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Her mother calls, furious. “What will the flower lady say? What about the wedding alliance list?” Ananya doesn’t argue. She brings Vikram home on a Friday evening, in a cotton saree, him in a veshti. He carries jasmine and a box of Krishna Sweets. They don’t make a speech. He helps her grandmother cut vegetables. By Sunday, the flower lady is asking for wedding date ideas.

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Ananya is dating Vikram, a startup guy from Anna Nagar. Their “public relationship” is a tightrope walk. At The Marina, they sit two feet apart until sunset, then share earphones. At Saravana Bhavan, they order from separate bills to avoid raised eyebrows. When a school friend spots them at Express Avenue, Ananya’s instinct is to step back. Vikram laughs. “You’re more scared of Mylapore aunties than your own boss.” She replies, “You haven’t seen my grandmother’s WhatsApp forwards.” Her mother calls, furious

The turning point is a metro ride from Alandur to Central. Vikram doesn’t try to hold her hand. Instead, he pulls out a worn copy of Ponniyin Selvan and points to a line: “Even queens deserve a love that doesn’t ask them to hide.” Ananya realizes she’s tired of split bills and strategic distance. That night, she posts a photo of their hands—coffee cups, both frothy—with the caption: “Public. Private. Ours.” She brings Vikram home on a Friday evening,