Shadows Of The Stumps

In Circles

The next morning unfolded in gentle golden light, spilling through the tall windows of Shrestha’s studio. The place smelled faintly of sandalwood and coffee, its mirrors gleaming, the polished wooden floor warm under bare feet. A soft playlist hummed in the background, something with light beats and airy vocals that matched the rhythm of the girls’ laughter.

Meera hung upside down in an aerial silk, her hair cascading freely, arms stretched as though she were swimming through air. She was completely lost in it—lost in the choreography, in the freedom of letting her body bend and sway, of finding movement again after weeks of stillness. The fabric swayed gently, her laughter bubbling out when she ended up tangled in the silks like a trapped butterfly.

“Arrey, dekho toh!” Shrestha chuckled, holding her phone up as she filmed the dramatic attempt at wriggling free. “This one will go viral.”

“Don’t you dare!” She yelped, struggling, and yet laughed so hard she nearly lost her grip.

Just then, the studio door clicked open. A pair of strangers—new students, still uncertain in their postures—looked up first, and then their eyes sharpened into faint glares. A tall figure stepped in, hoodie zipped up, mask pulled over half his face, a mop of strangely blonde-streaked hair catching the light.

The strangers stiffened; he looked every bit like an intruder.

And then Shreyas, sitting on the floor with a water bottle in hand, burst into loud laughter. “Arre, Hardik! Ek toh that ajeeb blonde hair, upar se mask—you look nihayati weird, bro. Like some rejected background dancer!”

Hardik stopped mid-step, narrowing his eyes at Shreyas, but even he couldn’t stop the grin that crept onto his face. He tugged the mask down just enough to mutter, “Tu toh bas jalta hai.”

Their laughter rippled through the room, softening the strangers’ suspicion, but Hardik’s eyes had already shifted—searching, scanning—and then they found her.

Meera.

Suspended in the silk, her face flushed with exertion and joy, strands of hair clinging to her cheek as she swayed gently. She looked nothing like the wounded soldier who had stumbled home weeks ago. She looked alive, radiant, untouchable. For a moment, the banter faded, the studio noise dulled; there was only her, floating as if the earth no longer held her down.

Hardik’s heart clenched, caught between awe and something deeper, quieter. The mask slipped from his hand entirely as he stood rooted to the spot, watching her like he had never seen her before.

And then Shreyas, sitting on the floor with a water bottle in hand, burst into loud laughter. “Arre, Hardik! Ek toh that ajeeb blonde hair, upar se mask—you look nihayati weird, bro. Like some rejected background dancer!”

Hardik stopped mid-step, narrowing his eyes at Shreyas, but even he couldn’t stop the grin that crept onto his face. He tugged the mask down just enough to mutter, “Tu toh bas jalta hai.”

Their laughter rippled through the room, softening the strangers’ suspicion, but Hardik’s eyes had already shifted—searching, scanning—and then they found her.

Meera.

Suspended in the silk, her face flushed with exertion and joy, strands of hair clinging to her cheek as she swayed gently. She looked nothing like the wounded soldier who had stumbled home weeks ago. She looked alive, radiant, untouchable. For a moment, the banter faded, the studio noise dulled; there was only her, floating as if the earth no longer held her down.

Hardik’s heart clenched, caught between awe and something deeper, quieter. The mask slipped from his hand entirely as he stood rooted to the spot, watching her like he had never seen her before.