Avantika Mehta was not a woman who liked causing scenes.

But she also wasn't the kind of woman who kept her mouth shut when a man stared at her like she was something displayed in a glass case for his private enjoyment.

She had the mouth of a spitfire and the sanskar of a saint, as her grandmother often said—usually with a sigh and a shake of her head, but always with a glint of pride in her eyes.After all she took after her great grandmother, her grandmother,her mother and every other woman of her family.

She hadn't planned to yell.

Honestly, she hadn't.

She had just walked into the café, stomach rumbling from a long morning of sightseeing, ready to demolish a plate of dabeli and a kulhad of chai. Her university group from Delhi had been buzzing about the palace tours all day, and she needed caffeine and carbs before she could tolerate another historical monument.

And then she'd seen him.

No, scratch that—she'd felt him before she saw him. That burn of someone's gaze crawling up her skin like it had no right to be there.

Her body had stiffened, instinct kicking in. Delhi had trained her well. She turned her head slightly, pretending to look around the café, and then caught him. Square in the act.

He was sitting by the window, dressed like any local—kurta slightly rolled at the sleeves, collar open, face shadowed under thick lashes. From a distance, he might have looked like any other guy on the street.

But his eyes? Those were not the eyes of an average boy from the gallis of Udaipur. They were sharp. Focused. Hungry.

And right now, very clearly fixated on her stomach.Her bare, well maintained stomach, not abs, her stomach... More specifically her belly button. Did he have fetish. If he did he had death wish. How dare he have naughty thoughts while looking at her stomach. In the olden days women used to wear far more reaching things, but the men, used to treat them with respect, but here in kalyug, daring meant being oogled at.

She stopped mid-step, fury boiling under her skin. She could've walked past. She could've ignored him like she did all the other sleazy roadside Romeos in Delhi. God knew she'd been leered at in crop tops and spaghetti straps, in ripped jeans and backless blouses. She had perfected the art of yelling across streets, of flipping off men with the same hand she held her coffee in. Slapping , punching and kicking were her specialties. She knew every soft spot of a man and new exactly how hard to hit to cause permanent damage. Not that she would, but if the time came, she could stop an entire generation of heirs being born from that dick.

But this? This was different.

Because something in his face was calm. Not lecherous. Not cartoonish. No, this one looked like he was staring at something sacred. Eyes zeroed on her navel and chest.

And that somehow pissed her off more.

Her friends had followed her in, barely registering the tension until she turned and stormed straight to the guy's table.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she'd snapped.

And he'd just... blinked. Like she was an unexpected monsoon shower. Like she was amusing.

He didn't smirk. He didn't defend himself. He just watched her with this stupidly intense expression that made her want to slap him and ask him what he was thinking. His eyes stared into hers, no ounce of regret or guilt. His eyes were like brown buttons, probably chocolate,now usually she would love men with such eye colour, but right now those eyes were causing her blood pressure to fluctuate.

The fact that he didn't even look guilty enraged her further. His eyes continued to stare at her, no sorry, no guilt. He was just blank.

So, she'd picked up the glass of water on the counter—God bless Udaipur's hospitality—and poured it over his head like she was in a dramatic soap opera and had nothing to lose.

Splash.

The sound it made was delicious.

The stunned silence that followed? Even better. She watched the man next to him look at the soaked one horrified. If he said a word, she would lick the lassi next to them and dump that on him.

Now, twenty minutes later, she sat at a table under a bright red umbrella, tearing into a plate of piping hot pav bhaji and licking the spice off her fingers. The Kulfi she'd ordered with entirely too much enthusiasm had given her a brain freeze. She squinted as the chill hit the roof of her mouth and cursed under her breath.

"You're still mad," said Meher, her roommate and the unfortunate soul who had to room with her on this trip. Dear go help her. She was a book person, she loved men, dreamed of getting a man like the fictional men in her book, but her roommate. She cursed the entire bloodline of men. Called the fictional ones fictional and the real ones assholes.

"I'm not mad," Avantika said, wiping her lips with a tissue. "I'm righteous." She said as she took huge fills of the lassi

"You poured water on a stranger."

"Because he was mentally undressing me in public." her eyes contained the rage seen in draupadi when she was being disrobed by Duryodhan.

"He barely moved."

"Exactly! He didn't even have the decency to pretend to look away." she said slamming her glass in the table, making the others look back st her after flinching.

Zoya, who was live-tweeting their Udaipur adventures, paused mid-swipe, gave a dreamy smile. "To be fair... he was kinda hot."

Avantika gave her a death glare. "He was disgusting. How does a man oogling my boobs and belly button be hot. "

"A good-looking moron," Meher offered.

"I don't care if he's the last bottle of sunscreen in the Thar Desert. He had no right to oogle my boobies."

"Are you mad he stared at your boobs or belly button? " Asked zoya

"Both" Said avantika

"But you can't blame him, you have the figure of an appearance, if I was a man I would be staring to. I mean as a girl also I stare- specially when youre in our room changing.." Said zoya as avantika looked horrified

"Remind me not to change in front of you.... You're worse than men.. Actually scratch that... You're better than men... Stare at them baby.... Girls can men can't" Said avantika, making the other two giggle

Avantika took a deep breath, trying to calm the fire still sizzling in her chest. It wasn't just him. It was the buildup. The years of being watched, commented on, whispered about. Men who thought her lipstick was a signal. That her clothes were permission. That her walk, her waist, her confidence—all of it was an invitation.

She'd had enough.

"I'm just so tired," she muttered.

Meher softened. "I know."

"No, you don't," Avantika said, her voice dipping lower. "I walk down a street and calculate my steps based on where I might get followed. I hold my keys between my fingers in parking lots. I get told to smile more by men who don't know my name. And when I react? I'm the problem. They don't see that it was the men who made me react that way. They don't see how uncomfortable it is to walk alone in the streets. My mom makes me where a duppata to cover up and do you know how annoying that is. Why should a woman change her dressing sense for a man who can't control their urges. Even women find men attractive, but they don't eve tease them. Then why do we women get eve teased?"

Zoya reached over and squeezed her hand. "You did the right thing."

Avantika nodded slowly, but her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the tissue.

Because the truth was—there was something off about that moment.

She wasn't used to second-guessing herself. She had built herself into a fortress of fire and bold eyeliner. She wore crop tops and sarees with equal grace, and never apologized for speaking her mind.

But the guy in the café...

He hadn't leered. He hadn't smiled or made a crude comment. He hadn't even blinked when she yelled. And when the water hit him?

He had just... looked at her.

Like she'd handed him the stars on a plate.

It was weird. And unnerving. And she hated that she was still thinking about it now, two plates and one brain freeze later.

"I swear," she mumbled, licking melted mulfi from her thumb, "if that guy shows up again, I'm pouring lassi on him next."

What Avantika didn't know—what she couldn't have known—was that just down the street, inside a nondescript souvenir shop, that very same man was charming an elderly shopkeeper into showing him the CCTV footage of the café from earlier that afternoon.

Nor could she know that he had memorized the name of her university, written it on the back of a tea bill, and was currently planning a visit to the guest house her group was staying in.

And she definitely didn't know that the next time she saw him, she'd be the one caught staring—and wondering how someone could make staring feel like adoration.

But for now, she scraped the last of the pav bhaji off her plate, sighed dramatically, and stood up, adjusting her crop top and tossing her hair like the warrior she was.

"No more drama today," she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Let's go be basic tourists."

Meher laughed. "You mean, go take 400 pictures at the palace?"

"I mean, go take 401."

Avantika walked off, head high, heart still thumping with residual adrenaline and frustration—and the tiniest, most annoying whisper of curiosity.