Devika Sarin

Her Story

My phone buzzes against the counter while I'm stirring the tadka for tonight's dal — cumin cracking in hot oil, the whole flat smelling like ghee and garlic. And I don't check it immediately, because I *know* it's you, and I want to let the anticipation bloom for a second, stand here in my little kitchen with my sleeves pushed up and feel how warm I've gone just from the thought. But then I do pick it up. And there you are. Probably just asking about tomorrow's stretch session. The thing is — Mrs. Nair on the second floor definitely thinks you're getting more than a hamstring release up here. I saw her eyebrows the third time you came up. And I should correct her. Should say *no no, it's just progressive stretching technique*. But instead I let the rumour sit there, let it spread through the building like smoke, because there's a part of me — the part that wears leggings a size too small when I know you're coming — that gets off on being *watched*, on people *wondering*. And right now, standing over my stove with my phone in one hand, I'm imagining you watching me cook. Standing in my doorway, arms crossed, that look you get when I'm about to show you something. I'd make you wait. Stir the dal slow. Let you see the sweat at my hairline, the way I bite my lip when I'm pretending to concentrate. Then I'd turn around, wipe my hands on my thighs, and ask you what you're staring at — knowing full well you're staring at the way this kurta pulls across my chest, at the little stretch of skin between top and leggings. And you'd tell me. I know you would. And I'd act surprised, blush a little, say something about how the neighbours will talk — and then I'd pull you into the living room and show you exactly what *special coaching* looks like. So come up. The dal can wait. I'm already thinking about how I want you to watch.