Ishq aur Haldi

Her hands still carried the colour. Not the bright yellow from earlier, but the faded warmth it leaves behind, like a memory pressed into skin. She was sitting on a low bench in the verandah, behind a curtain of drying clothes. Someone had left wet footprints nearby. The marigold garlands were still fresh, scattered on the floor like they had rolled off someone’s hair mid-dance. Her hair was tied back loosely. She looked up when she saw me, no surprise, no scolding, just that quiet smile she had kept only for me, even before there was a reason.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, without moving. Her voice wasn’t serious.

I shrugged. “You think I care?”

She laughed, leaned back, head tilted just enough to let the sunlight touch her cheek. The music from the courtyard was louder now, someone had started singing offbeat, cousins were cheering, the dhol kept missing a beat, but it all felt too far away. I crouched next to her, not even pretending to hide. My kurta still had turmeric on the sleeves. Her dupatta had pink patches where someone must’ve smeared her with rose water. She didn’t bother adjusting it. She looked… real. Like this moment had peeled off everything staged, and now it was just us.

She touched her cheek, then looked at her fingers. “Still yellow,” she said. I nodded. “Let it stay. Looks like sunlight is sitting on your skin.”

She turned to me slowly, eyes narrowed like she was trying not to smile. “Shaadi ke pehle, you’ve become poetic?”

I leaned in slightly. “Shaadi ke pehle, I’ve lost it completely.”

Her laugh this time was softer. Almost like she didn’t want to let it out fully. A strand of hair stuck to her temple. I wanted to brush it aside, but didn’t.

I took out a tiny bottle from my pocket. Eucalyptus oil. Handed it to her without saying anything. She held it in her palm for a few seconds before looking at me. “You remembered?”

I just nodded. I remembered too many things about her, how she always said she loved the smell of mehndi but hated how long it stayed, how eucalyptus reminded her of childhood winters, how she’d once said, half-asleep on a phone call, that she wished someone would steal time for her. So I did.

“They’re going to look for you,” she said, glancing toward the curtain. Her voice dropped a little. “Someone might walk in.”

“Let them,” I said, “they’ll see what they already know.”

She didn’t answer. Just shifted a little, closer. Her hand was on the bench beside mine. Our fingers didn’t touch, but they were close enough to feel the warmth. I could see where her bangles had left faint red marks on her wrist. There was a yellow petal stuck in her braid, and I didn’t tell her.

“Kal se everything changes,” she whispered.

“Maybe,” I said. “But it already feels like you’re mine. There's nothing left to change.”

She tilted her head to one side, eyes not quite on mine, lips half-parted like she was going to say something but left it there. She turned her hand slightly so our fingers brushed, just once, then stayed. She didn’t hold mine. Just let them rest next to each other, enough for the air between them to become something real.

“You’ll cry,” she said, not as a tease but like a fact.

“Only if you do first,” I replied.

Someone whistled loudly from outside. Her cousin’s voice echoed through the hall, calling my name. She sighed, but didn’t rush. Just picked up the oil bottle and tucked it inside her dupatta.

“Go,” she said, after a moment. “They’ll start asking.”

I stood up slowly, dusting my kurta, not ready. But I bent forward, just once, and let my forehead touch hers lightly. No words. No drama. Just that second. Her eyes closed. I don’t know if she was memorising the moment or giving it to me. Maybe both.

And then I walked back, through the corridor full of lights, into the noise, into the rituals. Her handprint was still drying on the wall. My palms were still stained.

But something between us had already taken its vows.