The train from Delhi pulled into Bhopal station, just as the morning sun lit the horizon in shades of ochre and rose. The platform was quiet, drowsy, with only the calls of tea vendors and the soft rustle of the leaves in the breeze.
Nirmal stepped off the train, adjusting his satchel and squinting into the light. He hadn’t seen her in three years—not since their university farewell, where hugs had lingered a second too long, and eyes had said what mouths couldn’t. Letters and voice notes had filled the gaps since then. But now, she was here.
She was posted at Bhopal with the AIIMS and their journey through the heart of India thus commenced from Bhopal.
Nirmal had been travelling since days, he came back from Spain after finishing his internship and his Masters in International Business and had been travelling since... the cab was waiting outside the station, he boarded it and they went to pick up Pavitra from her place.
Pavitra stood beneath a blooming bougainvillea tree, its violet blossoms tumbling around her like petals from a lover’s hand. Her white cotton kurta clung gently to her frame, and her scarf fluttered with each breeze. When she saw him, her lips curved in a smile that unraveled something in him.
“You made it,” she said, stepping forward, her voice low and familiar.
“I almost didn’t,” Nirmal replied, meeting her gaze. “But then I thought of you… and of sandstone lovers frozen in time. I couldn’t stay away.”
She smiled again.
"So, where are we going first?"
We will start with Khajuraho, she said as the cab driver arranged her bags with that of Nirmal's.
They shared a beautiful long drive in the cab to their hotel, a restored haveli with intricate jharokhas and mango trees in the courtyard. After a quick lunch, they set out to explore the temples.
The Western Group of Temples stood proud and radiant under the afternoon sun, their detailed carvings drawing gasps from even the most reserved tourists. But for Nirmal and Pavitra, the erotic figures weren’t just art—they were invitations. Bodies curved into each other with sacred intention. Lovers touched with reverence, lips frozen inches apart. Passion here was divine, not taboo.
“They didn’t just worship gods,” Pavitra murmured, tracing her fingers along a carved lotus. “They worshipped union. Desire was holy.”
Nirmal stood behind her, close enough to feel the heat from her body. “Maybe that’s what we forgot. That yearning can be sacred.”
They lingered for hours, losing themselves among the stories in stone. When the sun dipped low, they walked back in silence, their hands brushing occasionally, sparking tiny fires.
That evening, the haveli glowed with lantern light. Dinner was served on the terrace—simple thalis with rice, dal, and brinjal mash. But the real feast was in their eyes, their words, their shared silences.
Later, in her room, Pavitra stood by the open window, watching the first raindrops stain the dust outside. She didn’t turn when Nirmal stepped in. She didn’t have to.
“I shouldn’t stay,” he said softly.
She replied without looking back. “Then why are you still here?”
He stepped closer, his hands reaching her waist with a gentleness born of years of restraint. Her back leaned into his chest. A breath. A beat. And then she turned, cupped his face, and kissed him.
It wasn’t hurried. It was warm rain after years of drought.
As they undressed slowly, fingers trembling, breath catching, it wasn’t about conquest. It was about remembering—how skin remembers skin, how longing writes its own language. They made love on crisp cotton sheets, the monsoon drumming its approval outside.
In the quiet after, tangled in each other, Nirmal whispered, “What do we call this?”
Pavitra traced a line down his chest. “The beginning.”
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