at the corners. Mascara that made my lashes look like I’d been crying beautiful tears. And then the lipstick—dark red, precise, the final brushstroke on a painting.
I stared at my reflection.
Dipti stared back.
Not Dipak. Her. The girl who lived inside me, the one I’d locked away for twenty-three years. Her eyes were lined with kohl. Her cheeks had a soft flush. Her lips were the color of crushed berries.
I touched my throat. The mangalsutra was there—a thin gold chain with black beads, his name whispered over it in my mind. I’d bought it online, told myself it was just for the fantasy. But as I fastened it, something in my chest tightened.
The sindoor came next. A small box, the powder a vivid red. I parted my hair and traced the line along my scalp, the way married women did. The way I’d imagined doing for him.
My hand shook as I set the box down.
One last look in the mirror.
Dipti was beautiful. Dipti was real.
I opened the bathroom door.
Sachin was sitting on the bed, phone in hand. He looked up.
The phone clattered to the mattress.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His mouth parted slightly, and I saw his throat work as he swallowed.
I stepped forward, the saree whispering against the floor. “Say something.”
He stood. Walked toward me. Stopped when we were inches apart.
His hand rose, fingers hovering near my cheek, not quite touching. “You’re…” He shook his head. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
The words hit me like a wave. I opened my mouth to respond, but he closed the distance.
His lips met mine.
Not gentle. Not tentative. A kiss that swallowed every doubt, every fear, every night I’d spent crying into my pillow wondering if I was broken. His hand slid into my hair, careful not to disturb the wig, and the other found my waist, pulling me against him.
I melted.
His lips moved to my jaw, my neck, trailing fire down to the curve of my shoulder. The pallu slipped, and I let it. His fingers found the bare skin of my back, tracing the edge of the blouse.
“Sachin,” I breathed.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “I’ve wanted this. Wanted you. Since the first night we talked.”
“Me too.”
His hand found the hook of my blouse. “Can I?”
I nodded.
The fabric loosened. Slid down my arms. The cool air hit my skin, but his hands were warm as they traced down my collarbone, my sternum, stopping just above the lace of my bra.
I reached for the hem of his shirt. He helped me pull it off, and then his chest was against mine, skin to skin, and the world narrowed to the heat between us.
He guided me backward toward the bed. The mattress met my knees, then my back, the sheets cool beneath me. He hovered above, one hand braced beside my head, the other tracing the line of my hip.
“Dipti,” he said, and the name sounded like a prayer.
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
The words hung in the air, fragile and terrifying. I reached up, touched his cheek. “I love you too.”
He kissed me again, deeper this time, and his hand slid lower, finding the edge of the saree, pushing it aside. His fingers brushed my thigh, and I arched into the touch.
The night stretched on. Hands exploring. Breath mingling. The whisper of silk and the soft creak of the bed. When he finally moved inside me, I gasped, clutching his shoulders, tears pricking at my eyes.
Not from pain.
From the sheer, overwhelming rightness of it.
Later, we lay tangled in the sheets, both of us nude, the sindoor smudged on my forehead. His arm was around me, my head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
“Sachin?”
“Hmm?”
I traced a pattern on his skin. “Marry me.”
The silence stretched. His hand stopped moving.
“Dipti…”
I lifted my head. Looked at him. Saw the conflict in his eyes.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “The society… my family… they won’t understand.”
The words landed like a blade.
“But you said you loved me.”
“I do.” He sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. “But love isn’t enough. Not here. Not for us.”
I stared at him, the room suddenly cold.
