Anchored in you

Chapter 25: The Interrogation and the Hunger

The transition from the secluded, steamy sanctuary of our apartment to the bustling, sensory-overload of Harish's family home was like being dunked in a bucket of ice water. The "honeymoon bubble" didn't just burst; it was obliterated by the sheer volume of relatives who had stayed back after the wedding to "help" with the post-ceremony rituals.

As we sat down for lunch-a lavish spread of traditional Tamil delicacies-I felt Harish's hand find mine under the heavy teak table. He gave my fingers a quick, secret squeeze, his thumb tracing the back of my hand in a way that made the hickey under my high-collar blouse throb with a phantom heat.

I looked at him, trying to maintain my "composed consultant" face, but the mischief in his eyes was almost my undoing.

"So, Samaira," Auntie Meenakshi said, leaning forward with a piece of appalam poised mid-air. She was the family's self-appointed genealogist. "The wedding was beautiful. The apartment is lovely. But tell me, have you thought about the next step?"

I froze, a spoonful of bisibelebath halfway to my mouth. "The next step, Auntie?"

"Oh, don't be coy, child!" another relative chimed in from across the table. "Harish is already thirty. He'll be thirty-one in a few months. The clock doesn't stop for CEOs, you know. We need a little Harish or a little Samaira running around that big apartment of yours before the year is out."

I felt my throat tighten. The rich, spicy aroma of the food suddenly felt cloying. I looked toward Niti, hoping for a sister-in-law's rescue-some witty diversion to change the subject.

Instead, Niti grinned, joining the fray. "Actually, Sami, they have a point. Harish isn't getting any younger, and the family has been waiting for a new addition since... well, since Advay. You two should start thinking about 'Project Baby' ASAP."

I let out a soft, audible gulp. Project Baby? We hadn't even finished unpacking the kitchen boxes! We hadn't even discussed the weather patterns for a honeymoon! The idea of a third person in our carefully optimized life-one that required diapers and didn't follow a schedule-sent a wave of pure, unadulterated panic through me.

I lost my appetite instantly. The hunger that had been gnawing at me since my morning shower vanished, replaced by a cold, leaden weight of expectation. I looked at Harish. He was calmly eating his sambar rice, nodding along to a conversation Vikram was having about logistics. He seemed completely oblivious to the biological interrogation happening on my side of the table.

I decided, right then and there, not to tell him. If I mentioned it, he'd probably just make a joke about "maximum output" or "capacity planning," and I wasn't in the mood for an algorithm-based response to my anxiety.

I thought my own house would be a safe haven. I thought my mother would understand the need for a slow transition. I was wrong.

When we arrived at the Srinivasan household for tea, Harish was whisked away by my father and uncles to discuss "market trends." I was dragged into the kitchen by my mother, my aunts, and a few close family friends.

The door hadn't even clicked shut before the whispers began.

"So?" my aunt whispered, her eyes dancing with curiosity. "How was the first night? Did everything go... smoothly?"

I felt the blush return with a vengeance, heat crawling up my face until my ears felt like they were on fire. "Auntie! That's... that's private."

"Oh, hush! We've all been there," my mother said, though she had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "But more importantly, Sami, you need to be careful. Or not careful, depending on what you want. We were talking, and we think a winter baby would be perfect. The weather in Chennai is so much better for a newborn in December."

I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. "Ma, we literally got married yesterday. Can I at least finish my tea before I become a mother?"

"Time flies, kanna," she said, patting my cheek. "One day you're playing with dolls, the next you're holding your own. Just don't wait too long. Harish is a busy man; you need to anchor him with a family."

Anchor him? Harish was currently anchored to me by three knots and a very intense morning in the shower. He didn't need a baby to stay put.

The interrogation continued for an hour-tips on fertility, stories of difficult pregnancies, and endless questions about our "timeline." By the time I walked back into the living room, I felt like I had been through a high-pressure corporate audit without a laptop.

Harish was standing by the bookshelf, looking at my old college textbooks. When he saw me enter, he didn't look like a man discussing market trends. He looked like the man from the 2:00 AM darkness.

He caught my eye across the room. He didn't say a word, but the look he gave me-the heavy-lidded, dark, and utterly "hungry" gaze-made my knees go weak. It was the "I am going to eat you up again the moment we are alone" look.

I looked away, trying to focus on my father's story about a recent golf game, but I could feel Harish's eyes on me like a physical touch. Every time I moved, every time the silk of my peacock-blue saree rustled, his gaze followed.

"You okay, Sami?" he asked, walking over to me when the relatives were distracted by a fresh batch of bajjis. He leaned in, his voice a low, private vibration. "You look a bit pale. Did the lunch not sit well?"

"I'm fine," I lied, my voice a bit breathless. "Just a bit tired."

"Well," he whispered, his hand grazing my waist for a fleeting, electric second. "I think we've fulfilled our social obligations for the day. Why don't we tell them we have 'logistics' to handle at the apartment and head home?"

"Logistics?" I asked, looking at him.

"Extreme logistics," he murmured, a slow, dimpled smile spreading across his face.

I saw the hunger in him, a stark contrast to the baby-talk and the interrogation I had just endured. To the world, we were a "unit" that needed to reproduce. To Harish, I was just his wife, the woman he couldn't wait to get behind a locked door.

As we said our goodbyes and walked toward the car, I felt the panic about "Project Baby" subside just a little. The relatives had their timelines, and my mother had her winter-baby dreams, but as Harish opened the car door for me, his eyes promising a night that would be anything but "composed," I realized that the only timeline that mattered was the one we were writing together-one kiss at a time.

"Harish?" I said as he pulled the car out of the driveway.

"Yeah?"

"We are definitely discussing that honeymoon tonight. No distractions."

He laughed, the sound rich and confident. "We'll see about that, Samaira. We'll see."