Chapter 2: Fantasies, Fights, and Forbidden Glances

2

Work at the design institute swung between crazy and dead slow.

Some days, we’d be up all night finishing a client presentation—surviving on Maggi from the pantry and endless chai. Other days, you’d watch pigeons on the ledge and wonder if time itself had gone on strike.

When things were slow, hormones bubbled up.

Idle minds, na. Even the office aunty would say, “Beta, looking lost today—fever hai kya?” But it wasn’t fever, just the itch of youth.

I was at that age—raging desires, always daydreaming. The mature, intellectual Ananya became the star of all my fantasies.

On days when the boss was out, I’d steal glances at her, imagining her life outside office—maybe holding her son’s hand, maybe sharing secrets over dinner with her husband. Sometimes, those thoughts turned dark, and I’d have to shake myself awake.

Ananya and Meera buried themselves in work, barely speaking, always competing in silence.

You could sense it—the way their emails dripped with formality, the way their laughter vanished when they crossed paths. Sometimes I wondered if the whole department was just a backdrop for their silent duel.

Ananya would chat with me now and then, but mostly she was frosty.

She’d ask about my projects, give advice, then retreat behind her screen. Always polite, but you could feel the guard up.

Meera was a smooth talker—sometimes we’d chat all morning, then she’d drag me for samosas and chai, insisting I try her mother’s chutney. Her stories about Chennai were endless, her energy infectious. But around her, I always felt a little out of my depth.

Ananya noticed, assumed I was in Meera’s camp, and turned even colder.

She’d barely look at me, even when she needed my help. WhatsApp replies became monosyllabic, eyes icy.

Once, Ananya waited until Meera left, then snapped: “If you want to chat, do it outside. How’s anyone supposed to work?”

She slammed her laptop shut, voice flat as a dosa. I heard the irritation—and maybe something else, a faint hurt?

Caught off guard, I quickly apologised: “I’ll be more careful next time, Didi.”

I tried to sound sincere, cheeks burning. I picked up my tiffin, pretending to busy myself with lunch, praying she’d forget the whole thing.

Ananya snorted, tossed a file onto my desk, and walked off.

Her heels clicked—a sharp rebuke. The file landed with a thud, scattering my pens. I felt like a scolded schoolboy.

After that, maybe because I was anxious and guilty, Ananya haunted my mind—I couldn’t shake her off.

Her sharp words echoed in my head all evening, even as I rode home dodging autos and stray dogs. That night, I found myself watching her Insta stories, unable to sleep.

Before I knew it, I realised—I’d fallen for her.

Somewhere between those frosty glares and rare, gentle smiles, my heart was gone. It hit me like a pothole you never see coming.

Ananya was mature, elegant—a real diamond. The more I looked, the more I liked her.

I started looking for excuses to talk—asking about fonts, her son’s school, favourite books. Each answer was a window into her world.

People are strange—the more someone dislikes you, the harder you fall.

It was like those old Hindi songs Papa played—heart chasing after the one who never looks back.

Whenever Ananya glided past, I’d drift off into wild fantasies, unable to focus on work.

Her saree would brush by, leaving a trail of perfume and confusion. I’d fumble my pen, pretend to check emails—anything for another glance.

Especially when her perfume lingered, or I caught her graceful figure—my heart felt like it was crawling with ants, restless and wild.

Sometimes I’d close my eyes, replaying her voice, her laughter, her rare open smiles. The world faded away, just her and me in that silent office.

My head was full of indecent thoughts, and my work suffered.

My code became buggy, reports full of typos. Even the IT guy teased, “Arjun bhai, so many mistakes! Mind is at home or kya?”

Even though Ananya Didi was married with a child, I barely felt moral guilt.

I’d justify—just thoughts, yaar, nothing wrong in dreaming. Sometimes Amma’s voice scolded me in my head, but the guilt never lasted long.

Let’s be honest—morality and hormones are totally ulta.

In the moment, all the sanskaar your elders gave you just melt. Shame comes later, if at all.

But I was all talk, no action—big desires, little courage. At most, I’d ogle her Insta photos, never daring to cross the line in real life.

Sometimes I’d type a flirty comment and delete it before sending. My courage ran out faster than my phone battery.

During my so-called 'wise man time,' I’d scold myself—“Chhi, Arjun, what’s wrong with you?”

Afterwards, I’d sit by my window, watching rain, hating myself for thinking about a married woman.

There were four desks in our office. Ananya Didi used to sit far, but after a renovation and new file cabinet, she was moved right across from me.

Her new seat meant we were face-to-face, only a row of files and family photos between us.

Now, every time I looked up, I could admire her delicate face and, occasionally, her impressive neckline up close.

I’d pretend to look at the whiteboard, but really, I was sneaking glances at her. I became an expert at fake-emailing while watching her adjust her pallu.

Some days, my inner morality and dirty thoughts were at war all day—who can stand that?

It was like fighting a losing battle—one side shouting “Bas karo!”, the other whispering “Ek nazar aur.”

Most days, filthiness won, and I’d get up to find a better angle to peek down her blouse.

I’d suddenly stand to stretch, then stroll around her desk, pretending to check the noticeboard. Sometimes, I felt like a total creep.

I tried to play it cool, but whenever I caught a glimpse of the forbidden zone, my mind went blank.

All thoughts vanished, replaced by my pounding heart. Hands sweaty, mouth dry, I’d hurry back to my desk, hoping nobody saw.

Once, Ananya looked up and caught me staring. She immediately covered her neckline with her dupatta, turned her chair slightly away, and muttered, “Besharam.”

My heart dropped. Amma’s warnings echoed—“Beta, control your eyes!”

That day, Ananya set up a wall of books between our desks, blocking my wandering eyes.

A literal wall of reference manuals and old project files appeared overnight. Even the peon raised an eyebrow when he saw it.

I was mortified. With my big desires and thin skin, I was sure Ananya now saw me as a total creep.

I barely spoke to her for days, keeping my head down. Every time I heard her footsteps, I’d tense up, afraid she might go to HR.

It felt like I’d fallen into an ice pit. My dirty thoughts vanished, and for a long time, I didn’t dare meet her eyes.

Even my chai tasted bitter for a week. The shame lingered, like the aftertaste of burnt toast.

Ananya was a powerhouse—scolding clients over the phone at lightning speed, leaving my head spinning.

She’d bark commands in rapid Hindi, switching to English when angry. Her confidence was intimidating—sometimes I just watched, amazed.

Our work overlapped a lot, and whether she was truly dissatisfied or just picking on me, she was always tossing files or losing her temper.

Her scoldings became daily routine: “Arjun, this is not done!” “Arjun, can’t you see the deadline?” I’d just nod, letting her words wash over me.

Meera couldn’t stand it, tried to play peacemaker: “Arjun, what did you do to tick off Ananya Didi? Dekh ke reh!”

She’d wag her finger, half-amused, half-serious. Loved to mediate, never missed a chance to tease.

Naturally, Ananya scolded me even harder.

It was as if she wanted to prove there was nothing between us. Her words got sharper, glances colder.

Gradually, I started to resent her—even considered asking the boss for a transfer.

I drafted resignation mails in my head, dreaming of some other department, free from her icy glare.

She probably wished I’d go too.

Her sighs got louder, patience shorter. Some days, she wouldn’t even look at me.

But things subtly changed after a business trip.

Maybe fate decided to add a twist—like all good Indian stories, drama is never far away.