KATHA

6 STALKER - STALKING

In the shadows of the woods, I stood concealed. My gaze impatient and fixed on the looming silhouette of the gothic house, reveling in that magnetic pull drawing me towards the enigma that was Katha or should I say, Kathavali Rathore. Against my better judgment, I found myself venturing into a territory that I had vowed never to tread – chasing after a woman.

It had been a week of me carrying on this fool's charade. The first time I saw her, In that moment, as she slipped into the embrace of her car and disappeared into the night, a resolve crystallized within me. I was determined to make her mine, to unravel the layers of mystery that clung to her like skin. The challenge ahead was daunting, the path uncertain, but I was drawn to the woman who had ignited a fire within me without even so much as looking me in the eyes. The embers were smoldering in the flames that were the colour of her skin.

She was searing herself into every inch of me, inside out, and she hadn't even touched me yet.

I wanted to know what her touch did to me.

And what my touch did to her.

As much as I liked her fear, I hated her discomfort. I wasn't a jerk stain enough to get off on that so to make my presence known and make her a little less disturbed, I had been leaving roses and notes for her to let her know I wanted her heart not her death. Sometimes a gajra because I thought it'd go well with her pastel, delicate gossamer sarees. She had been wrapping that fragrant string around her wrists and I had a hard-on everytime I thought about her sniffing it. She was challenging me, indirectly telling me that she wasn't the one to back down and hide in a corner. And I knew that she enjoyed my audacities.

Just like that, she became my obsession.

I was chasing a psychotic serial killer at day time.

And I was chasing through the woods after my Little gazelle at night.

Goddamn serial killer was talked about in every nook and corner of the dark alleys of the city. I controlled that darkness and yet she kept slipping from my fingers as I danced to the tunes of this force who wore sarees, drove a black Ford Mustang, frequented tea shops and fancy clubs and lived in gothic dreamhouse perched upon a high cliff.

As the moments stretched into eternity, my anticipation grew, and then, as if summoned by my visceral yearning, she arrived. She parked the car in her usual spot. A Mustang. At times such as these where men got off on superiority and entitlement, times where independent women were frowned upon, she was slapping them across their faces. It was a symbol of her unapologetic individuality, a reflection of the enigmatic woman my gazelle was.

Then she stepped out, and my heart stopped like it did every time I saw her.

She was a vision in the dim light. Her tall, curvaceous frame exuding an intoxicating aura, a delicate dance of elegance and vehement allure. Power. Force. That was what she was. An entire tempest confined beneath her skin.

Her skin.

Her skin.

Her skin was like a canvas brushed with the delicate hues of a fading sunset, and right that moment, illuminated by the soft silver luminescence of moonlight, seemed to hold the power of my undoing. The light brown expanse held whispers of gold like hidden treasures begging to be discovered. Begging for my fingers, my tongue, my teeth. A savage urge to mark every inch of that treasure as my own vibrated through my bones as I watched her every move.

I was on my knees for her.

Her saree clung to her with an almost possessive fashion, tracing the contours of her body in a tantalizing embrace. It was draped over and pinned at her shoulder, exposing her slender, creamy waist the sight of which had my mouth watering. She had the face of an angel set in wicked edges. It was ensnaring. Tantalizing. Mystique. I wanted to touch her, outline the entirety of her figure with my fingertips. Or my tongue and teeth.

She stood by her car, her eyes scanning the area. Looking for me. My little gazelle was fearless. It didn't matter to her if there was a man after her. Hiding in the woods. Ready to strike, reckless and obsessed.

She was alone tonight. For whatever reason, Rishikesh Sharma had stayed out for the night. I couldn't have been happier.

My eyes glinted as I fixed them on her hair, As dark as the night above. Moonlight shimmered with an otherworldly glow across those strands of onyx spun from the very fabric of dreams.

Then my gaze was locked on the movement of her hips as she turned on her heels and started towards the house. Gait of a lioness, she moved with a grace that spoke of a deep connection to the very rhythms of the universe, each step a whisper against the earth. Commanding and powerful. I found myself moving after her. Her existence was magnetic, a gravitational force that tugged at something deep within me, igniting desires that had long lay dormant.

Besides, I had to teach my Little gazelle a lesson. No man was to touch her. Rahul Kashyap had signed his death the moment he touched her. And I'd send her his chopped hands if she didn't agree to be a good girl.

The house commanded attention with it's distinctive fusion of traditional aesthetics and South Indian influences, seamlessly intertwining the ornate with the austere. The exterior walls, a somber shade of deep charcoal were adorned with intricate filigree and delicate arches. As I approached it, a stone path led to the front porch. I could see the horizon now, hear the clashing waves against the cliff. Behind me was that enchanting forest of ancient trees that whispered to the winds. The energy was so different there, almost otherworldly. The whispering breeze was carrying tales of forgotten souls from the graveyards in the woods. Cold and haunted.

I was almost by the porch when the storm decided to stop taunting and unleashed.