Chapter 6: Ancient Sparks
Delhi heat was a different beast than Kabul’s dry chill. It settled over the palace grounds like a damp, heavy blanket, buzzing with the drone of cicadas and the distant, constant groan of the city. For Amartya, it was a relief. It was his heat, familiar and thick with the scent of jasmine, diesel, and the earth after the first drops of the impending monsoon.
He’d slipped back into his life with the ease of putting on worn-in linen trousers. Mornings were for video calls with university mates in London, complaining about make-up work. Afternoons were for lazy swims in the private pool, the water cool and turquoise against the blinding white of the surrounding terrace. Evenings were for elaborate, chaotic family dinners where Dev and Rukmini would bicker affectionately about policy and he’d lob in perfectly timed, irreverent jokes that made his Bhabhi snort into her wine.
But a new rhythm had woven itself into his days. Tara was just… there. More than before.
It had started small after their return. She’d had his suite deep-cleaned, the Kabul dust banished, his favourite Kashmiri saffron tea stocked in the kitchenette. She’d casually mentioned a new chef from Lucknow who did killer galouti kebabs, and the next evening, they’d appeared on his dinner tray.
She became a quiet, pleasant constant in his personal space. He’d be gaming, headphones on, shouting at his screen, and he’d turn to find her curled in the window seat with a book, a fresh glass of iced nimbu paani on the coaster beside him. She never interrupted. She was just present, a calming silhouette against the light.
“You don’t have to babysit me, Tara,” he’d said once, grinning as he paused his game.
“It’s quieter here than my rooms,” she’d replied, not looking up from her page. “The gardeners start with the leaf blowers at dawn. Unless you want me gone?”
“God, no. Just making sure you’re not on duty.”
“I’m always on duty for you, Amartya,” she’d said, her tone so light it could have been a joke. He’d taken it as one, nodding and plunging back into the digital fray.
The real shift happened one late afternoon. A crushing migraine had hit him out of nowhere—a leftover gift from the punishing flight schedules, his body finally complaining. The light hurt. Sound hurt. He’d stumbled from his desk to the darkened bedroom, burying his face in the pillows.
He heard the door whisper open. Cool fingers touched his temple. “Migraine?” Tara’s voice was soft, already knowing the answer.
“Killer.”
“Wait.”
She left. He drifted in the pain. She returned, the scent of sandalwood and mint preceding her. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands gentle but firm. She massaged a balm into his temples, his scalp, the tight cords of his neck. Her touch was clinical and merciful, devoid of any suggestive pressure. Just pure, focused relief.
“Where’d you learn that?” he mumbled into the pillow.
“Your Bhabhi gets them worse. I used to help.” Her thumbs circled his skull. “Just sleep.”
The pain ebbed, not gone, but pushed back behind a wall of exhaustion. He fell asleep to the rhythm of her hands.
He woke hours later in the dark. The headache was a dull ghost. He was on his side, and his head was not on a pillow.
It was on Tara’s lap.
She was propped against his mahogany headboard, one hand resting lightly on his hair, the other holding her phone, its light cast downward and away from him. She was utterly still, reading. He could feel the smooth fabric of her dress under his cheek, the gentle rise and fall of her breath.
He should have moved. It was too intimate, too vulnerable. But the last remnants of pain had melted into a profound, bodily comfort he hadn’t realized he was craving. It was safe. It was easy. He felt her fingers tentatively, slowly, brush a strand of hair from his forehead. The touch was feather-light, almost hesitant. It felt nice.
He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, and sank back into the warmth.
After that, it became a thing. Not every day, but sometimes. After a swim, he’d sprawl on the sitting room divan, damp hair soaking the cushion, and she’d sit beside him, and somehow his head would end up in her lap while she scrolled through emails or read him amusing headlines. She’d feed him a grape or a piece of orange, her fingertips brushing his lips. He’d laugh, and the vibration would travel through her.
He told himself it was just Tara. Comfortable, familiar, uncomplicated Tara who knew he needed his space but also his quiet moments of contact. She never asked for anything. Never made it strange. It was just… how things were now.
Rukmini noticed.
She saw it at a Friday film night in the family media room. Amartya was slouched in a massive armchair, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach. Tara was on the wide arm of the same chair, her body angled towards him. Not touching, but orbiting. When he’d whispered a comment about the movie, he’d turned his head up towards her, and she’d leaned down, her hair curtaining their faces for a second in a private world. The gesture was effortless, intimate.
Later, in their private quarters, Rukmini poured nightcap scotch for Dev. “You see how she is with him now?”
Dev, loosening his tie, frowned. “Tara? She’s always been devoted.”
“It’s different. It’s… proprietorial.” Rukmini swirled the amber liquid. “In Kabul, she was a shield. Here, she’s becoming the environment.”
“He’s happy,” Dev said, pragmatic. “He’s relaxed. He hasn’t asked for a single thing since he got back. No complaints, no drama. She manages him beautifully.”
“That’s what worries me. Does he manage himself anymore? Or does she do it for him?” She took a sip. “He’s nineteen, Dev. He should be getting into messy, stupid situations. Not being perfectly curated.”
Dev walked over, kissed the top of her head. “You’re overthinking. He’s a smart boy. And Tara’s family. She loves him.”
That, Rukmini thought, watching the ice melt in her glass, is precisely the problem. It wasn’t sisterly. The way Tara’s gaze lingered on Amartya when he wasn’t looking—it was like watching someone admire a masterpiece they believed they alone understood. It was quiet, and total, and it scared her.
But she said nothing. Not yet.
For Tara, these weeks were a slow, sweet dream. Her world had narrowed to the glorious radius of Amartya’s presence. She knew his rhythms better than her own: the slight furrow in his brow that meant he was pondering something serious, the tap of his foot that signaled restlessness, the particular sigh he made just before he fell asleep on her.
She memorized the weight of his head on her thighs, the exact texture of his hair under her palm. She learned to breathe in a way that wouldn’t disturb him. The possessive fury she’d felt in Kabul had banked into a low, steady burn of certainty. This was where he belonged. In her care. In her space.
One evening, they were on his terrace, the city a jewel-dusted sprawl below. He was talking, animated, about Zahira’s innovative approach to digital archives for the museum.
“She’s bypassing the big Western firms, going straight to this niche start-up in Bangalore—genius, really, the costs are a fraction…” he said, gesturing with his drink.
Tara listened, a smile on her lips. Inside, a cold wire tightened. He’d mentioned Zahira a handful of times since returning. Each time, it was about her professional acumen, her toughness. Never her beauty, never her laugh. Tara focused on that. He respected her. That was safe. Respect was distant.
“She must be relentless to get that past her father,” Tara offered, subtly threading the narrative of control back in.
“Oh, totally. Steel under silk.” He took a sip, then blinked, looking at her. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
The question was so casual, so utterly oblivious, it stole her breath. She laughed, the sound like crystal. “Of a princess trying to drag her country into the 21st century? Hardly. I’m just glad you made a contact who interests you. It’s good for you.”
Satisfied, he turned back to the skyline. “Yeah. It is.”
He finished his drink, set it down, and sank onto the long, cushioned lounge chair behind them. He patted the space beside him, yawning. “Too much talking. Time to be a vegetable. Put on that terrible reality show you like. The one with the yelling.”
She fetched a light pashmina, put on the show, and sat. As predictably as the moon rising, he shifted, turning onto his side, and rested his head in her lap. He let out a long, contented exhale.
Her hand came to rest in his hair. On screen, people screamed over a ruined cake. The monsoon clouds rumbled in the distance, promising a storm. Tara looked down at the sweep of his lashes against his cheek, the relaxed line of his mouth. The city hummed, a distant, irrelevant thing.
He was here. He was hers. Not in the way she ultimately wanted, not yet, but in all the ways that mattered for now. She was the keeper of his comfort, the curator of his peace. The last thing he saw before sleep and the first thing he sought when he was weary.
Rukmini’s worried gaze, a world away in the main wing, meant nothing. Zahira in her mountain fortress meant nothing.
For now, in the heavy, perfumed darkness, this was everything. She leaned her head back against the cushion, watching the first fat raindrops streak the terrace glass, and allowed herself a single, silent truth.
She was happy.
And she would incinerate anything that tried to take this from her.