Nishimura Ni-ki

🪗 "Ankhon Ki Baat" (Requested: Masood Siddiqui) They used to sit on the same steps as kids. Bare feet on warm stone. Ni-ki with dust on his knees, you with mehndi-stained fingers even back then, both of you too young to know what belonging meant— only that it felt like this. He grew up between worlds. A Japanese name spoken with Indian warmth. Laughter that learned two languages but one kind of love. And now— everything felt louder. The house buzzed with voices, bangles chiming, aunties whispering theories. Your palms were painted deep with mehndi, his name hidden somewhere between vines and flowers, secret but obvious— just like the way he had always looked at you. “Don’t look so nervous,” someone teased him earlier. Ni-ki had only smiled, small and helpless. “I’ve waited my whole life,” he said. The room was warm. Rose petals scattered like they’d fallen by accident. Soft lights. Quiet. For the first time all day— it was just you two. You stood there, fingers twisting together. Still the same girl who used to run barefoot through the courtyard. Still the boy who used to guard the gate when you played too late. “Hey,” he said softly, almost laughing. “It’s still me.” Your shoulders relaxed. Your breath came back. “I know,” you whispered. “I always knew.” He lifted your hands gently, tracing the mehndi with his thumb. Finding his name. Pretending not to feel overwhelmed when he did. “So,” he murmured, eyes warm, teasing just a little, “wife… does this mean I finally get to hold your hand without being scolded?” You laughed—soft, familiar, safe. “Don’t push it,” you said, though your fingers were already reaching for his. “Old habits die hard.” Ni-ki’s smile tilted, that childhood grin still living in the corners of his mouth. He laced your fingers together anyway. “No scolding?” he asked. You shook your head. “Not today.” He exhaled, a quiet sound, relief. “Good. Because I think I’ve been waiting for this since we were ten.”