It felt like an eternity—maybe five minutes in reality—but time stretched as we sat there, amazed, excited, our bodies reacting in ways we didn’t fully understand yet. The arousal from the video mingled with this real-life vision, amplifying everything. She finally noticed our silence, tilting her head with a small laugh. “You boys look like you’ve seen a ghost! Alright, I’ll get dressed and bring up some cold nimbu pani. Don’t play on that computer all day—go outside later, okay?”
With that, she retreated back into the bathroom, the door clicking shut. The spell broke. We exhaled collectively, glancing at each other with wide eyes. Pawan whispered first: “Holy shit, bro…” Himashu nodded, adjusting his shorts again. “She’s… I mean… wow.” I felt a surge of protectiveness mixed with my own thrill, but I said nothing. We all wanted to talk about it—dissect every curve, every glimpse, relive the shock and the secret thrill—but we didn’t. Not then, not ever. It was too taboo, too close to home. Instead, we restarted the computer, pretended to game, but our minds were elsewhere.
She emerged minutes later, fully changed into a simple house saree—blue cotton, modest and dry—her hair tied in a bun, carrying a tray of chilled lemonade. “Here you go, betas. Drink up—it’s hot today.” We thanked her profusely, avoiding eye contact, and she left for the ground floor, her footsteps fading down the stairs.
That moment became a silent pact, buried deep. We never discussed it, but it changed something—added a layer to our friendship, a shared secret that bonded us tighter while planting seeds of unspoken desire. And now, years later, in the back of this car en route to a wedding, that seed was sprouting again, triggered by a simple dhaba stop.
The venue lights loomed ahead, pulling me back to the present. But the past lingered, heavy and hot, as we parked and joined the festivities. How long could we ignore it?
We finally pulled into the parking area outside the dharmshala, the car’s headlights sweeping across rows of decorated vehicles already crammed together like a glittering metal jungle. It was well past the scheduled arrival time—blame the damn puncture—but the night air hit us like a cool balm after the stuffy highway drive. This wasn’t some upscale banquet hall in Pune’s city center; it was a proper village dharmshala on the outskirts of Pimpri-Chinchwad, surrounded by open fields and clusters of modest homes. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil from a recent drizzle, mixed with woodsmoke from nearby chulhas and the faint sweetness of jasmine garlands. Strings of fairy lights draped across the entrance and along the boundary walls twinkled like stars brought down to earth, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. Fireworks cracked sporadically in the distance, and the muffled thump of dhol drums told us the baraat welcome had already been grand—dancing, flower showers, the bride’s family greeting Manoj with aartis and tilak. We’d missed the peak chaos, arriving fashionably (or unfashionably) late.