Milan Vohra - The Love Asana

He had been surprised to find himself drawn into a vortex towards Pari. It made him grow aroused just wondering how it would feel to have her legs wrapped around his. The only sense he could make of it was the cool way she had behaved with him. Pari had treated Vivan with none of the open adoration he was used to getting from women. It irked him no end and was probably why she had got under his skin the way she had.

Even though he had no facts to confirm it as yet, Vivan felt convinced Pari was Deepak’s sister. The background check on Deepak had shown that he had lived in Delhi after leaving his home at sixteen. Then there was the marriage that happened two years ago, by all reports a happy one. In Vivan’s opinion most men ran true to type. Sonia had an outward resemblance to the recent pictures he had seen of Deepak’s wife: tall, strikingly sharp features, a fair complexion. Pari looked nothing like that, he realised with certainty. She was small; her skin was a delicious dusky tone, her nose a pert little button. No. She had to be Deepak’s sister for sure. Blood was thicker than water and no wonder Deepak was so concerned about pushing his own sister forward. The bastard—it was time he realised how it felt for his own sister to be used and discarded.

Pari pushed the image firmly to the back of her mind—her face wide-eyed, her lips parted in anticipation of being very thoroughly kissed. She walked straight to the car, legs still a little wobbly. The rather run-down hatchback she had bought at a throwaway price from Deepak in days when he was doing better had been a huge blessing and the only indulgence she had allowed herself in Delhi. Earlier today she’d been lucky to get parking in the always crowded lot. Now there was a sensational top-end silver sedan parked very close to her car where a bike had been when she’d parked. She’d have to squeeze into the gap to get to her driving seat. Worse, as Pari fumbled around in the outer section of her bag, she realised the keys didn’t seem to be there. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember putting them in there as she normally did. Pari turned her mobile to torch mode, zigzagging the light from it on the ground, hoping to find she’d dropped the key somewhere close.

Vivan reached his car, stopping short at the sight of Pari’s distinct curvaceous little bottom sticking out from under the car next to his.

‘We meet again,’ he said, amazed at the extraordinary coincidence.

She didn’t reply.

‘A little sooner than I thought.’

Silence again. Although, really, Pari thought, the last person she wanted to see was the one towering behind her as she continued to search on her knees for the damned keys.

Does this kind of thing have to happen only to me? A response would only encourage the devil into believing he had got away with his outrageous behaviour in the class.

‘Yoga again? Out on the road?’ Vivan was enjoying seeing her discomfort as she straightened up from under the car.

‘It’s my keys. I can’t find them,’ she bit back, getting up to glare at him.

‘Pity. Just when I was getting truly impressed by your dedication to your subject.’

Pari didn’t think it warranted an answer, so glared at him again as she continued to search.

‘Think again,’ he added helpfully, speaking slowly to help jog her memory. ‘You got out of the car. You shut the door. You pressed the lock switch on your key, I presume, and then?’

‘No. No. This car’s old. I have to lock it manually. I can’t—’ Pari stopped suddenly, annoyed that she had even engaged in dialogue with him, and simultaneously being struck by the common-sense explanation of what had obviously happened. Pari leaned down to look into the car, grimacing as she directed the phone’s light near the dashboard. There, hanging on a little chain, the key dangled jauntily from the ignition switch.

‘I must have pulled the handle to lock it. I was running a bit late today,’ Pari said, dismayed.

‘Let me drop you back,’ Vivan offered, hitting the unlock button on his key to have all the doors to the sleek super-luxury car click open in low understated beeping synchronisation.

Pari clutched her bag and started walking away from Vivan. ‘Thanks. But, no, thanks. That’s not necessary,’ she said, not stopping to think why the idea of sharing an intimate space in a car with this man should feel so dangerous yet exciting. ‘I’ll get an auto,’ she mumbled, her explanation wasted in the wind and Delhi’s heavy night traffic.

Ten minutes later Pari realised the hopelessness of getting an auto to go the short distance of three kilometres. If that wasn’t bad enough, an early winter mist was settling in. The only alternative was to walk home—not the safest of ideas but her best bet for now.

Vivan manoeuvred the car as swiftly as he could through the chaotic parking lot and was relieved to see Pari walking desolately, dodging the speeding cars, jacket huddled close, big bag clutched under her arm, vainly trying to flag down autos. Each one would careen dangerously close and then speed away on hearing the destination, before anyone could call the cops on them.

‘Get in,’ Vivan barked, vehicles already starting to pile up and honk behind his car.

There was no option; Pari quickly lowered herself into the plush low seat of the heavenly warm car and its lemony interiors.

‘Where to?’

‘R.K.Puram. Sector twelve, just behind Sangam, please,’ Pari said, pointedly polite. ‘I hope I’m not taking you out of your way.’

Vivan replied with just the merest shake of his head as he looked straight ahead, making Pari all the more aware of the overwhelming masculinity of him. At least ten inches taller than her, maybe more, he seemed to fill the large car effortlessly. His slim hands on the gear stick and steering wheel, she couldn’t help but notice, were as large and sensuous as she had thought they would be. His fingers were long and well made and she could imagine them caressing an instrument with masterful ease. The same ease with which they would slowly caress a woman’s body …

There was a huge traffic pile-up, Pari saw, and it wasn’t just the usual bottleneck around the dug-up sections where the Metro rail was planned. Some motorcyclist had chosen to cut a red light and the car he’d hit was badly dented, though luckily no one was hurt. This of course meant that at least a half-hour argument would ensue before the vehicles were moved. Unlike many others who kept honking and keeping their cars unnecessarily revved, Vivan had pragmatically switched off the ignition.

Pari looked a little tense, not quite settled into the deep low seat.

‘Might have been faster if I’d walked,’ she mumbled awkwardly.

‘Ah, but not nearly as comfortable.’ Vivan picked up the sleek wafer-thin remote to flick on the high-end music system and decisively selected a channel that was playing a soothing Sufi song. He saw from Pari’s expression that it was something she liked too. He then pressed open a slim freezer chest cleverly designed to sit neatly between the two front seats, which seemed to be stocked with an eclectic selection of beverages. ‘Something to drink?’ he asked, offering her a chilled premixed bottle of cranberry cocktail.

‘Thank you. But I don’t drink,’ Pari said politely.

‘Of course. I should have guessed.’ Vivan held out a bottle of imported sparkling water. ‘Something healthy, I guess, given that you’re a yoga teacher. Oh, not just a yoga teacher … a “Purist” at that!’ he teased.

Pari shook her head, allowing herself a small smile. ‘Actually, I’m more of an adrak ki chai person.’

‘There’s nothing to compare with hot gingery dhaba chai ,’ Vivan agreed, to Pari’s surprise.