Siddharth’s life moved in quiet rhythms. Early mornings at Bessy Beach, where the mist clung to the shore and waves hummed their slow, steady music. He’d sit cross-legged on the cool sand, a dog-eared notebook in hand, trying to turn stray thoughts into something permanent. Sometimes, the sun rose before his words did.
Then it was chai from the same vendor—"Double strong, half sugar" without needing to say it. A warm breakfast at home. The jostle of the 9:10 metro. Work, words, debates with friends, late-night detours into Tamil history. Familiar, dependable. Until now.
Lately, something felt different. Not loudly. Not all at once. But like a door had been left slightly ajar.
It started outside a coffee shop.
Siddharth was leaning casually against a scooter, mid-laugh, sparring with Aravind about Dhoni’s mid-season strategy. Their laughter floated into the chaos of the street—horns, chai, a dog barking.
Aravind waved. “Come da, traffic’s mad!”
Siddharth stepped forward.
And then it happened.
A flicker.
Not a memory. Not even a thought. Just a pull.
He turned, half-curious, scanning the crowd. A girl stood a few feet away, not looking at him. Or maybe she was. He couldn’t be sure. Her face was half-turned. She wore a soft red kurta. Her hair was braided, jasmine tucked behind her ear. A blur, really. But familiar.
He blinked. The moment passed.
Inside the car, Aravind nudged him. “What da? Ghost ah?”
Siddharth chuckled. “Something like that.”
But the flicker stayed. A soft shift beneath everything.
It returned outside a hospital. He hadn’t meant to be there—a professor had called him to scan rare palm-leaf manuscripts. When he stepped out, head still buzzing with 13th-century Tamil verses, sanitizer sting in his nose, he saw her.
Green kurta. Same braid.
She walked past him, purposeful. Her gaze forward. But something in her pace, the stillness of her presence—it tugged at him.
He almost called out.
But what would he say?
“Hi, excuse me, are you the person haunting my peripheral vision?”
He didn’t.
Later that night, he told his friends.
Big mistake.
They laughed until they cried. Madhu dubbed her “Green Kurti Ghost.” Bala said he needed holy ash. Aravind offered to start a WhatsApp group to track sightings.
Siddharth played along, smiling. But quietly, the feeling lingered.
Then came Madhu’s engagement.
They had grown up together in the messy way only real friends do—over poetry debates, political rants, heartbreaks, and college chai. Siddharth was happy for her.
The ceremony was at a temple in Mylapore. Siddharth arrived early, wearing a crisp white shirt and veshti, trying not to feel out of place.
The stone beneath his feet was warm. The air thick with incense. The nadaswaram wailed in the background.
After prayers, he joined his friends by the Tulasi madam. Laughter. Teasing. Someone brought up Madhu’s dramatic college crush.
Siddharth laughed—genuinely. Easily.
Then it happened again.
That shift.
He turned.
She stood near a pillar, holding a packet of flowers. Red kurta this time. Her posture still.
Her eyes—on him.
Or were they?
She wasn’t blinking. Just looking. Like she was remembering something.
He froze. His breath caught.
Was this real? Or was his mind folding memories into strangers?
No—it was her. The girl from the metro. From the hospital. From the coffee shop traffic.
He looked away.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he wasn’t ready.
He didn’t speak of it. Not to Aravind, not to Madhu.
What could he even say?
“She keeps showing up, and I keep feeling
something I can’t name.”
So he stayed quiet.
Later, as he stepped out of the temple into the soft drizzle,
vibuthi pressed to his forehead, he didn’t look back.
But something had changed.
He wasn’t chasing her. Not yet.
But now, he was waiting.
Not for answers.
For a moment.
And deep down, he knew.
Something had begun.
0 Comments