This book brings together a variety of short stories from different genres. Each story is concise, yet powerfully crafted to delve into the complexities of human feelings.
Spanning across different eras, from ancient times to the modern day, these...
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Deepika hurried past the century-old buildings in Pune's old city, their walls telling stories of countless monsoons. Her dupatta fluttered behind her like a surrender flag as she checked her watch for the third time in five minutes.
She was late - again - for her classical dance practice, and Guruji (teacher) would certainly notice.
The morning sun had barely peaked over the colonial-era buildings when she reached the dance academy, her breath coming in short gasps. As she rushed up the wooden stairs, the familiar sound of ghungroos and tabla reached her ears, but there was something different today - a deeper, richer tone accompanying the usual symphony.
Deepika paused at the doorway, her hand frozen mid-air. Through the gap in the door, she saw him - tall, with shoulders that seemed to carry the weight of expectations, moving with a grace that seemed at odds with his athletic build.
His eyes were closed as his feet moved in perfect sync with the tabla, creating patterns she had seen only in her most accomplished seniors.
"Ah, Deepika! Finally deciding to grace us with your presence?" Guruji's voice cut through her observations, making her jump.
The male dancer's eyes snapped open, and for a brief moment, their gazes met. There was something in those dark eyes that made her heart skip a beat - not the usual flutter of attraction, but a recognition of something deeper, like finding an echo of your own soul in someone else's eyes.
"This is Arjun." Guruji announced, his stern expression softening slightly. "He's joining us from Delhi. National level champion in Kathak. I expect you all to make him feel welcome." The last part was directed at the group of dancers who had stopped their practice to observe the newcomer.
Deepika found herself a spot at the far end of the room, trying to focus on her warm-up routine instead of stealing glances at Arjun. But every time the tabla hit a particularly complex beat, her eyes would involuntarily drift toward him, watching how his movements told stories without words.
Over the next few weeks, they barely spoke.
Their interactions were limited to polite nods and the occasional "excuse me" when they crossed paths in the narrow corridor. But there was a strange comfort in this silence, in the way they both understood the language of dance, the discipline it demanded, and the stories it could tell.
During practice sessions, Deepika noticed how Arjun would often stand in the corner, watching others with an intensity that spoke of someone who saw dance as more than just movement. He would catch mistakes that even Guruji sometimes missed, but never pointed them out publicly.
