Five More Minutes

 6:15 AM

The alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but my eyes opened anyway. Somewhere in the last few months, my body had learned to wake before the beeping—before the first streaks of sun stretched through the barred windows.

I slid out of bed, the tiles cool under my feet. The house held its breath in that fragile hour between night and morning. Then, the rituals began: the creak of the window latch, the rustle of sparrows in the gulmohar outside, the fridge door groaning as I pulled out the milk. The kitchen smelled of yesterday’s ginger and the faint metallic tang of the gas knob turning.

Click-click-click—whoosh. The blue flame trembled, then steadied.

7:00 AM

“Utho, saat baj gaye.” My voice was soft but deliberate, the way you speak to someone you know won’t listen. I yanked the curtains open. Light flooded the room, catching the dust motes swirling over the bed.

A grumble. The blanket shifted, revealing a tangle of hair and one squinting eye. “Hmm… bas paanch minute.”

I hovered, arms crossed. “Chai bana raha hoon. Finish before I do.”

Silence. Then a slow, deliberate burrow back under the covers.

The Kitchen 

The kettle hissed its first whispers of steam. I measured the tea leaves by muscle memory—one heaped spoon for bitterness, a pinch more because she’d frown otherwise (“Weak chai is just garam pani, Pratap”). The water darkened like monsoonal clouds. Nearby, milk swelled in the saucepan, bubbles puckering at the edges. I stabbed a spoon through them just before they breached, the smell of cream thickening the air.

Outside, a bicycle bell ting-tonged down the lane. The paperwalla’s call followed: “Times of India!” I tuned it out, straining the tea into cups, watching the liquid twist into amber. Three sugars. A stir. The clink of the spoon against ceramic echoed in the quiet.

One in my left hand, one in my right.

I reached the bedroom, hands occupied. The door was closed.

Great.

A small pause, then a calculated push with my bum. Nothing. Another push, firmer this time. The door creaked open slightly. Just enough to slip in.

She was still curled up, the blanket half-off, one hand tucked under her cheek. The morning light caught the curve of her shoulder, the loose strands of hair sticking to her neck. The fan spun lazily above, casting slow-moving shadows over the sheets.

“Utho, chai ready hai.”

A muffled hum. Then, softer, “Bas paanch aur minute.”

I sighed, placing the cup on the bedside table. “Roz yahi hota hai.”

She didn’t move. Just a faint shift under the blanket, like she was burrowing deeper. I sat on the edge of the bed, sipping my tea, letting the warmth settle into my chest. She was close enough that I could hear her slow breathing, feel the faint warmth radiating from her body.

Then, without warning, she reached out and grabbed my wrist, fingers curling around it, warm against my skin. A lazy, half-conscious grip, like she was making sure I wouldn’t leave.

"Subohi," I murmured, tugging lightly. She held on.

I tried again, leaning slightly toward her, but she moved faster—her arm slid around my waist, pulling me down into the sheets. The sudden pull caught me off guard, the mattress dipping under my weight as I landed against her.

“Careful—chai gir jaayegi,” I warned, quickly setting my cup on the side table.

She didn’t respond, just pressed her face against my shoulder, her breath warm against my shirt. One leg lazily draped over mine, the blanket tangled between us. The kind of half-conscious affection that needed no words, no effort.

“Mujhe jaana hai,” I muttered, but my voice had already softened.

She moved slightly, shifting just enough to brush her nose against my neck. Not even fully awake, but knowing exactly what she was doing.

I exhaled, shaking my head. “Tum ye jaan ke karti ho na?”

A slow smile against my skin. Then, her voice, thick with sleep—“Karti hoon toh?”

I let out a small laugh, my fingers instinctively finding the curve of her waist under the blanket. Her t-shirt had ridden up slightly, just enough for my fingertips to find warm skin. She shivered, but didn’t move away.

"Subohi," I warned, but it came out softer than intended.

She responded by tightening her hold, burying herself further into me. My hand rested on her back now, tracing lazy circles over the fabric of her shirt. Her heartbeat was slow, steady, matching the rhythm of her breath against my collarbone.

I sighed, defeated. "Theek hai," I murmured, letting my body sink into the mattress. "Bas paanch aur minute."

She smiled, satisfied, her fingers curling lightly at the nape of my neck.

And just like that, the morning could wait. Outside, the scooter engines sputtered to life, the newspaper thudded on doorsteps, and the city stretched itself awake—but here, under the weight of her arm and the slow spin of the fan, we stole five more minutes.

5 Minutes (Anecdote)

"Aur kitna time lagaogi, Shreemati?"

Main darwaze ke paas khada tha, ghar ke andar se uski awaaz aane ka intezaar karta hua. Aaj mere ek colleague ki shaadi thi—lake ke paas venue tha, toh socha tha social relations bhi ho jayenge aur saath hi ek chhoti si date bhi. Kaafi time ho gaya tha kahin saath jaane ka. Shruti apni job mein busy thi, main apni. Dono hi samajhdar thay, warna aaj ke time mein rishte tootne ke liye itna hi kaafi hota hai. Par ham aise pal chura lete thay, ek dusre ke liye. Aaj bhi waisa hi ek pal tha.

"Haan aayi, bas 5 minute," uski awaaz bedroom se aayi.

Maine dheere se kaha, "Pakka phir se sheeshe mein khud ko nihar rahi hogi."

Main punctual type ka insaan tha. Invitation pe 9 likha ho toh 8:55 pe wahan hona mere liye life and death ka farak tha. Aur Shruti—har baar late hone wali. Taiyaar hone mein time lagta hai, toh thoda jaldi shuru kiya karo—simple logic hai. Par samjhaane se better tha accept kar lena ki ye kabhi badalne waali nahi hai.

Sochte-sochte, main bedroom ke darwaze tak gaya. "Shruti, kisi aur ki shaadi hai. Tum kyun itna saj rahi ho?"

"Arey, no makeup baba. Aao check kar lo. Aur haan, help karna back zip ke saath," uski awaaz aayi.

Main andar gaya. Sheeshe ke samne, jaise hamesha hoti hai. Ek haath mein lipstick, doosre se dress ka zip pakde huye. "Tum toh keh rahi thi no makeup?"

Bina use dekhe hi, maine dress ka zip upar kar diya. Uske paas khade hote hi ek alag si garmi mehsoos hui—jaise uski maaujoodgi ki ek apni hi shanti ho. Lipstick lagane ka uska tareeqa hamesha same hota tha—ek baar mirror mein dekhna, ek chhoti si smile, phir lipstick ka cap bandh karna. Aaj bhi waisa hi tha. Bas, aaj uska green dress meri green khadi kurte se match kar raha tha.

"Kaisi lag rahi hoon?"

Maine dekha nahi ab tak. Shruti mere saamne mud gayi. "Hello?" Usne ungliyon ke snap se dhyan wapas bulaya. "Main kuch puch rahi hoon, Pratap."

Meri nazar uspar tik gayi. Kuch pal tak kuch kehna ya sochna zaroori nahi laga. Bas dekhna hi kaafi tha. "Stunning." Lafz nikalne mein bhi der lag gayi. "Waqt ruk jaaye bas utna hi."

Shruti hansi. "Shrimaan, chalna nahi hai? Late ho jayenge."

Main ab bhi wahi khada tha. "Bas 5 minute," maine kaha.

Woh mere paas aayi, aur ek halki si hansi ke saath gaal par ek chhoti si lipstick ki laal chhapaak chhod gayi. "Bas bas, ab chalo," usne haste huye kaha.

Main bas uske paas se hatna nahi chahta tha. Haathon se uski kamar thaami aur bina kisi warning ke use utha liya. Woh hansi, par resist nahi kiya. Main use darwaze tak le aaya. "Ek aur please?" Maine doosra gaal aage kar diya.

Woh phir se hansi. "Tum kabhi nahi sudhroge, Pratap." Aur ek aur kiss. Ek aur laal nishaan.

Maine cheekh se laali halka sa smudge kiya. Usne dekha, phir ek aur kiss diya. "Is side laali thodi kam thi."

Yeh laali lipstick ki thi ya blush ki, fark karna mushkil tha.

Main ne darwaza khola. Woh gaadi mein baith gayi. Engine start kiya, par gaadi chalane se pehle ek baar use dekha.

"Chalo ab," usne kaha.

Maine uska haath thaam liya. "Bas 5 aur minute."

Woh muskurai, par kuch nahi boli. Bas haath pakde rahi.

---

x

"How much more time, Shreemati?"

I stood near the door, waiting to hear her voice from inside. One of my colleagues was getting married today—by the lake, a beautiful venue. We thought we’d go, strengthen social ties, and steal a little date for ourselves. It had been a while since we went out together. Shruti was caught up in her job, and I was in mine. We both understood this phase, but in today’s time, even this much distance is enough to break relationships. That’s why we made sure to steal moments like these, just for us.

"Just five minutes," her voice echoed from the bedroom.

I muttered under my breath, "She’s probably admiring herself in the mirror again."

I was the punctual one. If the invitation said 9 PM, being there at 8:55 felt like a life-or-death difference. And Shruti—always late. If getting ready takes time, why not start a little earlier? Simple logic. But instead of arguing, I had accepted that this was never going to change.

Lost in thought, I walked to the bedroom door. "Shruti, it’s someone else’s wedding. Why are you dressing up so much?"

"Oh please, no makeup! Come inside and check. Also, help me with this back zip," she called out.

I stepped in. As always, she stood before the mirror, one hand holding her lipstick, the other gripping the zip of her dress. "Didn’t you say no makeup?"

Without even looking at her properly, I zipped up her dress. The moment I stepped closer, I felt it—that familiar warmth, the quiet presence of someone who belongs to you in a way that words don’t fully capture. Her way of applying lipstick was always the same—one glance in the mirror, a small smile, closing the cap with a soft click. Today was no different. Except her green dress matched my green khadi kurta.

"How do I look?"

I hadn’t really seen her yet. Shruti turned toward me.

"Hello?" She snapped her fingers. "I asked you something, Pratap."

My eyes finally settled on her. For a few seconds, there was nothing to say, nothing to think. Just to look. "Stunning." The word came out slower than I expected. "Like time should just stop."

She smiled. "Shrimaan, are we leaving or not? We’re getting late."

I was still standing there, unwilling to move. "Just five more minutes."

She came closer, smiling softly, and pressed a kiss to my cheek, leaving behind a red mark. "Okay, enough. Let’s go now," she said, laughing lightly.

I wasn’t done yet. Holding her by the waist, I lifted her up without warning. She laughed but didn’t resist. I carried her to the door. "One more, please?" I tilted my other cheek toward her.

She laughed again. "You’ll never change, Pratap." And then, another kiss. Another red imprint.

I smudged the mark slightly with my fingers. She noticed, then leaned in and kissed me again. "This side needed a little more color."

I couldn’t tell if the warmth on my face was from her lipstick or the feeling she left behind.

I opened the door. She sat inside the car. I started the engine, but before driving off, I looked at her once again.

"Let’s go now," she said.

I held her hand. "Just five more minutes."

She smiled but said nothing. Just held my hand a little tighter.

Petrichor.

It was never much to look at. Just a weary bus stop — two fractured seats, a battered tin roof surrendering to rust, and a flickering tube light that fought the dusk more out of habit than purpose.

She disliked it, always did.

But somehow, we always ended up there. Six o’clock sharp. No calls. No confirmations. It was understood.

That evening, the rain arrived early. I was already leaning against the pole when she appeared — half-drenched, breathless, clutching her canvas bag like it might dissolve if it soaked through.

She looked annoyed, of course, but when her eyes met mine, she let out that small, reluctant laugh. The kind that slipped out despite herself. The kind that, without fail, made the whole world feel less heavy — if only for a moment.

“You’ll fall sick,” she said, flicking strands of wet hair from her face.

“You’re late,” I replied, even though she wasn’t.

Neither of us meant what we said. We never did. It was never about the words.

We sat there, saying little, watching the buses come and go as if we were passengers of a different kind — ones with nowhere to be, no timetables to follow.

The petrichor was strong that day — sharp, earthy, mingling with the scent of wet iron from the rusted roof. She shifted uncomfortably, pulling her kurta tighter, as if she could will herself away from the dampness.

Her fingers played with the strap of her bag. I noticed. I always noticed. It was her tell — whenever something sat on the tip of her tongue, she’d fidget with that worn-out strap.

And then, without warning, she said it.

“I won’t come tomorrow.”

No buildup. No faltering voice. Just that. Simple.

Like she was informing me about the weather.

I sat there, blinking, the words hanging between us, carried softly by the drizzle. I didn’t argue. Didn’t ask why. I just... sat.

Eventually, a bus rolled in. She stood, adjusted her bag, and left.

I stayed long after the rain quieted, watching the water creep along the cracked pavement, watching people board and leave like it was just another day.

And now, years later, whenever it rains, I still pass by.

Sometimes I stop. Sometimes I sit.

And every time, without fail — I hear her voice again.

“You’ll fall sick.”

And I smile. Not because it doesn’t hurt.

But because I don’t want it to stop.

A Love That Never Was

I told her.

And she smiled—not with joy, not with pity, just with understanding. A quiet acknowledgment, as if she had always known but was waiting for me to say it.

She didn’t love me. But she didn’t run from it either.

She let my feelings exist. That was all I had wanted then.

But now they tell me—forget and move on.

Forget?

What exactly should I erase?

The moments that never unfolded but lived in the spaces between my thoughts? The glimpses of a life where she turned toward me instead of away, where my name carried weight on her lips?

Do I unwrite the stories I built in my mind—where evening light framed her like something out of a dream, where laughter felt like a melody composed just for me?

Should I abandon the unspoken understanding I imagined we shared? That fleeting second when our eyes met, when I let myself believe she saw me the way I saw her?

Erase the warmth I never felt, yet somehow memorized? The way I thought she might fit against my shoulder, the way I wished her presence lingered long after she left?

Forget the softness in her voice when she said my name? Not with love, not with longing, but with familiarity—the kind that was enough to keep me hoping, and cruel enough to never mean anything more?

Yet here I stand.

Caught between letting go and holding on to the echoes of something that was never mine.

But you know what? It doesn’t hurt the way they think it should.

It’s not a wound. It’s not something I want to rip out of my chest and throw away. It’s not the kind of sadness that breaks—it’s the kind that lingers, like the last note of an old song, fading but never quite gone.

We can destroy a house built on land. Tear it down, brick by brick, until nothing remains. But this—this was never built on land.

This was built in my heart.

And you don’t burn down something that beautiful, even if it was never real. You let it stay. You let it live, like a quiet warmth on a winter morning, like a whisper carried by the wind.

And someday, when I think of her again, I won’t flinch.

I’ll smile, a small, knowing smile—a secret between my heart and me. A testament to a love that lived, if only in the quiet chambers of my soul.

'Good Night, Pratap'

The café wasn’t anything special. That’s why I chose it. A mid-tier chain, neither too loud nor too quiet, with just the right mix of background noise to put the boAt Nirvana Ion ANC Pro to the test. The company claimed an industry-leading 32dB active noise cancellation, and I had to see if it actually held up in a real-world environment.

I placed my laptop on the wooden table, the surface slightly sticky from a previous customer’s spilled sugar packet. The overhead lights were warm, casting a soft glow over the space. People talked in small clusters, the clatter of cups and cutlery forming a dull rhythm under their voices. Near the counter, the espresso machine let out a sharp hiss as a barista pulled a shot.

Perfect.

I pulled out the boAt Nirvana Ion ANC Pro case, flipping it open with a satisfying click. The earbuds nestled inside, matte black with a subtle blue ring around the edges. Lightweight. Sleek. I popped them into my ears, twisting slightly until they fit snugly.

A long press activated ANC mode.

The café softened instantly. Conversations blurred, the hum of the espresso machine dulled. Not complete silence, but close. A cocoon of focus.

I made a mental note—effective noise reduction, but not total isolation. Feels natural.

The manual lay open beside me. I skimmed through the controls. Three taps: Beast Mode. I tried it, feeling the bass intensify slightly, making the ambient music in the café sound richer, deeper.

Two taps: Next track. The playlist shifted.

I wasn’t really listening, just running through the features, checking for lag, clarity, responsiveness.

One tap: Play/Pause.

I tapped once.

"Good night, Pratap."

The voice slipped in so naturally that for a second, I thought it was part of the music. But it wasn’t. It was her.

My chest tightened. The noise cancellation didn’t block this out. Nothing could.

The café faded—not in sound, but in significance. The world outside the voice ceased to matter.

"Good night, Pratap."

I had forgotten it was still there. Buried somewhere in my library, tucked between old recordings, untouched for months. But now, it played. Unbidden. Unavoidable.

The cursor blinked on my laptop screen, waiting for me to type something about the earbuds. But my hands didn’t move.

Memories began to unspool, slow and deliberate, unearthing themselves from the quiet corners where I had left them.

And just like that, I was no longer in a café. I was somewhere else, in some other time, with someone who was no longer mine.

"One last thing."

She had said it softly, sitting across from me, her hands curled around a paper cup that had long since gone cold.

I looked up, the weight of unspoken words pressing into the space between us. There was nothing left to say. We had said it all—again and again—until the reasons blurred, until exhaustion settled in, until we both knew that whatever this was, it was ending.

Still, I managed to ask, "What?"

"A parting gift," she said, tilting her head slightly, as if testing the words before she spoke them aloud.

I watched as she reached for her phone, fingers moving with quiet certainty. A few taps, a slight pause. Then, she looked at me, waiting.

"Say it," I murmured.

She smiled—not the bright, effortless one that used to light up rooms, but a softer, tired version of it. A smile that knew things had run their course.

And then, she spoke.

"Good night, Pratap."

Simple. Familiar. The way she had said it every night before we slept, as if it was the last thread holding our days together.

I nodded, swallowing against the sudden ache in my throat.

She pressed a button. The recording saved.

That was it.

There were no grand declarations, no desperate attempts to hold on. Just this—two people sitting across from each other, accepting the inevitable, choosing to leave with something small but meaningful.

A voice note. A habit, preserved in sound.

"Good night, Pratap."

The words faded, but their weight didn’t.

My fingers hovered over the earbuds. A single tap would stop it.

But I didn’t move.

I just sat there, coffee growing cold, the café around me reduced to nothing but distant shapes and muffled noise.

I had listened to that voice note every night for months after we parted. It was never about missing her—at least, that’s what I had told myself. It was about continuity, about easing the transition from what was to what is. A way to keep the loneliness at bay.

And then, one night, I simply didn’t play it.

I had moved on. I had learned to sleep without it. I had even forgotten it was still there.

Until now.

I took a slow breath, the scent of coffee grounding me, the weight of memory settling in my chest.

The earbuds worked. The noise cancellation was flawless.

But some things couldn’t be silenced.

Not by technology. Not by time.

And certainly not by a single tap.

I had forgotten how soft her voice was.

Not the way it sounded, but the way it felt—like the final flicker of a candle before the wick gives out, warm and fleeting, leaving behind the faintest trace of its glow.

"Good night, Pratap."

I exhaled slowly, pressing my thumb against the edge of the laptop, grounding myself in the present. I had moved on. I had buried the past in the quiet spaces of my life where it couldn’t reach me. But now, without warning, it had unfolded before me again—soft, familiar, unchanged.

The café was still here, the low hum of voices seeping through the imperfect seal of the earbuds. My coffee was still untouched, the steam curling into nothing. My assignment was still open, cursor blinking, waiting for words that suddenly felt impossible to write.

I should’ve stopped the recording. Deleted it, maybe.

But I didn’t.

Because for all the months I had trained myself to live without that voice, in this moment, I wanted to hear it. I wanted to feel what I had forced myself to forget.

It wasn’t pain that settled in my chest—it was something quieter, something heavier. The kind of weight that doesn’t break you, just lingers.

I had loved her. And maybe, in some corner of my heart untouched by time, I still did. Not in the way that aches for return, not in the way that wishes for different endings. Just in the way that remembers.

There’s something cruel about nostalgia. It arrives uninvited, slipping in through the smallest cracks, whispering, Look how beautiful it was. And for a moment, you forget why you ever let go.

"Good night, Pratap."

I closed my eyes. Let it wash over me. Let it settle.

Then, finally, I reached up and tapped once.

The silence that followed was different from before. Not the kind manufactured by technology, not the kind that the boAt ANC Pro promised with their 32dB Active Noise Cancellation.

This silence was real. This silence was mine.

I opened my laptop. Fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Then, I started to type.

Because life moves forward. And some memories, no matter how deeply etched, are meant to be left in the past.

Even the beautiful ones.