By the time he walked into Mahalaxmi society, the sky had shifted to a dark blue. Streetlights were already on, and Mumbai's noises still bustled through the night air. The guard at the gate lifted the barrier without checking twice.
" Thank you, kaka" Abhimanyu grinned at him despite the faint exhaustion in his body and face.
He climbed the stairs instead of waiting for the lift.
He unlocked the door to the flat, stepped in, and gently placed his shoes on the rack near the door.
"Nimmi Maasi?" he called.
"Oho.. Nimmi DARLING! Mein aagaya.. Kaha kho gayi my love!?" he giggled.
Then he noticed the note stuck on the fridge.
" Main thodi der Sheela ke ghar gayi hoon, jyada der intezaar mat karna. Mere chips mat khaana aur jo fridge mein ice cream cake padha hai usse toh zaroor haath mat lagana"
He sighed, laughing at the absurdity of the note.
He freshened up, changed his clothes, and then walked to the balcony. The air outside was thicker now, warmer. Below, the park was half-lit, and children were still playing outside despite the house.
He chuckled, thinking about the curly-haired girl, the rasgulla, and the way she'd taken his hand like it had become a piece of her heart.
He straightened, frowning slightly, as if annoyed at himself. He pushed away from the railing and went inside.
As he stepped back into the living room, something tugged again, persistent this time. The arguing. The way she planted her feet. The certainty.
He thought back to when life was simple. The same lane, that courtyard, more trees then before redevelopment and construction. Sun hitting the dust hard enough to make him squint.
"Arre, ruk," a boy's voice had said, breathless. "Pehle main."
"No," a girl had snapped. "Tu hamesha pehle karta hai."
The 3 of them playing cricket, running barefoot through the maidan.
He ate standing up, eyes drifting again to the window. The park lights flickered once, then steadied.
—
Mishti stood in the kitchen after wrapping her chores up for the day. Her mouth felt dry, clearly craving something. She frowned; she craved something sweet, exactly, almost sour.
She walked into Pihu's room, where she was sprawled sideways, one arm flung over her teddy bear. Her breathing was deep, even, mouth slightly open.
In the kitchen, the fruit basket was empty.
" Oof, aaj kuch khatta khaane ka mann kar raha hai. Lekin ghar pe kuch hai hi nahi,Na ice cream, na chocolate. Wait, no woh toh bahut sweet hoga. Achaar bhi nahi hai ghar pe.", she pouted. Then slapped her forehead, laughing at her own antics.
" Main bhi naa, bilkul pregnant aurat ki tarah behave kar rahi hoon", she snorted.
The house was dim, the kind of dim that held memories in corners. The clock in the living room glowed faintly.
She straightened her cotton saree, stepping towards her bedroom so she could change into her nightsuit, but then paused.
Mangoes.
She smiled despite herself, quiet, almost embarrassed.
She walked, steps unhurried, the way you do when you don't want to alert yourself to what you're doing.
The tree stood exactly in its usual spot.
The bark of the tree was rough and nostalgic, and the streetlight beside it cast uneven shadows through the leaves. Mangoes hung high, dark shapes against darker green.
She stopped a few feet away smiling.
Her fingers brushed the bark. It was cooler than she expected.
She stepped closer, craned her neck, judging distance, too high.
She backed up, took a small run-up, and jumped. Her fingers grazed air. She landed awkwardly, sandals slapping the ground.
"Tch." she pouted. " Bas thoda aur" she tried again, this time tucking her saree pallu into the pleats near her waist.
Another memory came to her uninvited.
"Pakad," Akshay had said, already crouching. "Pair idhar rakh."
Mishti had hesitated, " Akshu mujhe dall lag raha hai"
Then she stepped onto his clasped hands, weight uncertain. Abhimanyu had been there too, grinning, laughing at her.
" Haha darpok!" he laughed fingers digging into her side suddenly.
"Arre! Main dalpok nahi hoon!" she'd shrieked.
" Darpok hi hon tum Mirchi!" he laughed.
" Mera naam Mishti hai Mishti. Mirchi nahi!" she yelled
" Lekin Mishti ka matlab sweet ho ta hai. Woh toh tum bilkul nahi hoon. Ekdam kadvi ho tum. Nahi wait, spicy. Hamesha chillati hain aur daanti hai mujhe" He shot back, tickling her more.
"Hila mat," Akshay had snapped at him. "Gir jayegi bachi"
"Kuch nahi hota," Abhi had said, laughing. " Aur giregi toh uski hi haddiyan tottenge", he added, scaring her more.
She snapped back out of the memory.
She jumped again, tired from her attempts. Her foot slipped on landing. She staggered, caught herself against the trunk, palm scraping bark. The roughness grounded her.
"Bas," she muttered. "Abhi bhi utni hi chhoti ho."
She looked around, half-expecting someone to appear, arms folded, eyebrow raised. Then realized no one was their.
She bent forward, hands on knees, breathing out slowly. Above her, the mangoes hung untouched, stubborn.
"Tu hamesha overreact karti hai," Abhi's voice echoed suddenly, unwanted.
"Chhoti si baat hai," as he easily reached up, grabbing the mango but not handing it to her.
She scowled at the memory, " Hamesha bakwaas karta tha, Rakshas kahi ka"
Footsteps crossed the courtyard behind her. The green grass shifted under the weight. Abhimanyu walked with his phone loose in his hand, his eyes on a funny Instagram reel. He cut across the courtyard habit from 2 decades of shortcuts.
He paused, looking up mid-step.
A woman stood under the old mango tree. She was jumping, trying to reach for a mango. Unfortunately, it was too high up in relativity to her petite frame.
Her saree rustled as she moved, soft golden, the pleats loose at her waist from movement. She landed with a small huff of irritation, bare feet landing against the grace.
Abhimanyu slowed without meaning to. Something about her energy pulled him towards her.
She jumped again, higher this time. Her clinking bangles slid down her forearm with the movement. The strings of her blouse clung faintly at her back where sweat had gathered. A loose strand escaped her bun and stuck to her cheek.
From where he stood, he could see the line of her neck, the faint hollow at the base of it, the way her skin creased when she inhaled.
He took soft steps toward her.
Her face turned just enough for the park lights to catch it sideways.
The curve of her nose. The sharp cut of her brows. The mouth pulled tight in annoyance, pink lips pressed thin in a way that tugged something loose in his head.
He stopped.
The phone slipped from his fingers and hit the ground face-down with a thud.
"No way.. Mishti," he breathed in disbelief.
Abhimanyu's heart moved without his brain deciding to.
His hands were already at her waist, firm, automatic, arms circling her middle as he lifted her clear of the ground, muscles tightening out of years of childhood instinct rather than thought.
She screamed, shrieking.
"HEY—! What the hell!"
Her body went rigid, spine locking as shock hit, her hands flying up in shock and fear.
"KYA KAR RAHE HO AAP—" she yelled, elbow shooting back hard.
"Mishti—" he blurted.
The elbow connected with his ribs.
"OUCH—" His foot caught on a raised root as he staggered back, weight shifting wrong, momentum already gone.
He fell back hard into the grass..
His back hit the ground first, breath knocked clean out of him as her weight landed squarely on his chest. Her palms slapped down on either side of his shoulders to stop her head from smashing into his.
Her hair had completely come loose now, falling forward, brushing his jaw, his neck, tickling the hollow under his ear. He could smell her, feel her breath on his neck. She smelled strongly of dust, soap, mango sap, faint and green, warm skin. Her bangles pressed into his collarbone.
Her chest rose and fell against his.
Her wide, furious brown doe eyes met his. The stubborn small beauty mole, at the corner of her upper lip.
Her brows drew together sharply. "How dare you!! Aapki himmat kaisi huyi mujhe uthaane ki?"
He blinked, dazed for a minute, then snapped out of it.
"Hi," he said, stupidly, breath still uneven.
She shoved at his chest immediately, scrambling. " Chodo mujhe! Tum pagal ho kya—"
Her necklace caught in his shirt button, and she slipped again, falling back onto his chest with a small, involuntary "OOF!"
"Arre," he said, one hand coming up automatically to steady her shoulder, fingers spreading over fabric. "Dekh ke—"
He laughed then.
She froze mid-movement. "Tum hass rahe ho?"
He lifted one hand and, with his thumb and forefinger, tugged gently at her cheek between his fingers, thumb brushing skin that was warm.
"Seedhe mere baahon mein gir gayi," he said, voice low, teasing slipping back into place like muscle memory. "Aur mujhe pehchana tak nahi. Mirchi."
Her eyes flashed. "Mirchi mat bulao mujhe."
"Oh?" His thumb lingered a fraction longer before she slapped his hand away. "Naam abhi bhi yaad hai, par aadatein nahi badli."
She swatted him again. "Tumhari aadatein toh bilkul nahi badli."
"Tumne hi toh pehle mujhe maara," he said, rubbing his ribs dramatically. "Welcome back bolne ka naya tareeka hai kya?"
She pushed herself upright properly this time, straddling his stomach by accident, glare sharpened. "Tumhe dikh nahi raha tha main kya kar rahi hoon?"
"Dikh raha tha," he said easily. "Isliye toh aaya."
"Uthaane kaun bola tha?"
"Gir rahi thi."
"Main handle kar rahi thi."
"Jhooth," he said without missing a beat.
She scoffed. "Tum hamesha hero banna chahte ho."
He shifted under her, palms pressing into the ground. "Tum hamesha drama karti ho."
She leaned closer, finger jabbing into his chest. "Drama nahi, common sense hota hai. Random aadmi uthake le jaaye toh—"
"Random?" he cut in. "Main hoon."
The words settled between them, heavy. The courtyard noise felt far away—some auntie's pressure cooker whistle, a scooter starting and stalling, a door slamming shut upstairs. The mango leaves shifted above them, one leaf brushing her hair.
She was still sitting on him.
That realization hit her late.
She shifted instinctively, palms pressing into his chest to push herself up.
"Arre—ruk," he said quickly, one hand lifting. "Mirchi, tum zara—"
"Kya?" she snapped, already defensive.
"Tum zara..." He hesitated, eyes flicking down and then back up, lips twitching like he was fighting something. His face moved closer, just enough that she could see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one Akshay had caused with a cricket ball years ago.
"Abhi," she said sharply, voice dropping. "Tum yeh kya—"
" BAHUT BHAARI HO!" he blurted, dying of laughter. " Kya Khaati ho!"
Her jaw dropped.
"KYA khaati ho?" she repeated, incredulous. "Tumhe sharam nahi aati?"
"Sharam?" He tilted his head, inspecting her with mock seriousness, "Mujhe toh sirf physics yaad aa rahi hai."
"Physics?"
"Haan," he said smoothly. "Gravity. Tum gir rahi thi. Main neeche tha. Baaki sab natural process."
She lunged again. "Tumhe zyada science aa rahi hai na—"
"Arre, ruko—" He laughed, trying to sit up fully now, palms up. "Sach bata raha hoon. Pehle toh tum hawa jaisi hoti thi. Ek dhakka aur udd jaati thi."
"EXCUSE me?" she shrieked.
"Aur ab," he continued mercilessly, eyes dancing, "ab proper—solid build. Achha hai. Healthy."
"Healthy kaun bola tumse?" She smacked his arm again. "Main bilkul theek hoon."
"Haan haan," he nodded exaggeratedly. "Bilkul theek. Bas mere ribs ko pancake ki tarah flat kardiya."
She stared at him, breathing hard. "Tumhari zindagi mein ek din bhi aisa gaya hai jab tumne mujhe irritate na kiya ho?"
He pretended to think. "Hmm. Woh ek din jab tum ghar pe nahi thi."
Then she stood up sharply. "Tum bilkul nahi badle."
He leaned back on his palms, looking up at her. "Tum bhi nahi. Bas volume thoda zyada ho gaya hai."
She gasped. "MAIN CHILLA NAHI RAHI—"
"Dekha," he said triumphantly. "Fir shuru."
She smacked him again hard on the arm.
"Oof—" He winced, hands coming up in surrender. "Arre, mazaak tha—"
"Mazaak?" She shoved at his shoulder. "Tumhare muh pe likha hota hai mazaak?"
"Likha hota hai," he protested, still grinning. "Tum hi padhna bhool gayi."
Her pleats had come loose at the knees; she fixed them with sharp, practised jerks.
He sat up slowly, propping himself on one arm, watching her with open amusement.
"Tum pehle bhi itna hi gussa karti thi," he said.
She spun around. "Main pehle bhi tumhe maarna chahti thi."
"Progress," he nodded. "Consistency achhi baat hoti hai."
She took a step toward him, finger pointed. "Tumhe idea bhi hai tumne kya kiya?"
"Help?" he offered.
"Tumne mujhe utha liya!"
"Haan toh?" He got to his feet, brushing grass off his jeans. "Gir rahi thi."
"Main gir nahi rahi thi!"
"Girne wali thi."
"Main handle kar rahi thi!"
"Clearly," he said, glancing pointedly at the ground where they'd fallen.
She opened her mouth, closed it, then kicked at a dry leaf instead. "Tum hamesha aise hi ho. Bina soche, bina pooche—"
"Tum hamesha bolti ho," he cut in lightly, stepping closer. "Bina rukke, bina saans liye."
She glared up at him. "Tum zyada lamba ho gaye ho."
He blinked. "Yeh complaint naya hai."
"Peeche hato," she said, pushing at his chest again when he didn't move.
He leaned back just enough to keep his balance. "Arre, main kuch kar thodi raha hoon."
"Tumhara kuch karna hi problem hai."
He laughed again, softer this time. "Tum pehle bhi aise hi khadi hoti thi. Aankhen chhoti karke. Jaise abhi mujhe kha jaogi."
"You deserve it!" she muttered.
"Miss kiya tha kya mujhe, Sweetheart?" he asked suddenly.
She stilled. "Kya?"
"Mujhe," he said, tone too casual. "Miss kiya ya sirf gaaliyan yaad rakhi?"
She scoffed, turning away. "Sapne mein bhi nahi."
"Jhooth," he said easily, stepping around to block her. "Tumhara jhooth bolne wala face same hai."
She tried to sidestep him. He moved too.
"Abhi," she warned.
"Haan, Mirchi?"
She shoved him again, harder this time. He staggered back a step, hand flying out to grab the tree trunk behind him.
"Bas!" she said. " Mujhe tang mat karo."
"Tum mujhe dekhe bina jaa rahi ho," he said, clutching his chest dramatically.
She crossed her arms. "Main aam lene aayi thi."
He glanced up at the mangoes, then back at her. "Aur mujhe mil gayi ."
She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Tum bilkul nahi sudhre."
"Tum bhi," he said. "Bas height ka difference badal gaya hai."
She gasped. "Tum phir shuru—"
"Arre, mazaak—"
She lunged for him this time.
He yelped, dodging sideways, laughter spilling out as she chased him half a step, saree brushing the grass again.
"Ruko!" she snapped.
"Pehle bolo sorry," he shot back.
"Kabhi nahi!"
"Phir toh main bhi nahi rukunga—"
She continued chasing both of them, running like they used to in childhood." Aaja Abhimanyu Nirmala Khanna! Aaj toh tum bahut pitega!" Abhi bhi wahi besharam ho." she panted, running.
She bent, grabbed a small stone, and threw it at him. It bounced harmlessly off his thigh.
"Tum yahan kya kar rahe ho?" she demanded.
"Main yahan rehta hoon, bhool gayi?" he shot back. "Tum?"
She pointed at the tree. "Mango."
"Tum bhi," she snapped. "Bakwas."
He stood, dusted his back, then leaned closer just enough to invade her space. "Tumne mujhe pehle nahi pehchana, Mirchi. Dil pe lagta hai."
She scoffed, turning away, but not before he caught the faint smile she tried to hide.
"Ab side ho," she muttered. "Mango lena hai."
He stepped aside exaggeratedly, bowing. "After you."
She bent to pick it up—
—and he snatched it first, holding it high above her reach.
"ABHI!" she yelled, jumping uselessly.
He laughed, arm stretching higher. "Jump."
She glared up at him, cheeks flushed. "Give it."
"Please bolo."
"Never."
He lowered it slightly. "Missed me?"
She lunged.
They both froze.
Then she burst out laughing, breathless and angry and something else entirely.
"You are impossible," she said.
He smiled back, soft this time, unguarded. "Tum bhi."
" Oh shit !" she suddenly recalled.
" Mujhe ghar jaana hoga, Pihu ghar pe hai akeli aur so rahi hain!"
" Wait, Pihu kaun?" he asked.
"Pihu ghar pe akeli hai," she said again, this time slower, like the words weighed more. "So rahi hogi. Uth gayi toh—" She cut herself off and shook her head. "Mujhe jaana hai."
"Akeli?" he repeated.
She nodded once.
Something in his chest shifted. "Kitni badi hai?"
"Chaar," she said. "Chaar saal."
A small, laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "Tum... tum mazaak kar rahi ho, right?"
Then it hit him, the corner store, a sticky matka rasgulla sweating sugar into his palm. A small hand sliding into his without asking. Big eyes looking up at him, unafraid.
"Maan uncle," a tiny voice saying.
His chest tightened.
"Kal," he said slowly. "Corner store ke paas... ek bachchi—"
Mishti's head snapped up. "Tum Pihu se mile ho?"
"Haan," he said. "Kaafi."
She let out a breath she'd been holding, shoulders dropping a little. "Thank god. Woh tujhe mili aur kisi stranger se nahi!"
"Akeli thi. Matlab—shopkeeper tha. Aur main," he said.
Her mouth tightened, sighing. "Maine mana kiya hai usse akele bahar jaane ko."
"She followed me to the park," he added, because now the words were tumbling out on their own. "Mera haath pakad ke."
"Woh aise hi karti hai," she muttered. "Kisi se bhi dosti kar leti hai. Pagal bachi. "
Something in his chest cracked open. "Woh mujhe bol rahi thi—" He stopped himself.
"Kya?" she asked quietly.
He swallowed. "Kuch nahi."
She studied him for a second, then turned toward the building. "Mujhe jaana hai, Abhi."
He followed behind her, the two of them, as she unlocked the flat with the loud jingling of keys.
"Mummy—" a sleepy voice echoed faintly from the hallway .
Mishti's face drained of colour. "Shit."
She turned and bolted towards the room.
"Tum kal uske saath the," she said over her shoulder. "Usne kuch aur kaha?"
"Bahut kuch," he said. "Tumhari cooking ke baare mein bhi."
She groaned. "Maine bola tha usse zyada bolti hai."
He smiled despite himself. "Woh tumhaari jaisi hai.. Ekdum sassy, wahi attitude, wahi.. ghamand"
"Kuch bhi mat bolo," she warned.
He raised his hands. "Okay. Sorry."
Inside, a small figure stood rubbing her eyes, hair a wild mess in her pink Peppa Pig pyjamas.
"Mummy?" Pihu mumbled.
Mishti rushed forward. "Baby—kyun uthi?"
Pihu's gaze slid past her.
Stopped.
Her face lit up instantly. "MAAN UNCLE!"
Abhimanyu froze.
Mishti turned slowly.
The world narrowed to that one small voice, that one familiar grin.
Pihu toddled forward, arms lifting without hesitation.
"Tum phir aa gaye!" she declared.
Abhimanyu looked at Mishti.
Mishti looked at him.
He chuckled, lifting her in his arms, settling her on one hip.
Aaravi unlocked the door to her and Meera's flat before her eyes landed on the familiar almirah.
Her father's almirah.
The doors creaked open, releasing the faint smell of dust bunnies, old paper, and that metallic scent that clung to police uniforms no matter how many washes they endured.
Aaravi swallowed and crouched.
She wasn't looking for anything specific. She looked at the framed photo of the 2 of them. Him grinning, her joking shamelessly. He had been more than a father figure; he had been her best friend, partner in crime, and gossip buddy.
She pulled out a cardboard box from the bottom shelf. The kind officers carried home after transfers. After retirements. After deaths.
Dust puffed up as she set it down.
"Bas ek baar," she murmured to herself. "Phir band."
Inside were old notebooks, a cracked pair of sunglasses, and folded commendation letters yellowed at the edges. She picked one up, and skimmed a line—Exemplary conduct during communal disturbance, 2008—and placed it back carefully, as if it might bruise.
Her fingers brushed something solid beneath the papers.
Wood.
She paused.
Then she lifted it out.
The unfamiliar frame was heavier than she expected. On the left side, mounted carefully, was a medal—silver-toned, circular, suspended from a blue-and-red ribbon. There was a faint scratch across the surface, shallow but visible, as though it had once scraped against something harder in a hurry.
Below it, a certificate, cream-coloured, bordered in gold.
Aaravi's breath hitched.
She read it slowly.
CERTIFICATE OF APPRECIATION
Awarded to
Shri Akshay Malhotra, IPS
For exemplary courage and intelligence displayed during
Operation Veer– 2025
Involving the successful neutralisation of armed offenders and the safe evacuation of hostages under life-threatening conditions.
Her eyes dropped lower.
Recommended by:
R. K. Patil
Director General of Police
Maharashtra Police
Her father's signature was bold and slanted.
The Maharashtra Police seal stamped at the bottom, a small transparent sticker peeling slightly at one edge.
She traced the frame with her thumb.
Her father had never mentioned this officer. Something about his name tugged at her. Never once said he was holding onto something unfinished. But the way the frame had been wrapped carefully and reverently.
Taped neatly to the back was a brown envelope. Her name was written on it in his handwriting.
Aaravi's hands trembled as she opened it.
Inside was a single sheet.
If you are reading this,
it means I didn't get the chance to do what I should have done myself.
Her vision blurred, but she forced herself to continue.
This commendation was meant to be handed over personally. Circumstances didn't allow it. Duty rarely asks permission.
The officer deserves to receive it with respect. If you can, please ensure it reaches him.
Below that was listed an address.
"Malhotra Niwas"
No. 21, Shree Krishna Lane
Juhu, Mumbai.
And a final line, penned hastily, as if added later:
Bahut Achha aadmi hai, uske saath dosti karwa dena. Love you!
"Typical," she giggled. "Daddy bhi na! Mujhe hi courier bana diya."
She leaned back against the almirah, staring at the medal again. Akshay Malhotra, IPS.
" Hmp! Wonder kaisa aadmi hoga?" she thought to herself.
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