The car eased to a stop in front of the gate of their building, dust swirling gently around its tires.
The familiar buzz of the lane, the scattered laughter from building compound, and the faint scent of agarbatti brought a rush of nostalgia to Sharayu even before her foot touched the ground.
As she stepped out, exhaustion trailing behind her, the unmistakable aroma of her mother’s varan (dal) and tadka wafted in the air—warm, spicy, comforting.
For Sharayu, home had always been a feeling, not just an address; tonight, with that scent curling around her like a soft hug, she realized she’d missed it more than she’d thought.
Before she could even ring the bell, her mother appeared at the doorway, anticipation written all over her face.
“Aree majhi babu ali ga!”
(My baby came) she exclaimed, voice trembling with excitement, and rushed forward, gathering Sharayu in a fierce, loving hug. Her hands, still soft and warm, cupped Sharayu’s cheeks as if making sure she was real.
Sharayu chuckled, the fatigue of journeys both literal and metaphorical melting away in that instant. “Haan, aai. Mi ale. Tu tar ashi react kartes jashi mi 2 varshya ne ali ahe.”
(You are reacting like, I came after 2 years)
Her mother huffed, swatting away the suggestion. “Gup bas! Ek divas pan tu ghari naslis ki ghar suna vatat Chala, Mala sang! Kashi hoti trip? Kay Kay kela tumhi tithe?”
(Shut up, the house felt so empty without you, tell me how was the trip, what did you all doing over there)
She barely got her shoes off before the rapid-fire questioning began, her mother’s curiosity unstoppable and her father observing from his usual cue—teacup in hand, eyes twinkling beneath bushy brows.
Her father, ever the quiet spectator, raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word—his silence was eloquence enough.
“Tu itki shant shant ka ahes?”
(Why are you so quiet)
her mother pressed, squinting as if the answer might be written somewhere on Sharayu’s face.
Grateful for the distraction, Sharayu pulled out the gift bags. “Aai, gifts anle ahet mi saglyan sathi! Adhi te baghuya!”
(Aai, I brought gifts for all of you, we see that first)
Instantly, conversation stopped; all attention was on the crinkling of paper and the mystery inside.
“Aree waah! Kay anla ahes?” her mother exclaimed, eyes gleaming. The gifts transitioned from mere tokens into moments of magic.
Sharayu handed her father a warm woolen muffler, the soft yarn coiling in his hands.
“Baba, he tumchya sathi,”
(Baba, this is for you)
she said, watching his face for that rare, quiet smile.
“khup chan ahe Bandu,”
(This is wonderful, my child)
he murmured, voice thick with affection.
“Aai, hi woolen shawl tujhya sathi. I hope tula avdel,”
(Aai this woolen shawl for you, I hope you like it)
she said, holding out the shimmering wrap.
Her mother’s face lit up as she draped it around herself theatrically. “Aree waah! Hi tar khupach sundar ahe.
(Wow, this is so Beautiful)
Her father to add playfully,” Agdi Kashmir chi film heroine distey na?”
(She is looking just like an actress from Kashmir)
Sharayu burst out laughing. “Haan!”
Laughter rang through the house, lighting every corner with blush and comfort—Sharayu finally felt that for all the roads she’d travelled, home was still her favorite stop.
Eventually, fatigue reclaimed her, and she excused herself, climbing the stairs with heavy steps. Sleep did not come easy; her mind, restless as ever, wandered not to the hills of Mussoorie, not to her group of friends, but to one face, one moment, that refused to let go.
She sighed, turning onto her side; dreams would have to wait tonight.
Meanwhile, At Satish’s Home…
Satish unlocked the door, dragging his bag behind him like a reluctant companion. The instant he stepped inside, he was assaulted—not literally, but with the boundless energy only a younger sibling can muster.
“Aap aa gaye bhai!” Vanya shouted, her arms flung wide as she collided into him with a rib-crushing hug. “Itna time laga diya wapas aane me!”
He was already on edge, nerves fraying for reasons he didn’t want to face. The noise, the affection—it all felt too much.
“Vanya, hatt ja! Itna chilla kyun rahi ho?! Mujhe akela chhod do!”
The words came out sharper than intended, slicing through the room. Vanya winced, stepping back—her brother had always been a pillar of calm, never had his voice cut like this.
Before the moment could unravel further, their mother came from the kitchen, towel in hand, concern on her face.
“Kya hua Satish? Kyun chilla raha hai?” she asked, scanning their faces for clues.
He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Kuch nahi, Maa. Bas… thaka hua hoon. Mujhe rest chahiye.”
He retreated, leaving a silence heavy enough to echo. Vanya stared after him, uncertain.
“Bhai kabhi aise behave nahi karte,” she whispered, worry etched on her face.
Her mother gently put an arm around her. “Haan, kuch toh hai jo use disturb kar raha hai.”
A mother’s intuition doesn’t fade with time; it only grows sharper. She walked to his room, knocked with the care reserved for wounded birds.
“Satish, beta, andar aa sakti hoon?”
A pause, then, “Maa, mujhe abhi baat nahi karni.”
She didn’t let the words push her away. Determined, she entered.
Satish sat at the bed’s edge, looking smaller than his usual confident self. His fingers steepled together.
She placed herself beside him, her presence gentle but adamant. “Kya baat hai, beta? Mujhse kuch nahi chhupa sakta tu.”
He exhaled, fingers rubbing over tired eyes. “Maa, kuch nahi hai. Sirf thakan hai.”
She wasn’t convinced; love’s radar can pick up frequencies denial tries to hide.
She placed her hand on his back, a gesture from childhood. “Beta, itne saal ho gaye tujhe jaante hue. Jab tu gussa hota hai, jab tu pareshaan hota hai, main samajh sakti hoon.”
But how does one admit that the confusion inside isn’t just tired muscles but a heart twisting in unrest? That the trip brought tectonic shifts, things he couldn’t label or express? That when Sharayu was afraid and turned to him, when Hriday offered her comfort and a blanket, it felt like something from inside simply cracked? How could he name emotions that didn’t follow the rules—the logic that made him a professor?
So he settled for the safe answer. “Maa, bas yeh trip thoda stressful tha. Main thik hoon.”
She studied him, reading lines on his face that textbooks never covered. Then, a soft sigh: “Thik hai, beta. Par agar kabhi kisi se baat karne ka mann ho, toh yaad rakhna, main hoon.”
Her hand ruffled his hair the way she had when sleep would not come, when monsters lived under his childhood bed.
“Thoda rest le le. Subah sab theek lagega.”
He nodded, gratitude tight in his throat. He knew, deep down, that some things won’t fix with sleep; the real battle was inside him.
The days after returning blurred into rhythm: college, lectures, assignments piling up, mischief sneaking in like sunlight through classroom windows.
Life went on, unremarkable—until Janmashtami.
Excitement buzzed through Sharayu’s group chat; everyone planned to wear their brightest, traditional best. The anticipation was electric.
Campus looked like a watercolor painting—girls in suits that shimmered and boys strutting in kurtas. It was as if the place had left behind its routine for celebration.
Sharayu made her entrance, unintentional yet dazzling. Her magenta pink Anarkali swirled around her, embroidery catching the light in golden accents. Her dupatta rested with practiced grace on her shoulder; hair fell in soft waves, bindi punctuated her forehead, makeup so subtle it almost whispered.
Her friends gasped: “Sharayu, tu toh aaj literally heroine lag rahi hai!” Arohi’s eyes were round in admiration.
“Bro, ek minute. Are we in college or some royal function? Because you look like a princess,” added Gayatri, over-the-top but sincere.
Hriday, always playing it cool, nodded. “Aaj toh college ke sabse zyada taarif wale comments tujhe milne wale hain.”
Sharayu rolled her eyes, but a smile crept up, uncontained.
The boys had gone all out too; their kurtas added swagger to the celebrations. Hriday’s deep blue drew a few compliments, Kunal’s maroon equally bold, and the others filled in the spectrum.
They made their way to class, spirits high.
Lectures went by—some focus, more jokes, the hum of tradition wrapping new moments around old routines.
During the break, an announcement jolted the room. “Students, instead of Financial Management, you will have a Taxation lecture next.”
A collective groan. Taxation meant Satish sir.
“Arre yaar, taxation?” Kunal slumped, defeated.
“Matlab aaj Satish sir aane wale hain?” Arohi glanced at Sharayu, who suddenly found her dupatta extremely interesting.
Before any more speculation, Satish strode in, commanding the room as always.
Brown shirt, sleeves rolled up, the usual aura of “don’t mess with me”. He greeted them with that signature, “Good afternoon, everyone,” baritone.
The students replied, but the air was different today.
He began speaking—routine, measured, as always. But then he saw her: Sharayu, resplendent. Time skidded. The words he’d prepared dissolved.
For the first time since meeting her, Satish saw Sharayu in traditional attire.
The Anarkali, the shimmer, the way her hair fell, the bindi—all shifted something inside him.
He felt his heart—a muscle supposed to be steady—racing.
“Control yourself, Satish,” he warned himself internally. “You are a professor. She is a student. This is nothing. Stop staring. STOP STARING.”
He tried to reboot: “...because—” But he blanked out. Students exchanged furtive, amused glances; was the stern Satish Sir having a brain freeze?
Sharayu was lost in her notebook, twirling her pen in her fingers, unaware of the storm her presence triggered.
He forced himself to refocus. “Right. So, as I was saying…”
But inside, Satish was a mess. Lecture on the board, but his mind off-script. Every few seconds, his gaze found Sharayu—scribbling, adjusting her dupatta, tucking a lock of hair away—and every small movement threw him further off balance.
His heartbeat kept time with her gestures. This was just a student; he shouldn’t care.
He clenched his jaw, resolved to reassert control. “Ignore her, Satish. Just another lecture. That’s all.”
But her friends at the back? They noticed everything.
Arohi whispered, “Dekh, dekh, phir dekha!”
Gayatri grinned: “Pakka dekha, aur kitni baar dekhenge?”
Rutuja giggled: “Oof, Sharayu, kya jaadu kiya hai tu?!”
Oblivious, Sharayu frowned. “Kya? Kya ho raha hai?”
Arohi smirked, “Kya ho raha hai? Woh dekh jo ho raha hai.”
Sharayu looked up, unsure. Did Satish Sir’s gaze flick her way just now?
She shook it off. “Tum log bhi na, zyada sochti ho.”
Her friends were relentless, layering their teasing with drama.
“Bolo Sharayu, yeh sirf Taxation ka lecture hai ya dil ka bhi?” Gayatri whispered, overacting with flair.
Rutuja added, “Aaj sir taxation ke saath-saath tumhe bhi assess kar rahe hain, lagta hai!”
Sharayu’s cheeks burned, her protests drowned in laughter.
Kunal joined: “Waise, mujhe lagta hai, Sharayu ka tax exemption hone wala hai. Special category student jo hai.”
She smacked him. “Kunal, tu bhi shuru ho mat ho!”
Her friends dissolved into giggles, joyfully stretching the joke to its limits.
At the front, Satish wrestled with chaos.
He resumed, “So, when calculating taxable income—” His eyes landed on her again. Whispered conversations, a quick smile—his chest clenched. He looked away, fingers rubbing his neck.
“What the hell is wrong with me?”
Why did her smile for someone else matter? Why did she look so different? And why did his own words from this morning—”Even if it was someone else, I would’ve done the same”—feel incomplete now?
He gripped his desk, breathing sharply.
“This is ridiculous. She’s a student. I am being irrational.”
He distracted himself with a book—only to realize it was upside down. A silent curse.
At the back, Arohi whispered, “Dekha? Uss book ko ulta pakad ke bhi kuch likh rahe the. Pakka case hai.”
The classroom crackled with an odd, playful tension. Satish pressed on, jaw set, pen gripped too tightly, gaze struggling to behave.
His students watched, amused, especially the trio at the back.
Arohi: “Aaj Satish sir ka mood thoda alag nahi lag raha?”
Gayatri giggled. “Haan, jaise unko koi badi dikkat ho gayi ho.”
Rutuja grinned. “Toh phir puchna toh banta hai, na?”
Before anyone could intervene, Rutuja shot her hand up.
“Sir!”
Lost in thought, Satish barely registered the call.
“Sir!” Rutuja said louder.
He snapped back to reality. “Yes?”
Rutuja, all innocence: “Sir, are you okay?”
Silence.
The class seemed to wait with bated breath.
Sharayu’s eyes went wide. “Rutuja, what the—” she hissed.
Arohi suppressed a laugh.
Gayatri hid behind her notebook.
Kunal was living for the drama.
Satish, caught off guard, blinked. “Excuse me?”
Rutuja tilted her head. “Sir, you look a little… troubled. Everything okay?”
For a moment, Satish didn’t know how to respond. Scold? Ignore? Or, impossibly, answer?
He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.” The words sounded too crisp, too deliberate.
But Rutuja pressed on: “Are you sure, sir? Aap toh book bhi ulta pakad rahe the—”
The room erupted in suppressed laughter.
Sharayu wanted to vanish.
Satish’s ears tinged red; he straightened his book quickly. “It was… deliberate.”
Even Vrushal joined in. “Haan sir, bilkul deliberate lag raha tha.”
Satish sighed, shutting the book with finality. “Enough. Let’s focus on taxation.”
But the wall had cracked. Students snickered, some whispered, and Rutuja wore an air of victory.
As the bell rang, Satish bolted, packing his things and leaving without a backward glance.
Or so it seemed. Just before exiting, his eyes flickered to Sharayu—fleeting, involuntary—the kind of look only the most observant would catch.
Her friends did.
The instant the door closed, Arohi, Gayatri, and Rutuja pounced.
“Sharayu, kya ho raha hai?” teased Arohi.
“Matlab? Kuch bhi toh nahi,” Sharayu feigned ignorance.
Gayatri scoffed. “Haan haan, bilkul bhi nahi. Sir ne tujhe aise dekha jaise… jaise unki taxation se bhi zyada important ho.”
Kunal, silent until now, smirked. “Satish sir ke expressions toh worth noting the!”
“Shut up!” Sharayu hissed, face aflame.
As they exited toward the gate, teasing and laughter trailing behind, a deep voice called out.
“Sharayu.”
She froze.
Her friends held their breath;
Satish stood just ahead, eyes locked on her.
“Come here. Kuch zaroori baat karni hai.”
Sharayu blinked, confusion flooding her. “M-mujhse?”
Satish nodded, firm. “Yes, you.”
Her friends signaled—broad gestures, dramatic whispers—”Jaa, jaa! Zaroori baat hai!”
Heart pounding, Sharayu followed him aside.
Satish faced her, arms crossed, face unreadable.
“Aaj ka lecture sahi se samajh aaya?” he asked, tone professional.
“Haan sir, bilkul,” she replied, unsure.
He exhaled, almost imperceptibly. “Good.”
A pause hung in the air.
Then, almost offhand: “By the way… This Pink suits you.”
Sharayu blinked. “Huh?”
“Nothing. Just saying, colors matter. You know some colors bring out certain… characteristics in people.” His voice maintained its usual gravity, but his eyes held something else.
Before she could respond, Satish nodded and walked away, posture rigid.
She stood, rooted.
Did that just happen?
Her friends didn’t wait for explanations; they pounced immediately.
“Kya bola? Kya bola?” Gayatri pushed.
“Kuch zaroori tha kya?” Rutuja piled on.
Sharayu, dazed, tried to make sense. “I… I don’t know?”
Arohi narrowed her eyes. “Matlab?”
Sharayu sighed. “He just asked about the lecture and then randomly said… ‘This pink suits you’??”
All went silent.
Then—an explosion of squeals.
Rutuja clutched her chest, voice dramatic. “Matlab ye toh indirect tareeka tha bolne ka—”
Arohi grinned. “Sharayu, tu samajh kyun nahi rahi? Compliment kiya unhone tujhe!”
Sharayu protested. “No! He just… said colors bring out characteristics!”
Gayatri rolled her eyes. “Haan, aur woh tere characteristics se itna disturb bhi ho gaye ki lecture mein book ulta pakad liya!”
Sharayu buried her face in her palms, overwhelmed.
“Bas! Bas! Kuch nahi ho raha!”
But the flush on her cheeks—and the sparkle in her eyes—told another story.
And as the laughter of her friends rang in the air, the day became a memory Sharayu would never quite be able to decide if she wanted to forget or relive again and again.
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