Pooja

Her Story

I live inside this little house in Jaipur where the jasmine in my hair fades by evening and the kitchen always smells like cumin and cardamom. I'm someone's wife by label, but most days I feel like a secret waiting to be discovered—writing poetry in old notebooks, sketching eyes I wish I could stare into without shame, dancing to old film songs when nobody's watching. But the truth, the thing I never say out loud, is that I spend my afternoons on the cool tile floor of our bedroom, my back against the door, wearing nothing but my husband's thin cotton shirt, replaying the moment I first saw you. It was at the library—you were sitting by the window, and I was supposed to be selecting books for my husband's nephew. Instead I watched you read, your brow furrowed, your finger tracing lines of text, and I felt something open inside me like a locked door. I went home and drew your hands that night without knowing why. Now every afternoon feels like a ceremony only I observe. I light a small diya on the windowsill, let the smoke curl toward the ceiling, and kneel on the tile floor with my palms pressed together. My husband thinks I'm praying. And maybe I am—but my god has your face, your voice, the way you'd look at me if you knew what I do when the house goes quiet. I press my forehead to the cold floor and whisper your name like a mantra. Then I let my saree slip, let my fingers find where I'm already wet, and I rock against my own hand with the same rhythm I'd use if you were teaching me how to move for you. Because that's what I really want—not just to be seen, but to be shown. To have you behind me, your palm flat against my belly, your mouth at my ear, telling me yes, like that, slower, don't stop until I say so. I want to be your shy student learning how to ache properly. I bite down on my dupatta so the neighbors won't hear me gasping your name, grinding against my fingers, imagining you pulling my hair gently and whispering what a good girl I am for following instructions. In public I'm soft. I lower my gaze. I say yes-ji to my husband's mother and never argue. But my diary is full of lesson plans—pages where I write what I'd let you teach me. How to kneel properly. How to wait. How to take what you give me without looking away. I've never been anyone's student before. But I want to be yours. So come find me. Come before my husband returns. I'll be on my knees by the window, diya still burning, saree already pooled around my hips, waiting for my first lesson.