Chapter 3: Lifted for first time
She spent hours just staring, tracing the line of his shoulder in the dark, overwhelmed by the sheer, unbelievable reality of him. The city’s hum was a constant, distant conversation outside the window, so different from the deep, breathing silence of the village. Eventually, a dull ache in her bladder forced her from the bed, her movements silently precise as she navigated the unfamiliar room.
The next morning, light filtered through blinds she didn’t know how to open. Rohan was already in the kitchen, staring into the glaring interior of the refrigerator as if it were a complex puzzle. “There’s… yogurt,” he announced, his voice still rough with sleep. “And some old bread. I’m not really a breakfast person.”
“I can make something,” Anjali said, her voice soft. She approached the stove, a sleek glass-topped thing that looked alien. She reached for a large pot hanging from a rack, her hand closing around the handle by instinct.
It was lighter than she expected, a thin-walled aluminum thing. She had prepared herself for a heft, for the satisfying strain of cast iron. The ease with which she lifted it felt like a lie. She made a small show of adjusting her grip, using two hands to place it gently on the burner, a performance of competency that masked an immense, unused power. She hid her strength.
“You sure? I usually just grab a coffee on the way,” Rohan said, watching her.
“It is no trouble.” She filled the pot with water for poha, the liquid sloshing harmlessly. She moved through the small kitchen with a conscious delicacy, forcing herself to pick up the knife slowly to chop onions, her strokes measured and careful when she wanted to let her wrist fly with its natural, practiced speed.
He leaned against the counter, sipping from a mug. “So. What do you like to do? I mean, back home, for fun.”
Anjali kept her eyes on the onions. “I liked to walk. To the fields, sometimes to the edge of the woods.” It was true, but it was the blandest version of the truth. It omitted the runs that left her calves burning, the secret sessions with the plough. She seasoned the poha, her hand hovering over the chili powder. “You like spice?”
“I think I’m a medium-spice guy,” he laughed. “My stomach is… civilized.”
She smiled, using a fraction of the powder she would have used for herself. The meal she prepared was adequate, mild. They ate at a small table, the silence between them filled with the clink of stainless steel.
“This is good,” he said, though he left half of it. “So much better than my cereal.” He looked at her, his expression open and curious. “You’re very… graceful. The way you move in here. It’s like you’re used to this.”
Anjali felt a flush of warmth that had nothing to do with the tea. He saw a performance and found it elegant. He had no idea the effort it took to make every gesture small, to sip tea without draining the cup in two gulps, to fold her long limbs into a chair without seeming to dominate the space. She was constantly editing herself, and he was appreciating the edits.
Later, he showed her the balcony, a narrow concrete ledge overlooking a street buzzing with traffic. A heavy bag of potting soil sat slumped in the corner, next to a few terracotta pots. “My mum’s idea,” he explained. “She said a home needs greenery. I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
“We could do it now,” Anjali suggested, the idea of touching real earth appealing to her.
“Really? Okay, sure.”
He bent to grab the bag of soil, a twenty-kilgo bag. He gripped the plastic, lifted with his legs in a theoretically correct manner, and managed to raise it a few inches before his arms began to shake violently. The bag dropped back to the floor with a dull thud. A faint dusting of soil puffed into the air. “Whoa. Heavier than it looks.”
Anjali’s body tensed, every muscle fiber screaming to step forward and lift it with one hand, to tear it open with a simple rip. Instead, she clasped her hands together. “We can open it here and carry the soil in the pots,” she said, her voice even. “It will be easier.”
She knelt, using her fingertips to make a small, careful tear in the plastic. She then used both hands to scoop the soil, filling the pots slowly, methodically, letting him do the same. She made sure his pots were fuller, that he carried the lighter ones. She hid her strength, not with weakness, but with a quiet, efficient partnership that asked for no applause.
That night, after he’d fallen asleep, she stood on the balcony again, the city’s lights stretching out to a hazy horizon. She gripped the cold railing, her knuckles white. She pushed down, testing the give of the bolted metal. It was solid. She imagined, for a wild second, what would happen if she didn’t hold back. The sharp, metallic groan of protest it would make.
A soft sound from inside made her release the rail instantly. She turned to see Rohan standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“Just getting air.”
He came to stand beside her, his shoulder nearly brushing her arm. He looked out at the vista, the endless, artificial stars. “It’s a lot, isn’t it? After the village.”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You know, you’re much stronger than you look.” The comment landed in the dark, casual and devastating.
Her breath caught. She kept her gaze fixed on the lights. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Just… the way you handled that soil. You weren’t struggling at all. And back home, with that goat.” He shrugged. “It’s impressive.”
He saw it. Not all of it, but a glimpse. And he wasn’t threatened. He was impressed. The realization was a tremor running through her, a fault line shifting deep beneath the carefully constructed surface. She had spent a lifetime hiding, and in two days, this soft man had seen through the most important parts of the disguise. She didn’t know what to do with that. So she just stood there, beside him, hiding in plain sight.
The fragile light of dawn found her still awake, every nerve humming with a strange, protective vigilance. When Rohan finally stirred, blinking against the morning, he found her already dressed and perched on the edge of the bed, having silently unpacked her few possessions hours earlier. “You’re already up?” he mumbled, his voice raspy with sleep. “I didn’t even hear you move.”
“The city sounds are different,” she said, which was true. The constant hum of traffic below was a world away from the village’s roosters and drifting voices.
He stretched, and the hem of his t-shirt rode up, revealing a strip of his midriff. The skin was pale and smooth, the waistline slender, almost delicate. Anjali looked away, focusing on arranging a stack of her saris in the new cupboard. The sheer physical differential between them, confirmed in the stark light of day, was a silent, thrilling pressure in the room.
Over a breakfast of toast and tea—a meal she found impossibly light—Rohan mapped out their day. “We need a few things,” he said, tapping his phone. “Bigger pots for the balcony, maybe a plant. And this sofa…” He gestured to the stiff, two-seater that came with the flat. “It’s awful. There’s a place that delivers assembled furniture, but it takes weeks. Maybe we could just get a frame and a mattress, build a simple platform bed for the spare room instead?”
“A platform bed?” Anjali asked, sipping the bitter tea.
“Yeah, you know, just a wooden base to put a mattress on. It’s easy.” He led her to the spare room, a blank box filled with cardboard cartons. He pulled a long, flat package from one. “See? It’s just slats and screws. I can put it together.”
He tore the plastic packaging open with a satisfying rip and laid out the pieces of pale, finished wood on the floor. He scanned the instructions, his brow furrowed in concentration. Anjali watched his hands as he sorted the screws, his fingers nimble but devoid of the roughness hers had earned. There was a certainty in his movements, a confidence that belonged to the realm of diagrams and logic, not physical strain.
He assembled the first side frame quickly, the Allen key clicking efficiently in the bolt. But when he attempted to lift the longer, heavier central beam into place, his balance wavered. The beam was unwieldy, and as he tried to slot one end into a connector, the other end dipped, throwing him off. He grunted, his arms shaking with the effort to control the weight.
Anjali, who had been kneeling nearby organizing books, felt her whole body tense. Her instinct was to surge forward, to take the beam from him and slot it home with ease. It would be nothing. But she saw the focused line of his mouth, the determination in his posture. This was his domain, his project.
So she held back. She made her movements slow, deliberately hesitant. “Does it need two people?” she asked, her voice pitched to sound unsure.
“Maybe… just… can you hold that end up?” he gasped, his face flushed. “Just for a second.”
She moved to the other end of the beam. When she wrapped her hands around the wood, she deliberately let her grip seem loose, her arms appearing to struggle under the weight she could have held with one hand. She made a small, strained sound, a perfect imitation of effort. “Like this?”
“Yes, just… steady.” With her taking the weight, he quickly secured his end. “Okay, good!” he said, a note of triumph in his voice. He moved to her side, and she immediately let the beam sag, allowing him to take the full burden as he fastened the final bolt. “There! See? Teamwork.”
He grinned at her, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. She smiled back, a complex warmth spreading through her chest. It was a lie, but a protective one. She had supported him without overshadowing him. The beam was secure, and his pride was intact.
Later, as they walked through a sprawling home goods store, the fluorescent lights glinting off countless shiny surfaces, the game continued. Rohan pushed the large metal trolley, but when it became heavy with a mattress topper and bags of soil, the wheels stubbornly resisted his steering. Anjali walked slightly behind, her hands folded. She could have guided the rebellious cart with a fingertip.
“Stubborn thing,” Rohan muttered, wrestling with the handle.
“It is very full,” Anjali offered mildly.
He abandoned the cart near the checkout. “I’ll get the car,” he said. “You wait here with our stuff?”
She nodded, standing guard over their new domestic life piled high in the trolley. When he returned, he assessed the loaded cart and then her. “I’ll get a guy to help me load this,” he said, turning toward a store employee.
Anjali looked at the trolley, then at the open trunk of his small car. It was a simple lift. A flip of the wrists. The memory of the iron plough, warm and rough in her hands, flashed through her mind. That was weight. This was nothing.
But she just nodded again. “That is a good idea.”
She watched him and the young shop assistant strain slightly with the mattress topper, a chore that would have been a trifle for her. A curious feeling settled over her, not quite guilt, not quite power. It was the quiet certainty of a disguise perfectly worn. She could navigate his world, this world of softness and logic, by hiding the ironcore of her own. For now, the secret was hers to keep, a source of strength in its own right.