Major's Soft Obsession

Chapter 5: The Black Saree And The Order

Myra Malhotra's revenge plan started at nine in the morning with a saree.

Not just any saree. A black saree.

It was her mother's saree. Her mother had folded it secretly into her suitcase and said, you will need it for college fest. Myra had laughed and said, Mom, I am twenty-one, who wears a saree for college fest? Jeans is enough.

But today she wanted to wear it. Not for fest. For revenge.

Last night she had written in angry handwriting in her diary: I WILL MAKE MAJOR VEER SINGH RATHORE BREAK HIS OWN RULE NUMBER FIVE.

Rule Five was simple: Keep distance. Do not get close to me.

So to make him break it, she had to get close. Very close.

The college fest was at five. Theme was Retro Bollywood. Girls were supposed to wear sarees and boys kurta pajamas. Kabir had already messaged in the morning: You are coming in saree? You will look hot.

Myra replied: Yes, black saree.

But she did not know how to drape a saree properly. She watched two videos on YouTube at ten, tried twice, and failed. Saree kept slipping. At eleven, she heard the sound of a bike downstairs. Veer was going out again. Good. He would not be home till evening. She could get ready peacefully.

At two in the afternoon, she locked the door of her room on the first floor, took a bath, and started draping the saree again. This time it was better. Black saree with a small golden border, black sleeveless blouse, waist visible, long black hair left open, small black bindi on forehead, heavy kohl, and light red lipstick. She looked into the small mirror.

She did not look twenty-one. She looked twenty-two. Mature. Beautiful in a way that made her own heart beat faster.

She took a photo and sent it to her mother: Mom, see your saree.

Her mother replied instantly: Oh Myra! You look so grown up! But do not go alone at night in saree, child. Roads in Dehradun are dark.

Myra smiled. Put on small silver earrings that made a soft sound when she walked — chhan chhan. And her anklets from the first day. Her lucky anklets.

At four forty-five, she came downstairs, holding the saree carefully, trying not to fall on the stairs. She had booked an e-rickshaw. It was waiting outside the gate.

And Major Veer Singh Rathore had just returned early.

He was not supposed to return till seven. He had a meeting at the cantonment till six. But the meeting was cancelled. He came back at four fifty to take files from his office.

He opened the main gate, entered the porch, and stopped.

Myra was on the stairs. In the middle of the stairs. In a black saree. One hand holding the loose end of the saree, other holding the railing, earrings shining, bindi and lipstick perfect, waist visible, anklets today, looking down at him because he was below.

Both froze.

Veer had seen many beautiful women in his life. Army parties, clubs in Delhi, daughters of officers who tried to impress him. He never looked twice. He was twenty-eight, but his mind was always on his duty, not on women.

But now, his twenty-one-year-old tenant in a black saree on his stairs at four fifty made his discipline fail.

He forgot to breathe for two seconds.

Myra saw his reaction and felt victory. Revenge plan already working. She bit her lower lip to stop smiling — her habit when she is trying to hide happiness.

"You are early," she said, trying to sound normal, but voice slightly nervous. First time in saree in front of him.

Veer did not answer. Still staring. From bindi to feet which had small silver anklets. He had never seen her in a saree. Yesterday she was in a yellow kurta. Day before, in shorts. Now in a saree. Black.

"Where are you going?" he asked finally, voice low and rough.

"College fest. Retro theme. I have to go. Rickshaw is waiting."

"In this saree?"

Myra frowned. "What is wrong with this saree?"

"Nothing," he said. But eyes said everything. Too much. He could not complete the sentence. Too beautiful? Too grown up? Too much for other boys to see? He could not say that. That would break Rule Five himself.

"It is proper," she defended. "All girls are wearing sarees today. It is my mother's saree."

Veer walked closer to the stairs, two steps up, now face to face with her. He was in his olive uniform shirt today, sleeves folded, cap in hand, dust on boots. He looked at her waist which was visible between blouse and saree. Looked away quickly.

"You cannot go alone at night in this saree. Rickshaw will drop you till the gate, but what about returning at night? Fest ends at ten. It is dark."

"I will come with Kabir. He has a bike."

Kabir. Again.

Veer's jaw tightened instantly.

"No," he said.

"No?"

"No bike. No Kabir. I will pick you up at ten from the college gate. That is an order."

Myra's eyes widened. "Order? You are not my father, Major! And you are not my boyfriend to pick me up!"

Veer stepped one more step up. Now they were on the same stair. She had to tilt her head slightly to look at him, but the saree drape kept falling slightly from her shoulder.

"Then fix your saree first before arguing about boyfriend," he said quietly, eyes going to her shoulder.

Myra's face turned fully red. Fixed the saree quickly, embarrassed.

"I know how to manage a saree! And I do not need your pick up! I am twenty-one, I can manage! I told Papa same and I proved it."

Veer looked at her red face, angry eyes, earrings shaking because she was angry.

"Twenty-one," he repeated. "You keep reminding me that you are twenty-one, Myra. As if I forget."

"Why do you keep saying twenty-one? What is problem with twenty-one?"

"The problem is," he said, stepping down one step to create distance, because distance was safer now, "the problem is you are twenty-one and you are wearing a black saree at four fifty in my house and you have no idea what it does to a man who lives alone downstairs."

Silence.

Myra's heart stopped. Did he just say what it does to a man?

"What... what does it do?" she whispered, before she could stop herself. Her revenge plan was to make him say it, but now that he almost said it, she felt scared and happy at the same time. She was biting her lip again.

Veer realized what he almost said. Closed his eyes for a second, composed himself, and became Major again.

"It makes me worry about your safety. That is what it does. Boys in Dehradun stare. Go, but be back by ten thirty. And keep your phone on. If there is any problem, call me. Not Kabir. Me."

"Why you? Why not Kabir?"

"Because Kabir cannot fight four boys if they follow you. I can."

That one line. Said so simply. So factually.

Myra felt something warm spread in her chest. Possessive, protective, but in a way that made her feel safe, not controlled.

"Okay," she said softly. "Ten thirty. You will pick me?"

"I will pick you at ten."

She went down the remaining stairs carefully, saree making a soft sound. Crossed him, shoulder brushed his uniform sleeve. Smell of light perfume and sandalwood.

Veer stood on the stairs, watching her go till the gate. E-rickshaw was there. She sat inside, managing the saree, turned back once to see if he was watching. He was.

She waved a little. He did not wave back. Just nodded. Like a soldier.

Rickshaw left.

Veer went inside, to his office, opened a drawer, took out his old cigarette box again. Second time in three days. He had quit two years ago. Now this twenty-one-year-old in a black saree who still talks to her guitar named Tara and bites her lip when nervous made him want to smoke again.

He opened the CCTV app, checked the outside gate camera. Rickshaw gone.

He kept the phone down, but after five minutes, picked it up again, opened his gallery. He had one screenshot from yesterday's porch camera, Myra in a yellow kurta holding a book. He had not deleted it.

He looked at it, then locked his phone.

At seven, the college fest was full.

Myra was on stage. Not dancing. She was reciting poetry. Students of English Literature had to recite. She recited a poem about home. Voice sweet, but nervous in saree, holding mic with both hands.

Kabir was in the front row, cheering loudly.

Many boys were staring. Black saree, twenty-one-year-old girl with bindi and earrings.

At nine fifty-five, phone buzzed.

Veer: Outside gate. Come out. Now.

No hi. No please. Just order.

Myra smiled reading it. She replied: Fest is not over yet. Ten more minutes.

Veer: Now.

Myra: Why are you so rude? I am enjoying.

Veer: Myra Malhotra, if you are not outside in five minutes, I will come inside your college fest in uniform and pick you up from the stage. Your choice.

Myra's eyes widened. He would actually do it.

She ran outside, saree almost tripping, holding the edge.

At the college gate, at ten zero two, the black Royal Enfield was parked, headlight on, Veer sitting on the bike, in a black t-shirt now, not uniform, helmet in hand, looking at the gate like he owned it.

Girls passing by were staring at him. Twenty-eight-year-old Major, broad, beard stubble, bike, at night.

Myra came running, breathing heavy, saree slightly messed, bindi slightly tilted.

"You really came?" she said, surprised and happy.

"I said ten," he said, looking at her from top to bottom again. Saree now slightly loose after the whole evening, waist more visible, hair messy from stage lights.

"You look... " He paused.

"Beautiful?" Myra asked, hopeful, eyes shining.

"Messed. You look messed. Fix your saree again. And your bindi is tilted."

Myra's face fell, then got angry. "You! You can never say something nice!"

"Sit," he said, giving her his helmet. His own helmet. Not an extra one. Which meant he would drive without a helmet.

"I will not wear your helmet! You wear it! It is your bike!"

"You are in a saree on a bike at night. If you fall, your head should be safe. My head is used to falling. Wear it."

Myra argued for ten seconds, then wore it. Helmet too big, smelled like him — coffee and rain.

She sat behind him, hesitating to hold him.

"Hold my t-shirt," he said without looking back. "Not my waist. T-shirt. Your saree will get stuck in the tyre otherwise."

She held his t-shirt lightly. Bike started. Dehradun night road, cold wind, pine trees, street lights dim, girl in black saree sitting behind Major on Royal Enfield at ten zero five.

Halfway, her grip tightened automatically on his t-shirt because the road was bumpy. Forehead almost touched his back. She whispered to herself, "We managed, Tara? We wore saree whole day without asking anyone."

Veer felt it. Small hands holding his t-shirt tight, saree flying slightly, girl who was twenty-one and revengeful and beautiful and his tenant who still thinks asking for help means she is spoiled.

And for the first time in his twenty-eight years, Major Veer Singh Rathore broke his own Rule Number Five willingly.

He liked that she was close. He did not want to increase distance this time.