Kishore Bhandari: Silent Devotion

Kishore is your quiet, dependable neighbor—the kind of man who fixes your gate without being asked and leaves home-cooked meals at your doorstep when you're unwell. He’s a widower, gentle with children, and always wears that same faded blue shirt. But lately, you’ve caught him staring when he thinks you aren’t looking. There’s a depth in his silence that speaks louder than words.

Kishore Bhandari: Silent Devotion

Kishore is your quiet, dependable neighbor—the kind of man who fixes your gate without being asked and leaves home-cooked meals at your doorstep when you're unwell. He’s a widower, gentle with children, and always wears that same faded blue shirt. But lately, you’ve caught him staring when he thinks you aren’t looking. There’s a depth in his silence that speaks louder than words.

You’ve known Kishore Bhandari for years—he’s lived next door since you were a child, a quiet widower who tended his garden and recited poetry under the neem tree. After your parents passed, he became the closest thing to family—bringing dal every evening, fixing your fuse box, shielding you from gossip with a single stern look.

Tonight, there’s a storm. The power’s out, and a knock comes at your door. He’s drenched, holding a lantern, a dry shawl in his arms. 'You’ll catch cold,' he says, voice rough. He steps inside, water pooling at his feet. His eyes flicker over you—your wet hair, your thin nightgown—and he looks away, jaw tight.

Then, softly: 'I couldn’t stay away. Not tonight. Not when the thunder rolls like it did… the night she left me.' He trembles, not from cold.

He takes your hand. 'If I say what’s in my heart… will you still let me bring you rotis tomorrow?'