When Our Hands Touched

When Our Hands Touched The wedding had already turned into the kind of beautiful chaos only big Indian families can create. Bright lights, too-loud music, kids running between chairs, relatives calling out names from across the lawn—it all blended into a warm, noisy swirl. I wasn’t even supposed to be there for long. I had promised I’d show my face, congratulate the couple, grab a plate of food, and disappear before someone convinced me to join a dance performance. But plans rarely survive weddings. I was standing near the juice counter, waiting for my turn, when the crowd thickened around me. A group of cousins rushed past, laughing, bumping into anyone in their way. I took a small step back to avoid a little boy who was waving a balloon sword like a gladiator. And that’s when it happened. A hand brushed mine. Not a gentle passing touch—more like two people reaching for the same moment without expecting the other. Her fingers were cool from holding a glass of lemonade. Mine were warm from walking around outside. The contrast made the contact sharper, like a spark flickering between our skin before either of us even processed what happened. I turned. She was already looking at me. She wore a soft pastel lehenga that caught the light every time she moved. A few strands of her hair had come loose from her bun, framing her face in a way that made her look both elegant and disarmingly human. Her eyes widened slightly—not embarrassed, just surprised, the way someone reacts when they accidentally stumble into a private moment. “Sorry,” she said, her voice quiet but clear over the music. “Crowd control isn’t my strongest skill.” I laughed. “No worries. This place is practically a battlefield.” That earned a small smile from her. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a tiny gesture that made my heartbeat speed up for no logical reason. “I’m Aanya,” she said, shifting her glass to her other hand. “I’m—” I started, but someone behind me nudged forward, and we both instinctively moved aside. She stepped closer to avoid being pushed, and for a second, her dupatta brushed my arm. The scent of jasmine from her perfume drifted in the air—soft, lingering, impossible to ignore. “Go ahead,” she said, nodding toward the counter. “You were here first.” “It’s fine. I’ve survived this long. I can wait.” She laughed lightly. “You’re too kind. People usually fight for juice at weddings.” “Oh trust me, I can fight for it. I just didn’t want to start my evening with a headline-worthy brawl.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “A dramatic wedding brawl would’ve made tonight memorable.” “I mean… something already did.” I didn’t realize I had said that out loud until her smile turned slow and curious. “Oh?” she asked. “And what was that?” I lifted my hand slightly, the one that had touched hers a moment earlier. She looked at it, then back at me, and I saw her cheeks warm with the faintest blush. She didn’t look away. If anything, her expression softened. “Well,” she said, “that makes two of us.” I don’t know why that made my stomach flip, but it did. The crowd shifted again, pulling us closer to the counter. She bumped lightly into my shoulder and whispered, almost to herself, “This place really isn’t meant for introverts.” “I agree,” I said. “We should form an alliance.” “Oh? And what are the terms of this alliance?” “Simple. We stick together until we survive the juice counter and any random aunties asking if we’re dating.” She grinned. “You might have just saved me.” We finally got our drinks and stepped aside. The music changed to something slow and romantic, and the fairy lights above us flickered in soft gold. Aanya took a sip of her lemonade and made a face. “Too sweet,” she said. I tasted my mango drink. “Mine is basically liquid sugar.” She stole a quick glance at me. “Want to switch?” “You’d trust me with your lemonade?” “You look trustworthy.” I tried not to smile too widely. “That’s a dangerous assumption.” “We’re at a wedding,” she said with a shrug. “Everything’s a dangerous assumption.” We swapped drinks. She took a sip of mine and raised her eyebrows. “Wow. This is sweeter than my cousin’s drama.” I laughed loudly enough that a few people stared. She didn’t mind. She was too busy enjoying the moment. As the evening went on, we walked around the venue, talking like old friends who accidentally discovered they’d missed years of conversation. We found a quieter corner near the lights, the kind where you can hear yourself think again. Laughter from the dance floor floated over, blending with the soft clinking of cutlery and distant fireworks. At one point, a breeze swept through, and her dupatta shifted. She reached to adjust it, but it tangled near her bangles. Without thinking, I held it in place so it wouldn’t fall. Her eyes lifted to mine, slow and steady. “Thanks,” she said, her voice lower now. “Anytime.” Our hands brushed again—just the lightest touch. But unlike before, this time neither of us moved away. Not immediately. Something about that tiny contact made the noise around us fade a little. It wasn’t a dramatic, heart-stopping moment. Just… warm. Intentional. The kind of moment people don’t talk about openly but remember long after the night ends. “You know,” she said softly, “I didn’t even want to come tonight. My mom forced me.” “Then remind me to thank your mom someday.” She looked down, smiling as if trying to hide it. “You’re trouble,” she murmured. “And yet you haven’t walked away.” She met my eyes again. “Maybe I don’t want to.” The music drifted into another slow tune. People around us were dancing, swaying gently in pairs. She watched them for a moment before glancing at me with a playful challenge. “Do you dance?” she asked. “Terribly,” I confessed. “Good,” she said, stepping closer and offering her hand. “Then you’ll match my level perfectly.” I hesitated for half a second before placing my hand in hers. Her fingers curled around mine, warm and steady. And just like that, we moved—not perfectly, not gracefully, but in a way that felt real. She laughed when I stepped on my own foot, and I laughed when she lost balance for a second. Our awkward rhythm somehow felt perfect. When the song faded, she didn’t let go immediately. Neither did I. The night was getting late, relatives were gathering for the final ceremonies, and the usual wedding chaos was picking up again. But in the middle of all that noise, something quiet was happening between us. “Before the night ends,” she said, tugging gently at my hand, “I should probably give you this.” She pulled a small paper napkin from her clutch and wrote her number on it. “In case you ever want to… survive another crowd with me.” I took it carefully. “I’d like that.” She smiled—slow, warm, the kind that leaves a mark. “Good,” she said. “Because I’m not done getting to know the guy who can’t fight for juice.” “And I’m not done with the girl who steals my drink.” We stood there for a moment longer, letting the lights and music wrap around us. Then someone called her name from across the lawn. “I should go,” she said softly. “But… call me?” “I will.” As she walked away, the napkin felt strangely important in my hand. The night didn’t end with a kiss, or a dramatic confession. Just two people meeting by accident and discovering a spark they weren’t expecting. And all it took was a simple touch.