A Geyser and a Smile

The Bangalore monsoon had arrived, a relentless drumming against the windowpane of Anya’s small flat. The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked glass, each light a symbol of a separate life, a separate world, all existing within the same vast, indifferent city.

The air in her flat was thick with the scent of damp earth and petrichor, the light filtered through the rain-streaked glass, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. It was a fitting backdrop to her life, muted, melancholic, and perpetually damp around the edges.

Her old flat, tucked away in a quiet lane off Indiranagar, was her sanctuary, a place where the world’s clamour faded into a dull hum. Like the apartment in her memory, the walls were painted a forgettable shade of off-white, a canvas for the shadows that seemed to cling to her.

Anya was a creature of quiet observation. With her dark, shoulder-length hair often falling across her face, framing large, expressive brown eyes, she possessed an almost ethereal beauty. Her slight frame, usually draped in loose kurtas and jeans, gave her an air of fragility, a vulnerability she unconsciously projected. She worked remotely as a freelance graphic designer, a job that allowed her to indulge her introverted tendencies.

Her life revolved around the small rhythms of her flat: the clatter of her keyboard, the hiss of the pressure cooker, the distant rumble of traffic. But lately, a new rhythm had entered her life: the footsteps from the flat above.

He had moved in a few months ago, a man who seemed to have stepped out of a film. Tall, with tousled dark hair and a disarming smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, he possessed an effortless charm that radiated even through the floorboards. Anya had only seen him a few times, fleeting glimpses on the staircase or in the building’s small car park. But those glimpses were enough to ignite a spark of fascination within her.

Their first real interaction had been over coffee. He’d run out, a sheepish look on his face, and knocked on her door, holding up an empty tin. Anya, startled out of her self-imposed isolation, had offered him some of her instant coffee, a nervous flutter in her chest. What if I say the wrong thing? What if he sees how… broken I am? He hadn’t asked her name, just smiled that dazzling smile and thanked her. She’d noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the mark of someone who burned the candle at both ends, perhaps a software engineer, she had mused.

His name was Rohan. She’d overheard it once when he was talking on his mobile on the balcony. Rohan. The name echoed in her mind, a soft melody in the silence of her flat.

The monsoon deepened, and so did Anya's infatuation. She’d find excuses to linger near the staircase, hoping for a chance encounter. She’d listen for his footsteps, imagining his life upstairs, the music he played, the conversations he had, the laughter that sometimes drifted down, always tinged with a deep, almost melancholic note.

One evening, she heard a woman’s laughter from above, a low, throaty sound that sent a pang of something akin to jealousy through her. She remembered her own past, a whirlwind romance that had ended abruptly, leaving her with a deep-seated fear of vulnerability.

She'd been called "babes" then, by Salman, his easy charm masking a deep insecurity that ultimately led him to push her away. The memory was like a paper cut, a small wound that still stung with unexpected sharpness.

Anya closed her eyes, the woman’s laughter echoing in her ears. She remembered her grandmother’s myna bird, Mynah, who would only utter the word “baby” for a piece of ripe Alphonso mango, a rare and precious treat. Anya, as a child, had once fed Mynah unripe mangoes, eager to hear the word, making the bird sick.

The guilt of that small act of greed still lingered, a reminder of her own imperfections. But there was another memory, darker, harder to face. Her uncle, his hand heavy on her shoulder, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered things a child should never hear.

The word “baby” twisted in her mind, a stark contrast to the sweet endearment she craved. She remembered the way her uncle’s hand would settle on her shoulder, a gesture that seemed innocuous to anyone else but carried a weight she couldn’t bear. His fingers would curl slightly, pressing into her skin just enough to make her stomach churn. His presence was suffocating, the air around him thick with an authority she couldn’t defy.

He would lean in close, his breath warm and sour against her ear, his words soft but coated in something sinister. “You’re my special girl,” he’d whisper, his voice dripping with a sweetness that felt wrong, that made her chest tighten and her small body shrink away. His hands would linger too long, brushing her arm, touching her back, creeping towards places that made her freeze in paralysed silence.

It wasn’t just the touch that stayed with her; it was the way he made her complicit in her own silence. “our little secret” he’d say, his voice a conspiratorial murmur that carried an unspoken threat. She didn’t understand the full meaning of his actions then, but she understood enough to know she couldn’t tell anyone. The fear he instilled in her, the subtle way he wielded his authority over her, ensured her compliance.

The word “baby” became a weapon in his mouth. Once, it had been a term of love and comfort, a nickname her mother would call her as she brushed her hair or kissed her goodnight. But now, it was poisoned. When he said it, the word sounded sticky, invasive, wrapping around her like a binding she couldn’t escape.

One night, she had woken to the sound of her door creaking open. She kept her eyes shut, pretending to sleep, her tiny frame rigid beneath the blanket. She heard the soft scrape of his chair moving closer, the weight of him sitting beside her. He touched her hair, his fingers trailing down her arm, and though her body screamed to move, to cry out, she couldn’t. She didn’t. The fear paralysed her, leaving her trapped in the silence he had taught her to keep.

Years later, the physical marks of his actions were long gone, but the memories were as vivid as the rain outside her window. She carried them in her chest, an invisible burden that weighed her down. The guilt stayed too, guilt for not understanding, for not fighting, for letting it happen. But deep down, she knew the guilt wasn’t hers to carry, even if the weight refused to leave. She remembered hearing a Mynah bird singing the day her mother left, a sound that became synonymous with loss.

One rainy afternoon, the monsoon raged outside, a relentless drumming against the windowpane. Anya sat sketching in her living room, the light filtered through the rain-streaked glass, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. A knock echoed through the flat. Her heart leaped. It was Rohan. He stood at her door, a hesitant smile on his face. “My geyser’s acting up,” he explained, running a hand through his already tousled hair. “Would you mind if I…?”

Anya, flustered, could only nod, ushering him inside.“It takes a while to heat up, though,” she warned, gesturing towards the ancient geyser mounted on the bathroom wall. Rohan peered at the appliance, a relic from a bygone era. “No worries,” he said. “I’ve got time. And honestly, the sound of the rain is quite soothing.” He leaned against the doorframe, a relaxed posture that belied the urgency of his situation.

Anya switched the geyser on. A low rumble filled the small bathroom, followed by a series of clicks and whirs. The pilot light flickered to life, a small orange flame against the damp grey of the walls. “It’s a bit… temperamental,” she admitted, a nervous flutter in her chest.

“I can see that,” Rohan chuckled. He moved into the living room, glancing at Anya’s sketches. “These are good,” he said, pausing by a drawing of a rain-soaked street scene. “You’re very talented.” Anya blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”

An awkward silence settled between them, broken only by the drumming of the rain and the occasional groan of the old geyser. Anya busied herself tidying up some papers, acutely aware of Rohan’s presence in her small flat.

“So,” Rohan began, breaking the silence. “What do you do?”

Anya explained about her freelance graphic design work, her voice hesitant at first, then gaining confidence as she spoke about her passion. Rohan listened attentively, asking questions about her projects and her inspirations. He spoke of his own writing, his struggles, his hopes. He was working on a novel, a story about loss and redemption. “It’s about loss, mostly,” he said, his gaze drifting towards the rain-streaked window. “And trying to find your way back from it. I guess we all have our own versions of that story, don’t we?” He mentioned his previous relationship, a long-distance affair with a flight attendant named Neila that had recently ended. Anya listened to him, captivated by his intense energy.

The minutes ticked by, marked by the steady drip of the rain outside. Anya, usually irritated by the geyser’s slow warm-up, found herself hoping it would take just a little longer. It was a strange feeling, this unexpected connection with her upstairs neighbour, a shared moment of warmth in the midst of the monsoon’s gloom.

Finally, a steady stream of hot water began to flow from the tap. Rohan tested it with his hand, a relieved smile spreading across his face. “Perfect,” he said. “Just in time.” He filled a bucket with steaming water. “Thanks, Anya,” he said, finally using her name. “I really appreciate this. I owe you one.”

As he moved to leave he paused at the door and said “Its funny, I thought I heard a Myna bird earlier, have you got one?” Anya shook her head and replied “No, I don’t have any pets, I just have memories” Rohan looked at her with a questioning look, but decided not to pry.

He noticed Anya’s distress and asked, “Are you alright? You seem… distant.” Anya hesitated, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. “Just… memories,” she whispered, avoiding his gaze.

As he left, Anya felt a warmth spread through her, a feeling she hadn't experienced in a long time. She listened to his footsteps receding up the stairs, a small smile playing on her lips. It was a small interaction, a simple act of neighbourly kindness. But for Anya, it was a lifeline, a reminder that she wasn’t completely alone in the world.

As the monsoon continued its relentless downpour, Anya found herself looking forward to the sound of Rohan’s footsteps, the small rhythms of his life upstairs, a counterpoint to her own quiet existence. She knew it was just an infatuation, a fleeting connection. But for now, it was enough.

It was a flicker of warmth in the grey landscape of her life, a small gesture that had created a ripple of hope within her. She went to the window and looked out at the rain, a small smile on her lips. She thought of Rohan and the Myna bird and her past. The memories were always there, but today they felt a little less heavy, a little less painful.

The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked window, each light a symbol of a separate life, a separate world, all existing within the same vast, indifferent city.

It was a strange kind of loneliness, to be surrounded by so many people yet feel so utterly alone. But for now, in this small moment, she felt a little less alone. She hoped the geyser took its time to cool down.