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In a sun-bitten flat tucked near the old railway quarters of Vijayanagram, the day began not with alarms but with the rustle of neem leaves and the lazy sigh of curtains in the summer breeze.
Vaishali rose as she always did, at that in-between hour when sparrows argued and milkmen pedalled. She walked into the kitchen—barefoot, as though silence might crack under her step. Her kurta, once a proud maroon, now wore the soft resignation of time.
She glanced at the wall clock—6:17 a.m.—and called out with a voice that once could light Diwali lamps:
“Would you like tea or coffee?”
From behind the spread of The Hindu, Sathyam offered no reply. The rustle of newsprint was the only answer, a language both of them now knew by heart.
Vaishali’s hand paused over the tea strainer. But habit is stronger than hurt, and she poured the tea anyway.
There was a time, not so long ago, when Vaishali’s laughter would lift from their flat and dance into the courtyard below. Sathyam, then younger and less full of sighs, had called it “midnight jazz.” Now, it was a silent vinyl gathering dust.
Their life had become like the town’s old post office—still functioning, but only just.
Sathyam had developed a quiet fondness for observing women he didn’t know. The ones who passed by café windows in cropped jeans and confidence. They had voices like car horns—sharp, decisive, impossible to ignore. He imagined what it might be like to be called by name from such a voice.
The end, when it came, wasn’t a quarrel, but a conclusion.
Vaishali left one evening with a suitcase and a silence too deep to swim in. She did not cry. She did not slam the door. She only paused to lift her sandals and shut the grill gate with gentle finality.
Freedom, Sathyam discovered, smelled of aftershave and tasted of imported whiskey—things once denied to him by cholesterol and conscience.
Then came Sheetal.
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She entered his life the way monsoons entered the Eastern Ghats—dramatic, scented, and wholly unbothered by the existing climate. Her hair was blonde (though born from a bottle), and her laughter made strangers turn. She smelled of something expensive and unplaceable.
They met at an art gallery where everyone seemed to nod more than speak. Sheetal didn’t nod. She looked at Sathyam like he was a blank canvas she might doodle on, briefly.
Evenings followed. Rooftop bars. Cocktail glasses. Whispered jokes. Feet brushing beneath café tables. He admired how she made every sentence sound like it had a passport.
One such evening, with a lazy breeze between them, her head found a place on his shoulder.
“Do you miss her?” she asked.
Sathyam exhaled, a breath two years long.
“I did,” he said. “She had this voice—husky, magnetic. But it… faded. Life wore it down. All I heard was routine: groceries, bills… chores. She stopped speaking to me. Just… spoke around me.”
Sheetal lifted her head. Her eyes held a glint that Sathyam, tired as he was, missed.
“Did she sound like this?” she asked, her voice dipping into a pitch oddly familiar.
“Would you like tea or coffee?”
It was Vaishali’s voice. Perfectly imitated.
Sathyam sat up, heart jumping.
He saw her properly now—the half-smile, the tilt of the head, the borrowed perfume that had once lingered on their pillow.
“Vaishali?” he said, the name tasting new on his tongue.
She leaned close, her voice a whisper stitched with irony.
“I thought you liked new models.”
And then she was gone. Just like before.
The door swung in the breeze—open, then shut.
Sathyam sat in the thickening quiet. Around him, the world continued. Cars passed. Glasses clinked. A waiter yawned.
But inside, only one sound remained.
A voice. Asking, not with bitterness, but memory:
“Would you like tea or coffee?”
☕ Final Sips:
Some voices don’t disappear. They become echoes—etched into old cups, empty rooms, and unopened doors.
Have you ever mistaken novelty for depth?
Some relationships don’t end with a bang. They fade with the quiet clink of cups, missed glances, and echoes of once-familiar voices.
How’s the story about what lingers when love forgets how to speak?
Oh! I thought Sathyam the Guy’s having nice time. Snap!!! Haunted!! poor fellow. 🤣🤣 Jokes apart, nice ending to the story. Suspense till the last.