Karthik sat cross-legged on the floor of his grandmother's kitchen, surrounded by the scent of ripe mangoes, tamarind, and mustard seeds crackling in hot oil. The ceiling fan groaned above, rotating lazily as the afternoon heat clung to everything.
He was supposed to be helping peel mangoes for maanga oorugai (mango pickle), but his thoughts were elsewhere—floating somewhere between last week's walk with Ananya and the upcoming college admission chaos.
"Stop daydreaming, kanna," Paati chided gently, handing him another raw mango. "This pickle won't make itself."
He snapped out of his daze and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Paati."
As he began peeling again, his phone buzzed beside him. He wiped his hands and picked it up.
Ananya: Today. Mango season. You owe me a slice.
He chuckled. She remembered. The week before, they'd argued playfully over whether Banganapalli or Imam Pasand was the superior mango. She'd claimed he was a mango snob. He'd accused her of being a fraud for liking mango milkshake more than actual mangoes.
Now she wanted a truce. Or maybe just an excuse to see him again.
---
An hour later, he stood outside Ananya's apartment building, holding a small tiffin box lined with banana leaf and stacked with perfectly sliced mangoes—half with salt and chilli powder, just the way she liked.
When she opened the door, he held up the box triumphantly. "Peace offering?"
Ananya's face lit up like the sun. "Banganapalli?"
"And Imam Pasand."
She gasped dramatically. "You brought both?"
"I'm a man of compromise."
They went up to the terrace, which offered a view of a sleepy Chennai skyline, dotted with coconut trees, water tanks, and laundry fluttering in the breeze. The wind was stronger here, carrying the salty scent of the sea even from miles away.
They sat on a thin mat, dipping mango slices in salt and chili, making faces at each tangy bite.
"You know," Ananya said, licking her fingers, "if someone had told me last year that I'd be sitting on a terrace, eating mangoes with you, I would've laughed."
Karthik looked at her. "Why?"
"Because I used to think you hated people. Especially me."
He smiled. "I didn't hate people. I was just scared of them."
"And me?"
"You scared me the most."
She blinked, caught off guard. "Why?"
"Because you saw through me. Even when I didn't want to be seen."
A silence settled between them, not awkward but warm—like the hush before a song begins. Ananya turned her face away slightly, her voice softer now.
"I'm glad you let me see you."
He nodded. "I'm glad you didn't look away."
The sun dipped lower, casting orange and purple hues across the sky. Birds flew home, and the city slowed into evening.
Ananya leaned against his shoulder, mango-sticky fingers brushing against his hand.
Karthik didn't move.
He didn't need to.
---
End of Chapter 117