Arahan's life rolled forward on its familiar, unapologetic track.
Half the semester had already slipped by in a haze of lectures, late-night notes, and the quiet satisfaction of top ranks.
Geetanjali had become exactly what he'd intended, a cherished but closed chapter.
She was four months along now, belly softly rounded under loose anarkalis and sarees. He still visited two or three times a week, carried bags of oranges from the orchard, fixed the creaky ceiling fan, sat on the veranda chatting with Amma about village gossip while Geetanjali rested inside.
Amma had long stopped asking pointed questions; she simply called him "Arahan" with genuine warmth and pressed extra sweets into his hand when he left.
He never touched Geetanjali anymore. The last time had been gentle, almost reverent: a slow kiss to her growing stomach, his palm flat against the curve where his child kicked, a murmured "Be good to your mother" before he walked away.
