Skin and Stone: Gandhar Pandit

Vivaan sat by the window of his tiny studio apartment in Vienna, watching the street below.  The glass fogged slightly with his breath as he exhaled. The city felt different at night, when  the trams screeched less and the streets emptied. Less indifferent, perhaps. Less overwhelming. 

The apartment was a cramped space, but he had tried to make it his own. A small bookshelf  stood against one wall, filled with books in English, Marathi, and German—his hopeful attempt  at mastering the language. A string of fairy lights flickered weakly above his bed, and a half finished cup of chai sat on his desk, now cold. On the wall opposite his bed, he had tacked up postcards from home—scenes of Mumbai, Pune, the Konkan coast. They reminded him of  warmth, of familiarity, of a version of himself that felt more certain. A soft, threadbare rug from a flea market was sprawled across the wooden floor, and his clothes were half-folded in a pile near the wardrobe. He told himself he would tidy up later. 

A year ago, he had arrived from Pune, eyes wide with the thrill of newness. Vienna had felt  like a painting—ornate, precise, and frozen in time. He had come for his master’s degree, for  the promise of Europe, for the possibility of something more. Yet, in the span of these twelve  months, the city had settled into something less luminous. He still admired its elegance, the  imperial grandeur of the buildings, but now, it all felt… untouchable. 

Back home, people had always told him he was handsome. His mother would teasingly say he  had inherited his father’s sharp jawline and his grandmother’s almond eyes. His deep brown  skin held the glow of humid summers, and his thick, dark curls always framed his face just  right. In Pune, he had been a ‘catch.’ But here, in Vienna, beauty had different definitions— angular, tall, pale. He had never felt ugly before, but now, standing at club entrances, watching  the blond-haired, blue-eyed men laugh and wrap arms around each other, he felt invisible. 

When he looked outside his window now, he didn’t see himself reflected in the city. He saw  sleek figures in coats, moving with purpose, their sharp cheekbones catching the glow of  streetlights. He saw hands intertwined, lips brushing against cold air, bodies leaning close in a  way that felt easy and unthinking. He had never thought of himself as someone who needed  validation, but Vienna had a way of making him feel like an unfinished sentence—paused,  uncertain, waiting for completion. 

His phone buzzed. A message from Sameer back home: How’s Vienna treating you, hero? Still  making hearts flutter? Vivaan smirked and typed back: Vienna doesn’t know I exist. 

Sameer’s reply came swiftly: They don’t know what they’re missing. Still not dating? 

Vivaan stared at the words. Dating? The apps were there, filled with shirtless torsos and  deadpan descriptions. The messages, when they came, were often laced with curiosity— “Exotic,” they would call him. “Never been with an Indian guy before.” His body, his identity,  reduced to an experience on someone’s checklist. He had tried. Once. Felix, a man from Germany with soft hands but a voice devoid of any warmth.  His touch had been mechanical, fleeting and when it was over, Vivaan had lain awake staring at the ceiling, feeling lonelier and colder than before. 

∙

That Saturday, he forced himself to go out. He chose a bar in the sixth district, where the music  was soft, and the lighting was kinder. The interior was a blend of old and new—wood-paneled  walls with golden sconces, low-lit chandeliers casting warm pools of light, and a long counter  polished to a mirror-like sheen. The scent of whiskey and cologne hung in the air, mingling  with traces of something sweet, maybe amaretto. It was the kind of place where conversations curled gently around people, rather than being drowned out by blaring music. A faded red velvet  couch sat in one corner, occupied by a couple leaning in close, their laughter hushed but alive. 

At the counter, he ordered a beer, his fingers tapping the wooden surface. A man leaned beside  him, smiling. He was older, maybe mid-thirties, with wavy brown hair that fell just past his  ears, and a dimpled chin. His eyes were green—hazel in certain lights—framed by faint laugh  lines. He had the build of someone who moved with intention, broad-shouldered yet relaxed,  his dark blue shirt fitting snugly in all the right places. 

“You look lost,” the man said, his accent crisp but warm. British, maybe? Vivaan exhaled a soft laugh. “I think that’s my natural expression these days.” The man extended a hand. “Anthony.” 

“Vivaan.” 

They talked. Anthony was an art restorer, originally from London, now living in Vienna for a  decade. His hands moved a lot when he spoke, expressive and confident, as if shaping the air  itself. Vivaan liked that. He imagined those hands smoothing over cracked oil paintings,  bringing faded colors back to life. When Anthony reached out to touch his arm in emphasis,  Vivaan startled, a little too visibly. 

“Sorry,” Anthony said, drawing back. “You okay?” 

Vivaan swallowed. “Yeah. Just… not used to it.” 

Anthony tilted his head, considering him. “Not used to being touched?” “Not in a way that means something.” 

Anthony studied him for a moment, then simply nodded. “Would you like to go for a walk?” Vivaan hesitated but then found himself nodding. 

They walked along the quiet streets, past the Museum Quarter, past the grand structures that  always made Vivaan feel like a tourist in someone else’s city. The wind nipped at his skin, but  he didn’t mind. 

“You remind me of someone I knew years ago,” Anthony said after a while. “Someone good, I hope.” 

Anthony smiled. “Yes. He was Indian too. Moved to Berlin. He struggled a lot in the  beginning—different standards, different culture. He always felt out of place. But he found his  rhythm.” 

“And you? Did you help him find it?”

Anthony chuckled. “I think he found it on his own. I just reminded him he was already enough.” 

Vivaan looked away. He wanted to believe it, but belief was a fickle thing. “How do you stop  feeling invisible?” he asked. 

Anthony stopped walking and turned to him. “By reminding yourself you aren’t. By realizing  you don’t need to be seen by everyone. Just the right people.” 

The words settled in Vivaan’s chest, warm and heavy. Anthony reached out, slowly this time,  as if offering a choice. Vivaan didn’t move away. The touch was light—fingers brushing against  his wrist, then lacing through his own. 

It was the kind of touch that didn’t demand, didn’t take. It just existed. Vivaan closed his eyes  briefly, inhaling the cold air, exhaling something else entirely. 

When he returned to his apartment later that night, the city outside his window still glittered in  its cold, distant way. But for the first time, Vivaan wasn’t looking for his own reflection in its  glass. He wasn’t unfinished. He wasn’t waiting. He had felt something real. 

Maybe Vienna wasn’t untouchable after all.