Silver Saree

I’m 34, Marketing Head at a Pharma company in Chembur, good salary, 2BHK in Powai, weekends at Marine Drive. I’ve dated. I’ve been dumped. I’ve dumped.

At this point, I thought I’d seen every version of “it’s complicated.” 

My weakness? Simple. Girls with a cute, unguarded smile. In white. Don’t ask me why. Some guys have a thing for heels. I have a thing for chikankari.  She joined in October. Priya. New Sales Force Analyst, straight out of IIM-Lucknow. First two weeks: “Hi”, “Hello”, “Files are on the drive.” I noticed her, sure, but the Chembur office gets new faces every quarter. I didn’t look twice.  Then came the Diwali HR mail: Ethnic Day – 27th  October. Traditional attire encouraged. 

She walked in at 10:03 AM. Silver tissue saree, thin gold border, jhumkas that caught the tube lights, and a small black bindi. The whole floor went quiet for half a beat. She smiled at the receptionist — that smile — and I was done. Head over heels.  I became the guy who invents reasons to cross the floor.

“Priya, did you get the Q3 deck?”

“Priya, server’s slow today, no?”

“Priya, do you watch cricket? India vs Aus tomorrow.”  She did. She loved cricket. We’d do five-minute post-mortems of every match by the coffee machine. She’d laugh, cover her mouth, then catch herself. As she remembered, she was supposed to be reserved. Mumbai girls aren’t reserved. Not like that. 

Every morning, I would walk to her desk, “Good morning,” wait for the smile, walk back feeling stupid and nineteen again.  Took me three weeks to ask. “Coffee after work? There’s a new place in BKC.”  She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I… I can’t, Arjun. Sorry. Deadline week.”  Polite. Final. I nodded, went back to my cabin, and stared at PPT till the images blurred.  But I kept talking to her. Couldn’t help it. Weather, traffic, Hardik’s injury, best vada pav in Chembur. She’d answer, always a little careful, like she was editing herself in real time.  I never asked again. Too scared. I’d been in love before. This wasn’t that. This was… nervous. Like the first time you hold a test score that decides everything.  Then Tuesday, 14th  December. 6:47 PM. She appears at my cubicle.

“Arjun. Are you still willing to go for that coffee?”  The BKC café was loud. Indigo Music. We had to lean in to hear. Her perfume was something light, like jasmine. We talked. God, we talked. GST, Oppenheimer, Article 16, whether the Mumbai Indians should retain Rohit. My knee brushed hers under the table, and neither of us moved.  It was easy. Surreal. Like we’d been doing this for years. I was already planning weekend two, weekend three.  At 9:15, her Uber arrived. We stood outside, Bandra wind messing her hair.  She fixed her kurta sleeve, casual as if she was commenting on the traffic. “I owe you this coffee. I liked you the day I saw you. I love it when you stand near my desk and say good morning.”  I started smiling. Stupid, wide, boy-who-got-the-girl smiling.  “But today was my last day in this office.” She looked up at me. “Yes. I put in my papers. Tomorrow, I fly to the States. My husband’s working there.”  The street went silent. Or maybe my ears did.  Her Uber driver honked. She touched my arm once. “Bye, Arjun. Take care.”  Door closed. Tail lights merged into the Western Express Highway traffic. 

I stood there with two empty coffee cups in a cardboard tray, BKC gleaming behind me, and thought: Can I delete this evening from my life?  Then: Do I want to?  Because deep down, under the spinning head and the cliché heartbreak, I knew.  I’d keep this evening. White kurta. Silver saree. The way she said my name.  For the rest of my life.