After the wedding chapter 4

The street outside was warm with mid-morning traffic. Coconut vendors shouted from their carts. A temple bell rang somewhere distant.Divya stood by the bike, key already in hand, helmet strapped tight.Anand, in a soft beige kurta and a cloth bag slung over his shoulder, adjusted the strap of his sandal. He reached out, instinctively, for the bike handle.She glanced at him, not harshly but as if she hadn’t even considered offering.

“I’ll ride. You always get distracted in market traffic,” she said, half-smiling.He let go.He sat behind her, arms gently resting, not around her waist but lightly near. She rode fast, precisely. She didn’t ask him which route to take. She didn’t need directions.

He stopped trying to give them.They entered the small store tucked between a tailoring shop and a juice center. The usual man was at the counter.“Enna venum, sir?” he asked—looking directly at Divya.Anand blinked, unsure if the man meant it politely or mistakenly.Divya didn’t correct him. She handed over the list.

Even while picking fruits, she chose quickly. Anand reached out for tomatoes, but she replaced two of his picks with firmer ones.“Too soft,” she murmured.

He smiled, a little lost in the movement of it all.She paid at the counter. She carried the heavier bag. She walked ahead.

Back home, the setting sun spilled through their open balcony.Divya washed her face, changed into loose salwar pants and a faded college T-shirt. She dropped the keys on the shelf with a practiced flick. Anand was already slicing onions for dinner.

After eating, she spoke, her voice mild but sure.“The pooja shelf looks dusty. Should we clean and move it near the window?”

He paused. That shelf had always been on the east wall. She knew that. But he nodded.They cleared it together, but she decided where the new arrangement would go.

He dusted the idols. She lit the lamp.She gave him the matchstick, but her hand lit it first.Later that night, they sat on the floor. She was rubbing oil into her scalp, eyes closed.

He brought the comb and sat behind her.You want help?” he asked gently.

She handed the comb over without a word.He parted her hair neatly, fingers familiar with the softness.Once he was done, she turned slightly and took the comb from his hand.Your turn, she said, almost a whisper.He hesitated. “It’s okay Come,” she said. “It’s dry.”

He leaned forward. Let her fingers do the parting this time.She oiled his scalp gently. In silence.She wasn’t brushing hard, like a parent. But slowly. As if shaping him.

He sat still.There was no language for it yet. But he could feel it the slow reversal.

Perfect. We’ll stay inside their world—close, quiet, and slowly rearranging itself.

Rain tapped gently on the balcony grill. A lazy Saturday had slipped into a dusky evening. The scent of sambar still lingered from their late lunch, and the leftover rice soaked quietly in a steel vessel by the sink.

Divya was on the couch, reading something on her phone, one leg folded beneath her. Her hair was loosely tied. Not styled—just… simple.Anand stood at the clothesline, folding towels. He was wearing one of her old t-shirts again—something he’d slipped into after his bath. Neither of them had spoken about it for months. She hadn’t commented. He hadn’t explained.They had passed that point.He brought in the dry clothes and placed them on the cot, sorting them. Her salwars. His shirts. A shared towel. A pair of track pants.And something else.A pale beige cotton kurta-pyjama set, neatly folded with the store tag still on it.Not too loose. Not too tight.Unisex “New?” he asked, holding it up.Divya didn’t look up from her phone. “Hmm. Picked it up when I went to buy that tea strainer.He turned it over in his hands. Soft material. No label marking it ‘Men’ or ‘Women.’Whose is it? Her eyes flicked up.Yours. Try it.

He tried it.The pyjama pants were loose and cool. The kurta had a straight cut. Not sharp at the shoulders. The neckline slightly wider than his usual.

He looked in the mirror He didn’t look like a woman.But not exactly like the man he remembered being either.He came out. She looked once, nodded.Nice.Then turned back to her phone.No ceremony. No teasing. No questions.But something stayed hanging in the air.

She was brushing her hair. He was clearing the table.She paused in the middle of combing and watched him stack the plates with quiet care.“I might take on extra hours this month,” she said casually.He looked up. “At the office?

“Yeah. One of the seniors is on maternity leave. I said I’d cover for her.He nodded. “Okay.A pause.“Which means I might not have time to run errands. Or cook every day.He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then: “I can manage. I’ll figure it out. She smiled. Just a little. “I know.And then continued brushing her hair.

He folded the new kurta and kept it separately. Not with his old clothes. Not with hers either.In the middle shelf. Where it wasn’t labelled anyone’s.Just… theirs.

The next morning, Divya stirred awake to the low clink of steel vessels from the kitchen. Rain still tapped lightly on the balcony grill, a thin mist curling at the edges of the open window.

The smell hit her first ghee, curry leaves, a hint of ajwain roasted slow. She rubbed her eyes and walked toward the kitchen, hair a mess, sleep still in her limbs.

Anand was at the stove.Wearing the new kurta.Sleeves rolled just below his elbows, neck open slightly where the button stayed undone. Damp hair curled lightly at his forehead. His hands moved with quiet confidence measuring, stirring, tasting, adjusting.

She paused at the doorway, leaning one shoulder against it."You’re up early," she said softly.

He turned, not startled. "Thought I'd start breakfast.She let her eyes drift down his form, the soft cotton of the kurta settling around his body, not clinging, not hanging. Just fitting.

"And the kurta?" she asked, teasing just a little.He looked down, then back at her. There was no awkwardness in his smile.

"It felt... right today."A beat.Divya walked over, slow. Close enough that their shoulders brushed as she reached for the small spoon lying near the kadai. She dipped it into the upma, tasted.

“Almost perfect,” she said, licking a little from her thumb. “Needs just a touch more green chilli.”He added it without question.

She didn’t move away.Her fingers, casual at first, reached for the edge of his kurta. Straightened a crease near his collar. Her eyes lifted.

"You know, it looks good on you,” she said. “Soft. Honest.”He let out a quiet breath. “I wasn’t sure, at first.”

"You don’t have to be,” she replied. “Just wear it. Like you wear... this life.”She stepped back, turned to set the table. But something lingered in the space between them.

That afternoon, he found her dupatta draped over the middle shelf. It hadn’t been there in the morning.Next to it neatly folded his kurta from last night. Hers from yesterday. And now the new one too.

No name tags. No separation.Just a shared space, slowly rearranged.

And later, when he was passing her a towel after her bath, her fingers brushed his wrist and didn’t let go immediately.

“You know,” she murmured, “there’s still that sandalwood soap I bought. For you. You haven’t used it.”

He blinked. “I thought it was yours.”She tilted her head. "It’s ours. Like everything else now."

The air between them held not tension, exactly, but something softer. A tug. A thread tightening.Not quite desire. Not yet.But very, very close.