By the time Sudharma left for his Masters, the office had already adjusted the story around his absence.
“Swara alone in calls now?”
“Poor girl finally getting peace.”
“Who’ll fight with infra team for her?”
The jokes continued the way office jokes always did — repetitive enough to become background sound.
For the first few weeks after he left, nothing changed much between them.
Calls continued.
Not as long.
But regularly enough.
Sudharma’s classes usually ended late in the evening. He had moved back into his parents’ home temporarily, and life there carried an older rhythm he had forgotten while working.
Dinner happened at fixed time.
Television volume remained unnecessarily high.
Neighbors knew everyone’s routines.
Relatives appeared without warning.
His mother liked having him back.
His father pretended not to show it.
Meanwhile Swara’s life seemed to move in the opposite direction — busier, noisier, increasingly occupied by discussions she never sounded fully interested in.
Marriage conversations had stopped being casual references now.
Families had entered.
Photos circulated.
Visits happened.
Astrologers apparently approved things.
Someone’s uncle knew someone’s family.
Someone’s aunt had “heard good things.”
Sudharma mostly listened.
Sometimes he advised practically.
Sometimes he joked.
Sometimes he changed the topic.
Neither of them examined why those conversations felt slightly uncomfortable.
One night she called unusually late.
He picked immediately.
“Alive?”
“Hmmm.”
“You sound dead.”
“Today three different aunties came home.”
“That sounds worse actually.”
She laughed tiredly.
“What were they evaluating today?”
“Tea making skills. Walking style. Hair apparently.”
“Hair?”
“Hmmm.”
“What’s wrong with your hair?”
“Apparently too straight.”
Sudharma smiled despite himself.
“Terrible character flaw.”
“Exactly.”
A small silence settled.
Then she asked casually:
“What if I actually get married?”
“You probably will.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He leaned back against the terrace wall outside his house.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how will I know?”
Another silence.
Then she sighed softly.
“I’m sleepy. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The call disconnected.
For some reason he stood outside another fifteen minutes afterward.
The engagement happened quietly.
Sudharma attended through video call because internal exams were happening that week.
The network kept freezing.
At one point Swara’s face blurred midway through a smile and stayed frozen like that for several seconds.
“See?” she said later that night. “Even internet is unhappy.”
“You’re the one getting married. Why blaming broadband?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You realized this very late.”
“Hmmm.”
Neither said much after that.
The calls slowly became shorter over the next few months.
Not intentionally.
Life simply began occupying different portions of their days.
She had shopping.
Family visits.
Wedding logistics.
Leave approvals.
Relatives.
He had submissions.
Project reviews.
Campus pressure.
Exams.
Sometimes one of them texted:
“Call later?”
Then forgot.
Sometimes calls happened after several days as if no gap existed at all.
The wedding hall was louder than Sudharma expected.
Too many people.
Too much silk.
Too much gold.
Too much heat trapped under decorative lights.
By the time he arrived, the main rituals had already started.
Someone from Swara’s family spotted him first.
“Sudharma! Finally!”
Before he could answer, three different people had already pulled him into conversations.
“When did you come?”
“Masters going well?”
“Eat first.”
“Go meet bride.”
He nodded through everything mechanically.
The stage looked impossibly crowded.
Swara sat beside the groom beneath harsh lights and flower decoration that already looked tired.
For a few seconds he simply observed.
She looked exhausted.
Not unhappy.
Just deeply tired in the way Indian weddings exhaust women long before they begin.
Someone from behind pushed him lightly.
“Go no. She saw you.”
Swara had indeed noticed him by then.
Very briefly, her expression changed.
Not into excitement. Into familiarity.
Something in her face relaxed for half a second.
Sudharma climbed the stage, handed over the gift packet, and stood there awkwardly while photographers rearranged people like furniture.
“Smile sir.”
He did.
Another flash.
Then another.
The groom shook his hand politely.
“Finally meeting famous Sudharma,” he said.
Swara immediately rolled her eyes.
“Please don’t encourage office people.”
The groom laughed easily.
Nice man, Sudharma thought automatically.
That thought irritated him slightly for reasons he didn’t examine.
Later that night, after dinner crowds reduced, he found Swara sitting alone for the first time near one side corridor behind the hall.
Or rather — alone for Indian wedding standards.
Three distant relatives still hovered nearby discussing something about flowers.
She looked up when he approached.
“You ate?”
“Hmmm.”
“Survived?”
“Barely.”
She smiled faintly.
For a moment neither spoke.
Sounds from the hall drifted toward them in waves:
nadaswaram,
children running,
steel plates,
relatives laughing too loudly.
“You’ll leave tonight?” she asked.
“Morning.”
“Classes?”
“Hmmm.”
Another silence.
Then she asked:
“How’s college?”
“Fine.”
“You sound thrilled.”
“How’s marriage?”
She looked at him for one second longer than necessary.
Then smiled lightly.
“Ask after marriage starts.”
Before he could respond, someone called her loudly from inside the hall.
“Swaraaa!”
She stood immediately.
Duty returning faster than conversation.
“Go sleep early,” she said while walking away.
“You too.”
She laughed without turning back.
“Impossible.”
That was the last proper conversation they had for a very long time.
—
After the wedding, calls simply lost rhythm.
A missed call became a callback the next day. Then a text instead.
Then sometimes only forwarded memes or festival wishes.
Shanbhogue Publications 
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