The school courtyard transformed overnight.
Bright yellow marigolds strung across bamboo poles, colorful kolams winding like stories on the ground, and the steady hum of excitement as students prepared for the Pongal celebration. It was the one day when teachers let loose, parents came in with trays of traditional food, and even the strictest students forgot their tests and timetables.
Karthik, however, was pacing behind the auditorium, holding a clay pot.
"Relax, you're just cooking pongal, not diffusing a bomb," Rishi teased, tying his veshti too high as usual.
"Do you remember the last time I tried cooking?" Karthik muttered.
"Yes," Rishi grinned. "We got charcoal instead of upma."
"Exactly."
Ananya walked over in a pale blue half-saree, the color making her eyes sparkle under the sunlight. She had a turmeric garland tied loosely on her wrist and a mock-serious frown on her face.
"I heard someone doubting their ability to make pongal," she said, raising an eyebrow.
"It's not self-doubt if it's statistically accurate," Karthik replied.
She took the pot from him, her fingers brushing his just long enough. "We'll make it together then. You stir, I supervise."
He sighed, giving her a half-smile. "What would I do without you?"
"Burn rice," she deadpanned.
Their classmates gathered near the fire pit, each group setting their pots on bricks, adding milk and rice while cheering when it overflowed—pongalo pongal!—a chorus of joy, tradition, and fleeting teenage freedom.
As the fire crackled, Karthik stirred the pot carefully, Ananya crouched beside him, nudging him if he slouched.
"Back straight, master chef," she teased.
"Bossy," he shot back.
"Admit it, you like it."
He blushed. "Maybe."
She laughed, and it was the sound of sunlight on glass—clear, warm, and shattering his quiet walls.
When their pongal was ready—surprisingly not burned—they both sat under a neem tree with a banana leaf between them, sharing spoonfuls and exchanging glances like they held secrets no one else would understand.
"Do you feel it too?" she asked, after a long moment of comfortable silence.
He turned. "Feel what?"
"This… peace."
Karthik nodded slowly. "I do. But also this… pressure. Like if I say the wrong thing, I'll lose this."
Ananya looked at him, and for once, didn't smile.
"You won't," she said. "I'm here. Even if you mess up the words."
He took a breath. "I think I'm scared to love you out loud."
"You already do," she said gently, placing a grain of pongal on his palm. "You just haven't said it yet."
Karthik looked down at the sweet grain, golden and warm.
He closed his fingers around it and whispered, "Soon."
They sat like that—two hearts learning how to speak a language beyond words.
And the festival carried on around them, vibrant and full of joy.
But in that quiet space under the neem tree, their world was simpler.
It was just her.
And him.
And the unspoken promise that love would come in its own time.
---
END OF CHAPTER 130