Pandaal = A huge decorative tent

Babuni = An affectionate term for daughters

Rasmalai = A sweet made up of milk

-*-*-*-

In the room, Ira sat cross-legged near the edge of the bed. A thick black woollen shawl was wrapped tightly around her, its warmth slowly seeping into her shaking form. In her lap rested a pillow, and on it a steel bowl she clutched with trembling fingers. Steam curled upward and faded into the cool air.

Her eyes lifted slowly as she looked up at her mother with narrowed eyes and a small pout. "This is so bitter..." Her voice was hoarse from constant coughing. "You've put too much black pepper in it."

Vaidehi stood before her in a synthetic light-pink saree, a glass of hot turmeric milk held securely between her fingers. Her pressed lips parted as she jabbed a finger at her daughter, her eyebrows dancing in rhythm with every word. "Be quiet and finish this. After that, drink this haldi doodh too."

Ira opened her mouth to protest, but a fit of coughing stole her voice. Her free hand clutched the bedsheet, and the shawl slipped off one shoulder.

Vaidehi's eyes widened as she lunged forward, setting the glass aside. She extended a hand, rubbing Ira's back with a firm gentleness. "The whole house is echoing with music and laughter. And here… her cough just won't stop." Her face twisted in worry as her gaze moved from Ira's clenched fist to her reddened face.

The bedroom door creaked open, letting in piercing sounds – dhol beats, shehnai, and Bollywood songs tumbling into the quiet room.

An elderly woman walked inside, her plain orange cotton saree standing in stark contrast to the glittering lehengas and sherwanis outside. One of her hands was folded neatly behind her back while the other swung gently with each careful step.

Behind her came Panchhi, holding up the fabric of her pink lehenga, lifting it just enough to avoid stepping on the hem. Her black hair flowed down her back like a dancing serpent. Kajal lined her eyes, light pink lipstick coloured her lips, and a soft layer of foundation brightened her brown, round face. A small white stone bindi nestled perfectly between her naturally arched eyebrows.

"Vaidehi... how is your daughter now?" Dadi's voice trembled as she pressed on each word, forcing them audible.

Ira's eyes shifted from Dadi to Panchhi. Her pale face broke into a faint smile. "Wow, Panchhi. You're killing."

"And you're dying," Vaidehi said flatly.

Panchhi let out a stifled chuckle.

Ira shot her mother a playful glare, her lips twitching at the corners.

Panchhi walked closer and picked up the turmeric milk from the table, holding it near Ira's lips. "Come on, Di. Don't be Palak now, just drink this. Then we'll enjoy the night together. The baarat will be here any minute."

Ira's chest rose heavily, as though something weighty sat on it. "I'll look like a cartoon..." Her hand reached for the glass, fingers curling slowly around it. The warmth seeped into her skin, oddly comforting. "Pale face, oily hair, 100° fever, coughing and sneezing—cherry on the top."

Vaidehi gently ran her fingers through Ira's hair as she began sipping the milk. "Finish it, then freshen up. After that, come downstairs," she said softly, giving her head a final pat.

Ira's eyes narrowed as she shook her head slowly. "Nah... I won't go. I'll just sleep. My head feels heavy, and my whole body is aching like hel—" A loud sneeze interrupted her. She blew her nose into a white handkerchief, her nose now bright red from constant wiping.

"What are you saying, babuni?" Dadi placed a wrinkled hand gently on Ira's back. "Your elder sister is getting married. How will she feel if you're not there?"

She's already feeling the whole zoo inside her stomach. One less monkey won't make a difference.

"Mausi?" Panchhi's gentle voice snapped Ira back from her thoughts. "You go, change. I'll sit with Di."

Ira nodded, taking a small sip from the glass. "Yeah... you go. I'm fine."

"Okay." Vaidehi nodded. "But come downstairs. Don't stay like a ghost in one corner." She pointed a firm finger at Ira.

"Come, Dadi." She gently curled her fingers around her grandmother's arm, and both ladies made their way out—swallowed by the music, laughter, and distant beats of dhol echoing from the roof.

The door closed with a soft thud, muffling the celebrations within the walls.

Panchhi carefully lifted the hem of her lehenga and sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed beside Ira. "Your fever is worse, isn't it?" she asked in a whisper.

Ira didn't reply for a few seconds; her eyes stayed fixed on the wall. Then slowly, she leaned her head back against the wooden bedpost and spoke meekly, "I feel like two bulldozers have been parked on my chest and back."

Panchhi exhaled softly through her nose. "Want me to bring Vicks? I can give you a quick massage."

Ira shook her head. "Nah..." She sniffled and wiped her nose again, the handkerchief now crumpled and damp. "You're looking really nice, Panchhi."

Panchhi chuckled. "Yeah? And you look like a scribbled poetry."

A small, tired smile tugged at Ira's lips, her eyes dropping before opening again.

The two sat quietly for a while, the silence stretching in a soft, familiar line between them. Outside, the music grew louder, as if the world was celebrating like there was no tomorrow.

Panchhi looked at her again. "Will you come down?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." Her gaze drifted to the bedsheet, following the white-stitched outlines of a faded floral design. "It's not the fever... I just don't feel like I belong here today."

Panchhi's hand hovered over Ira's. "Di, stop overthinking. Learn to live in the moment—"

"I can't, Panchhi. I just... can't." Ira's voice cracked as she cut in. "That question keeps circling in my mind, again and again: What if I never do anything in life? What if nothing ever changes? What if I stay like this forever, just... a burden to everyone?" Her eyes misted over. She sniffled, fumbling for her handkerchief.

"Di... everything will be fine," she said softly. "You just need some fresh air. Get rid of this emotional intoxication. Breathe."

🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁

Rudraksh's hands fumbled on the table as he gathered his belongings, fingers grazing across the cool surface before closing around his laptop. He slid it into his black leather bag with practiced ease. Next came a pen, then a diary – old, worn at the edges, its pages slightly curled from use.

His hand hovered for a moment before picking up his phone — the newest one, sleek and untouched by wear. As he unlocked it, the faint glow lit up his tired face, casting sharp shadows beneath his eyes.

10:30 PM.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then opened again. He switched the phone off, slipped it into his pants pocket, and reached for the bag’s handle.

With a deep breath, he stepped out of the cabin. The soft click of the door behind him echoed through the empty corridor, followed by the steady rhythm of his footsteps.

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

He stood stiffly to the side, one hand gripping the handle of his bag, the casted hand resting protectively against his chest. His gaze remained steady as the security guard locked the office door and handed him the keys.

He raised his good hand, clutching the bag's handle with three fingers while sliding the keys between his forefinger and thumb. With practiced ease, he tucked them into the inner pocket of his black jacket.

A curt nod to the guard, and then he turned, heading toward the buzzing road ahead.

The cold air met him instantly, flushing his ears and the tip of his nose. His jaw tightened in reflex, as if bracing against the invisible slap of winter. When he exhaled, a thin trail of fog escaped his lips.

Nearly ten minutes passed before a cab rolled to a stop in front of him. The window slid down, and a head peeked out. "Rudraksh Maurya?"

Rudraksh nodded.

Setting his bag momentarily on the roof of the car, he slipped his good hand into his pocket and retrieved his phone. His voice was low and composed as he confirmed the driver’s name and credentials, matching them against the app.

Once satisfied, he retrieved his bag, opened the cab door, and stepped inside.

The cab pulled away from the curb, disappearing into the flow of city lights.

About five metres away, a white Tata motor stood idle, its engine humming softly into the night. The faint scent of gasoline lingered in the air, mixing with the weight of something heavier behind those closed windows and unspoken words.

Inside the car, Karan exhaled through his nose. His eyes stayed fixed on the cab, on Rudraksh – walking away not just down the road in the vehicle, but slowly, steadily, out of his life too.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against it. His eyes fluttered shut, as if by closing them, he could shut the weariness away too.

🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁

Colourful fireworks scattered through the open sky, casting golden halos on the ground below as they announced the arrival of the baraat. The music pounded through the environment, synchronizing with heartbeats: dhols beating in a frenzied rhythm, shehnais curling through the night air.

People surged like waves – kurtas flashing, bangles clinking, lehengas swaying in rhythm. A man laughed too loudly. A child darted through the crowd, chased by a cousin wielding a plate of ice cream.

Ira stood quietly near the edge of the pandal, right where the jaimala stage had been set. Her eyes skimmed across the decorated space: the garlands, the red velvet chairs, the bright artificial flowers arching overhead.

Everything sparkled, screaming joy and happiness. And yet, she stood there like a shadow stitched into the fabric of the celebration.

A thick coffee-coloured shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, dotted with glittering white stones and navy-blue embroidery near the edges. It fell loosely past her arms, pooling near her wrists. Her blue frock suit peeked out beneath it – simple, long-sleeved, buttoned up to the neck. Her dupatta trailed on one side, brushing the floor near her ankle. Her armpit-length hair, slightly tousled from the winter air, framed her pale and tired oval face.

People passed her by – some smiling, some not seeing her at all. Somewhere, a toddler screamed; someone whistled at the new item song playing on the DJ. A drone camera buzzed overhead, capturing moments none of them would remember unless stored on a screen.

Exhaling slowly, she slipped away from the edge of the pandal.

Weaving through drifting relatives and half-empty juice cups abandoned on ledges, she found an empty seat in the very last row.

A child clambered over the seat beside her, giggling, before being whisked away by an impatient aunt. Soon, her quiet corner was swallowed whole by sarees, suits, and the glint of too much gold.

Somewhere ahead, a cry of excitement tore through the noise.

"The groom has arrived!"

Heads turned. People stood. Phones rose in the air like flags. The cream sherwani flickered between bodies – a flash of red turban, a sehra dancing in the wind.

A sea of backs formed in front of Ira, shutting out the stage. She sat still, her hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the few glimpses she could no longer see.

"The bride hasn't even arrived on the stage yet, and someone's already stealing the spotlight."

Ira's eyebrows drew together as she searched for the source, scanning the straightened backs and shimmering dresses.

"Here, dreaming girl."

Ira's face turned to the side, looking over her shoulder with furrowed eyebrows and silent lips. Her fingers clutched tightly around the edge of the shawl.

A boy, around her age, stood nearby in a navy-blue sherwani, a cream-coloured stole looped loosely around his neck. One leg was stretched forward, sunglasses dangling from his collar. His lips widened into a grin as he raised a hand near his shoulder, fingers flicking in a casual wave. "Hi."

Ira blinked, then shifted back to the stage without a word.

The boy lowered his chin, eyebrows pinched. "Ignoring... I see." Clutching one end of his stole, he flicked it casually over his shoulder. His feet made no sound on the green carpet as he moved closer, lowering himself into the empty chair beside her. "Comfortable..." he tilted his head, looking at her "...company."

Ira's gaze drifted from the flashing stage lights to the quiet patch of carpet below, littered with fancy heels and polished shoes.

"The first time we met, it was like a scene straight out of a Bollywood movie." He shook his head in an exaggerated motion. "You bumped into my cycle, and the world blurred, music started playing: Tujhe dekha toh yeh jaana sanam; Pyaar hota hai deewana sanam; Ab yahan se kahan jaaye h—(When I saw you, I knew, my love; That love is crazy, my love; Now, where should I go from here—)"

"Listen, mister." Ira jabbed a forefinger in his direction, her teeth clenched. "I don't know you. Stop your nonsense. Or go find someone else to tolerate your cheap flirting."

"What...?" The boy clutched the fabric above his heart, eyebrows wriggling as he continued, "You don't know me?" He loosened his hands, letting them drop limply by his sides. "And here I thought destiny had finally introduced my soulmate to me." His lips formed a dramatic round pout. "A perfect Bollywood moment ruined."

Ira's eyes shut tightly as she gritted her teeth, holding her head in her palms.

"Never mind!" The boy leaned forward, giving her his full attention. The legs of the chair dipped into the carpet with the shift of his weight. "We can start all over!" He extended a hand, smiling widely. "Kanishk. The groom's younger brother. Ever-so-charming and cute – the one every girl dreams of! And you, my lady?"

Ira stared at his outstretched hand like it was something mildly disgusting. Just as she opened her mouth, a voice rang out from behind—

"Oh wow. Look who's here."

Panchhi walked forward with slow steps, the hem of her pink lehenga brushing against the carpet. Her dupatta draped carelessly over one shoulder, phone in hand, eyes scanning Kanishk from top to toe.

"For whom every girl is his soulmate... until his flirty eyes land on the next one." She stood beside Ira with her arms crossed. "Right, Mr. Ever-so-charming and cute?"

"Ah," Kanishk grinned, "the sass has arrived in pink."

"I'd rather be sass in pink than cringe in navy blue," Panchhi shot back, unfazed. Then, turning to Ira, she added, "Di, are you okay? Blink twice if you want me to call our uncle... you know, the one in the police."

Kanishk held up his palms. "Whoa, whoa. I come in peace." He turned back to Ira. "Now that introductions are out of the way, maybe you'd like to tell me your name? Or at least stop pretending I'm invisible?"

"Are you planning to fix your marriage at someone else's wedding, Mr. Flirt?" Panchhi asked, raising an eyebrow. "Sunglasses at night, dramatic posture, and cheesy filmy dialogues..."

Kanishk blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Done," she replied, slipping into the seat on Ira's other side. "You've had your introduction. Now kindly exit."

He stared at her for a second – confused first, then amused. "If you're forgetting, Ms. Pink Lehenga, this is my older brother's wedding."

Panchhi smiled sweetly. "And the bride is our sister, Mr. Overconfident Clone."

Kanishk clutched his heart. "Ouch. I came here for love and ended up in a verbal crossfire."

Ira exhaled sharply, pressing her fingers to her temples. Her eyes remained fixed on the stage where the groom and bride were exchanging flower garlands.

Kanishk leaned slightly toward Panchhi. "You know," he said, his voice dropping just above a whisper, "for someone handing out insults like Rasmalai, you're quite... cute."

Panchhi didn't even blink. "And for someone handing out compliments like discount coupons, you're quite... forgettable."

Ira groaned under her breath, clutching the fabric of her blue dress above her stomach, doubling over slightly in her seat.

"So this is how you two roll?" Kanishk looked from her to Panchhi, lips twitching. "One looks like she'll faint from secondhand embarrassment, and the other has a tongue sharper than a paper cutter."

"Wrong again," Panchhi replied, smiling politely. "This one"—she nudged Ira gently—"is too polite to throw her sandal at annoying people. I'm not."

Kanishk chuckled. "I like you."

"Unfortunate," she said calmly. "I don't collect strays."

"Oof." He placed a hand over his chest. "Another direct hit. Miss Pink Lehenga, what will it take to win a smile from you, and from my ice queen?"

"Try disappearing."

Ira finally turned toward the two of them, looking very much like a fed-up schoolteacher. Without a word, she got up from her chair and walked out of the pandal.

"Hey! My lady! Ice Queen! Dreaming girl!" Kanishk called after her like a rejected Romeo, one hand stretched forward. "At least tell me your real name! Don't leave me alone with your emotional bodyguard in the pink lehenga!"

His eyes flickered briefly toward Panchhi before darting back to the exit—

Ira had already disappeared through it.

A/N: Now, we got to know Kanishk.

1. What is your opinion about him, Panchhi, and Ira?

Oh, and did I tell you: "Sanam" means "lover".