A QUIET KIND OF BEGINING
905 Words
There was something about Sunday afternoons that made everything feel suspended in time. Rithu sat near the window, the gentle hum of ceiling fans mingling with the faint clatter of vessels from the kitchen. Her mother, Prabha, was busy checking the final touches on the snacks, while her father, Krishna Kumar, occasionally peeked out the window as if he could predict when their guests would arrive.
Inside Rithu’s room, everything was far from calm.
Her palms were slightly damp. She smoothed the pleats of her soft pastel green saree for the fifth time, the chiffon material falling like a whisper against her. Varnika had styled her hair with a simple twist, tucking in a white jasmine strand that added a gentle fragrance to her presence.
Rithu stood in front of the mirror. “Too much?” she murmured.
“No,” Varnika said, peeking in. “It’s perfect. Simple. Graceful. Like you.”
That didn’t stop the flutter in Rithu’s chest. “He’ll be here soon, right?”
Varnika smiled knowingly. “Don't worry. Just breathe. And remember—this isn’t a performance.”
But for Rithu, it felt like one. Not a performance to impress, but a moment that demanded she hold every version of herself together—her calm exterior, her quivering nerves, her cautious hope.
---
Downstairs, the arrival was quiet. A car pulling up. A door shutting. Soft greetings.
Avinesh Ram entered first, following his parents—Sekhar and Sheela. His posture was calm, but his heart was pacing ahead. He had worn a crisp cream shirt, sleeves rolled just enough, and grey formal trousers—nothing loud, nothing too sharp.
The first thing he noticed was the aroma. Sandalwood, filter coffee, and something sweet.
And then, she walked in.
Balancing a tray with three tumblers of coffee, Rithu entered the room with grace. Her steps were quiet, but something about her presence made every word fade. The soft green saree she wore didn’t try to impress. It flowed gently, catching the light like water. The jasmine in her hair, the faint bindi, the unadorned wrists—it all felt... unforced.
Avi forgot to blink for a moment.
There was something so deeply rooted, so quietly powerful in the way she carried herself.
She wasn’t trying to charm anyone. And maybe that’s what charmed him the most.
In that moment, Avi felt a strange ache in his chest—one he couldn’t place. Maybe it was awe. Maybe it was the quiet rush of seeing someone who looked like home in a world that always felt a little too loud. She wasn’t dramatic, didn’t make an entrance. But her presence shifted something in him. Like a song he didn’t know he’d been waiting to hear.
He had seen girls in sarees before. At weddings, in films, even casually. But this was different. It was like watching poetry walk into a room. Her grace wasn’t something she wore—it was something she was. And as ridiculous as it sounded, Avi’s throat tightened for a second, as though the sight of her stirred something deeper than words.
He caught her eyes for half a second when she looked up to offer him coffee.
Not wide-eyed or shy. Just... present.
And that did something to him. A tiny drop in a still lake. A feeling that would echo quietly long after.
He took the coffee. “Thank you.”
She nodded. “Please have it while it’s hot.”
And just like that, she moved on to the others.
His mother noticed. She smiled.
So did Sheela.
Prabha guided the conversation gently. Sekhar warmed up instantly, finding Krishna Kumar’s wit both sharp and subtle.
And in the middle of polite laughter and shared memories about distant relatives in Coimbatore, Avi remained unusually quiet. He wasn’t bored or uninterested. He was elsewhere.
Still thinking about the calm in her eyes.
---
Later, when they asked if Rithu and Avi wanted to speak alone for a bit, the two stepped out into the small verandah.
The sun was kind that day. A soft, golden kindness that fell on the terracotta floor tiles.
They didn’t sit too close. Just enough.
“It’s funny,” Avi said, after a long pause. “You’re the first person I’ve spoken to where silence didn’t feel heavy.”
Rithu smiled. “I was just thinking the same. Maybe we’re both quiet people.”
“Or maybe,” he said, “we just don’t need to fill every space with words.”
She nodded. Looked at the bougainvillea climbing the gate. The wind moved a few loose strands of her hair, and he noticed how she didn’t fix them. She let them be.
They didn’t talk about dreams or plans. Just about books they hadn’t finished, and why certain songs still made them cry.
The door creaked faintly behind them.
Time was up.
As they walked back in, Rithu turned once, looking at the sky like she often did.
Avi watched her, hands in his pockets.
He didn’t know what this was yet. But something about her presence had rested gently on him, like a warm shawl he didn’t know he needed.
And when he left that day, waving his thanks to Prabha and Krishna Kumar, he carried one image that stayed:
A girl in a green saree, with quiet eyes and jasmine in her hair, who made silence feel sacred.
- Writer
