The sharp blades of the ceiling fan cut through the air of Abhimanyu's bedroom. He lazily lay sprawled across the bed sheet, foot tangled in the blankets. His dark, messy waves fell across his cooled forehead. The sunlight slipped in through the balcony door, catching the edge of a discarded shirt on the floor. His phone continued buzzing, and he groaned, still not opening his eyes as he whacked his alarm clock with his hand. He rubbed his hand down his face, fingers catching on stubble, then finally pushed himself up.
" Yaar yeh bacche bhi naa", he complained as the loud sounds of children yelling from the courtyard of Mahalaxmi jolted his eyes open. ( Ugh, these kids)
He slowly got up from his bed and pushed open the balcony door, stepping out as the golden sun rays caught the light of his fair, broad chest, highlighting the solid muscle stretched across his torso. His arms were broad, biceps rolling naturally as he moved, and his frame filled the space with an easy, commanding weight.
"Abhi!"
The voice came sharply from the kitchen.
He winced, smiled anyway. "Uth gaya, Maasi." (I'm up, Aunt)
"Uth gaya bol raha hai jaise main andhi hoon, Pagal munda", Nimmi Maasi said. "Clock dekh."
( He's saying he's woken up as if I'm blind, idiot boy. look at the clock)
He walked in, reached past her to turn the stove off. He grabbed a cloth, lifted the kettle, and set it aside.
"Chai bana rahi thi?" he asked. ( You were making chai)
"Tere liye hi toh jee rahi hoon," she said, finally glancing at him. ( Yes for you itself)
" Chii yaar, kam se kam, shirt toh pehen liya karo.. Koi tujhe nahi dekh raha hai," she said.
( Eww, dude, at least wear a shirt. No one's looking at you)
He shrugged, chuckling," Dusre logon ko mujhe dekhne ke liye kya zaroorat, main khud ko dekh raha hoon". ( What is the need for others to see me? I'm looking at myself that's important)
"Kitne baje aaya tu kal raat! Office office bolke sab maaf?" She slid a steaming plate of two aloo parathas, still glossywith ghee. A small bowl of curd followed. ( What time did you come home last night? Office is not an excuse)
He picked one up, tearing a piece, dipped it in the curd. "Tu na hoti toh main bhookha mar jaata." ( If you weren't there, I'd die hungry)
"Haan haan," she said. "Butter laga ke mar jaata." ( Yea Yea, dying while putting on butter)
He grinned, chewing. The grin stayed even when she glanced over again, eyes narrowing slightly at the dark smudge under his right eye.
"Yeh kya hai?" she asked, chin lifting. ( What's this?)
He blinked. "Kya?" ( What?)
"Yeh," she said, tapping under her own eye. (This)
"Neend," he said easily. "Free mein milti hai aaj kal." ( Sleep. I get it for free these days)
She raised an eyebrow but let it go. "Sun," she said, wiping her hands. "Corner store se matka rasgulla le aana." (Listen, go to the corner store and bring matka rasgulla)
He groaned. "Abhi?" (Now?)
"Abhi nahi toh kab?" She gestured with her chin toward the clock. "Sab fresh milta hai is time. Baad mein syrup hi syrup." ( Yes, everything is fresh at this time... after that it's just syrup)
"Half kilo," she said. "Aur zyada natak mat kar." ( Half a kilogram, and don't do so much drama)
"Main natak karta hoon?" He grabbed the shirt, pulling it over his head. "Waise tu khud ja sakti hai." ( I do drama really? Why don't you go yourself?)
She looked him up and down deliberately. "Abe ja na yaar." (Yaar, go na!)
"Chappal pehen," she said. ( Wear your sandals)
"Haan haan."
" Aur idhar - udhar mat bhatakna,, she warned him. ( And don't travel here and there)
The mithai store sat wedged between a shuttered tailor and a paan shop just outside the gates of Mahalaxmi. Its yellow signboard flickered even in daylight. On the small radio, the low-fi beats of Kishore Kumar's "Dil Kya Kare" played.
"Bhaiyya," he asked, already reaching for his wallet. "El Matki rasgulla chahiye."
The shopkeeper looked up slowly as if Abhimanyu had asked for his firstborn. He sucked in air through his teeth and shook his head with sorrow.
"Ek hi bacha hai, saab." ( There's only one left.)
Abhimanyu exhaled, relieved. "Toh de do." ( then give it)
"Arre—" the shopkeeper raised a finger. "Par—"
"Par kya?" Abhimanyu frowned.
Before the shopkeeper could finish the sentence, a much smaller voice cut through the shop like a firecracker.
"Mujhe chahiye." ( I want it)
Abhimanyu turned.
She stood near the counter on tiptoe, chin lifted in challenge, a head of wild curls tied into two uneven ponies that looked like they'd fought gravity and won. Her pink cheeks were round, brown eyes enormous and dark. She firmly clutched a tiny pink purse with cartoon bunnies on it.
"Tum?" he said, confused, pointing vaguely at her general existence.
"Haan, main," she replied, indignant. "Main pehle aayi thi." ( Yes me, I came first)
The shopkeeper coughed. "Beta, yeh uncle—" ( Child, this uncle)
She scowled, jabbing a finger at Abhimanyu, "Yeh uncle baad mein aaye." ( This uncle came after me)
Abhimanyu raised an eyebrow despite himself. "Excuse me?"
She crossed her arms. The purse slipped and bonked her knee. She ignored it with dignity.
" Aaj mujhe Roshogulla chahiye." ( I want roshgulla today)
Abhimanyu glanced at the matki behind the glass, then back at her. "aaj aane se ownership nahi mil jaati, you know." ( coming today, doesn't grant you ownership)
She squinted. "Ownelship kya hota hai?" ( What is ownership?)
"Exactly," he said smugly.
Her lips wobbled for half a second before she caught herself. "Mujhe mummy ne bola tha, good girl banungi toh roshgulla milega." ( Mom said, if I behave I will get Roshgulla)
"Accha?" He leaned against the counter. "Aur mujhe meri aunt ne bola tha laane ko" ( Really? and my aunt said to bring some)
"Kaun aunt?" ( Which aunt?)
"Nimmi."
Her eyes widened. "Woh jo loud loud baat karti hain?" ( The one who talks loudly)
He laughed before he could stop himself. "Haan, wohi." ( Yes, her)
The shopkeeper watched the exchange like a tennis match. "Toh saab... kya karein?" ( So what should we do?)
Abhimanyu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Tumhari mummy kahan hain?" ( Fine, where is your mom)
She lifted her chin higher. "Mummy busy hain." ( she's busy)
"Busy being what?"
"Adult," she said seriously.
Something in her tone, in the way she argued, tugged at something old and buried. A flash of memory surfaced uninvited—sunlight bouncing off concrete, a girl his age with 2 uneven plaits, hands on her hips, scolding him for stealing her mango, him pulling her pigtails. He hadn't thought of that in years.
The memory slipped away as quickly as it came, leaving behind a calming sense of warmth.
"Dekho," the shopkeeper said gently, crouching a little. "Ek hi matki hai. Tumhare paas paise hain?" ( Look, there's only one pot, do you have money?)
She nodded enthusiastically and opened her purse. Coins spilt out onto the counter, two rupees, a Cadbury chocolate , and a toffee wrapper.
She stared at the pile. Then up at him. "Yeh enough hai." ( this is enough)
Abhimanyu winced. "Nahi."
She counted again, slower this time. "Enough."
He shook his head. "Still no."
Her face crumpled instantly. Just raw, wholehearted betrayal.
"Main bhookhi mar jaungi," she announced. "Aap kharab ho. Bad uncle! " ( I will die of hunger, bad uncle)
He crouched dramatically , bringing himself closer to her eye level. "Aur main bhi bhooka mar jaunga uska kya? Meri bichaari nimmi kaise rahegi mere bina." ( And I will also die of hunger, my poor aunt, how will she live without me?)
She narrowed her eyes. "Par main chhoti hoon." ( But I'm small)
"That's unfortunate," he said mildly. "Main bada hoon." ( I'm older)
Her mouth fell open. "Aise kaise?" ( What how?)
He shrugged. "Life unfair hoti hai." (Life's unfair)
Pihu dropped to the floor.
First with a little sniffle.
Then breathed in a dramatic inhale that echoed off the shelf.
She peeked up at Abhimany, he gave no reaction.
She groaned softly, lower lip jutting out.
"Mujhe Roshgulla chahiyeeeee..."
He checked his phone.
She upped the volume.
"MERA ROSHGULLLA!!!!!—"
A woman passing outside stopped and peered in.
The shopkeeper wrung his hands. "Beta bas—"
She escalated. Full-body now, arms flailing, feet kicking, tears finally arriving, hot and real, streaking down syrup-sticky cheeks.
" MUJHE RASGULLA CHAHIYE.. BAD UNCLE MUJHE ROSGHULLA NAHI DE RAHE... MAIN MAR JAUNGI BHOOK SE.. DEKHO CHOTI NANHI SI BAHCI KO KHAANA NAHI DERA HE!!" she wailed louder. ("I want a rasgulla... this bad uncle isn't giving me a rasgulla... I'm going to die of hunger... look, he's not giving food to a tiny little child!!")
Abhimanyu sighed. Looked at the ceiling. Looked at the matki. Looked at the four-year-old throwing a tantrum.
The shopkeeper panicked. "Arre beta—"
"Bas," Abhimanyu muttered, already pulling out a note. "De do."
He paid, took the matki, and held it between them. Her crying stopped mid-sob.
"For me?" she asked, suspicious.
"For sharing," he corrected.
She beamed and, without asking, grabbed his hand with her sticky fingers and dragged him outside.
They sat on the low boundary wall near the society park. He cracked open the matki, syrup glistening, the rasgulla soft and perfect.
"Isse rasgulla nahi bolte hai," she informed him, stuffing a bite into her mouth. "But actually yeh roshogolla hota hai. O ke saath."
She nodded like she'd taught him something vital.
"Aapka naam kya hai?" ( What's your name?)
"Abhimanyu."
She frowned. "Bohot lamba hai." ( It's so long)
She shook her head decisively. "Maan uncle."
He laughed. "Theek hai, Maan uncle hi sahi."
They shared the rasgulla, syrup dripping onto his fingers, onto her dress. Staining her chubby cheeks and her lips.
"Aapke mummy papa kaha hai beta?" Abhimanyu asked. ( Where are your parents?)
"Mere papa nahi hain," she said suddenly, casual, eyes on the swings. "Bas mummy hai."
Something deeper tightened in his chest.
She looked up at him, curious. "Aapko mummy pasand aayengi." ( You will like my mom)
"Accha?" He smirked. " Tumhaari Mummy Hot hai kya?" ( Oh.. is she hot or what?)
She stared at him, horrified. "Bukhar hai kya?" ( She has a fever??)
He laughed so hard, almost choking.
They walked toward the park, her hand still in his, her chatter endless as she led him to the swings.
Akshay woke to the sound of steel plates clinking somewhere far below his large room.
The beige curtains were half-drawn, sunlight slipping in at an angle that cut across the bed and landed directly on his face. The faint ache behind his eyes throbbed in protest, a dull reminder of the rough and dangerous night before. The sound of sirens, the feeling of sweat, and the shots of gunfire still echoed faintly in muscle memory.
For a moment, he didn't move. Then he exhaled slowly, peeled his arm free, and sat up. The room smelled faintly of cologne and antiseptic wipes. His uniform jacket lay draped over the chair, still carrying the night with it.
A knock came, polite but firm.
"Akshay," Smita's voice called through the door. "Neeche aa jao. Nashta ready hai."
( Akshay, come down, breakfast is ready)
"Abhi aata hoon mummy!," he replied, voice rough. ( Coming mom!)
He swung his legs off the bed, feet hitting the cool marble of. He scrubbed a hand down his face, stood, and crossed to the bathroom. The mirror caught him briefly, but he didn't stop.
By the time he changed into a plain dark shirt and trousers, the house had fully woken.
Akshay descended slowly, one hand trailing along the bannister of the spiralled staircase.
The expensive and immaculate dining room opened before him. A long wooden table dominated the centre, set with silver cutlery.
Vikram sat at the head, newspaper folded neatly beside his plate, glasses perched low on his nose. Smita was to his right, posture straight, her pink kurti that smelled freshly of aata. Anita Bua sat occupied on the opposite side with a faint, proud smirk on her face.
Veer lounged in his chair, quietly, one arm slung carefully around the back of Shriya's seat. Shriya leaned slightly toward him, whispering something that made him grin.
" Good morning, mere sher", Anita called out as he made his way to her and kissed her cheeks.
"Good morning bua ji", he smiled.
Smita's eyes flicked to him immediately.
"Raat ko kitne baje aaye the?" she asked, reaching for the serving spoon to serve Vikram.
( What time did you come home?)
"Yaad nahi," Akshay replied. ( I don't remember)
Anita's gaze lingered on him for a fraction longer than necessary. "ACP ho toh raat-din ka farq khatam ho jaata hai," she said smoothly. "Par Sunday ko bhi?" ( If you're the ACP, the difference between day and night blurs. But even on Sundays?)
Akshay didn't look up. "Case tha." ( I had a case.)
Vikram folded his newspaper calmly. "Case roz hote rahenge," he said. "Par tumhara naam bhi ek cheez hoti hai. Society notice karti hai. Mujhe kal hi Sharmas ka phone aaya tha. "
( Cases are the norm, but your name is also important. society notices. Only yesterday, the Sharmas called me. )
Akshay took a sip of water, jaw tightening.
Veer glanced between them, sensing the shift. "Papa, Sunday hai," he said softly. "Aaj toh Akshay bhai ko chain se saans lene do."
( Papa, it's Sunday. At least let Akshay be at rest today)
Shriya nudged Veer under the table, lips twitching, whispering shyly. "Tum khud toh office ke calls utha rahe the subah se."
Veer shrugged. "Business never sleeps."
Smita watched the exchange cheerfully, then turned back to Akshay. "Thoda kha lo," she said softly. "Kal se theek se kuch khaya bhi nahi hoga." ( Eat a little. You didn't eat properly since yesterday)
Akshay lifted his spoon, took two bites, then stopped.
Anita leaned back in her chair, folding her hands. "Jeevika ka message aaya hoga," she said casually. "Aaj woh ghar aane wali thi na?" ( Jeevika's message must have come. She was supposed to come to our house today)
Akshay's phone buzzed on the table as if on cue.
Smita glanced at the screen lighting up. "Beta—"
"Baad mein," Akshay said, a little too quickly. (Later)
Vikram's brow furrowed. "Engagement ko lekar log pooch rahe hain," he said. "Tumhara silence achha signal nahi deta." ( Everyone's asking about the engagement. Your silence is a bad sign)
Akshay finally looked up, his green eyes glinting in the sunlight. "Main shaadi ke liye mana nahi kar raha, lekin main abhi decide nahi kar sakta papa."
"Par enthusiasm bhi nahi dikh raha," Anita said, tone mild. "Farz aur jazbaat dono ka balance hota hai." ( But there's no enthusiasm. You have to balance duty and emotions)
Veer shifted in his seat. "Bua—"
Anita held up a hand, smile unbroken. "Main sirf yaad dila rahi hoon." (I'm just reminding you)
Akshay pushed his plate away slightly. "Mujhe late ho raha hai." ( I'm late)
Smita's shoulders stiffened. "Tumne abhi theek se khaya bhi nahi." ( You didn't even eat)
"Bhookh nahi hai," he replied, standing. ( Not Hungry)
The chair scraped softly against the floor.
Jeevika's name flashed again on his phone.
Shriya watched him, eyes thoughtful, as he slipped the device into his pocket.
Veer leaned toward Shriya, whispering, "Mood kharab hai bhai ka." ( his mood is bad)
Jeevika's phone vibrated again in his pocket.
He ignored it.
When he finally stood to leave, Smita followed him to the doorway.
"Raat ko time se aana," she said, adjusting his collar. "Aur—" ( Come on time at night)
She stopped, sighed. "Apna khayal rakho."
"Hmm," he murmured, already stepping away.
Behind him, Anita watched from the dining table, fingers tapping lightly against her cup.
At the door, Shriya finally caught up to him. " Akshay bhaiyya," she said softly, shyly testing the energy around him.
She held out a dish of sugared curd, hesitantly holding out the spoon."At least, muh mitha karke jao. Usse din shubh hota hai," she said. ( At least, make your mouth sweet for good luck)
His clenched jaw softened instantly as he took the spoon directly in his mouth from his hand, " Thank you, Shriya, apna khyal rakhna. Aur school mein koi pareshaani ho jaaye toh mujhe ya Veer ko phone karde na". He chuckled softly, patting her head affectionately. ( If there are any problems in school, you can call Veer)
Then he straightened and walked out, the heavy doors closing softly behind him.
The wooden bench scraped loudly as Aaravi yanked it back with her foot and slid in sideways, her bag knocking against someone's knee.
"Sorry—sorry—haan haan, rakh liya," she muttered, shoving the strap under the seat before it could trip her again.
The lecture hall buzzed like a trapped bee. The ceiling fans rattled overhead, trying to combat Mumbai's heat, pushing warm air that smelled of dust and cheap perfume. Laughter rippled from the back rows and died when Professor Mishra dropped his stack of papers onto the desk with a thud.
Aaravi flipped open her notebook. The first page was already half-filled, tight handwriting, pink drawings and doodles, beautiful calligraphy, margins boxed in pencil, headings underlined twice. She clicked her pen and started writing as Professor Mishra launched into a monologue about constitutional amendments.
"Article... eighty... something," he said, squinting at the board.
Across the row, a girl leaned toward her friend, whispering loudly enough to travel.
"Bro, she got engaged. Yes"
"Who?"
"Rhea. Yesterday. "
"Shut up. Par uska toh Karan ke saath chakkar chal raha tha? Aur phir achanak shaadi?"
"I swear. Diamond ring bhi tha. Massive."
Aaravi's pen paused for half a second. Then she drew a straight line under a heading and continued.
A boy behind her snorted. "Tum logon ka bas shaadi, shaadi, shaadi."
One of the girls shot back, "Tere paas option ho toh tu bhi karta. Lekin koi bhi ladki teri shakal dekh kar hi bhaag jaati"
A sharp nudge hit Aaravi's elbow.
"Oi," a voice hissed. "Madam Patakha." ( Madam Firecracker)
She looked sideways.
Meera grinned, dropping into the seat beside Aaravi without asking.
"Tu itni jaldi likh kaise rahi hai?" Meera whispered. "Kuch samajh aa raha hai kya?"
( How are you writing so fast? Do you even understand anything?)
Aaravi didn't look up. "Samajhne ka kaam ghar pe hota hai."
Meera leaned over, squinting at the page. "Yeh arrows, boxes, stars... tu notes bana rahi hai ya crime board?"
Professor Mishra paused. "Miss—yes, you. Red kurta."
Meera froze.
"Can you tell me the significance of the Forty-Second Amendment?"
Meera's eyes widened. She leaned toward Aaravi in panic. "Bol na kuch."
Aaravi groaned, pinching Meera's knee, " Yaar Kutti, aisi hi karti hai har baar".
Aaravi didn't look at her. She whispered, "Emergency ke baad. Preamble. Power shift."
Meera straightened immediately. "Sir, woh Emergency ke baad aaya tha, preamble change hua, centre ko zyada power—"
"Enough," Professor Mishra snapped, waving a hand. "Sit."
Meera sat back into her seat, exhaling. "Bach gayi yaar"
Aaravi finally glanced at her, smacking her head. "Agle baar, main toh nahi bachaungi, sadho yahi pe aur Lip balm band kar."
"Tu meri maa hai kya?"
"Maa hoti teri, toh seedha chappal tere muh pe phenkti" ( I would try a sandal at your face)
Meera smiled fondly. "By the way," she whispered, lowering her voice, "Rhea ka rishta fix ho gaya. Haan haan suna maine. "
Aaravi's pen slowed. "Achha," she said.
"Achha?" Meera repeated. "Bas achha?"
"Kya bolun?"
"Shock? Gossip? Thoda outrage?"
Aaravi shrugged slightly. "Uski marzi."
Meera studied her face. "Tu kabhi shaadi ke baare mein sochti bhi hai?"
Aaravi underlined a date too hard. The paper almost tore.
"Mere mock exams khatam ho jaaye pehle, phir destination wedding seede Malibu pe. Honeymoon Italy mein, aur hotel room mein, seede mere hot sa 6 foot, pati ke bahon mein" she chuckled.
Meera snorted. "Tu pagal hai."
Proffesor Mishra cleared his throat loudly. "If the talking can stop—"
Meera zipped her bag. "Coffee break mein milte hain," she mouthed.
Meera caught up to her near the staircase. "Chal, canteen."
"Coaching," Aaravi said.
"Tu seedha wahan jaayegi?"
"Haan."
Meera clicked her tongue. "Tu thakti nahi hai kya?"
Aaravi adjusted her bag strap. "Thakne ka time nahi hai."
They walked down together, dodging students sitting on the steps, phones out, laughing at something on a screen.
"Sun," Meera said casually. "Kal party hai. Rhea ki engagement wali."
Aaravi didn't slow. "Nahi aaungi."
"Arre ek ghanta—"
"Nahi. Agar non-veg aur accha khaana hoga toh bata dena phir mein aungi. Aur mera kuch lena dena nahi hai us Rhea se, nibbi kai ki. Hum pehle bahut baat karte the, aur main uski help bhi karti thi. Lekin jab Papa ki death hui, toh usne ek baar bhi nahi pucha ya madad ki" Aaravi said.
Meera exhaled slowly. "Haan... woh toh—"
"Toh bas," Aaravi said. "Shaadi ho rahi hai, good for her. Main canteen mein fake smile deke cupcakes todne ke liye zinda nahi hoon."
Meera looked at her, then shook her head fondly, "Tu kabhi fun karti bhi hai ya sirf UPSC ka syllabus se hi shaadi karegi Aaru?"
Aaravi huffed a laugh, "Yeh bhi long-term relationship hai, Meera. Commitment high hai, drama kam."
"Kal milte hain," Meera said, already backing away.
"Haan."
Aaravi stepped out onto the pavement. The heat hit her full in the face. She waited for a break in traffic, then crossed, slipping between an auto and a bike with practised ease.
"Uff kya garmi! Koi baat nahi aaj ice cream khaane ka mann kar raha hai" she grinned.
She made her way to the small pink " Ashok Chachu ki Ice Cream" stall.
" Hello Chachu! Kaise ho aap. Neha ki padhai kaisi chal rahi hai?" she asked Ashok.
The stall's pink paint was chipped, and the freezer hummed loud amongst the Mumbai Traffic. A string of tiny bells hung at the edge, jingling whenever someone leaned in too close.
Ashok Chachu himself stood behind the cart, towel slung over his shoulder, counting change with exaggerated seriousness.
"Hello, Chachu!" Aaravi called out, already reaching the counter. "Kaise ho aap?"
He looked up, face breaking into a grin. "Arre Aaravi beta! Aaj itni der?"
"College tha," she said, peering into the freezer. "Aur garmi bhi."
"Garmi toh har saal hoti hai," he said. "Tum log hi naya naya shock khaate ho."
She laughed. "Neha ki padhai kaisi chal rahi hai?"
He snorted. "Padhai?" He waved a hand. "Mobile chal rahi hai. Padhai toh side mein chalti hai."
"Usko bolna UPSC karne," Aaravi said solemnly. "Phir sab theek ho jaayega."
"Tum hi kaafi ho us ghar ke liye," he chuckled. "Kya logi?"
"Vanilla," she said instantly. "Cone mein. Aur thoda zyada dena."
He raised an eyebrow. "Roz zyada."
"Roz dimaag bhi zyada chalta hai," she shot back.
He scooped generously anyway, packing the vanilla high, tapping the cone against the edge to settle it. A kid beside her stared openly, eyes following every move.
"Dekha?" Aaravi told him. "Aise dekhne se kuch nahi milta."
The kid grinned and hid behind his mother.
She took the cone, the cold biting pleasantly into her fingers, and stepped aside to make room. The first lick was slow, deliberate. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of relief that didn't ask questions.
She leaned against the edge of the stall, listening to the chaos around her—someone arguing about rates, someone laughing too loud, bells jingling again and again as customers brushed past.
"Chachu," she said around a mouthful of ice cream, "aapka yeh vanilla better hai than half the places that charge double."
"Recipe purani hai," he said proudly. "Jaise tumhari zidd."
She started singing loudly grinning to Ashok Chachu, spinning giggling,
" chocolate lime juice
ice cream toffeeyan
The crowd thickened immediately.
A man on a scooter skidded past her fast, almost knocking her over,
"Arre bhai—" she began, stepping sideways—
—and collided hard with something solid.
The impact knocked the air out of her chest. Her heel slid on grit. The cone tilted sharply.
Cold vanilla slid, slow and traitorous, toward the edge.
An arm snapped around her waist. palm flat against her back, stopping her from falling completely. The force steadied her.
The white from the Vanilla splattered across a dark shirt in thick, obscene streaks, dripping down like bird poop.
Her face hovered near his collarbone. Smelling strongly of cologne and something heated. . Her fingers were clenched in his shirt without permission. His grip was firm, impersonal, purely corrective.
Then he looked down.
Hi sharp green eyes gazed into her amber ones, completely unamused.
"Yeh kya hai?" he said, voice low. "Dikhai nahi deta kya?"
" Kiske khyaalon mein doobi ho?" he barked.
Aaravi jerked back like she'd been shocked. His eyes, forest green, the shade of coniferous trees. His tan, brown skin was illuminated by the rays of the sun. And his height towered over her, blocking the noise from the street and the light at once.
Then she grinned, snapping out of her daze, " Aapke Khyaalon mein", she fluttered her eyelashes dramatically, reaching up to wipe the dripping ice cream on his black shirt.
"What—" he choked. "Excuse me—"
"Arre haan haan," she said breezily, dragging her thumb a little too far, leaving a bigger mess. "Already ganda hai, thoda aur sahi."
"Pagal ho kya tum?" he snapped, looking down at his shirt in disbelief. "Haath hatao!"
She pulled back instantly, "Relax, uncle."
"Uncle?" His voice cracked. "Main uncle lagta hoon?"
She squinted at him, tilting her head. "Thoda sa."
"Tum log chalna seekhte nahi ho kya?" he snapped
Her mouth fell open.
"Tum log?" she repeated.
He looked down at his shirt, jaw tightening as another drop slid lower. "Kapde pehchaan toh loh Expensive shirt hai Ralph Lauren ki, pure 10 hazaar ka!"
She gasped, almost offended, " HAWWWWW... 10 HAZAAR! PAGAL HO KYA AAP!"
He winced, plugging his finger in his ear, " Chillao mat Chudail!"
She scoffed, " 10 hazaar? isse behtar toh aapko Linking Road pe mil jayega! Same aise his shirt""
" Main aapko dilaa sakti hoon agar chahiye toh."
"That's not the point," he said tightly.
"Point kya hai?" she shot back. "Kapda pehna hai ya EMIs? Amir log bhi na!"
Ashok Chachu's laughter burst from somewhere behind them.
He straightened, clearly regretting every word. "Tumhe fashion ka idea nahi hai."
"Oh please," she scoffed. "Mujhe idea hai. Main aapko dilaa sakti hoon." She waved a hand grandly. "Agar chahiye toh. Same look. One-third price."
He stared. "Tum—mujhe—kapde dilaogi?"
"Haan," she nodded confidently. "Size bhi samajh aa gaya hai mujhe."
"Excuse me?" he choked, heat rising to his cheeks.
" Arrey mere matlab.. woh nahi." she snapped.
" Chi gande dimaag aadmi!" she shook her head.
His jaw dropped. "Main?"
"Haan aap!" she jabbed a finger toward his chest.
"Main kapdon ki baat kar rahi hoon aur aap—"
"Aur main kapdon ki hi baat kar raha hoon," he cut in sharply. "Tum hi—"
"Oh, bas," she interrupted. "Sab kuch apne hisaab se samajhna band kariye."
He laughed furiously. "Tum mujhpe ice cream girao, phir mujhe hi lecture do?"
"Gir gayi," she corrected automatically. "Accident that."
. Her voice dipped, wounded.
"Meri ice cream bhi toh gayi."
"Tumhari ice cream meri shirt se zyada important hai?" he demanded.
"Haan!" she said without hesitation. "Woh meri thi. Pure pachaas rupee ki thi"
"Yeh shirt imported hai," he snapped.
She scoffed. "Imported attitude bhi saath mein aaya hoga."
Akshay turned, glaring at her murderously, "Tumhein sharam nahi aati?"
"Sharam aati hai," she shot back. "Isliye toh main sorry bol rahi thi. Par aapko drama chahiye."
"Drama tum create kar rahi ho."
"Tum bas chup—"
"Main chup nahi rahungi!". "Ice cream gayi, izzat gayi, aur upar se aap mujhe—"
"Bas!" he barked.
Then she huffed, cheeks puffing out, stubborn as hell. "Fine."
He dragged a hand through his hair, looked down at his shirt one last time, and muttered, "Unbelievable."
Without another word, he turned and strutted sassily, irritation radiating off him.
"Good riddance," she muttered.
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