The drive back from Harish’s villa happened in near silence.
Just two people carefully avoiding the one conversation sitting between them.
Swara drove.
Sudharma sat beside her watching early morning traffic slowly increase as the city returned to routine.
Tea stalls reopening.
Milk packets hanging outside shops.
Newspapers thrown across gates.
The ordinary morning irritated him slightly.
Something significant had happened the previous night.
The world should at least acknowledge it a little.
Instead Bengaluru moved ahead exactly as usual.
At one signal, Swara finally spoke.
“You remember anything?”
Sudharma turned toward her immediately.
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.”
“You?”
“I was there only re.”
That almost made him smile.
Another few minutes passed before he asked quietly:
“Are you angry?”
Swara thought for a moment.
“No.”
That surprised him more than anger would have.
“Then?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Office on Monday felt absurdly normal.
People discussed weekend traffic.
Managers discussed numbers.
Someone complained about cafeteria chutney as though civilization depended on it.
Sudharma half-expected awkwardness the moment he saw Swara.
Instead she walked into his bay around eleven-thirty holding a coffee cup and asked:
“You sent that report?”
He blinked once.
“Which report?”
“The one you promised Friday before becoming emotionally unstable.”
He stared at her for two seconds.
Then laughed despite himself.
“Hmmm. So we’re pretending nothing happened?”
Swara took a sip calmly.
“I didn’t say nothing happened.”
“Then?”
“I said send report first.”
And just like that, tension loosened slightly.
That became their rhythm over the next few days.
Normal conversation.
Normal meetings.
Normal tea breaks.
And underneath all of it:
one unopened emotional door.
The calls resumed by Tuesday night.
Around ten-thirty, Sudharma saw her name flash on screen.
For one second he considered not answering immediately.
Then picked up.
“Hello.”
“What hello.”
“What now?”
“You mailed wrong attachment to client.”
He closed his eyes.
“Swara…”
“I corrected and sent. Welcome.”
“You called at ten-thirty for this?”
“Hmmm.”
Silence.
Then both laughed lightly at the same time.
Something softened after that.
Conversation drifted naturally again.
Office.
Traffic.
One ridiculous meeting.
Vinay apparently still recovering from hangover.
Neither mentioned the balcony.
Until suddenly Swara did.
“Sudharma.”
“Hmmm?”
“That night…”
His grip tightened unconsciously around the phone.
“What?”
Long pause.
Then quietly:
“Was it sympathy?”
The question landed heavier than accusation would have.
Because he understood immediately why she asked it.
Illness.
Divorce.
Loneliness.
Reconnection.
From outside, even he could see how easily the situation could be misunderstood.
“No,” he said immediately.
Swara didn’t respond.
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Sudharma walked slowly toward the balcony outside his room.
The house had already gone silent for the night.
How exactly was he supposed to answer that honestly?
The truth itself felt less organized than that.
“I don’t know when it became this,” he admitted finally.
Swara remained quiet.
“But when Maccha called that day…” he continued slowly, “…for few hours I genuinely thought I might lose you.”
Still silence.
“And I realized I had already made too much space for you in my life long back.”
The sentence came out calmer than he expected.
He heard Swara exhale softly on the other side.
“You missed your timing re.”
“I know.”
“And now?”
“I don’t want to miss it again.”
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Swara said quietly:
“You know my life is mess no?”
“Hmmm.”
“Court still running.”
“Hmmm.”
“I don’t even know what shape future looks like.”
“Same for everyone.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Wasn’t trying to comfort.”
A faint laugh escaped her despite herself.
Then silence settled again.
The divorce proceedings moved slowly.
That became another thing they rarely discussed directly but constantly lived around.
Some weeks Swara sounded lighter after court hearings.
Some weeks completely drained.
Sudharma learned not to ask too many questions immediately.
Instead:
tea first,
silence first,
normal conversation first.
Then eventually she would speak if she wanted to.
One evening after work they drove together toward her side of the city.
Rain moved lightly across the windshield.
FM radio played “Enagali..ss.. Munde Saagu Neee..sss”.. Both humming. Their favourite Kiccha Sudeep’s song.
At one long signal, Swara suddenly asked:
“You sure ah?”
Sudharma looked at her.
“For?”
“This.”
He knew immediately what she meant.
Not love itself.
Everything that came with it.
Family.
Society.
Illness history.
Divorce.
Future complications.
All the practical weight Indian families attached to marriage.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
Swara kept watching the signal ahead.
“Your family?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Hmmm.”
“First let your court finish fully.”
She nodded once.
Just two adults sitting inside traffic trying to understand whether love arriving late could still survive real life.
Around office, people naturally noticed their closeness returning again.
Lunch timings aligned again.
Calls resumed.
Tea breaks stretched longer.
One afternoon Vinay cornered Sudharma near cafeteria vending machine.
“So?”
“So what?”
Vinay stared at him knowingly.
“You think I’m idiot ah?”
“Hmmm.”
“Serious question.”
Sudharma smiled faintly.
Vinay’s expression softened after a moment.
“You happy?”
The question surprised him slightly.
He thought for few seconds before answering.
“Yes.”
Vinay nodded once.
Then immediately ruined the emotional moment.
“Good. Now marry fast before one more crisis comes.”
“Shut up maccha.”
“Valid concern only.”
Sudharma laughed despite himself.
But later that night, while lying awake longer than usual, one thought remained quietly beside him:
Life had already shown them once how suddenly everything could change.
May be that was why neither of them no longer wanted to run from the truth once it had finally spoken aloud.
Shanbhogue Publications 
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