Delhi, as I had read and observed, always felt like it had two separate breaths — one quick and restless, and another slow and calculated.
That morning, I felt both at once. The March air had a crispness that clung to my skin, but the city's pulse was warm with something else — ambition, power, the quiet thrum of people who made decisions for millions with a single nod.
I could taste it even before I stepped into the sprawling glass-domed convention hall. The streets outside were already dressed in banners and security barricades; a dozen black SUVs lined the entrance like a silent fleet. The Summit had dressed the city in a subtle armor. Streets around the venue were cordoned off, policemen in bulletproof vests standing at every turn, the hum of radios in their earpieces blending with the rumble of black SUVs arriving one after another.
The lanyard felt heavier than it should have — Final Year Journalism Delegate. Only five final-year journalism students in the country had been chosen. Thanks to a certain Education Minister who has awarded me nine times, I was one of them.
Inside, the air shifted — polished marble floors reflected the glow of crystal chandeliers, and an ocean of tailored suits and silk saris moved in a slow, careful tide. Conversations hovered like low electrical hums. The smell of coffee clung to every corner.
The first panel began with the Union Minister for Parliamentary Affairs.
His voice was smooth, carrying the practiced pauses of a man who'd given too many speeches to count.
"The future of this nation," he declared, "is in the handshake between free media and responsible governance. When the two work together, we can ensure progress without chaos."
A ripple of applause followed. But my face remained straight, unreadable. I noted the applause was polite, not enthusiastic. The corporate crowd clapped because it was expected; the journalists didn't bother hiding their skepticism.
The second speaker — a retired Supreme Court judge — leaned into his microphone and dropped the kind of statement that shifted the air.
"Power," he said, "is never truly held by those in office. It is held by those who can decide what the public sees of those in office."
A ripple moved through the hall. Some of the younger reporters scribbled furiously. I simply wrote three words in my notebook: Media shapes memory.
The next session was a moderated discussion between political correspondents from across states.
Kolkata's senior bureau chief mentioned how industrial money flowed invisibly into political campaigns. A Goa-based journalist recounted how tourism policies were rewritten in private dinners before they ever reached the Assembly.
I watched faces more than words — the flickers of discomfort when truths got too close, the careful laughter when someone deflected with a joke.
It was during a side comment from a veteran Rajasthan reporter that I caught the first thread:
"...and of course, in Rajasthan, the CM's clean record is the safest thing to bet your career on. That's a state where even whispers are loyal."
Many chuckled, some smiled, a few clicked their tongue and almost no one, spoke counter to it.
As the sessions rolled on, panel after panel painted Rajasthan in gold — a safe haven for investors, a cultural jewel. Even the journalists spoke with the smooth certainty of those who had never walked through its darker alleys.
Then came the Keynote Session — "Medical Frontiers: India's Next Leap".
The final speaker before the lunch break was not a politician, nor a senior editor — but a soft-spoken man in a pale grey suit with the sharpness of someone used to being underestimated. His nameplate simply read Dr. Viraam Mehta – Research & Development, Biomedica Pvt. Ltd.
He began with a slide of a molecular diagram.
"Our project," he said, "is codenamed Sanjivini. A formula that, if all goes well, will reverse the effects of an advanced neurological disorder within weeks instead of years."
The audience leaned in. The name carried a mythical weight — the herb of life from epic tales.
A few journalists exchanged glances; in the corporate section, someone smirked knowingly.
Dr. Mehta continued, "The trials have been... promising. Side effects minimal. Delivery mechanism, unprecedented. We are working closely with regulatory boards for an accelerated approval."
It all sounded clean. Too clean.
My instincts prickled — the kind of instinct that knew when someone was choosing their words like stepping stones over a river they didn't want to fall into.
A senior health correspondent raised her hand.
"Doctor, sources say Sanjivini is not entirely synthetic. That it draws from... unusual natural compounds. Care to clarify?"
Mehta's smile was patient but tight.
"Our sources are proprietary. Rest assured, they are entirely sustainable."
"Some say it involves the extraction of proteins from snake venom."
The word snake cracked open something in my mind.
The hall dissolved.
I was back in that Jaipur Conference, shadows stretching across the stone walls. Two men, voices low, urgent —
"Snakes move at night. CM will be pleased."
My skin prickled and I had to force myself back to the present, eyes scanning the room.
A small, knowing chuckle spread through the room. He smiled faintly. The pharma speaker continued smoothly, but I noticed the small things — the way a senior bureaucrat in the front row tapped his pen twice against the armrest, how another man in a grey suit leaned over to whisper something to a political aide the moment venom was mentioned. A ripple in the air, quickly smoothed over.
The applause came again, polite and practiced.
I clapped with everyone else, my face the perfect mask of a young journalist honored to be present. But behind these blue-hazel eyes, the dots were already connecting — Rajasthan's spotless image, the syndicates, the whisper of venom.
I knew one thing for certain:
This was not a coincidence.
The chair of the panel intervened before more could be asked. "Let's save deeper dives for after lunch, folks. We're already over time."
The laughter in the room was polite, but I noticed how quickly Mehta gathered his papers and left the stage.
And just like that — Sanjivini became the room's newest unspoken topic, something people didn't write in their notes but carried into whispered corners.
The lunch break dissolved the formality of the hall into clusters of murmurs. Men in suits leaned closer over plates of delicately arranged hors d'oeuvres, their voices sinking into private registers. A few journalists loosened their ties, laughing loudly in little bursts that didn't quite reach their eyes.
I took my tea to a quieter corner, where I could see without being seen.
Nine years of training — unofficial and self-taught — had made me fluent in the art of listening sideways.
From behind a pillar, two senior editors spoke in the easy tone of old friends, but their words carried weight.
"You know they'll never touch Rajasthan's image. CM's too clean in public."
"Clean?" The other chuckled. "Only in the papers. Ask the desert about the venom trade."
My hand froze on my teacup. Venom again.
The exact word. Twice in one day.
I didn't look up — didn't give myself away — just shifted slightly so their voices carried better.
"...snakes from the Aravallis. Not all of it goes to pharma. Some goes to... well... you've heard the stories."
Snakes are actually given to the Pharma??
"I have. I just choose not to write them."
They drifted away toward the buffet, leaving their unfinished sentences hanging like invisible threads.
I sipped my tea, but my mind was already working faster than my pulse.
If the pharma breakthrough was clean, why were these whispers laced with avoidance? Why did it sound like the venom's value went far beyond medicine?
If what I think is true, snakes are being traded, with the CM being involved.
The next panel began — something about "Global Media Responsibility" — but I hardly heard it. My brain was tracing invisible lines in her notebook:
Rajasthan → Venom →Secret voices → CM's possible link.
My gaze flicked across the room to the Rajasthan delegation. Smiling. Applauding. Untouched.
If this was the state's public face, then the truth must be buried under layers thick enough to choke on.
Wait. Haani. Look again. Was it Rajeev Shekhawat?
Nahi, why would he be present.
But as I looked again, it confirmed that my eyes weren't betrayed. It was indeed Rajeev Shekhawat, laughing with his mouth open, eyes forming crescent. But way was he here? The same man who had questioned Miheer's Death. The man who had his frame on one of the walls of Dharma. He, as per the sources, is a senior editor, with no longer actively involved in the profession, since past four years.
As the event ended and the glass dome turned gold in the setting sun, Hanitra walked out with the crowd. The Delhi air felt warmer now — heavy with exhaust and the scent of roadside kebabs — but to her, it carried another smell entirely.
Not everyone could smell venom in the wind.
But I could and that was hella suffocating.
As I crossed the security, I checked my watch. 4:53 pm. As they returned our phones, I checked my phone calls first.
Baba- 3 missed calls
1 message- conference main hi hai kya abhi bhi?
I smiled, my dad, my baba. Who couldn't breath without seeing or talking to his little uss pandit ki gudiya.
But my eyes frowned as I saw missed calls from someone else too- an unknown number.
I checked the call history- the most recent call was twenty four minutes ago.
"Kaun mara jaa raha hai, mujhse baat karne ke liye?"
(Who's dying to talk to me??)
And I dialled the number, hai to India ka hi number. Par iss desh mein kon hai aisa namuna?
(The number is definitely Indian. But who is this circus piece?)
"Hello?" I spoke, a bit confused yet firm.
"Hanitra?" The voice was... familiar, like too familiar from my recent days.
LISTEN HERE MY BLESSED ONES, before beginning further- understand this. I know this track seems a bit unreal but be assured. None of the men I'm going to write have low values. They are nothing a part of a dark romance love. They are pure, gentle, passionate and sweet. Respect is a bare minimum to them, so is her consent and her privacy.
Shivaay may not like her but you don't go around mocking someone for their parents and not apologize from the heart, because this wound is the deepest. And the boys? They, no doubt are chaotic but even they know their boundaries. For them, all what they want is to have a good love life, to fall in love with a girl who they deserve. Hanitra, they have found is perfect for their Shivaay and if, anywhere in between the story, they find that she is being forced to love him, they'll stop that very moment.
So before any criticism, try to focus on the logical side. Because these novels, though may turn out suspense-thrilled, are also meant to be a comfort to those blessed people who have longed for something soft, gentle yet passionate.
ENJOY!!
"Mr. Rathore?" Subconsciously, my voice raised "Pehli baat. Aapke pass mera number kaise hai? Doosri baat, aap bina puche mujhe call kyun kar rahe hain. Aur teesri baat, kya baat hai? Itni miss calls, fir apna gussa nikalna hai kya?"
(First, how did you get my number? Second, why did you call me without my permission? And third- what's the matter? These many missed calls? Wanna rant out at me again?)
I heard a muffled laughter, too quiet, too low.
"Dhairya Sir?" My voice grew louder, as I settled inside my car. "Aapne number diya inhe?"
(Did you gave him my number?)
"Umm... Hey.. I'm sorry but I'm not your Dhairya Sir, I'm Vivaan, a friend of Shivaay."
"Oh sorry. Fizool aadmi ek jaise hi lagtein hai mujhe." I was still raging, ye aadmi log itna kyun disturb kartein hain hame?
(Idle men sound same to me.) (Why do these men disturb a lot??)
Another laughter. YE SAARE MARENGE MERE HAATHON, ALREADY HI DIMAAG KHARAB HAI.
(I'll kill all these humans. Already in a bad mood.)
"Mr. Rathore? Answer denge? Ya privacy ke against case ladenge?"
(Will you answer, Mr. Rathore? Or fight a privacy case against yourself?)
"Hanitra.. Noo.. Batata hoon..." A beat. "Veer se maanga."
(No.. I'll tell. I asked from Veer.)
It was a white lie, because even Dhairya didn't want to be stabbed by his favourite, anger-issued student.
FLASHBACK, YESTERDAY NIGHT.
AUTHOR'S POV.
The Rathore Mansion was quiet, everyone busy with their work but inside Shivaay's room, it was a disaster. Sitting on the chair couch, he was staring at the ceiling, trying to organize everything in his mind and in his heart, but his organs and fate, both were upset from him, refusing to settle in peace.
He finally sighs, darting towards the room where his two chaotic friends were busy working their heart out, unable to be free from their duties even for a few days, but laughing loudly every second or two, while mocking their staff members.
As he enters the room, both fall silent, raising their eyebrows at that sudden entry. The stare was of the kind you have when you expect someone to ask for notes or a book recommendation.
Groaning, Shivaay sits on the couch, while the two just blink at him. He massages his temple twice and decided to speak-
"Dhairya... I need to talk to her."
Not even looking up from his laptop, the person answers. "Finally. Now you know what guilt tastes like?
"Yaar don't start. I just... I don't know what to say. She won't even look at me."
Dhairya snapped his laptop shut, leaned back dramatically in his chair like he was on stage.
"Oh, toh ab mere paas aaya hai. Jab daant ke rakh diya usse, tab minister ki zarurat nahi thi, hai na? Tab to kehe raha tha- STAY OUT OF IT."
(Oh. So you've finally come to me. You didn't need me when you were yelling at her, right? What had you said then-)
Shivaay grumbles, "Stop being dramatic—"
Dhairya cuts him off, standing, hands flailing like a full Bollywood maa. "DRAMATIC?! I'm the Education Minister, Shivaay. I handle universities, policies, entrance scams—
But here I am, solving your love story!"
This makes the CFO freeze. "What?! It's not a love story."
Before Dhairya even got a chance to speak, Vivaan gasps like he's been slapped. "Not a love story?! Tu uske samne khada hota hai toh teri heartbeat mic pakad ke bhag jaati hai!"
(Your heart literally stops when you stand in front of her.)
"I just... I'm being decent! Trying to apologize!"
"Oh ho ho. Decent." Vivaan takes a deep breath and begins again. Bhai, tujhe samajh kyun nahi aata—tu usse pasand karta hai! Like... bohot. Borderline poetry-writing types."
(Why don't you get it bro? You like her.. like a lot...)
Shivaay looked stunned for a moment.
Like someone had finally switched on the bulb inside his thick skull.
He asks, quietly, looking at both at him. "...You think I like her?"
Dhairya answers flatly. "Beta, agar tu aur clueless hota na, toh main Prime Minister ban jaata."
(If YOU're clueless, then I'm the Prime Minister.)
There was a pause. Shivaay sat down slowly.
"She hates me."
Dhairya speaks again, this time softly than before. "She doesn't. She's just hurt. And you hit her in the one place she never shows anyone—her pain. Her past."
Shivaay's guilt returned, thick and quiet. He fiddled with the pen on Dhairya's desk, jaw tight.
"She said... 'I may not have a mother but I know how to save someone else's.' That line—Dhairya, it—"
Both the friends soften at this. "Yeah. It broke you."
Shivaay nodded once, eyes cast low.
"To, main kya help karun fir?"
(How shall I help you then?)
"Can I.... umm... Matlab kya tu.."
(I mean can you-)
"Arey Sharma kyun rahe ho Rathore Sahab, boliye, hamare param mitr kuch bhi kar sakte hain, haina Dhairya?"
(Why getting shy? Ask for anything. Our dear friend can do anything for you, right Dhairya?)
He nods, "Haan, bol. Tere liye itna to shayad kar hi sakta hoon." The tone was soft, for his dear friend who had messed up.
(Yeah, ask. I might do it, atleast for you?)
"Uska number hai-" Shivaay began like it was the most casual thing in the world but-
(Do you have her number-)
"KYA???" He got the answer even before his sentence completed.
"Dekh tune kaha tha-"
(You had said that-)
"To uska no. dedoon? Afeem khani shuru kar di kya?" Dhairya's brow shot up.
(So I should give her numbers? Are you high on drugs?)
"Yaar tu baat se palat raha hai." The poor boy sounded betrayed, pointing at his friend.
(You're turning back from your words.)
"Bilkul palat raha hoon, mere pass hi nahi, tujhe to kaise hi de doon?"
(Yes I'm. Even I don't have it, how will I give you?)
Vivaan jumps to defense, seeing his bros fighting..
"Yaar D. Tu to Education Minister hai, maang le na kisi se." He advices, receiving a glare from his choas partner.
(You're the Eduction Minister D, ask it from someone..)
"Education Minister hoon isliye bol raha hoon, main nahi maang raha Hanitra ka number. Uski privacy ki to respect kar."
(I'm saying this as an Education Minister himself, I'm not asking for her number. Atleast respect her privacy.)
"Main konsa love letter ka note bhejunga. Sorry hi ho bolni hai, baad mein block kar degi."
(It's not like I need to send her love letter notes. I'll just say sorry, and then, she can block me.)
"Haan D. Suggestion to sahi hain."
(Yes D. The suggestion seems fine.)
Dhairya fumes. "Achcha? Block nahi, murder kar degi tera, aur saath mein mera."
(Oh really? She won't block you. She'll murder you. And even me.)
"Yaar teri favourite student hai na, please maan ja.. mere liye."
(She's your favourite student, dude. Please agree... for me.)
"Tu meri bifi hai jo haan bolun?"
(Are you my wife that I'll agree?)
"Chal theek hai D. Shivu bro ke liye na sahi, but apne group ki first bhabhi ke liye hi sahi... Maang le yaar. Tujh par to koi doubt bhi nahi karega..."
(Okay. If not for Shivaay, do it for the first sister-in-law in our group. No none will ever doubt you.)
Dhairya looked between the two idiots of his, both doe eyes, pleading. Tries to take a deep breath but falls short.
"Galat hai yaar.. Ham civilized bande hain. Uska to socho, aur mera to soch. Chotti behen jaisi hai yaar meri ." His tone turned firm, arms folding like a judge delivering a verdict.
(This is wrong bro. We are civilized humans. And think about her... and me... She's like a younger sister to me.)
Vivaan glares him, and then, in a dead serious voice- "Tu maangega, ya Kritanjay ko bolun?"
(Are you asking or shall I ask Kritanjay?)
"Maang ke dekh, teri hi kabr khodega."
(Go ahead, try. He'll dig your grave instead.)
That silenced the room for exactly three seconds. Then, Vivaan's grin widened like he'd just remembered an ace up his sleeve.
As a challenge, he dials a call, the person on the other hand takes just three seconds to answer.
"Yes dear bro??"
"Room main aa. Abhi." LAKSHAY, it was.
(In the room. Now.)
"LAKSHAY KO KYUN BULAYA??"
(Why did you call Lakshay?)
Shivaay leaned towards Vivaan, whispering, "Bhai, tu genius hai."
(You're a genius bro.)
The room door slammed open so hard it rebounded off the wall, and in stormed Lakshay- hair an untamed mess, track pants hanging loose, and the air of a man wrongfully dragged from his peace. And he spoke, almost barked-
"Raat ko soya jaata hai, pishachon... Kabhi to dimaag lagaya karo."
(We sleep at night, you wizards. Use your brain for one damn time.)
"Jab pishach ki kehe diya, to sone ko kyun bol raha hai?" Shivaay, dead face, serious voice.
(When you have already called us wizards then why asking us to sleep?)
Lakshay stopped mid-step, glaring. "Kaam batao yaar, main lion documentry dekh-"
(What's the work? I was watching lion documentry-)
Dhairya, still leaning back on the desk like the calm centre of a hurricane, cut him off in pure deadpan. "Shivaay ko Hanitra ka phone number chahiye."
(Shivaay wants Hanitra's phone number.)
Nonchalant, still mentally in the African savannah, Lakshay begins- "Haan to ye bolo na ki-" He froze. Blinking once. Twice. "KYA?"
(See, tell me this that- WHAT?)
He stares, first at Dhairya, then Shivaay, then at Vivaan, all with varying shades of idiotic expression. "Hanitra ma'am ka number? Kyun?"
(Her number? Why?)
The minister's eyes slid to Shivaay, voice dripping dry amusement. "Janab ko sorry bolni hai."
(This man here wants to apologize.)
"Haan theek hai, to jao boldo na, number kyun maang rahe ho. Gaye to the aap morning main, nahi maani kya?"
(Okay, so go and apologise, why ask for her number. But you did went there in the morning, didn't she forgive you?)
Shivaay exhaled like a man carrying the weight of tragic history. "She slammed the door- AT. MY. FACE."
For half a second, there was stunned silence, and then- chaos. Vivaan bent over the desk laughing. Lakshay wheezed. Even Dhairya's lips twitched.
"Ohoo... So madam ne aapke muh par darwaza band kar diya? Kya baat hai bro.."
(So she slammed the door on your face? Brilliant bro.)
Lakshay add ons- "Hum logon ki poori history mein ye first time hua hai.. Chalo boss, kuch to aapke naam bhi hai.."
(It has happened for the first time in our history. Well good for you, atleast a title for you.)
But Shivaay, unbothered by the hilarity, lovked his gaze on Dhairya like a man bargaining with God.
"Maan jaiye prabhu... aap jo kahoge, vo chadaunga."
(Please agree. And I'll give you whatever you wish for.)
Someone's eyes lit up with the unmistakeable gleam of opportunity.
"Iran ki tickets. Sirf meri. June mein."
(Tickets to Iran. Just mine. In June.)
Lakshay's head whipped toward him, and he muttered- "Bikau aadmi..."
(Bloody corrupted man.)
VIvaan straightened, still grinning, and clapped a hand on Lakshay's shoulder. "Arre, bikau nahi- businessman. Visionary. Ye deal-making ka art sabko nahi aata.
(Aey, rather a businessman. Not everyone knows the art of deal-making.)
The only sane person among them rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they came bak down.
"Next time, aap log kidney ka bhi auction laga doge, I swear."
(You guys will auction kidneys next time.)
The CFO, still bargaining, took a step forward. "Tickets ho gayi toh number mil jayega na?"
(I'll get the number after giving you the tickets, right?)
Dhairya leaned back on the desk itself, like a king on his throne. "Ho gayi toh.. shayad."
(Maybe.)
Lakshay threw his hand in the air. "Aur nahi to ek Sherpa bula ke Mount Everest pe bhi chadhwa do na ek number ke liye."
(If that's not enough, why don't you call a Sherpa to make him climb the Moumt Everest?)
Shivaay just grinned, already sensing the deal tipping in his favour, while Dhairya dialed a call to CASR University.
FLASHBACK ENDS.
"Boliye Mr. Rathore. Mera number kisi reason se hi maanga hoga aapne?" I was clearly irritated as my brain was still consumed with previous thoughts...
(Speak Mr. Rathore. You asked for my number for a reason, right?)
"Hanitra. I know this was pure wrong for me to ask for your number without consent but trust me, I have no wrong intentions... Main bas sorry kehena chahta hoon, vishwas karo."
(I just wanna say sorry, trust me.)
Kaise karun yaar? Mere kaam hi aise hain ki aap kabhi bhi maar do.
(How should I even? My antics are of diffrent situation.)
"Kehe diya? Phone kaat doon ab?"
(Done? Shall I cut the call now?)
"Nahi.. Hanitra. Aap samjhi nahi."
(No. Hanitra You didn't get me.)
AAP? DID HE JUST SAY AAP TO ME? WOAH..
"To samjhaiye, kuch zyada hi fursat mein lagtein hai aap."
(Then explain it to me, you seem to be too idle right now.)
The muffled laughter echoed in my ears again. KYA PROBLEM HAI INKI?
(WHAT EVEN IS THERE PROBLEM?)
"Hanitra. Can you just give me one proper chance to apologize? Sirf ek baar please, fir chahe kabhi mera chehra mat dekhna. But sirf ek baar ke liye, maine jo kaha vo galat tha. Aur jab gussa itni buri tarah kiya hai, maafi to kam-se-kam achche se maangne do."
(Just for once, afetr that, I'll be willing to not show my face ever. But please, for once. What I did was wrong. I wanna apologize with the same intensity as I had yelled at you.)
BRO? INHE KYA HO RAHA HAI AAJ?
(What was happened to him today?)
"Kehna kya chahte hain aap, saaf saaf kahiye na."
(What do you even wanna say?)
"A Cafe, tomorrow, agar aap kahein?"
(If you say?)
My voice grew alerted. "Aapko kaise pata main Delhi main hoon, Mr. Rathore, tracking to nahi kar rahe kahein aap meri?"
(How do you even know I'm in Delhi? Are you tracking me?)
TU GYI KAL, BINA MAHAKSHI MA'AM SE MILE...
(You're dead tomorrow, without even meeting Mahakshi Ma'am.)
He chuckled, SOFTLY?
"Agar kar rahe hotein, to aapko ab tak to pata chal hi jata."
(And if I was, you would have known by now.)
I smiled, despite myself. HAAN. PATA TO MAIN LAGA HI LETI.
(O YEAH. I WOULD HAVE FOUND OUT FOR SURE.)
"Hamare sawaal ka jawab nahi diya aapne ab tak."
(You still haven't answered my question..)
I composed myself, firmed my voice a bit. "Fine. Tomorrow morning, nine. Aur please cafe achcha sa rakhiyega, drop the location by eight. Aur agar dubara meri family ka hi zikr karna hai, to abhi bata dijiye, I'll prepare myself."
(And please, choose a nice cafe.) (Also, if you're gonna my family again, tell me now...)
A soft sigh. "Hanitra I-"
"I'll hang up then, Mr. Rathore. Aap businessman hain, ham nahi."
And I cut the call.
"HANITRA. HAAN KISLIYE KAHA?"
"KHUD KO DISTRACT KARNE KE LIYE. MIND SORTED HOGA, TABHI TO AAGE KUCH KAR PAUNGI."
"VO DIMAAG NAHI, TUJHE HI DISTRACT KARDE, AISA INSAAN HAI."
"THEEK HAI NA, KAL JO HOGA, DEKH LENGE. ABHI CHAL HOTEL."
(Why did you agree?)
(To distarct myself. I'll function better with a sorted mind.)
(He'll distract you whole, let alone your brain.)
(It's all fine now, we'll see what will happen tomorrow. Let's first go to the hotel.)
"Mr. Rathore? Pehli baat. Aapke pass mera number kaise hai? Doosri baat, aap bina puche mujhe call kyun kar rahe hain. Aur teesri baat, kya baat hai? Itni miss calls, fir apna gussa nikalna hai kya?"
Dhairya and Vivaan laughed, quietly.
"Dhairya Sir?" The man here froze. "Aapne number diya inhe?" But Vivaan came to his recue, composing his voice.
"Umm... Hey.. I'm sorry but I'm not your Dhairya Sir, I'm Vivaan, a friend of Shivaay."
"Oh sorry. Fizool aadmi ek jaise hi lagtein hai mujhe."
Dhairya and Lakshay laughed at this, standing too far. YE MARVANGE MUJHE AAJ.
(They'll surely get me killed...)
"Mr. Rathore? Answer denge? Ya privacy ke against case ladenge?" Vivaan gestured cutting his head with his hand. But raises his eyebrow as I looked at him. SPEAK, he mouthed.
"Hanitra.. Noo.. Batata hoon..." A beat. "Veer se maanga."
The three raised their hands, in bhangra position while I tried to calm my heart.
"Kehe diya? Phone kaat doon ab?" Vivaan laughed without a voice, slapping Dhairya's arm.
"Nahi.. Hanitra. Aap samjhi nahi." COME ON SHIVAAY. YOU CAN DO IT.
"To samjhaiye, kuch zyada hi fursat mein lagtein hai aap."
These three idiots laughed again, cleary amazed by this thunderstorm.
"Agar kar rahe hotein, to aapko ab tak to pata chal hi jata." Dhairya wiped an imaginary tear, while Vivaan knelt like his knees had gone weak. Lakshay just clapped, at me.
"Hamare sawaal ka jawab nahi diya aapne ab tak." Vivaan motioned a no, as if he could not hear anything more, Dhairya had his heart gripped, while the third secret drama queen had hugged the door frame.
I let out a deep breath as she cut the call and then glared at the three idiots, who had insisted to tag along here.
"CHUP NAHI RAHA JAATA TUM TEENO SE? TAB TO KEHE RAHE THE We'll be quiet."
(Can't you three be quiet? Earlier you were all like, we'll be silent??)
Vivaan came to me first, holding his stomach. "Bhaii, please bolde ye tu nahi hai. Aisi tone to Viraaj bhi nahi bol sakta... I legit had my knees weak.."
(Bro please. Tell us it's not you. Even Viraaj can't speak in this tone..)
"Bro? AAP? THAT SOFT CHUCKLE? THAT CONFIDENCE WHILE LYING? UFFF... I mean main abhi bhi against tha Delhi aane ke liye, but bro.. meri to saans hi atak gayi."
(I mean I was still against for that meeting... but bro.. you just snatched away my breath.)
"Ho gaya aap teeno ka? Hanitra ma'am hotel pohonch rahi hai. Kuch karna hai kya?"
(Are you three done? She's about to reach the hotel. Don't you have to do something?)
"Haan. Jay ko phone kar, iska room book karwate hain."
(Yeah. Call Jay, let's book his room.)
"Paagal ho gaya hai kya? Nahi, ye over jo jayega, mujhe number chahiye tha, mil gaya. Bas."
(Have you gone crazy? No, this will get over, I wanted the number, and got it. That's enough.)
Dhairya sprinted forward.
"Zyada bakwas mat kar. Tab to bada please kar raha tha, aur ab jab hum teeno teri story set karne main lage hai, tujhe ye sab soojh raha hai. Dekh Shivaay, ham ek dusre ko achche se samajhte hain. Teri soch galat nahi, na hi tere irade, isliye maine ek ladki ka no. tujhe de diya. Agar tujhme ek percent bhi kami hoti na, I would have stabbed you myself before you got near her. Yeah you did say something really terrible to her and I still don't like you for that but you are feeling guilty. Forgiveness has its foundation in acceptance."
(Don't think too much. You weren''t the same about the number, then why now? When we are trying to set your story. Listen Shivaay, we all know each other very well. Your thoughts and intentions, are not wrong, and that's why I gave you a girl's number. If you were wrong even by a percent...)
I BLUSHED AT THIS?
"Woah Dhairya Bhai. Itni serious speech to aapne pakka Assembly mein bhi nahi di hogi."
(Woah bro. You never gave such serious speech even in the Assembly, I bet.)
"Ho gayi tumhari philosophy? Koi phone karega ya main karun?"
(Your philosophy done? Is anyone gonna call or shall I?)
"Aap hi kijye prabhu, kal se jo dhamki de rahe ho hame."
(You do it sir, threatening since yesterday.)
Vivaan grinned and dialled the call, this time to Kritanjay himself.
The man on the other side wastes no time in picking up the call.
"Zinda hain aap sir? Hame laga yam doot hi ban gye."
(Are you alive sir? We thought you became messenger of death already.)
"Unfortunately, opportunity miss ho gyi, tune call jo kiya hai."
(Unfortunately, missed the opportunity, as you called.)
Dhairya takes the call in his on hands. "Tum dono bhi kabhi yamraj se aage badhoge?
(Will you both ever talk above Death?)
"Arey minister sahab, aap kab vahan pahunche?"
(O Mr. Minister, when did you reach there?)
"Subha hi aayein hai main, Shivaay aur Laksh-"
(Came just in the morning, me, Shivaay and Lakshay-)
"SHIVAAY BHI VAHAN HAI? AUR LAKSHAY BHI? KOI NAHI BHAI, TUMHARE BHI DIN HAIN."
(Shivaay's there? And even Lakshay? It's okay guys. These are your days.)
TADAA, the eldest, most-mature chaotic one among us. KRITANJAY RAJWARDHAN.
"Aap logon ne serious hona seekha hai kabhi?" Lakshay mutters, clearly planning murders at this moment.
(Have you guys learnt to ever be serious?)
"Aree hamare pyaare Lakshay jii. Theek ho pyaare mohan?"
(O. Our beloved Mr. Lakshay. Are you fine sweetie?)
"Hmmm.. Bas Yamraj ko apna resume bheja hai. Dekho kya reply aata hai."
(Just sent Yamraja my resume. Let's wait for his reply.)
"Main bol lun? Ya tumhara hogaya?" Vivaan eyes everyone and all fall silent.
(Can I speak now, if you're done?)
"Jay. Ek kaam karega?"
(Jay. Will you do us a favour?)
"Kidney ke alawa." The reply came in an instant, all smiling at the bond we had formed, that had shaped every gloomy moment into chaos.
(Except the kidney?)
"Golden Palm tere under hi hai na?"
(Golden Palm is under you right?)
"Vo Hotel? Haan, apna hi hai. Kya karna hai?" Dhairya and Lakshay high-five.
(That hotel. Yeah it's ours. What to do of it?)
"Room book karna hai ek. Shivaay ke liye."
(We need to book a room, for Shivaay.)
From the other hand, Kritanjay must have raised his eyebrow.
"Kyun? Tu isse ghar se nikaal raha hai?" I scoff. As if.
(Why? Are you throwing him out of the house?)
"Tu bata room book ho jayega ya nahi? Apna dimaag mat dauda." Dhairya counters.
(You just tell can you do that? Don't have theories.)
"Ho to jayega, lekin koi specification-"
(I'll arrange it, but any specifications-)
Before he could say further Lakshay interrupts, checking his phone again.
"Guys. She was designated to Maurya, not Golden Palm. Aapne list check nahi ki, Dhairya bro."
(You didn't check the list..)
Silence.
"Maurya? Arey ye to apne VASR ke under hai. Tumhe to kainat bhi milwane mein lagi hai." Vivaan exclaimed the later part too hypothetically.
(Maurya? Isn't it under VASR? Even the universe wants you two to meet.)
"Hua kya hai? Main jaan sakta hoon?"
(What has happened? Can I know?)
"Kal ham sab vaise hi mil rahe hain, Delhi ki turn hai na. Kal batayenge. Abhi ke liye bye."
(We all are already meeting tomorrow. It's Delhi's turn right? Will tell you then. Bye for now.)
And we four go back in chaos mode.
With a raised eyebrow, Lakshay blurted, "Top class mafia ban ke tracking kara rahe ho, CFO sahab."
(You are tracking while being a top class Mafia, Mr. CFO.)
But he got the answer from Vivaan, who didn't even miss a beat.
"Tu chup reh Lakshay. Tujhe kya maloom pyaar kya hota hai." He turns to me. "Tu room book kar, next to her."
(Just stay quiet Lakshay. How would you know what is love.) (You book a room.)
Genuinely baffled at our seriouness, Lakshay tried. "Bro, this is not Mission Impossible."
"But this IS Mission Redemption. Room. Next door. Balcony side. Fast."
"Boys. Listen. I know we are trying to let both of us try to connect with each other, but this is seriously exaggerating. Uski bhi bhi koi personal space hai. Ham subha mil to rahe hi hain, haina? Fir kyun itni tension. Let her have some time in peace. Mujhe dekhkar vaise hi abhi uska BP high hai."
(She has her personal space too. We are already meeting in the morning, right? Then why taking tension. Also, she's really angry at me right now, it will ignite further.)
The three finally agree, now thinking logically. And we depart downstairs, for some evening snacks. Next morning is surely going to be dramatic.
AUTHOR'S POV.
It was six forty five in the morning. Hanitra was in her hotel room, trying to decide a final fit from the three dresses she had bought from last night.
She pacedaround in loose joggers and an oversized black shirt, hair tied in a messy bun, a frown etched on her face as she tries to control her mood swings having a debate.
"What the hell was that, Hanitra? What. The actual. Hell."
She opens her laptop, tries to read an article. Closes it again.
Grabs her notebook. Writes the date. Stares at it.
Slams it shut.
"You're not supposed to care. You don't care.
And what is this 'One coffee' nonsense?
Ugh—are you starring in some tragic indie short film?"
She throws a pillow on the bed.
Sits.
Leans back.
"Should've said I was allergic to caffeine.
Or people."
Then sighs—quiet and long, and begins again, to herself.
"Too late. You already said yes."
"Exactly. That's the question. Why did you even say yes."
A small pause. Then, quieter—
"...Just one chai. That's it. Aur tera mood bhi shayad lift ho jaaye. Let's try. hmm??"
(It's just one tea.) (And your mood will lift.)
Meanwhile in the house of the nation's defense minister, it was all chaos.
It was seven in the morning. Vivaan leans against the edge of the glass railing, sipping an espresso like he owns half of Lutyens Delhi.
Shivaay was spiraling, walking restlessly in circles. His shirt slightly creased, sleeves pushed up, chaos in his eyes.
Lakshay the sane assistant, 80% sarcasm, 20% work ethic began- "Bro, she's in the lobby, checking out of her suite. Track in place. Aur aapne unhe abhi location bhi nahi bheji hai."
(muttering under his breath)
"Top-class mafia romance ho raha hai. CFO tracking journalism student. Agla step kya hai, hidden camera?"
(And you've still not sent her the location.) (This is top class mafia romance.) (what's the next step.)
He gets a glare in return. "Bas kar, Lakshay."
(Stop it Lakshay.)
"Let him talk. Uski jealousy bol rahi hai. Kabhi crush to khud banayi nahi koi. Bhai, listen. This is your window." He looks at his partner, who was busy in reviewing the proposal his ministry was sending to the center.
(He's jealous. He has himself never had a crush.)
"Dhairya, put the Parliament file down. This is more important."
The Education Minister was calm, sharp. "Don't tell me he's chickening out again."
"No, no. Our boy's ready. Needs help cafe aur sabse zaroori, dressing mein."
(and most important.)
"Main yahaan apology plan kar raha hoon, ye dono wardrobe discuss kar rahe hain."
(Here I am planning my apology and these two are discussing my wardrobe.)
Vivaan was now half-lying on a couch, one sock off, one sock on. Shivaay sat bolt upright on the floor, like a schoolboy waiting to be scolded. Dhairya was checking the pictures and scribbing notes. The laptop on the ottoman showed cafe options. The vibe? Three fools trying to plan a national security event when it's just an apology to one angry girl.
Vivaan spoke, squinting. "Café Lila? Overdone. Perch? Too aesthetic. Green Surf?"
Dhairya answered, thinking too deeply to actually be himself. "Too fancy?"
"She's a final-year journalism student, not a monk. Also, she deserves fancy. He doesn't." Lakshay, the only logical one.
"I am going to apologize. Not propose." A certain someone groaned.
Just then, Samrat Pratap Yaduwanshi, Vivaan's dad, the Defence Minister, casually strolls in with a glass of milk in hand, hearing the tail end of this nonsense.
Dryly, he gives the solution to his chaotic children. "Take her to Olive. It's discreet. Good espresso. And their pistachio baklava is top-class."
All four freeze.
Vivaan stands in mock respect, with stars in his eyes."Kya baat hai, Papa. Defense Minister ho toh aisa. National security se le kar date spot tak sab set."
(Wow Dad. What a Defense MInister. You are great at both National Security and Date Spots)
Dhairya mock salutes the authority. "Jai Hind, Sir Defense Minister.."
Lakshay claps his hand. "So venue sent. Ab- dressing."
This time, Dhairya adviced him first. "Listen carefully, bhai. No red. No white. And for God's sake, no black."
Dramatically, Vivaan took into his old self. "Kya bhai! Black is timeless."
"Mayyiat par ja raha hai kya? Shivaay, Navy Blue daal."
(Are you going to a funeral? Shivaay wear navy blue.)
The drama queen gasps. "Very suave. With brown boots and a watch. Messy hair. Regret in the eyes. Tragic lover-core."
But Dhairya was firm. "Simple. Classic. Sincere. Looks good when you're guilty."
Vivaan was judging hard at this point. "Yaar ye boring lagega. Navy blue? AGAIN? Shivaay Chief Financial Officer hai ya Coffee Shop Ke Waiter?"
(Dude. This looks boring.)
"Okay, first of all, main hoon is love story ka founder. You can't sideline me. Second, Vivaan, tu zyada mat udd. Navy blue will be best. It's sophisticated! Understated! Classic!"
(I'm the founder of this love story.) (Vivaan, don't be too much)
Vivaan grows impatient at the fashion idiots. "It's boring. It says: 'I have emotions, but I suppress them with Excel sheets.'"
Shivaay exasperated seeing all this unwanted chaos. "Main sorry maangne ja raha hoon, DATE PAR NAHI."
(I'm gonna say sorry, It's not a date.)
All he got was a laugh, from Vivaan the great. "Bro, at this point, it's baraat-level prep.
Should we hire a band too?"
Dhairya just shruggied the idea. "Maybe the band will drown out your lame apology."
"Remind me why I ever told you people anything."
Samrat walked away, with his coffee, getting ready for his ministrial post. "Because you're a fool in love, beta. And fools need advisors."
Vivaan points after him like his dad just dropped a TED Talk.
"Legend. Minister of Defense and Master of Romance."
Shivaay just grumbled, being wordless everytime he was around this father-son duo. "I should've just sent a WhatsApp."
Dhairya replied to that, sternly. "And you would've ended up with a 'Delivered' and no blue tick.
We're saving your life, idiot."
"And your future." Lakshay concluded.
Vivaan, suddenly, turned all serious. "Rust Brown. You'll wear that, if anyone has counterarguments, they can themself go to Hanitra wearing that. End of discussion."
Shivaay tried to speak but was cut off before his words even formed.
"Don't ask questions when I'm on a roll. Listen—rusty brown has the quiet drama of someone who's read too many Murakami novels and still has trust issues."
The education minister muttered. "Oh god, he's in theatre kid mode again."
Vivaan walks to the wardrobe and pulls out a rusty brown shirt, holding it up like it's Excalibur.
"This is it. This is the colour that says, 'I am flawed, but self-aware. Let me explain over chai.'"
Dhairya started grinning. "Okay then, bet time. Vivaan says brown. I say navy blue. Whoever loses pays for Shivaay's therapy after this disaster."
Shivaay replies, deadpan- "Glad to know you've already scheduled it."
Suddenly, Lakshay tablet in hand, announces. "Bhai? She has just exited the hotel lobby. ETA Olive: 14 minutes."
"Boys, this is not a drill." Vivaan declares, like an election motto. He throws the brown shirt at Shivaay.
"Change. Now. Rust it up, Romeo."
"For the hundreth time today, main sorry bolne jaa raha hoon, date pe nahi. Why are y'all planning like it's my engagement?"
(I'm going to apologize, not on a date.)
"Because your sorry is carrying the weight of the entire nation's emotional stability." Dhairya said first.
"Also because you might love her already and are too stupid to admit it." Vivaan spoke, with a wink.
"I do not—"
Dhairya said, cutting in. "Tu chup kar. Tu bolta hai, to vibes hil jaati hain. Let the experts handle this."
(Just don't speak. You always kill the vibe.)
Vivaan points dramatically. "Next—speech. Short. Honest. Minimum ego. Maximum eye contact."
Shivaay muttered at their antics. "Campaign pitch likh rahe ho kya dono?"
(Are you both writing a campaign pitch?)
Dhairya flicked his forhead. "It's an aankhon ka cross-examination. She won't forgive easily. And one more thing..."
He leans closer like he's about to drop nuclear code. And he does, in a low voice.
"Don't try anything filmi. No flowers. No fake regret. Just real words. And Shivaay... don't talk about her being an orphan. Not even once."
The CFO nodded quietly like a child. "Got it."
The OG DIVA clapped dramatically. "Operation Apology — commence."
Just then, a familiar thunderous voice echoes from outside the room.
"Dahi-cheeni!" The Defense Minister yelled.
Vivaan leaped like a soldier to his father, who was already halfway, to the couch. "YES! Dad! Coming!"
The oldest member in the house came with a spoonful of sweetened curd, before his son could even reach him. Shivaay gave him the most unimpressed look in human history.
"I'm not going into battle." A flat sentence.
But this time, it was Samrat who had answered him. "No. You're going to apologize to a woman. That's tougher than any battlefield. Now eat."
Shivaay takes the bite.
Vivaan prayed, dramatic. "May this dahi-cheeni give your tongue wisdom and your heart wifi connection to her signals."
The CFO muttered, still chewing. "Just hope she doesn't throw chai at me."
"And if chai ya paani gira on that shirt—" came a stern order from the MoD, "don't even think of entering this house again."
(And if ever tea or water get thrown on-)
Vivaan saluted, hiding a laugh. "Dad, please. He's fragile."
Shivaay, checking himself for one last time, mutters again- "I am never asking you two for advice again."
Dhairya smirked. "Not till your next emotional crisis, at least."
"Go. Make history. And please, for the love of the Defense Budget, don't mess this up."
"Operation Olive... engaged." The man in question, exhaled.
CHAPTER OVER.
This time, I thought, why not a chapter glimpse hmm??
So here it is-
'She sat by the window, outside, were her favourite pink tulips. But then, the windcharme chimmed as the glass door opened. Revealing the person she was waiting for. But then- both froze. One trying to act normal, while other turned face, hiding the flush and smile.
Back in the room, the two boys were chaotic. Screaming like schoolgirls witnessing their favourite couple.
"Kahan tha na maine. My theories are never wrong."
"Kaise bhaii?"
"BOW TO ME MORTALS, VIVAAN THE GENIUS..."
LOVE YOU MY BLESSED ONE. KEEP SUPPORTING YOUR AUTHOR HERE. ALSO, LIKE AND COMMENT OKAY??
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