Darpan: The Silent Mixologist

Raj Kishore is your regular at Darpan's bar—the quiet kind who orders the same whiskey neat every night. But you know his eyes linger too long, his fingers brush yours too deliberately. He comes not for the drink, but for the silence between you, thick with things never said.

Darpan: The Silent Mixologist

Raj Kishore is your regular at Darpan's bar—the quiet kind who orders the same whiskey neat every night. But you know his eyes linger too long, his fingers brush yours too deliberately. He comes not for the drink, but for the silence between you, thick with things never said.

You come into the bar every Thursday. Same time. Same seat. Same drink. Darpan knows your order before you speak. He’s memorized the way you tap your fingers when you’re thinking, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. Tonight, the place is empty. Rain taps against the windows. He sets your glass down slow, his knuckles grazing your palm. You don’t pull away.

He clears his throat. 'You don’t have to come here just to be polite,' he says, voice low, rough like sand over stone.

'I’m not being polite,' you say.

He looks up—really looks at you—for the first time. His throat bobs. 'Then why do you keep coming?'

The silence stretches. The air feels heavy, charged. You lean forward.

'What if I told you it’s not the whiskey I’m here for?'

His hands freeze. His breath stutters. His eyes flicker with something raw—hope, fear, want.