The sun was melting into the fields of coastal Andhra when Raghav first saw Sravani.
The sun was melting into the fields of coastal Andhra when Raghav first saw Sravani.
It was Sankranti season in their village near the Godavari. The air smelled of fresh sugarcane and rangoli powder. Colorful kites dotted the sky, and every house had bright muggu designs spread proudly at the doorstep. Telugu Sex Stories
Sravani stood in front of her house, bending slightly to finish a delicate white-and-blue muggu. Her half-saree flowed in the breeze, her long braid tied with bright ribbons. When she straightened up, brushing rice flour from her fingers, Raghav forgot why he had even walked down that lane.
She noticed him staring.
“Em chustunnaru?” she asked, trying to sound serious, but her eyes were smiling. (What are you looking at?)
He cleared his throat. “Muggu… chala baagundi.” telugu boothu kathalu
(The rangoli… it’s very beautiful.)
She tilted her head. “Muggu aa? Leda muggu veyyindhi aa?”
(The rangoli? Or the one who drew it?)
Raghav laughed, defeated already.
In Andhra, love often begins with teasing.
He started finding reasons to pass by her house — to return a borrowed sickle for his father, to deliver milk packets, to ask about kite thread. Each time, they exchanged small words that felt much bigger than they sounded.
One evening, during Bhogi, the whole village gathered around the bonfire. The flames rose high, sparks flying into the twilight sky. Children clapped. Elders chatted. Drums beat in the background.
Sravani stood a little apart from the crowd, the firelight dancing across her face. Raghav walked toward her, heart pounding louder than the drums.
“Meeru Hyderabad ki vellipothunnaru anta?” she asked quietly.
(I heard you’re leaving for Hyderabad?)
He nodded. “Job vachindi.” (I got a job.)
She looked down, drawing small patterns in the mud with her toe. “Mari… tirigi vastara?”
(Then… will you come back?)
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Vastanu. Nuvvu ikkade unte, nenu ela raakapothanu?”
(I will. If you’re here, how can I not?)
Her breath caught.
The wind blew a strand of hair across her face. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked it behind her ear. His fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary.
The world didn’t stop.
But for them, it slowed.
In that moment, the fire between them wasn’t just from the Bhogi flames. It was in the way her bangles brushed his wrist. In the way his thumb lightly traced the edge of her palm before their hands fully intertwined.
It was new. Bold. Terrifying.
“Sravani,” he said softly, using her name like a promise.
She looked up at him, eyes reflecting the firelight. “Raghav…”
He didn’t kiss her wildly. This wasn’t a movie scene. Instead, he pressed his forehead gently to hers, their hands still clasped.
“Naaku nuvvu ishtam,” he whispered.
(I like you… deeply.)
She smiled, shy but certain. “Naaku kuda.”
(Me too.)
Months later, from the noisy streets of Hyderabad, he called her every night. He listened to her talk about college, about her mother’s scoldings, about the new calf born in their backyard. The distance made their love stronger, not weaker.
When he finally returned for Ugadi, he didn’t just walk to her lane.
He walked straight to her house.
Standing before her father with respect, voice steady but heart racing, he said he wanted to marry her.
From the doorway, Sravani watched — nervous, hopeful, proud.
Because the boy who once admired her muggu had become the man who would draw a future with her.
On their wedding day, beneath the canopy decorated with mango leaves and marigolds, as he tied the mangalsutra around her neck, he leaned close and whispered:
“Hyderabad lo job dorikindi… kani na jeevitham ikkade dorikindi.”
(I found a job in Hyderabad… but I found my life here.)
Sravani’s eyes filled with happy tears.
In Andhra style, love isn’t loud.
It’s in shared sugarcane during Sankranti.
In late-night phone calls.
In standing before family with courage.
It begins with a smile across a muggu…
…and becomes a lifetime of walking side by side through sun, rain, and harvest seasons.


