This following part is extemely vital and important to the story, DO NOT SKIP this PART DESPITE THE MANY DETAILS
Inside the large Deshmukh Mansion, Kunal Deshmukh lay stretched across the width of his bed, one leg dangling off the side, silk bedsheet creased beneath him. The ceiling fan hummed lazily above, its shadow slicing the dim light into slow-moving arcs. His phone hovered inches from his face, thumb moving in an absent rhythm—scroll, pause, scroll—past gym reels, cars he already owned, women whose faces blurred into one another.
The screen refreshed.
A reel came into view and stayed there.
The motion of his thumb stopped.
She wore a powder blue anarkali, the fabric of her dupatta. falling straight and clean, sleeves rolled just past her wrists. Her hair was loose, thick and glossy. Chandbali earrings hung loose on her ears, and a gold dainty chain was around her neck.
She wasn't facing the camera fully. Her body was angled away, head turned just enough for her profile to catch the sun. The light traced the curve of her cheek, the sharp line of her nose, the soft shadow beneath her lower lip. Her eyes weren't looking at the lens. They were focused somewhere beyond it, steady, distant, as if the photograph had interrupted her mid-thought.
The caption sat beneath the image.
Evenings that smell like old books and monsoon.
Kunal's thumb hovered, then dragged upward slightly, stopping again.
His thumb slid to her profile picture.
The account opened.
A grid bloomed across the screen, photographs arranged with careful restraint. Morning light through half-drawn curtains. A cup of chai on a chipped windowsill. Margins of books underlined in pencil. A mirror selfie taken from the side, phone obscuring half her face, sunlight catching the edge of her jaw. In that one, she wore a navy blue kurta, hair loose, damp.
Kunal shifted on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow.
He scrolled slowly now.
His thumb paused over the comments. Around 20 Civil Services aspirants were tagged.
He tapped the three dots.
View Insights.
The number blinked back at him.
He smirked faintly, then closed it, returning to the profile. His thumb tapped Follow. The button changed colour instantly.
A notification chimed.
He opened her tagged photos.
The images shifted—events, ceremonies, stages draped in white and saffron. In one, she stood beside a tall man in a neatly pressed khaki uniform, grinning widely, his cap tucked under his arm. His hair was greying at the temples, his posture straight, shoulders squared. Aaravi stood beside him, slightly behind, hands clasped in front of her, expression composed. She was draped in a soft yellow cotton saree.
His eyes lingered on the sliver of her bare waist for way too long.
The tag beneath read:
@aaravi_patil with @maharashtrapolice_official — DGP Rishikesh Patil.
Kunal's thumb froze.
The room felt suddenly quieter, the fan's hum louder, heavier.
He tapped the photograph.
The man's face filled the screen now. Familiar lines. Familiar eyes.
A muscle in Kunal's jaw shifted.
The door to the bedroom creaked open.
"AC band kar nalayak," a voice called out. "Bijli ka bill tera baap bharega kya?"
( Shut the AC off. Is the electricity bill paid by your father)
Kunal didn't look up.
Footsteps crossed the room. The mattress dipped slightly as Prakashrao Deshmukh sat at the edge of the bed, adjusting the cuff of his kurta. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes flicking briefly to the glowing screen in Kunal's hand.
"Pure din phone pe chipak ne se kya milta hai?" he said, reaching for the bedside table where his glasses lay.
Kunal tilted the screen, angling it outward.
Prakashrao slid his glasses on and leaned closer. His gaze narrowed, sharpening as it moved over the photograph—the girl, the uniformed man beside her, the caption beneath.
His mouth tightened, the lines around it deepening. He straightened slowly, one hand resting on his thigh.
"Yeh kaun hai? Aur iss DGP ke saath kyu hai?" Kunal asked again, casually this time, scrolling down to another photograph. Prakash Rao exhaled through his nose.
"Iska baap," he said, voice even, " DGP Rishikesh Patil."
The name settled into the room like dust.
Kunal glanced up, eyebrows lifting slightly. "DGP?"
"Tha," Prakashrao corrected. He reached out and took the phone from Kunal's hand, holding it at arm's length. His thumb swiped once, then again. His jaw worked slowly, as if grinding something invisible.
"Mar gaya saale, remember?" he added.
Prakashrao's thumb stopped.
Kunal sat up fully now, legs swinging off the bed. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes still on the screen.
"She's his daughter?" he asked.
Prakashrao removed his glasses and folded them carefully. "Yes, akeli beti hai."
The ceiling fan continued its slow rotation. Outside, a car horn blared, distant and brief.
Kunal's thumb slid back to Aaravi's profile. He opened the first photograph again—the one by the iron gate, white kurta glowing softly in the evening light.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"She posts a lot," he said. "Public account."
Kunal's eyes remained on the screen. He zoomed in slightly, the image enlarging under his fingers—the curve of her neck, the shadow beneath her jaw, the quiet steadiness of her gaze.
"Interesting family," he said.
Prakashrao paused at the door. His hand rested on the frame for a moment longer than necessary.
The door closed softly behind him.
Kunal lay back against the pillows, phone resting on his chest. The screen dimmed, then brightened again as his thumb brushed it awake. Aaravi's photograph filled the display once more, unchanged, serene, unaware.
His thumb tapped Save.
The image slipped neatly into a private folder.
The phone lay face-down on the bedside table, its glow extinguished.
Flashback
The corridor outside the Superintendent's conference room smelled of disinfectant and old paper.
Inside the room, Rishikesh Patil stood at the head of the table.
His uniform was immaculate, the brass insignia on his shoulders catching the light. His cap rested on the table beside him, badge facing outward. A map of Mumbai Police zones hung behind him.
A constable stepped in, saluted, and placed a folder on the table.
"Sir," he said. "FIR copy. Statement bhi aa gaya hai."
The first page bore the stamp of the police station—date and time clear, ink still dark. The sections were typed neatly below.
Indian Penal Code.
Section 376D.
Section 354.
Section 509
Patil slid the file open and flattened the first page against the table.
The photographs were clipped behind the FIR, aligned in chronological order, each labelled with source, time, and location in block letters stamped by the cyber cell.
The first image came from a municipal CCTV camera mounted high on a rusted pole at the mouth of a service lane off Peddar Road. The timestamp glowed in the lower-right corner: 02:14:36.
The ground showed oil stains and uneven patches where the surface had been repaired. A Mercedes was parked near the curb. Its windows were dark. The lane appeared empty—metal shutters of stores pulled down, balconies above unlit.
In the second image, a figure had entered from the left edge of the frame. The image blurred slightly with motion, broad shoulders, a dark shirt, and trousers. The head was tilted forward, posture loose, weight unevenly distributed as if mid-lurch.
Timestamp: 02:14:42.
Another still.
A second figure appeared behind the first. Slimmer frame. She had long black hair and a tote bag dangling from her arm. One foot was lifted slightly off the ground, heel raised, body angled back as though slowing or resisting momentum.
Timestamp: 02:14:47.
Patil turned the page.
This sequence came from a private CCTV camera mounted above a closed medical store further down the lane.
The same two figures now occupied the centre of the frame.
The larger figure's arm was extended. The second figure's upper body was tilted backwards, shoulders uneven, and balance compromised. The silver Mercedes sat unmoved in the background.
Timestamp: 02:14:58.
Another still followed immediately.
The second figure was on the ground.
Her back met the concrete at an angle, knees bent awkwardly, one leg partially twisted beneath her. The first figure knelt over her, one knee planted beside her hip. His hand was positioned at her neck, fingers spread, thumb pressed inward. The posture was clear despite the grain.
Two more shapes had entered the frame.
One stood near the parked car, shoulders shaking, mouth open in what appeared to be laughter. The other hovered closer, hands lowered toward the woman's wrists.
Timestamp: 02:15:03.
Patil's fingers rested briefly on the corner of the page.
The next image captured movement rather than clarity.
The woman's head was turned sharply to one side. Her mouth was open. The strain in her neck was visible even through the low resolution. One of her arms was raised, elbow bent defensively. A hand was gripping her forearm, attempting to force it downward.
The kneeling figure's other hand remained at her throat.
Timestamp: 02:15:07.
Another still.
The group had tightened around her. The figure near the car had stepped closer now. In the men, there was slackness in posture and a lack of urgency in movement.
The woman's mouth was still open, eyes widened.
Timestamp: 02:15:11.
Patil turned the page again.
This image was pulled from a different camera, a small shopfront further down the lane, a tea stall shuttered for the night but still powered.
A fourth figure had entered the frame.
An older man. He stood near the edge of the lane, partially obscured by a stack of plastic crates. His head was turned sharply toward the group. One hand was raised, palm outward, shock evident on his face, frozen mid-gesture.
Timestamp: 02:15:19.
The next still showed disruption.
Headlights cut across the frame from the road beyond the lane, a sudden white glare flooding the concrete. Shadows fractured. The figures jerked in different directions. The hand at the woman's throat had lifted. The grip on her arm loosened.
Timestamp: 02:15:23.
Another photograph followed.
The men were retreating.
One was already stepping backwards, shoulders hunched. Another had turned fully away from the woman, head angled toward the source of the light. The kneeling figure was rising, weight shifting off his knee, balance unsteady.
The woman remained on the ground, one arm drawn to her chest, the other braced against the concrete.
Timestamp: 02:15:26.
Patil turned the page.
The next still showed the lane breaking apart into motion.
The men were running now—one toward the parked car, another deeper into the lane, shoes skidding slightly on the uneven surface. The silver sedan's door remained closed.
The chaiwala stood frozen near his stall, body angled toward the woman.
Timestamp: 02:15:31.
The final image in the sequence returned the lane to stillness.
The men were gone.
The woman sat upright against the wall, knees drawn close, head lowered. The headlights had passed. The streetlight continued its steady orange glow. Her tote bag and its spilled content on the ground.
Timestamp: 02:16:04.
Behind the photographs were printed call detail records. Numbers redacted except for the final four digits. Time stamps aligned precisely with the CCTV sequence. Location pings overlapped within a tight radius of the lane, consistent across multiple devices.
The charge sheet began there.
Accused No. 1: Kunal Deshmukh.
The file closed with a flat, controlled sound against the table.
"Call ACP Sharma," he ordered the constable.
The inspector across from him— Kulkarni—reached for his phone without question. The cyber cell officer remained standing near the wall, tablet tucked under one arm. A stenographer sat at the corner desk, fingers hovering above the keyboard.
ACP Sharma arrived within minutes.
He scanned the same photographs again, pausing where the woman was on the ground, where the hand was at her throat, where another hand closed around her forearm.
He looked up. "Right now, the FIR reflects three five four, three seven six, five zero nine.
Patil nodded once. "Add five one one read with three seven five."
ACP Sharma leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Attempt to rape requires intent," he said. "Defence will say no removal of clothing. No penetration. No vehicle use. No prolonged act."
Patil turned the file back toward him and opened it again.
"Intent is not inferred from outcome," he said. "It is inferred from conduct."
He tapped the page with the enhanced stills.
"Criminal force used to overpower. Strangulation to incapacitate. Group participation. Victim screaming. Attempt to restrain both hands. Intervention by a third party. Immediate flight."
Kulkarni cleared his throat. "Sir, Supreme Court precedent—Aman Kumar versus State of Haryana—attempt begins when preparation ends, and execution starts."
Patil did not look at him. "And execution was interrupted."
He flipped to the medical report.
"Neck compression marks," he said. "Difficulty swallowing. That is not a casual assault."
ACP Sharma studied the report. "Doctor notes psychological shock."
"Add it," Patil said. "Not as sympathy.."
The cyber officer stepped forward. "Sir, call detail records place all four phones within a fifty-meter radius during the incident window. Movement patterns show clustering, then sudden divergence at zero two fifteen."
The ACP exhaled slowly. "Their counsel will argue drunkenness."
"Intoxication is not consent," Patil said.
He turned to the stenographer. "Read back the complainant's statement."
The woman's words filled the room, typed and formal.
"They pushed me. One of them held my neck. I could not breathe. Another tried to hold my hands down. I screamed. They were laughing. I thought I would die. Even now, I feel disgusting. I went home and showered 4 times,but still I feel as if the filth could not escape me"
Patil spoke "She did not imagine hands being forced down while her airway was restricted."
The ACP nodded once. "Add five one one," he said finally. "But make the grounds airtight."
Patil closed the file again. "They already are."
Kulkarni hesitated. "Sir, do we mention the chaiwala intervention explicitly in the justification?"
He wrote:
INTENT
– Force
– Restraint
– Incapacitation
OVERT ACT
– Victim on the ground
– Hands restrained
– Neck compressed
INTERRUPTION
– Third-party witness
– Headlights
– Accused flee
He underlined the last word.
"Without interruption," he said, "the act would have progressed."
ACP Sharma picked up the FIR draft. "Charge framing will reflect attempt, not preparation."
Patil turned back toward the table. "Preparation is parking the car," he said. "Execution is pushing her to the ground."
Kulkarni nodded, already making notes.
The ACP glanced at the name on the charge sheet again. "Accused No. 1 has political backing."
Patil's expression did not change. " The Law does not acknowledge fathers nor affluent families"
The ink pressed down with a dull, final sound.
"Add Section 511," he said. "Arrest all accused. No notice. No summons."
The stenographer typed.
Patil gathered the file, slid it under his arm, and walked out.
The convoy stopped two lanes short of the Deshmukh property.
Engines cut almost simultaneously, the sudden quiet and crickets chirping, replaced by the click of seatbelts and the scrape of boots against asphalt.
Patil stepped out of the lead Innova first.
He adjusted his cap once, approaching the mansion.
The Deshmukh mansion sat back from the road, wide and deliberate. Twin gates, black iron. A security cabin stood to the left, glass panes reflecting the police vehicles. The security guards inside had already risen from their chairs.
Patil raised two fingers.
The team split without sound.
One unit moved to the left wall, shadows breaking and reforming as they passed beneath the trees. The second remained with Patil at the front—Kulkarni, two constables, and a sub-inspector carrying the arrest papers sealed in plastic.
Patil stepped forward.
He knocked once.
The sound rang out clean and metallic against the gate.
The guard opened the cabin door halfway. "Yes?"
"Police," Patil said. "Open the gate."
The man hesitated, eyes darting past the uniforms and the police vehicles.
Deshpande stepped closer. "Gate. Now."
The guard reached for the latch.
Patil walked in without breaking stride.
They crossed half the driveway before the front door opened.
Prakashrao Deshmukh stood framed in the doorway, silk kurta crisp even at this hour, a shawl draped over one shoulder. His face tightened when he saw Patil.
"What is this?" he said. "Do you know the time?"
Patil stopped at the foot of the steps. "I know the offence."
Prakashrao's gaze flicked to the uniforms, then back. "Aap aise andar nahi ghus sakte!"
Patil nodded once. "Cognizable offence. Attempt to rape. Arrest without warrant."
The words landed flat.
"You will regret—" Prakashraa began.
"Where is your son?" Patil asked interrupting him
"He's asleep."
"Wake him. JALDI!"
Prakashrao's jaw clenched angrily. "I want to see the papers."
The sub-inspector stepped forward and held them out. "Section three five four, three two three, three four. Added five one one."
Patil moved past him, ignoring him.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of polish and incense. A staircase rose along the far wall, its railing cool steel.
"First floor," Prakashrao said sharply.
Patil nodded toward the stairs.
The officers moved.
Their boots sounded heavier indoors, echoing along the walls. At the landing, a door stood closed at the end of the corridor. Light spilt beneath it.
Deshpande knocked once, hard.
No response.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
Patil gestured.
The constable stepped back and drove his shoulder into the door.
The latch gave way with a crack that splintered the frame. The door swung inward, striking the wall.
Kunal Deshmukh jerked upright on the bed.
The room was wide, and the smell of alcohol lingered in the air.
"What the hell— how fucking DARE YOU!" Kunal started.
"Police," Deshpande said. "Get up."
Kunal swung his legs off the bed. "You can't—"
The constable crossed the room in three steps and grabbed his arm.
"Easy," Kunal said, voice sharpening. "My father—"
"Hands behind your back," Patil said from the doorway.
Kunal laughed once, "Aaap jante ho main kaun hoon?"
Patil did not answer.
The constable twisted Kunal's arm upward. The laugh broke into a hiss as his shoulder tightened.
"Turn around," Kulkarni said.
His wrist was pulled back, metal biting as the first cuff snapped shut. The second followed immediately.
The sound was sharp in the room.
"What is this for?" Kunal said, breathing fast now.
Patil stepped inside. "Attempt to rape."
The word hit differently here, stripped of paperwork and files.
"That's bullshit," Kunal said. "Nothing happened."
Patil looked at him. "Something did."
He turned to Kulkarni. "Read him."
Kulkarni spoke clearly, each word measured. "You are being arrested under Sections three five four, three two three, three four, and five one one of the Indian Penal Code. "
Downstairs, voices rose.
Prakashrao's voice carried angrily up the stairwell. "This is harassment. You are overstepping."
Patil escorted Kunal roughly toward the door. "He'll be produced before a magistrate in twenty-four hours."
As they reached the landing, Kunal twisted suddenly, trying to pull free.
The constable shoved him forward, his shoulder striking the wall. Kunal's breath left him in a sharp burst.
"Chal Seedha," Kulkarni said.
They moved him down the stairs.
At the bottom, Prakashrao stepped forward. "I will call my lawyer."
"Good luck.," Patil said calmly.
As Kunal was pushed into the vehicle, he turned his head back once, eyes locking on Patil.
"This won't stick," he said.
Patil closed the door himself, shoving him in.
The lock clicked.
The convoy pulled away, tyres rolling over gravel, leaving the mansion lit and silent behind them.
BACK TO THE PRESENT ( DW IN THE UPCOMING CHAPTERS WE'LL REVEAL WHY KUNAL IS NOT IN JAIL IN THE PRESENT)
Neptune IAS Academy spilt its students into several clusters as the evening batch ended.
Aaravi stepped out with two girls beside her, her tote slung low against her hip.
She wore a soft white chikankari kurta, fabric worn loose from hours of sitting. Dark blue jeans brushed her ankles, and flat tan kolhapuris slapped lightly against the pavement as she walked. Her hair was loose, thick and slightly uneven, wisps escaping near her temples where sweat and humidity had softened the part.
She laughed as she walked, phone pressed to her ear. Already half disengaged from the girls beside her.
Aaravi adjusted her bag higher on her shoulder and slowed as her peers peeled off toward the metro entrance, waving goodbye. She stayed back, phone pressed to her ear, stepping into the thinner flow of pedestrians moving toward the main road.
Across the road, a black sedan idled in a no-parking zone.
Kunal sat in the driver's seat, elbow resting against the door, phone face-down in his lap.
On Monday, he had parked two lanes down, pretending to scroll while she crossed the street.
On Tuesday, he had watched from a restaurant across the road, the glass reflecting her faintly as she was laughing with her friend.
On Wednesday, he had followed at a distance as she took an auto, memorising the turns by instinct rather than landmarks.
Thursday, she had stayed back late. Friday, she had left early.
It had been six days now.
Six evenings of recalibrating routes, of choosing where to wait and where not to be seen, of learning which days she walked and which days she didn't.
Kunal started the engine.
The sound blended easily into the street. He eased the car forward, keeping one vehicle between them as she turned left, away from the main road, toward the quieter stretch that led past the stationery shop and the closed coaching centre.
She smiled to herself, eyes down now, thumb tracing the edge of her purse case as she listened.
Behind her, the sedan slowed as she slowed, rolled when she rolled, stopped briefly when she stopped to let a delivery bike pass. The distance remained consistent.
Kunal parked across from the stop this time, the car angled slightly inward. From here, he could see her reflection in the glass of the shelter.
It was early evening when Abhi unlocked the door to his flat, his white crisp uniform slightly wrinkled from the responsibilities of the day.
The TV murmured in the background, Anupama played faintly, with dramatic pauses that suggested at least three betrayals per episode.
"Nimmi," he called.
From the kitchen came the clatter of steel and her voice, already mid-sentence. "Haan haan aa gaya mera navy ka jawaan."
He stepped inside fully.
Pihu sat cross-legged on the floor, tongue sticking out slightly from the corner of her mouth. A colouring book lay open in front of her, half-filled shapes and scribbles bleeding gloriously outside the lines. Colour pencils were scattered everywhere.
Abhimanyu leaned against the wall, "Yeh kya ho raha hai?"
Without lifting her head, she said, "Main kaam kar rahi hoon."
"Kisne bola yahan baithne ko?"
"Maine."
He exhaled through his nose. "Tumhare ghar mein jagah nahi hai kya?"
She looked up then. Squinted at him. Evaluated.
"Woh ek ghar hai," she said, pointing vaguely. "Yeh mera second ghar hai."
Before he could respond, Nimmi burst out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her dupatta.
"Arre aa gaya tu," she said brightly. Then, noticing his face, followed his gaze. "Haan haan, woh thoda creative ho gayi."
"Thoda?" he repeated.
Pihu turned back to her drawing. "Maan uncle ko art samajh nahi aata."
"Tum mujhe uncle bolna band kar sakti ho," he said.
"No."
"Ky—"
Abhimanyu sighed, exhaling, and dropped onto the sofa. "Mishti kahan hai?"
"Kuch kaam se bahar gayi hai," Nimmi said.
"Late ho jayegi."
Pihu piped up, "Mumma ne bola main seedha yahan aa jaoon."
"Unhone permission di?" he asked.
"Haan."
She nodded vigorously. "Maine bola mujhe Maan uncle ke ghar jaana hai."
Pihu scooted closer to Abhimanyu, dragging her colouring book with her. "Dekho."
He leaned forward despite himself.
A house with five suns. People with green hair. Something that might have been a dog but also looked like a potato.
She pointed to a figure with spiky hair, crossed eyes, and a triangular-shaped body.
"Yeh kaun hai?" he asked, pointing.
"Yeh tum ho."
"And I look like this?"
"Haan," she said, offended.
He nodded slowly, grinning at her, "Makes sense."
Then she stabbed her finger at the other figure.
It took up nearly half the page.
It was Extremely round. A giant oval body with tiny stick arms poking out. Thick black hair coloured in so heavily that the paper had nearly torn.
"Yeh mumma hai."
Abhimanyu stared.
For a second.
Then—
" HAHAAHAHAHAHA", he burst out laughing,
" Mishti se Moti kar diya dekho isse!"
" Dekho kaisi ekdam .. HMPHH, aisi lag rahi hai!!" he said, purposely puffing his cheeks and holding his arms out.
Pihu gasped.
"HEY."
She lunged forward and smacked his arm.
"Mumma moti nahi hai."
He wiped his eyes. "Pihu, yeh—" he gestured helplessly at the drawing, "—HAHAHAHAHAHH MOTI MIRCHI!"" he laughed again, as she pouted.
"Arrey mazak kar raha hoon meri Mirchi 2.0", he said, softer, patting her head.
Nimmi, carrying a bowl of cut mangos, stopped mid-step.
"Bilkul sahi banayi hai," she declared.
Pihu nodded vigorously. "Haan. Mumma kehti hai body plositive."
Abhimanyu raised an eyebrow. "Beta usse positive nahi,
positive kehte hai. Aur tumne body ko thoda zyaada positive bana diya."
Nimmi crossed her arms. "Tum zyada mat bolo."
Distracted, Pihu sat back down and added pink dots all over the mumma figure.
"Yeh kya hai?" he asked.
"Dupatta," she said confidently.
"That's... everywhere."
"Haan. Mumma ka dupatta kabhi ek jagah nahi rehta."
He leaned back again. "Fair."
She started colouring the background with no regard for shapes. Blue over yellow. Red over blue.
"Tum mere mummy ke saath kya karte the?" she asked casually, not looking up.
He hesitated for exactly half a second.
"Ladte the aur khelte the," he said.
"Kyun?"
"Kyuki hum dono ziddi bache the."
"Mumma abhi bhi ziddi hai."
"Haan."
"Tum bhi ho?"
He smiled. "Haan."
She nodded, as if this completed a pattern.
"Tum log friends the?"
"Kabhi the."
"Phir?"
"Kabhi nahi the."
She paused mid-colour. "Phir kaise baat karte the?"
"Zyada baat nahi karte the."
"Phir kaise ladte the?"
He laughed. "Yeh sawal tumhari mumma se poocho."
Nimmi sat down on the sofa now, watching them over her chai. "Tum dono ek jaise ho," she said to Pihu. "Bas height ka farak hai."
Pihu puffed up. "Main badi ho jaungi, inse bhi badi!"
"Tumhari mumma bhi yahi bolti thi, abhi bhi choti hai."
She looked at Abhimanyu suspiciously. "Tum har cheez pe mumma ko kyun beech me laate ho?"
He shrugged. "Habit hai."
She considered this, then leaned closer to the book. "Tumhari mummy kaisi hai?"
He blinked.
"Achi thi, komal dil ki. Saaf Saaf. Aur woh ekdam khoosbsurat thi," he said after a moment.
"Yeh kya hai?" he asked, pointing to her drawing, purposely diverting the topic.
She accepted that explanation.
She scribbled something new in the corner—a boat on the water.
Pihu coloured quietly for a while.
She nodded slowly, as if storing this for later.
"Tum mumma ko miss karte the kya ?"
He looked down at her.
She looked back, unblinking.
"Kabhi kabhi," he said.
She smiled softly.
"Maan uncle."
"Haan."
"Tum sach mein ship pe rehte ho?"
"Haan Mirchi 2.0."
"Ship hilaata hai?"
"Haan."
"Tum paani me nahi girte ho?"
"Nahi."
"Tum darrte ho sharks se?"
"Thoda."
She nodded seriously. "Main bhi bhooton se darrti hoon."
He considered this. "Fair comparison."
She shifted, sitting cross-legged like him now. "Tumhara kaam kya hota hai?"
He thought for a second.
"Main logon ko bolta hoon kya karna hai. Unhe orders deta hoon"
Her eyes widened. "Jaise mumma?"
He smiled. "Thoda kam gussa."
"Haan," she said immediately. "Mumma bahut gussa karti."
"Tumhari mumma bachpan mein bhi aisi hi thi," he said.
She leaned in, interest fully captured now. "Story sunao."
He rested his elbows on his knees. "Ek baar..."
Nimmi returned quietly, sensing something was already in motion.
"...society mein hum sab hide and seek khel rahe tha" he continued. " main, tumhaari mamma, aur tumhaare Akshu mamu"
"Phir?" she asked.
"Phir main count kar raha tha, aur akshu and mishti chup rahe the."
"Phir maine ek scary mask lagakar usee darakar, uske peeche bhaagne laga."
"Phir?" she asked
" Usne mujhe chappal se bohot peetha", he said, laughing.
Her mouth fell open. "Tum badmash ho."
"Woh Mirchi thi," he said. "Abhi bhi hai."
"Mumma Mirchi nahi hai. Uska naam Mishti hai.. aur mishti means sweet."
" Mirchi hi hai. ," he insisted. "Itna gussa karti thi, mujhe laga fatt jayegi, atomic bomb jaise. "
Nimmi laughed from the doorway. "Bilkul sahi yaad hai."
Abhimanyu continued, "Phir usne mujhe dhakka diya."
"She pushed you?"
"Haan."
"Tum gire?"
"Haan."
Pihu leaned back, satisfied. "Mumma sahi thi."
"Of course, jaisi maa, waisi hi beti," he grumbled.
Pihu yawned suddenly, dramatically ." Maan uncle.. Mujhe bhookh lagi hai."
He stood up immediately. "Kya khayegi?"
She thought. "Jo mumma mana karti hai."
Abhimanyu clapped. "Yeh hui na baat."
As Abhimanyu moved toward the kitchen, Pihu followed, holding onto the hem of his uniform like it was obvious she belonged there.
Inside flat number 8001, crayons dried into the carpet, chai went cold, and a four-year-old decided that this man was hers, too.
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