#Mr. New Delhi

[questlation]

Economic, Social And Cultural Rights

Economic, Social And Cultural Rights

Madam Chair, Economic, Social and Cultural Rights are indispensable to the dignity of man. Every member of society is entitled to the realization of these Rights through national effort and international cooperation. This has been proclaimed in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and elaborated in the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights. The Vienna Declaration and…

[madridfangirl]

Star crossed lovers (Jude Bellingham fanfic)

Chapter 1

(Series Link)

Jude * female reader. No warnings.

Synopsis: A chance encounter in a tiny Madrid cafe with the newest superstar of her fav club. The two couldn't be more different, yet both feel the pull toward the other. Would this girl be the one he finally falls for? Would she make him change his ways? Even though she resists him every step of the way, would he fight all odds (& her) to have her in his life? Or would life come in the way of these star-crossed lovers?

……………………………………

Madrid was such a beautiful city. Ananya had been here for nearly four months now, yet couldn’t stop marvelling almost daily over some or the other detail she kept discovering. She loved the hustle bustle but also the quaint historical aesthetic that the city provided. That way, it was quite similar to Delhi, the city she was from.

She was practically in a different continent now, far far away from India. To move to another country, with a completely different language and culture, while she was just 20, had been a tough choice. But she was offered a great job in her undergraduate college placements and no career-minded adult would say no to such an opportunity. So, she had managed to convince her overprotective parents to let her move to Madrid, on her own. Her parents thought she would want to return in a few months itself, but she surprised even her own self with how well she was adjusting to the city. Madrid was beautiful, after all.

As she sat in a sweet little cafe on the side of a small road, close to her office in downtown Madrid, on a Friday evening, she smiled to herself on how the last few months had transpired. So much had changed in her life, and she was loving the ride she was on. An independent girl, with a decently fancy job in one of the best European cities. Life was good right now.

This tiny cafe was one of her favourite spots in the city. It was run by an older couple who always greeted her with a smile and the best churros in the galaxy. It was never too crowded, most people just took takeouts. So it was an ideal place to relax, and it was walking distance from her office.

She pulled out her laptop while munching on her plate of churros. It was already Friday evening but she still had a few hours of work left. Investment banking was fun but the hours came with it. Mr. Iglesias (the owner) quietly placed a cup of cappuccino, her usual, next to her plate. She smiled gleefully at his hospitality, then engrossed herself in her work.

30 minutes later, a distinct baritone and accent broke her out of her reverie.

‘A Spanish omelette please?’

Ananya turned around, drawn to the voice. A tall man, wearing stylish all black attire, was standing at the counter. She could only see his back.

Mr. Iglesias drew a blank expression. The tall man tried again.

‘Umm, an omelette, Spanish omelette, por favor?’

‘Un tortilla de patatas, senor.’

Mr. Iglesias nodded happily at the man and signalled 10 mins with his hands.

The man whipped his head in her direction, and smiled gratefully at her.

She had to look away. Immediately. Not just because he had the most infectious smile in the world. But because she recognised who it was and she absolutely would die if she acted crazy at this instant. No, she willed to not make a fool of herself.

But he was walking over to her now.

‘Hey, thanks a ton for that.’

She had taken a few deep breaths by now and was back to her typical poise.

‘No problem at all. I could see you were struggling there.’

He hung his head and laughed sheepishly.

‘I did learn what it was called in Spanish, I swear. But had a long day and completely blanked out. Umm, Spanish is not my first language you see. But I am learning.’

Despite the situation, she somehow managed to smile back genuinely at how he was trying to explain himself to a complete stranger.

‘Well, I am new to the city and the language as well. But my favourite dishes are something I never forget. Can’t go without those, right?’

He smiled at her again. A smile that lit up his whole face. A smile that could light up a black hole. She was amazed at how real, how normal he came across. He was wearing his cap backwards and had glasses on to serve as some disguise she supposed, but she doubted whether those would generally be of any help to him. Not anymore at least.

He played with the back of the chair opposite hers, and looked around.

‘Umm, are you alone? May I join you?’

She channelled all her inner poise before answering.

‘Yeah sure.’

And he flashed her another joyful smile while settling on the small table, opposite her. Man could charge 1000 euros for each smile and people would line up to pay.

He removed the godforsaken glasses, unveiling his big, coffee brown eyes. The hat he just turned backwards, which somehow suited his chiseled face even more.

‘You said you are not from here. May I ask where you are from?’

‘Sure, I am from India.’

‘Wow. I have heard so much about that place. Some of my neighbors back home are also from India. Would love to visit sometime.’

‘You should. There are many flavours to India which you could only experience when you visit.’

He nodded along, agreeing with her wholeheartedly. Mr. Iglesias waved to him from the counter, signalling 5 mins more. He smiled at him as well. Was that his default setting? Not that she was complaining. Oh hell, no.

He suddenly looked back at her.

‘Hey, I didn’t catch your name. So silly of me to not ask earlier.’

She found herself smiling again.

‘Ananya.’

‘A-nan-ya?’

He tried to break down the foreign sounding name in syllables. It was her turn to giggle now, and he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

‘Not A as in Ancelloti but A as in Alvaro Morata.’

He leaned back in his chair, still rubbing the back of his head, and looked straight into her eyes.

‘So, you do know who I am?’

She tuned her laptop towards him. The screensaver was her in the trophy room at the Bernabeu, along with the 14 Champions League trophies.

He looked at the photo and her beaming smile. Her love for the club was evident.

‘Been a Madridista since 2009. 15 years. That’s 75% of my life. So yes, I do know who you are Jude.’

Somehow, just somehow she had managed to find her footing amidst all this madness and was having what would appear to be a fairly normal conversation with a global superstar. She felt it was because of him, though. Because how easygoing and grounded he seemed.

‘Wow. That’s awesome. You know, I didn’t even like football at that age? It’s strange, I know. My dad always wondered what was wrong with me. But one day, suddenly, I decided I wanted to play.’

‘I get it. Sometimes god acts in mysterious ways. You won’t even know how or when, it just happens.’

‘I know right.’

They fell into a comfortable silence. Just looking at each other. And smiling. Both couldn’t stop smiling for some reason.

Mr. Iglesias appeared then with the omelette and Jude nearly hugged him in delight.

He stuffed his face with a gigantic bite, moaning at the taste. Then, he ended up coughing vigorously because the bite was almost one third of his plate.

‘Easy. Here, take this.’

Ananya offered her glass of water to him, which he gulped down in three sips. Then rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked back into her eyes.

‘My mom had once gotten me an omelette from this place. Felt like little drops of heaven. Since then I have been meaning to have this. Sorry for the clumsiness, I got a little carried away.’

He was apologising to her again, which was so endearing. And that accent made everything sound twice as cute.

They went back to their food, and the comfortable silence was back. But she was learning that he couldn’t stay silent for long.

‘Since you already have a head start in knowing about me, would you tell me something about you? What brings you to Madrid?’

‘I work at an investment bank here. Kind of my dream job and my dream firm.’

He leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the table.

‘Ooooh fancy.’

‘Yeah right. Look who is talking.’

‘No, it is fancy. Seems like a smart person thing. I had a feeling you were like that.’

He spent the next 15 mins learning about her job, and by the end he accused her of showing off by using big terms he won’t understand. She neither confirmed nor denied that accusation.

He took another mouthful again, completely ignoring what happened the last time. She couldn’t help but be amused at his antics.

‘So, have you seen any match live?’

Her whole demeanour changed and she was practically bouncing off the chair now. He found that extremely amusing.

‘Oh yes. I was here for internship last year and I managed to watch one game. Vini scored two kickass goals and we won. It was amazing - easily one of the best days of my life.’

‘Um-hmm.’

Something in his tone was off but she was too happy to care.

‘Is he…your favourite player, then?’

‘Oh he’s amazing. Us fans have seen him since he was 17 I guess? And look at the journey. Love the player he has become. But my favourite will only ever be one. I am a Ronaldo fan girl.’

Well, that seemed to cheer him up. He kind of figured that given she had mentioned 2009.

He watched her face fondly for a few seconds as she turned nostalgic and relived the memories in her head.

‘Nothing this season, then?’

‘No luck. The tickets are always sold out. Last year also it was our firm which arranged them for us.’

‘Hmm.’

She hadn’t seen him play, then.

He went back to his last bite and turned it around with his fork a few times, pondering over his next words.

‘Well, there is a home game tomorrow.’

‘A HOME GAME? It’s the first Classico of the season. Ofcourse I know that. God I am so nervous. Hated them winning the league last year. Hate their guts. Jude, you guys better win tomorrow, please. ’

He watched her keenly though her rant, thoroughly amused.

‘Thanks for the order. But, what I meant was, do you want to watch the game tomorrow?

‘But, Classicos get sold out in the beginning of the season right?

She looked confused. Still not getting the point. He realised he would have to spell it out for her.

So smart in her work but not as much in this, which was cute in its own way.

‘Ananya, do you want to watch the match tomorrow from my box? Because you are welcome to do that.’

Oh. Oh.

She stayed still, and he scanned her face for a response.

A volcano erupted inside her. She had been so lost in talking about Madrid and that match that she had completely missed the way he had been looking at her. And what he had asked her just now.

He could tell from her face that something deep was holding her back.

‘Listen, bring your friends / colleagues if you want to. Many of my friends have attended. Plus the boxes are all next to each other so the media / fans can’t really tell who is in whose box, if that’s what’s concerning you. You can just attend as a friend, that’s it.’

She wasn’t buying the last line.

‘That’s it?’

She called his bluff while meeting his gaze. Which he admired. The smart girl was back.

‘Well, after the match, we could grab a bite maybe? Doesn’t have to be a public place, don’t need that drama. So maybe, your place? Or….mine?’

She shook her head sadly.

‘Jude…it’s not that you are not…but…we live in very different worlds and…’

He had an inkling of what was coming and he cut her off before she could finish the sentence. Taking no for an answer was not an acceptable option right now, not when the last 30 mins had been so pleasant and refreshing.

‘What if I score tomorrow? Against the team you detest? How about then?’

She looked at him with her mouth half open. Which made him look down to her lips. But he had the good sense to quickly revert to her eyes.

‘Won’t you want to give me some extra motivation to score against Barca? Or would you rather I be sad and distracted tomorrow?’

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He was really doubling down on this.

‘Let me get this straight. You are seriously using my love for Real Madrid to get me to go out with you?’

He leaned back in his chair, smirked that gorgeous smirk, and shrugged casually, with an iota of arrogance, knowing he was going to win this. Even the arrogance suited him, for crying out loud.

But then, he leaned forward and covered her hand with his, expression all sincere. Her breath hitched at his touch.

‘Look. I just want to spend some time with you, and I really would love for you to see me play. I get that my lifestyle comes with a zillion challenges but that’s step 10. Can we please just spend a few hours together, just you and me, where we talk and get to know each other? I promise, that’s all I am asking. And you don’t have to say yes to that now. You can decide tomorrow after the match. How does that sound?’

The earnestness in his silky smooth voice was drawing her in. She believed him, and was on the verge of saying yes.

But he got restless and played his final card, which he always had up his sleeve.

‘Also, Zidane is going to be there. Their box is just two rows down from where you would be.’

She burst out laughing and threw the table napkin in his face, which he caught easily. Then flashed her a million dollar smile.

‘You really are something aren’t you?’

‘Well, I try.’

She had forgotten that his hand was still on top of hers and was reminded of it when he squeezed it briefly, then withdrew it.

He pulled out his phone and slid it in front of her.

‘Gonna need your number to send the passes.’

Her mind was still registering what she had agreed to but her body reacted involuntarily and typed in her number.

He saved it quickly and sent over the passes in seconds.

‘So, I will see you tomorrow then?’

‘Yes. You leave me no choice. And you better win now, after what you just pulled.’

His phone chimed with a reminder then, for an evening home fitness session prior to the match. He had to leave, she could tell.

He stood up, and she got reminded of how tall he was. His lean physique made him look even taller.

He reached out for her hand again, shaking it this time. And lingered for a few seconds.

‘I will have to go thank my mom now for recommending this place.’

He chuckled, while finally getting go of her hand. She couldn’t stop admiring how his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

‘Can I drop you home?’

‘I have some work to finish - you carry on.’

‘Ok. Looks like it’s gonna rain tonight so pls leave soon.’

Gosh, could this guy get any more charming?

‘Yeah, I will.’

Grudgingly, he went towards the door of the small cafe but looked back one final time.

‘Ananya - such a beautiful name.’

He said it perfectly this time and she gave him a hearty smile, exactly what he needed before he made his way out.

She fell back in her chair, buried her face in her hands and tried to make sense of what had just happened. Tomorrow was going to be nuts. She was going to see Zidane, who she loved to bits. She was gonna watch El Classico. And then, if Jude had his way, she was going to go out on a date with him.

………………………………………………………..

Author’s note: This is set in October and pls assume the classicos were reversed :)

Lots more to come, hope you liked the setup.

[threepandas]

Bad End: Heroic Collection

New Haven wasn't a major metropolis. Some big city like Delhi or Tokyo, Jakarta and the like. It was big for the area. A major hub for commerce and crime on a local scale. But Nationally? INTERNATIONALLY? Not even close. No matter WHAT the great ambitions that haunted the Mayor, late at night, may tell you.

So, really, there was NO fucking reason for any A Listers to be here.

NONE.

Our biggest exports were fancy fucking jams and that one fashion line I couldn't pronounce. We had honest to God Jam festivals in the fall. It was a circuit, Mayor gave out awards. There were pies. Firestrike always ate himself sick. Agent always laughed at him. I... Fuck, my head was ringing. I'd hit that last building HARD. Was pretty sure I tasted blood. Not... not sure if that was because I busted something in my mouth or...

Over my comms, I could hear my teammates fighting. Trying to hail the Alliance. If we could... could just hold on...

Long enough for the major players to GET here?

Then what? I had to wonder. Staring at a burning bus in front of me. It was half way lodged through Mrs. Brahimi's shop. Please, God, let her and the workers have got out all right. I'd been there just this morning. She made me those stuffed flatbread things. Said I was still too skinny. Should rest more.

I use the twist remains of a book return to lever myself to my feet. Book..? Oh. I'm by the library. Which..? Fuck. Main one. That's city hall.

Smoke rises around the city I've lived in all my life. Fires everywhere. I'm supposed... supposed to be a hero. But I can barely stand. Feel sick as the world sways. My body is one big bruise. Gotta... gotta keep fighting. Helping. Save people.

In the distance, I can hear screams.

I'm coming. I promise. I'm coming!

I make my screaming body move. Stumble. Catch myself. Then keep going. The hiss and spit in my ear tells me that my communicator is probably half broken. I don't try it, in case that breaks it the rest of the way. Wrench doors from half crushed cars to free trapped civilians. Lever wreckage, hold it with trembling limbs, so people can crawl to safety. Run. Please, god, RUN!

We aren't strong enough.

He's here, The Collective.

A hivemind super threat. Alien supposedly. So far above my team's pay grade we know basically nothing. The kind of thing we were expected to never realistically see. We're nobody's. Fuck it, we're HAPPY being nobody's. It meant we got to go home each night. Didn't face The Horrors. Like him.

He CONSUMES.

Hungry. Trying to fill some void that's never going to fill. Supposedly a planet eater. Gutting worlds for resources, materials, to continue his own expansion. Now fixated on Earth for it's continued refusal to die. For its defiance. Some A+ sort of monster, to our high C rank. At best.

Fuck... we dealt with HUMANS. Fought gimmicks and tech. Little fish in our little pond. Now this tsunami was bringing the ocean to US and it was all we could do, to swim and survive.

I leaned against a half smashed car. Braced myself against it, more then anything, then started pulling pot shots. I... I was gonna black out soon. With a concussion like this? Probably wasn't gonna be waking up. Especially if those THINGS found me before a friendly did.

All across the city I called home, The Collective had Drones tearing the place apart.

They'd almost be pretty. Tall, elegant, androgynous lookin, supermodel twinks in battle armor. Drones apparently covered their lower face. I'd know the "commander" by their uncovered face and "use of adornments". Useful! Except they could fucking SWITCH on command, so you have to take out ALL of them.

Because they weren't a collection of different soldiers.

THEY weren't a THEY. That? Was a fucking HE. Singular.

You don't consider each of your individual cell as people. Each follicle of hair. Why would HE? God damn it. It was like fighting a giant. Against Gods. They just kept coming. And my ammo? Was not endless.

Worse. The drones had stopped looking. I don't know WHAT they had been searching for. But now? They started to converge on me. On city hall. Fuck. I... I couldn't even really stand anymore. My vision was blurring. I knew for a FACT my shots were shit. But dense as they were crowding? It seemed enough. Kept them back.

Three cartridges left.

Two.

Only one more...

The Alliance was coming. Half my team had gone silent. I could hear tears in the voice of Tech, back in the office. They had our life signs. Built into our armor. I could only imagine what mine looked like. Prayed, like I hadn't since I was a kid, that the others were just unconscious. Safe somewhere.

Someplace this nightmare couldn't reach them.

I doubted I was that lucky.

Tech was begging me to hold on. Giving me ETAs. And... And I was out of bullets. The block half full of Drones. I had escrima sticks. A fucking tazer. It would have to do. Sticks came out, as I swayed to my feet. No longer letting the car behind me hold my weight. What's a little... let's say, hundred or so, on one? Eh?

Bring your friends. Let's make it a fair fight.

I'll go easy on you.

Bravado until the end. Remember, never know who's watching. You are a symbol. Before you are a man, you are their HERO. Don't you DARE let them down. Even if you die. Especially when you die. B.. Bravado until the end. Plaste on a smirk and say a one-liner, we got hope to shoulder.

I took down about three Drones... I think... before the rest swarm me.

Feel hands pinning my arms. My torso. Everything. A weak point between the panels is ripped open. High grade military fabrics doing jack shit against their impossible strength. The distinct pinch tug of a needle in my skin. Cold spreading. The sudden exhaustion of a powerful sedative. I... am gone.

Time... is blurry.

Now and Then running together in my senses. My brain. The concussion doesn't help. Or... or didn't? It feels... gone? Gone-ing? Oh... look, sky. Clouds. Pretty. Wasn't I standing? I am standing. No... no being dragged. Chair? Not chair. Stairs? Carried. Pretty window..... where am I? Fuzzy. Bluzzy fuzzy purple beans~ he he he~ oh! Those are the... watch'ma call it! Gucci chairs! That rich lady had! Neat. Plurble.

Ouch! Why'd you pi...?

My mouth is dry as sand. But suddenly? I am hyper aware. The floating drift of my mind VIOLENTLY gone, replaced by alerted and focus. Drones surround me in a vaguely familiar hallway. Shit. I think it's that rich designer's place. My helmet is off, but my mask is still in place, thank god. The Drones stand far to close for my liking. Their many eyes, amused.

So glad to entertain, you Fuck.

I am frog marched down the hall. Damn near dragged. They were too smart to restrain me with my own cuffs, unfortunately. So my hands are bound behind my back with something tight I can't get a good feel off. Bastard secured it to my belt, too. Great.

The Collective's "Face" is surrounded by what must be every jewel in the city. Piled high in some vague sorting pattern I refuse to even try and comprehend. He's trying on rings. One on every finger, to see what matches his skin tone. Looks good. Already, he has a pearl stud and some earrings he's decided he likes. He looks up as I'm dragged in, and I realize immediately what one of "a few other differences" between him and the Drones are...

It's the EYES,

They GLOWED.

Metallic almost. Nearly neon. They reflected the light in a way the Drones simply did not. It made their face... horrificly predatory. Made for WATCHING, somehow. Unnerving and haughty. Beautiful still, but uncomfortable to be near.

Sitting up on a table that basicly swallows the room, dead center like a show piece on display, with one long leg tossed over the other and no fucking shirt on? The Face looks almost carefully, artfully, staged. To maximize some "haughty yet coy, alien prince who maybe wants to fuck you" shtick.

Does... Does he not realize I'm NOT one of the usual opponents? I mean. Flattered at the "join me! The Darkside has sex and cookies!" set up. Always fun. Classic, really. But, like? I would be... at BEST... a solidly MID goon.

Also "NO".

Gonna preemptively throw that out there. Maybe some expletives for flavor. Suggest someplace sunless to shove it. SOLID "No". Good try, though.

Around me, the Drones are shaking with silent laughter. Staring down at me, their pale eyes dancing with amusement. It's creepy as hell. Unnerving to be the center of attention like this. For this many eyes, utterly in synch, to surround and watch my every twitch. Act fascinated and amused, like I'm some little animal performing tricks.

The Face hasn't dropped his Seduction to the Darkside routine. If anything, he seems delighted by the defiance. Which... yeah, that tracks. It's why he's harrasing out planet to begin with. That one's definitely on me. So, better question? Not that I'm not glad and all? Why the FUCK am I not dead.

"And lose my HERO? Perish the thought~" drawles The Collective, the posture light and lazy, even as something dangerous threaded itself through their tone. It sounded... possessive. But that couldn't be right. "I would NEVER do such a thing! In fact, we are going to have to be far more careful with that little processor of yours. Far too fragile. Just the one, too. Horrifying, really."

Thanks. Just what every guy loves to really make 'im feels special. Insults.

Fucker.

More laughter from all around me. I grit my teeth. Come oooon, Alliance. Where the hell ARE you guys!? Could REALLY use a rescue! The hands holding me still are drifting. Fucking handsy. Damn near stroking even as they hold me immobile. They're looking for the clasps and buckles on my armor. Have already found the obvious ones. Fingers oh so casually drifting over, to grip, flex, and tear them apart.

I do NOT like how loose my armor is starting to feel. Barely able to hold on. Protect me. Limited as that protection may be. I think I'm developing a horrifying empathy for clams. Crustaceans in general. Anything that gets slowly pried from the safety of it's shell, too certain doom.

The Face casually tosses the rings he was playing with aside. Tens of thousands of dollars bouncing off to God only knows where. He slides from the table to stand. Shit. He's huge.

The androgynous twink supermodel thing he has going on? Fucking LIES. Twists your perception of how, EXACTLY, strong the Face body IS. He clears seven feet easily, is muscled in that distinctly "never see me coming until it's too late" sort of way all the ninja types are.

The tattoos. It's the FUCKING tattoos! They give the illusion that he's slimmer then he actually is.

It HIDES MUSCLE MASS.

I can't tell if that's vanity or strategy and I hate it. Glare as he sashays towards me. Hips rolling in that elegant catwalk strut. I'm forced to my knees. Because of course I am. How ELSE will the bastard loom and gloat? Though really, weak as I currently feel, it's more that the Drones holding me up? Stop doing that. My knees more or less just give up on their own.

"Like what you see? You're staring so intently~" He mocks. If he were being genuine, I'd call it teasing. Flirtatious. But I know better. "It IS a pretty body, isn't it? I worked hard on it, you know. All sort of fun little details~ Might honestly be one of my favorites. If you're good for me, I'll let you explore it~"

THERE it is.

Darkside. Sex and cookies. Sign up today. Fuck you and not in the fun way. Keep your hands to yourself, Collective. You're not convincing me. You could tell me the sky was blue, and I'd make three presentations with a PowerPoint, on why you were a liar. No, still No, and a hefty fuck off No for spice.

Three steps away. Two steps. One.

A man that tall and dangerous? Frankly did NOT need heels. Figures he'd wear them anyway. Sharp enough to kill a man. Right infront of my folded knees. I refuse to look up. No more fucking games. Did have to wonder, though, if those pants... if they even WERE pants? Were painted on or not. Very tight. Looked vaguely metal yet leather.

Shit.

Fingers, splayed wide as they run themselves through my sweaty and probably bloodstained hair. Couldn't have been nice to touch. Wrong angle and just a touch too big to be a Drone. Light as a lover, sweet almost, soothing. Before it inevitably tightens, gripping the strands. Honestly not as hard as I expected, didn't even hurt.

Still, my head is forced back.

Back and back and back, forced to arch my spine, hang awkwardly at some forty-five degree angle. My thighs and abs already screaming. A Drone grabs the back of my armor and, with an almost casual yank, my chest plate is violently snapped free. Both tossed to the floor away from us.

"There we are~" the Face hums down at me, eyes nearly hypnotic in how the light moved from within, grin full of sharp and deadly teeth. "No more of that ugly thing in the way. I much prefer this~"

"Tell me, Little Hero, do you remember? Becoming mine."

No, I certainly do fucking not. What the HELL is he-!? From behind the Face a Drone steps. Dressed differently to the others. Casual clothes. Like... actual street clothes. If they weren't GREEN I never would been able too-...

In horror, I watch as the pigment of the Drones skin melts away to a middling average. So utterly nondescript a blend of ethnicities that it's genuinely hard to place, but won't stand out no matter where he goes in the city.

I... I had seen that face.

SAVED that man.

Thought he was CUTE! T..Thought WE were having some sort of MEET CUTE! Oh God. That was at the festival. I was out of costume. Saved him from getting crushed. Then my teammates handled everything before I could slip away. So I just... stayed. Showed the cute tourist the festivities.

We ate FANCY JAMS, YOU FUCK!

I pined our that cute tourist for WEEKS. Was UNBEARABLE. Tech threatened to shove me off a roof! Oh my god.

Laughter.

Dozens of mouths, laughing in perfect sync. The noise layered and bouncing strangely around the room. Deeper then it should be, higher as it swings. Like a radio or voice modulator that someone is messing with. A momentary loss of control. My anger fizzles out to fear. Oh... oh yeah...

I forgot I was fucked.

At.. at least I know why?

A step forward. Past too close and now basically in my lap. A foot on either side of my knees. I try not to think exactly where my face would be pressed if I wasn't dragged back, to hang near painfully arched, so he could lean down and I could be forced to make eye contact. That way lay madness.

He moved his other hand to my face, cupping it. Dragging his thumb possessively across my mouth. He hummed, pleased.

He pressed closer, sliding down my front to his knees, straddling my lap. REALLY hoped that WAS, in fact, a weapon in your pocket there, buddy. Because I am not liking the handsy direction this is going, nor have I come to terms with my meet cute being a monstrous planet killing warlord. Not feeling sexy, my guy.

....okay, a LITTLE sexy, but that is hormones and we ignore those.

Fuuuuuck, wandering haaaaands! Now would be a GOOD TIME for door kicking rescues! I do NOT want to learn anything new about myself today! I want to go HOME. Sleep forever, maybe! Have a burrito the size of my head! Oh god. Think unsexy thoughts. Math. Sad puppies! Sad puppies doing MATH!

The Collective had dragged me upright. Pressed my face right up against their Face's bare skin. All I could smell was expensive cologne and man. Warm skin. Oh god, I am so gay. This is hell and I am very, VERY gay. If evil, why sexy hot hot hot? Hormones are making very convincing arguments. Horny brain says let's make terrible life choices.

No! Nooooo. Stop it, Me! We are fucking better then this! God damn it, you trainwreck, you are a ROLE MODEL! Act like one! (But horny...) (NO!!!)

God I was never going to mock the fuckers who hesitates at the "sex n cookies" speech again. Persuasive mother FUCKER!

"Aah~" he sighed contentedly, far too close to a moan for my sanity's liking. Hands having finally found the hidden zippers of my undersuit. Slowly dragging it open. "You are FAR too cute~♡"

"I can't wait to get you off this worthless little rock. Back to ME. I'll have so many WAYS to take care of you~ Backups and rudimentary supports we can set up, at least until I get you something proper."

Horrifying. Deeply Horrifying. REALLY never wanted to know what terrified and horny felt like, but here we are. Distantly, I hear thunder. There's no clouds. A flash of red through the skies. Green followed by metallic purple. Oh thank fuck. Keep his attention. Just... just keep his attention.

"We'll use me as a base. Keep you in stasis. Away from all these ugly, dangerous things~! Just you and me. Perfect. BETTER. Infinite and beautiful. I'll make all sort of bodies just for you to play with. Even let you keep this one! If you want. It'll be a precious memory for us, of where you began. How we met."

A mouth on mine. I can't breathe. Can't escape the arms wrapped around me. My protests do little more then waste oxygen. I feel light headed. Come one, team Alliance! He's here! HE'S HERE!!!

"You're going to be MINE, little Hero. I finally figured it out. What I was missing. It was YOU~♡! My beloved, delicate, little thing~. I'm going to take SUCH good care of you."

"Forever~"

[johbeil]

Imaginary story

Mrs. Chatterjee on her way home after shopping for fruit, while her son Saurab, who has done something wrong, follows at a safe distance.

Based on a photo shot in the streets of New Delhi, India.

[ladylaviniya]

Sir Sherlock Holmes & The Indian Princess

शर्लक बाबू और भारतीय राजकुमारी

Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: In England, Sherlock Holmes receives an alarm letter from his dear friend Doctor John Watson. In Delhi, You don't mind being a teacher, but with new building plans, you reflect on your circumstances and opportunities.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x Desi!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Slow burn, generational trauma, colonisation, implied murder, death of a parent, classism & caste.

Word Count: 6k

Author Notes:

★ Everything written in bold is being said in Hindustani

★The Reader character goes by the last name Newalkar and is the daughter of Damodar Rao Newalkar → the adopted son of Rani Laxmibai. I must advise this story is pure fiction but based in the occupation of the British Raj that invaded and Colonised India.

★I am a White European/Australian woman, I apologise for any cultural or historical inaccuracies. I am receiving help from online sources and desi Tumblr mutual @livesinfantasyland and I heavily encourage other Indian/South Asian/Desi readers to share their thoughts, constructive criticism and help as I write this story.

Inspiring Song: "Paint it Black" by Ciara

11:35pm Thursday 26th June 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

This story begins and ends with the sound of rain.

Tink!

The roof had begun a leak. And when this leak came to play it had a habit of landing directly on the head of a disgruntled and lonely fellow.  The greatest detective in London who could not find a friend. Granted I must inform you, Mr Sherlock Holmes did in fact have some friends, but by misfortunes, none were presently in the country.

Tink!

He angrily sighed. Another drop of rain hit his head.

He launched from his arm chair and grumbling moved an empty teapot to sit on the cushion he previously sat. The drops thus made a small tinkling as they landed inside the empty pot.

Plonk!

He rubbed his eyes and checked the time on the mantle piece clock. He had lost weeks of his life. Hours squeezed down to into unknown days or months, he could not tell. It did not help how he consistently drew the curtains closed to design total darkness other than the fireplace and his candles to light up his home.

A light shiver ran up his spine. The weather was dangerously cold today. His fingertips upon inspection grew from pale white to a dark pink.

Plonk!

He wandered if perhaps it was time to have a holiday in sunny Spain.

A knock on his door broke his imagined vacation like a hammer to glass.

His pesky landlady Mrs Hudson intruded on his stuffy dust filled space. She grumbled nonsense about the filth of her apartment she’s rented out to the famous Detective before handing him a thick envelope.

Plonk!

And the moment he could see and recognised the handwriting he snatched the Letter from her wrinkly fingers and banished her with a bellowing shout. The woman fluttered out and muttered her further disgusts of his treatment.

Plonk!

But Sherlock did not care for her opinion or rather anyone’s for that matter, Sherlock only cares about the stamp he tore opened the parchment he eagerly unfolded.

John Watson. Doctor, soldier and dear friend. He was Sherlock’s greatest companion to note. He had never felt such brotherly love until he met the very man seeking a roommate here in baker street.

Doctor and detective used to comb London for clues to solve crimes and very noticeably took an interest at the sports of pleasure. The luxurious brothels of London welcomed him and his friend with open arms and spread legs. Doctor Watson was the easy victim of sex while Sherlock was one to enjoy his opium pipe and watch his friend succumb to the mouths of half-pound harlots.

And among these adventures of interesting women did the doctor find himself in a savage tussle with another jealous male patron...

Sherlock recalled the evening with mirth. His dear friend, brother in arms had been pummelled to a pulp and drunk as a daisy. So when Sherlock escorted him to a hospital, the imbecile had declared that he was doctor of the ward and did not need any stitches. It is a grand thing perhaps Doctor Watson could not fathom the memory of yelling too proudly that his medicine could be only found in the elixir of a woman’s warm cunny.

His nurse, a dirty bird at heart had giggled at this...that nurses name was Mary Mortenson. And she became the very enamoured Mrs Mary Watson.

Sherlock was not fond of his friend becoming so besotted with his bride. He tolerated the woman’s presences at best. Unspokenly, the detective saw competition to gain the doctors attention and it was becoming far too obvious that Mrs Watson would win. Every. Single. Time.

After a month of young love the married pair had decided their honey-moon should be experienced back in John’s birth land...Delhi, a city in India. Mary was to meet the senior Mr and Mrs Watson. Coincidently, the English rose was not averse to the foreign lands…she so happened to have been born in Agra. Happy and married, they boarded and sailed across the sea.

Sherlock had high hopes their ship would run scarce of supplies so they might return quickly. He missed his dear friend and even his annoying wife.

The letter in between if thumbs and fingers were the first words from them he had gotten in nearly three months. The letter read as followed...

“Dear Sherlock,

Mary and I have come to my home I grew up in as a boy. I was blessed with my parents merry welcome. However, unfortunate circumstances have designed two coffins. For merely a week into our visit my beloved parents have passed. I have yet to decide whether to bury them in the English tradition or burn them in the Hindi ritual. My predicted return back to Baker Street may appear futile and non-existent. Please. Come visit us as soon as it is convenient.

13, 25, 27, 16, 1, 18, 5, 14, 20, 19, 27, 8, 23, 5, 27, 2, 5, 5, 14, 27, 13, 21, 18, 4, 5, 18, 5, 4.

Your sincere faithful friend, Doctor John H. Watson.”

Plonk!

Sherlock’s eyes raced over the page, and cupped his mouth staring at the plethora of numbers. They were not any numbers. John was a simple man, he wasn’t the smartest being but Sherlock appreciated his humble attitudes, he liked the doctor admitting he wasn’t a world genius, just a man who knew his medicines.

So when an enigmatic set of numbers was written at random Sherlock thought of the most simplistic cypher.

For every number was a letter. 1 being A and 26 being Z, leaving 27 to be a space between a word.

His brows lifted. The message was clear and alarming.

Plonk!

“My Parents Have Been Murdered.”

He determined his dear doctor had written this cryptic message under the desire of secrecy. His eyes lit up. It meant John needed Sherlock’s help. A case. Something was amiss. John did not know the killers name. If he did, he would’ve written it or not bothered to write asking Sherlock to visit at all.

He couldn’t have run faster to his rooms to start backing as soon as possible.

Plonk!

Sherlock Holmes had know idea what he was going to find in a land he had only heard stories from Watson’s childhood. He was eager to see his friend, to help him and to finally have an adventure.

01:35pm Friday 11th July 1890, Anglo Arabic Secondary School, Desh Bandhu Gupta Rd, Ajmeri Gate, Delhi.

You dragged the piece of white chalk across a black board and sketched a simple phrase in the English language. You smiled to the young faces that filled the room, sitting in long benches and desks. Their eyes wide and curious, eager to learn.

You waved your hands, “Now, clean your chalk slates students, you are going to learn how to spell good afternoon in English.”

They wipe them down with their small damp clothes and tucked them away in the groove at the top of their slanted desk. You waited patiently until they all sat with their hands resting flat on the wooden desks, mouths shut, eyes seeking knowledge.

You underlined each letter of the first word, “Gee, ouw, ouw, dee, this spells ‘Good’ and now ‘Afternoon’ is Aya, eff, tee, Ee, Ara, eynnn, ouw, ouw, eynn.”

The young boys sounded it out with you. Their sweet pubescent voices unionised. You smiled. They were so advanced at such a young age, most of the boys had come from average and wealthy families that could afford them to come to such a fine school. Many were Muslim, others Hindu, it was a good sign of peace. The youth coming together despite their differences. And on odd days you would teach the white children, boys and girls of British and French families who wanted their children to learn Hindi, Arabic and Urdu.

You didn’t mind teaching white children, some of the boys could be very disrespectful but you gathered it was behaviour picked up from their arrogant fathers. It wasn’t the young boys who had pillaged these lands, it was their fathers and grandfathers.

“The gee,” you circled the G, “Remember in English is also pronounced like Guh and,” you tapped the double o’s, “Ouw ouw in english together when two is said ‘oooowa’. Followed by dee being said as Dah. So, let’s say it together?”

You dragged a white line under the word and sounded it out with your students.

“Guh-oooow-dah.”

You smiled.

You repeated, “Good.”

“Now let’s look at the word ‘afternoon’,” you announced.

You cleaned the board and looked back at your students. One of the little boys who sat in the front was rubbing his eyes. You smiled softly. He was only six years old. His older brother, a young man now would most likely be the one to collect his brother from school and carry him sleeping back home. You looked at the bell tower just outside the window. It was nearly time for your students to go home and you to return back to your lodgings.

“Aye and eff is said as AAaff, then tee is a quick Tuh! And what is Ee and Arrra sound together children?”

“Errr,” they all purred.

You sounded out half of the word with them, “Aafftuherrr.”

You rubbed your chalk dust covered fingers together and further explained as you pointed to each important letter, “eynnn makes a Na, sound. And we just practiced double ouw, so sound it out.”

Like a symphony of speech, you all said together, “Guh-oooow-dah Aafftuherrr, Na-ooow-na. Good Afternoon.”

The deep bowing clang of the bells outside rang through the yard and open window shutters. The children looked eager to leave. Their hands were readily holding their slates, ready to put them inside the empty wooden box in the corner of the classroom where they kept all their slates and dusters and the bucket for where they kept their chalk.

“Good afternoon students,” You bided.

“Good afternoon Teacher Madam,” They called back.

“You may go back home now. Practise your English alphabet song.”

The boys were fast as rabbits, leaping from their desks and fleeing the classroom out the hall and down the stairs. But some at least saluted you as they left. It was a habit they’d picked up from the white boys who saluted their male teachers. You smiled to yourself as you waved them out. Each left with beaming smiles and playful chatter among themselves.

As you went about sweeping the floor after wiping the chalk from the board, you wondered if you should go to the temple and pray for your students successful education or if you should consider washing your clothing today. It had been very dry today, any moment and you knew the wet season and humid rain would arrive to flood the streets clean of dust and fill the forests with life of green goodness.

As you put away the English education books on the small shelves by the door, a familiar face came rushing in, flushed and excited

If it wasn’t her jingling anklet and bangle that announced her To your classroom, it was her shrill cry of your name that did.  

“Y/N! Quick!” Miss Anjuli Paraiyars exclaimed, “You need to come with me.”

Her dark ink hair was peaking out from her sun patterned veil. The wispy curls stuck to her sweaty forehead and framed her dazzling walnut eyes. They were flooded with mischief that matched her biting lip. Her brows wriggled lightly.

Placing the last book onto the shelf you turned to acknowledge your dear friend.

“Anjuli,” you happily sighed, “Whatever is the matter?”

She waved her hands about, hoping to quicken you along and out the door, “It is the Watson son, Doctor Watson, he wants to speak with you with important news.”

Your eyes widened. ‘What on earth does that poor soul wish to say to me? After the death of the good Mr and Mrs Watson, I would assume he was still in mourning, why would he call upon me?’

Following your friend outside into the scorching sun, you lifted your saree over your head. She had her family Ox and cart waiting outside the school gates.

“What important news Anjuli?” You said a little standoffishly.

“He’s offering you a job,” She said giddily. She climbed up into the cart and leant down offering her hand to you.  Once in the cart side by side she sighed, “That’s all he would tell me,” She grabbed the reigns and cane and tapped the Ox to start moving out onto the dirt road, “But we all know how very generous he can be like his dear parents.”

Anjuli was right. The late Victoria and Hamish Watson’s were angelic to the local community. Victoria had been the very soul to teach your late mother English and she was the one to encourage you to attain education enough to become one of the very few first female Indian teachers. She was a well known philanthropist, often aiding the sick and homeless and funding the Indian hospitals. Hamish was a local accountant, financial advisor and lawyer. He was known to be good to the children particularly. He would often hand out sweets as he walked down the street with his briefcase bag. He often aided the locals find new homes when the British planned to evict them and replace white families in their place. The English couple had lived in the country for many decades, long before you were even born. They spoke fluently enough and mimicked the culture so well that you could’ve believed they were born here themselves.

You sat back and nodded, “May their souls attain moksha.”

02:45pm Friday 11th July 1890, Willingdon Crescent, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

The sun baked down on the streets of Dehli. The Ox cart rolled along, it’s tail flicking the flies circling it’s flank every so often.

You pinches your saree scarf and covered your face before a bug could fly into your mouth.

Anjuli had to hold the reigns and cane, she leant closer to you and giggled as she nodded to the khaki covered soldiers. Walking by in many small groups.

Anjuli had a terrible habit, she fell in love too easily. For some ungodly reason Anjuli admired the foreigners that had come so long ago and invaded your beautiful country. Maybe she liked how different they looked. The flaxen hair and ice blue gazes in the faces of pale freaks were so opposite to the raven manes and hairy russet warmth of Indian men. It was erotic for her. You just didn't understand how she could so easily find infatuation with the people you considered an enemy, and so should she.

“Oh look at them,” she giggled girlishly.

You rolled your eyes, “I’m looking.” There was a timid strain in your voice. You had no real interest to entertain Anjuli’s fascination.

When Anjuli noticed how you in fact we’re not looking but rather looking ahead on the road path she playfully smacked your arm.

“Look!” She sucked her teeth and teasingly scolded, “Do you not know delight at the sight of men?” She reached forward and abruptly touched the front of your blouse, squeezing around for the softness of your breasts, “Are you sure you’re a full grown woman?” she smiled wickedly and prodded her finger in between your legs covered by your top petticoat.

You squeaked loudly and batted her hand. She howled with laughter and kept giggling even as you scowled at her beneath your veil.

You turned your head away from her and scoffed, “I am not as easily swayed by British soldiers. They look so sickly as pale as they are,” your nose wrinkled, “How could I righteously take a husband in front of beloved Lakshmi and her Vishnu when they look like they tempt Yama too take them at any moment?”

Your friend rolled her eyes, “Oh nonsense,” she tapped your hand and waved her fingers into a crowd of soldiers, “See there that one, his hair the colour of wheat, he is a handsome man. He would make a fine husband.”

And as the cart rolled passed, you couldn’t help gag at the smell of the same man Anjuli proclaimed would make a fine husband.

‘A fine swine perhaps. Many sow in heat could come trotting to him from miles with such a putrid scent.’

Your head wobbled and your flat palm waved at her, “A husbands good qualities are not to stand on his appearance alone. One day he will grow old, fat, bald and ugly.”

A long dragging sigh came out from the woman beside you. She managed to move both reigns into one hand and playfully tugged your saree away from your face

“You’re no fun, come on,” she jerked her chin out to the same street as the ox was about to pass another group, “Tell me you don’t find any of them a little attractive?”

You stared at the oncoming group and now sucked your teeth. You crudely stated, “They’d be far more attractive if they left. Went back to their lands, leave our villages and the people of Bharat in peace.”

Anjuli stared blankly at you. Before she could pinch and prod you again you relented and noticed one of the men in the crowd so different from the others.

He was tall, his hair a dark chestnut that matched the shade of his suit. His face was bare and clean in comparison to the soldiers who all adorned moustaches and muttonchop beards on their faces. He was carrying a rather large brief case and walking stick.

“Fine...that one,” you nodded, “In the brown English clothes.”

“The one wearing a suit?” Anjuli snickered, “He’s not a soldier though?”

You giggled,“And it is for such a reason I find he is most handsome among them.”

You both gazed at him as the ox fully passed by. Anjuli smiled at you.

“He is rather tall. Strong. What do you think he does?” She asked, “Maybe he is a farmer, or a bricklayer?”

You shook your head. ‘No. He couldn’t be.’

“He dresses too finely. It is not their Christian Sunday Sabbath today. He probably is a rich businessman, with a wife and children.”

You looked back to the path as the dusty road became thicker in trees and travel further away from the street. You thought about that strangers wife, what she might look like, probably some English rose with a house full of servants at her command, surrounded by maids and wet nurses for her children. She would live in a grand house and hold soiree’s, welcoming guests from all around to celebrate life. She would have a massive library and a place of worship. It was the life you should’ve had, the life you were owed and denied merely by the changing events of history and the extinguish of your father’s birthright.

Your soft smile faded; you felt a twinge of repulsion mixed with a hint of anger. You’d think after all these years you would’ve chosen to forget this, ignore this, let go and accept your circumstances in this life.... You didn’t live with your father anymore who would remind you practically daily why not to trust the English or any white man, as if you didn’t witness their subjecting abuse and consistent disrespect.

Your eyes fluttered shut, you reached to your side and touched Anjuli’s wrist. She was your truest friend despite her differences and low status. Anjuli came from a Shudra family, and you? You were the daughter, the descendant of Brahims and Kshatriyas...now lowered to the Shudra caste class…You never knew the lavish life of the Jhansi palace, nor tasted the rich foods served on golden plates and surrounded by pretty creatures of the palace menagerie. You would never know the joys of running through the gardens with other children in the royal family.

Everyone was gone, everything was gone. All that was left was your father who scarcely remembered that life but shared all he remembered so his memories would live on through you and bring you hope that one day it would be yours. It was a cruel false hope…

Eighteen years ago, you had been born inside of a nice house in Indore to the daughter of a prestige painter Vasudeoraobhau Bhatavdekar. As far as you knew, your father loved your mother very much for the incredibly brief time that they were married. A rare jewel in beauty is how he described her often. A marriage of love and choice. Your father said she was softly spoken and obedient, but it was her unconditional love for him and his dreams that held his heart in appreciation.

It was by unfortunate command that she would fall ill to childbed fevers after you were born. After you…a girl...not a son. You were nothing in the eyes of the British raj and had no chance of being installed as an heir for any restoration…you were the last hope and failed before your first breath. And that was something you’d never forget.

For a small time, you were raised in that home and then it was decided by your father that you would learn English. His tutors were not available, so he cut your hair short and shipped you off to Delhi with your young uncle Save to the Anglo Arabic Secondary School…It did not take the teachers and headmaster long to discover you were a girl. Before you were to receive the beating of a lifetime it was Mr Hamish Watson who so happened to be accounting the school costs to save you. He took you to his wife who taught you English and then set you to live with his maid servants, Anjuli’s mother.

Your friend spoke after some time of silence, “Oh, I’m meant to tell you- My cousin Vijay sent word this morning, he’s seeking a wife. My mother wants me to ask if you’d like to meet him, a prospective match.”

Your lips curled into a sneer, “Isn’t he the one that use to tie our braids together in a knot during Diwali and chase us around the street making animal noises?”

You recalled a young teenage boy about five years your senior with a tooth gap and ruffled hair. He was so annoying, calling you names and bullying you by calling you fat and ugly. He was spoilt and rude. He mocked you when you told him you were a princess. He said you were a princess of pimple pox and nothing more. Oh how you remembered the way your blood boiled.

“We were children, he was playing, only a boy,” she smiled, “He’s a man now, studying to be a barrister in Bombay but he will be visiting in a few weeks to help us move.”

Ah yes, the dilemma you needed to find a solution too soon. It was a month ago that a letter had been nailed to the house door, it was an eviction commandment made by the British military and government. The Paraiyars family and you had to leave the home in Raisina hill, why? Because the British do what they like…building concrete monstrosities over beautiful land and demolishing the history of your people like it was worthless dust. Rumours spread about a grand governors palace was to be built there, but they couldn’t burn the village to ash with people living inside...well....at least not on their "morally good Christian conscious."

“Vijay I believe owns a cottage near the seaside. You could be his bride and live with him instead of moving back to Indore to your father.”

Moving back was not possible...not after his most recent letter.

“Father has…felt it improper for me to move back to Indore. He believes that my existence would cause me more harm than good under his jailers’ eyes…His pension he shares I give mostly to your mother for board. I have saved my wages, I am considering…moving to a boarding workhouse in Jhansi or Agra, but tell your mother I would like to greet Vijay when he arrives…”

You smirked looking down at your fingernails, “Lakshmi forbid I run out of money and need to resort to the ‘charity’ of Christians or to prostitution.”

Anjuli made a face, shaking her head and brushed her shoulder into yours, “You wrinkle your nose at every man, white, black or bronze,” she smiled cheekily, “I doubt you’d make a good prostitute.”

“Anjuli!” You shrieked.

Both you and her erupted into a large happy shrill of giggles enough to gain head turns from passing public. You and her playfully poked your elbows into each other. Anjuli was right, there was no chance that you could make a suitable prostitute…you hadn’t had sex and didn’t know how to please a man, most men you barely liked. They could be selfish. Anjuli on the other hand, she was a frisky thing. She had kissed a hundred men and given her ‘precious flower’ to a boy back when she was thirteen. She had no shame. Anjuli had shared her sordid tales of lust to you many times. You knew her boyfriends that snuck her out at night and returned her by morning. You promised never to tell her mother or father who surely would’ve disowned her if they knew how promiscuous she was. It was best if they believed she made money with her parents in the markets selling dyed clothes and wooden jewellery boxes.

03:04pm Friday 11th July 1890, 5 Bistdari Road, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

Arriving to the Watson Bungalow was simple enough, the ox cart rolled and bumped over the rock and sandy grooves of the path. Anjuli pulled the reigns of her beast and helped you both down. She tied her ox to the outside gate posts, the precious creature lowered its head and munched on dry grass that still was hinted in green. The ox would be glad as soon the wet season would hit and all the food delight lush and green would return.

You and Anjuli stepped inside and removed your sandals, Anjuli then led you through the house. It had been some time since you had been here. Anjuli’s mother was dismissed as Mrs Victoria Watson’s maid when the new Watson bride had arrived.

Doctor Watson, their son was a short ferrety man. His face was covered in a long mutton mustache like a snake of hair slithering along his face. He was a grown man from the teenager you had met many years ago. His parents had sent him to Europe to school, as far as you were aware he had join the army and fought in some notorious war battles like The of Battle of Abu Klea.

As you entered the bureau office, you found him hunched over some paperwork, his brows scrunched. His eyes lifted up and brightened his face on seeing you both.

“Oh Miss Paraiyars, Anjuli dear,” he said clapping his hands and opening a drawer in his desk, “Thank you so much dear for bringing darling Miss Newalkar here. Here,” he handed Anjuli a small bag and slipped four rupees into her hand, “and take these sweets back to your Mataji, Mrs Paraiyars.”

Anjuli put her hands together and smiled, wobbling her head before leaving you alone to return outside back to her ox cart.

You had your hands pressed together peacefully while the doctor hobbled over to you from around the desk. He was smiling brightly and nodded his head to you, offering you a chair in front of the desk.

“Y/N thankyou for coming on such short notice. I requested your presence in person to offer you a job position.”

Your smile fell, you sheepishly explained to the man, “I am currently employed at the Anglo school Doctor, Babu.”

The doctor nodded, “Yes…Anjuli tells me you are still teaching the children English and Hindi?”

“Yes Doctor Babu,” you confirmed.

“How much are you paid per month?” he asked quickly, touching his lips lightly in thought.

“Twenty five rupees,” you said softly, you didn’t dare try to sound prideful.

The doctor smiled and pulled out a piece paper contract, he then stated, “I will pay you a hundred per month.”

Your eyes widened, and then narrowed. It was too spectacular to be true, it sounded Impossible. Your fathers pension was only a hundred and fifty rupees a year, for the doctor to give you a hundred per month was unfathomable wealth. What on earth was he wanting from you!?

“What is the position,” you swallowed breathlessly, “Doctor Babu?”

“Housekeeper and…a carer,” he sighed, “I need you to live here, and watch over one of my friends. He is from England and I am afraid he might not understand the customs here.”

He leant against the desk cocking his head and looking down at his feet awkwardly. “Please,” he begged, “he is different to other men. He is particular and perhaps rather spoilt. I need you to make sure he doesn’t get lost, harmed or too upset. It is pressing that I should return to my wife in Agra. I would have hired Mrs Paraiyars, in fact I did offer this role to her, but I have been informed she will be moving and her English is not as it once was…and my English friend is rather…particular and impatient with broken speech...”

He wrote a signature across the bottom of the document and held it out for you to read. It was real…your mouth watered. You could save more than your regular wage and easily move back to Indore without burdening your father or mother’s family.  

“If you accept my offer, you may live here as a free lodging, you recall where the servant quarters are I am sure? You will also receive a handsome budget for food. And-” he paused looking up and pocketing the cheque, he gasped, “Sherlock! Dear god man! Did you walk here from the train station?!”

You turned around in the chair and took in the sight of a familiar looking soul.

He was the gentleman from the road. The supposed businessman with his briefcase. He was taller standing here with you then when you sat above in the ox cart. He was standing in the doorway to the office. He stepped inside and lowered his walking stick and briefcase.

“My friend,” the handsome stranger gleefully called, “My dear John Watson, I came the moment I read your message. One of the khaki coated lads pointed me here.”

Up close now you could observe his features on a better judgement. Sherlock Holmes was well known in the British gazette for his distinct physical appearance. With his broad angular frame, sharp hard features, and mighty frame, he exuded a striking and intimidating aura that commanded respect. He reminded you of warriors you imagined before bed in story's of battles your father described at Jhansi Fort.

His face was marked by a strong, sharp pointed nose and intense, deep-set sapphire eyes. His hair was kept combed and short below his ears short and slicked back, revealing his angular eyebrows, and his pink lips that were tightly pursed. He wore a grand brown suit coat with a crisp white shirt, and woolen sweater vest beneath it. And at the base of his throat was a dark burgundy tie. Something about the time reminded you of blood. A cut throat. You felt cold.

His eyes smoothly shifted to you and your presence, his lips parted softly, he glanced back at John, “A patient of yours Doctor?”

The moustached man bristled and shook his head, he stuttered and leant his hand out to you. you carefully chose to take it and rise from the chair as he introduced you.

“Oh- I- Sherlock…um, Sherlock Holmes, I would like you to meet Miss Y/N Newalkar.”

“Miss Newalkar,” the doctor waved his hand over the figure of the giant stock of a man, “This is the very gentleman I was informing you about. This is my friend Detective Sherlock Holmes.”

You pressed your hands together and nodded in greeting. One of Sherlock’s brows raised and his lips hardened in a straight line.

Doctor Watson explained back to the detective, “I was in the middle of discussing whether this dear lady would like to accept a role of housekeeping during your stay here.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock snickered, “Is your lady wife not up to par with her duties?” he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his leather shoes while his eyes scanned all the way down to your bare feet. It was a crude look of judgement. The westerner seemed to forget not everyone shared the same styles and habits here. You tried not to roll your eyes at him as he scanned your arms and the parts of your belly that the saree did not cover.  Those dark blue orbs crawled up and settled over your faux sweetened smiling face.

“Some…plans have come up unexpectedly. Mary is back in Agra, staying safe with her family,” John stated, his fingers rubbed together, “I need to be with her. And the hospitals are in desire of my services as a surgeon. I ask that you will look around, see if you can find anything here…” he leant in closer and whispered to the man, “I will visit every couple of days, to check up on you and see if there is truth to be founded in my suspicions.”

'Suspicions?'

“John…” the detective pat his friends shoulder, “I am happy to see you. I promise I will do my very best.”

“Thankyou,” said the doctor.

Sherlock jerked his chin to your direction, “How much does the dear girl here know?”

“Well, I…not much,” the doctor blushed and looked back to you, “Miss Newalkar, your thoughts on the job position role?”

You swallowed and nodded slowly, “I accept the conditions, thankyou for your most gracious offering, Doctor Babu.”

The doctor smiled and carefully touched your back, leading you to the exist of his office as he happily stated.

“Splendid! Please, this is the contract. Sign it and return with your belongings later on a few hours while I converse with my friend and guest.”

You looked back at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and back to the contract. You wobbled your head in goodbye and went on your way. The way you could feel his eyes over your body walking away made you shiver. He was a intimidateding looking man. You left the home and slipped your sandals on.

You thought about how you would now be the housekeeper of a prestigious British family in the community. A wave of relief to your stability washed over you. You didn’t need to crawl to your father and your mother’s family. You started smiling ear to ear. All you needed to do was take care of a house and baby-sit an Englishman who was vulnerable to these new lands.

“Did you see him go in?” Anjuli smirked from the ox cart, waving you over, “The British man you fancied?”

You jerked your chin up proudly exclaiming, “I met him.”

Your friend gasped with a wide smile, “What is he like?”

“I don’t really know,” you shrugged before waving the contract in front of your friends face, “but I am going to be his housekeeper, I need to inform the school of my resignation.”

Anjuli looked at the contract, she couldn't read english but made a light sad sound and sucked her teeth before sighing, “Oh, those children will miss you dearly.”

And that you could both agree. You grabbed the ox reigns and tapped its flank with the cane rolling back to the school again quickly to collect your last wage.

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[reasonsforhope]

"A Delhi-based engineer has designed a replacement for polystyrene packaging out of “rice stubble” the dead stalks left over after the rice season in India, millions of tons of which are burned every year.

They say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes, and Mr. Arpit Dhupar was at first left scratching his head when his young nephew drew a picture of the world with a grey sky.

Everything else was normal, green grass, yellow sun, white and brown mountains; why was the sky grey? It dawned on him that his nephew was drawing the sky as he saw it every year when the rice stubble was burned: grey.

“We shouldn’t live in a world where we have to explain to kids that the sky should be painted blue. It should be a given,” he told The Better India.

So he launched a new business venture called Dharaksha Ecosystems in order to tackle the rice stubble problem. Essentially, the farmers need it cleared off their land asap after harvest. Its high moisture content means it’s not useful for stove fuel, so they burn it in massive pyres.

In his factory, he turns 250 metric tons of rice stubble harvested from 100 acres of farmland in Punjab and Haryana into packaging, while paying the farmers a rate of $30 per acre for something they would usually burn.

Dhupar originally wanted to use mushrooms to rapidly biodegrade baled stacks of rice stubble, but found that the fungus left behind a metabolite that wasn’t biodegradable—in other words, he’d have to create a waste problem to solve a waste problem.

Over time he realized that the filaments that make up the subterranean structure of the mushrooms, called mycelium, were acting as a sort of binding agent, turning the baled stubble into something durable.

“This wasn’t a waste material but could be a usable one,” said Dhupar. “Through bio-fabrication, we could use the stubble waste to create a material similar to [polystyrene], but one that was biodegradable.”

There are a lot of these sorts of sustainable packaging ideas floating around, invented by people who rarely have experience in markets and commerce. This is not the case with Dhupar’s stubble packaging.

He has already prevented over half a million pounds of polystyrene from entering landfills since launching his product, which has numerous, exceptional properties.

They sell around 20 metric tons of their product every month, making about $30.5 thousand dollars per annum, mostly by selling to glassware companies."

-via Good News Network, 3/22/23

[ramcharantitties]

Rangrez

Chaper 6- Gajgamini

S/n: I AM SORRy this is too late, but you will realize when you read this. You guys are gonna hopefully love it. Also kainat's day to day activities involves rizzing, depression, and happy.

Ram could hear jingling of ghungroo from inside. The door was open, just a curtain draped on the frame, sunlight passing through. Ram's first time to ever visit Kainat's home. On the way he realised that he should probably bring some souvenir, as a token of apology or as a gift for her new place. He stood by the entrance, wrapped mogra in leaves in hand, seeing Kainat whose back was turned towards him.

His gaze couldn't move from her, the sweetness of her ghungroo, white skirt, black blouse, long plaits with a statement hair pin and gold earrings. She walked like a swan, her hips and folds dipping down, and up. Ram could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Every step, every movement of her waist sent him in a frenzy. She finally turned around- he was at lost. And her big eyes stalled on the masculine figure. Kainat's face was glowing in sweat, cheeks blushing and lips plump. Ram stared as if his eyes could devour everything she has to show. Kainat's hand came close to her bosom, and tucked her pallu in her skirt.

Kainat cocked an eyebrow, and just by the movement of her pupils, she asked Ram to sit on the wooden chair. Ram stammered, but managed to be seated. Kainat smiled to herself and bowed just a bit, her hand waving in a graceful manner. "Aadab".

Ram bowed his head in return. Why did he find her so alluring now? Kainat walked to the earthen matka, dipping a steel glass in the cold water. "Delhi is hotter than Lahore" she stated, and could see Ram nodding from her peripheral vision. He couldn't help but stare at her, the droplets of water that missed her lips traveling down from her neck, inside her blouse. Ram looked away. She was always pretty, yes, but why so attractive now?

"What brings you here, Mr. Ramaraju?" Kainat kept a glass of water on the table beside Ram, and Ram could smell the roses rubbed on her skin. She took a few steps back, and sat on the floor in front of him. "Did you bring the flowers for your wife?" Her leg extended from the ruffles of skirt, untying her ghungru.

Ram smirked. "No, they are for you" he said, and kept them on the table. Ram saw her bending to open the knots, her cleavage peaking from the dark, heart shaped blouse. There were intricate designs on sleeves too, and the skirt had a thick work on border. It looked expensive. "You're staring" Kainat didn't have to look up from her business to notice that. Ram smiled and looked away.

"Won't your wife be mad that you got me flowers?" Kainat asked, getting up. Ram nodded. "I am not married" he said, drinking from the glass. "What about any lover?" Kainat kept her ghungru on the table near her, wrapping them in the bag. Ram hummed to deny, still drinking water. "Well you looked like someone who could get used to some pleasure" Kainat's word made Ram choke. He coughed on the water, only to hear Kainat giggle.

She strolled back to sit in front of him on the floor, with Ram's eyes stalking her every movement. "What brings you here? Wasn't insulting me enough in front of everyone?" Ram was surprised to see how easily she said so, no grief or remorse on her face- just a sensual smile and doe eyes. Though, Ram's eyes held deep sorrow. "I came to apologise".

Kainat's eyebrows shot up. "All I got to know from Lahore is that no one knew you or had a complaint against you" Ram said, and he moved down to sit on the floor in front of her. He saw Kainat's downturn face. "What's wrong?" Kainat looked up again, and shook her head with a smile. Ram didn't want to probe, but she looked disappointed. "Tell me" he said.

"It's weird that they said they don't know me. I'm sure they went to my home, asked about me. Rehana aapa would never say she didn't know me." Kainat's voice was just above a whisper. Ram stared at her long face. "It's like being disowned by the very person who shares the same blood, as if she no longer acknowledges my existence. I was expecting her to be upset- but did she really said she didn't know me?" Ram's eyes locked with her eager ones. He couldn't help but just sigh and nod.

"Kainat" the word rolled from Ram's kips, and it held a depth it never did before. "Your value isn't determined by your relations. Or your family's rejections. Now that you have left that behind, don't let it tie you down- rather start building your life in Delhi now." That was the last thing she was expecting from this man. To be kind, and respectful to her? She might have judged him too soon. Kainat nodded, emitting a smile. His reassurance did give some solace- a need of support in the new city.

"Show what you got me?" Kainat said, trying to lighten the mood. Ram beamed and picked up the green packet, unwrapping the thin rope from it. He pulled the white flowers out, and handed them to Kainat. "Pretty" she muttered, taking a whiff from them. Kainat stood up, to put them in her hair by the mirror. Taking a hairpin, she attached them, looking at herself. The flowers did match her with her dress. From the reflection in the mirror, Ram raised his eyebrows to ask if she liked them, and Kainat moved her head like a pigeon, her large earrings moving with her head, and the mogra swinging. She liked them.

Kainat turned around, hand clasped together, a pink blush on her face. Almost immediately, she skipped inside, leaving Ram baffled. Confused, he stood there awkwardly, listening to clang of utensils inside. "I forgot that I have made this, how about you try some?" Kainat made her way out, stirring a bowl with spoon. She handed the copper bowl to Ram, smiling. Ram looked at the colourful dish, probably something sweet. "Wha-" "Mutanjan" "Mutanjan?" Kainat nodded. "Sweet rainbow rice?" She said, hands behind her back, expectantly looking at the brooding man. He took a spoonful, constantly maintaining eye contact with Kainat. The poor girl gulped, feeling hot all over. They stared at each other, when Ram cocked his eyebrow, like Kainat did. He then ate another spoonful of rice, moving his head in agreement, like Kainat did. She laughed, slightly bending forward. If Ram did the same, they might be touching each other then.

Ram and Kainat were back on the floor, as Kainat stared at Ram eating up. "What's your full name?" She asked, hugging her knees. "Alluri Sitaramaraju" he said with a mouthful. "You must be from-" "southern India". Kainat nodded, slowly, resting her chin back on her knees. "Well thank you for that" Ram smiled at the young woman and kept the utensils on the floor. "My uncle would really love this" he continued, and Kainat peered up at him from her eyelashes. Ram's world stopped for the third time now. "He lives with you?" "Hm? Oh, not really. But we meet often. I live near the police barracks" Kainat nodded again, crossing her legs. "You really like my cooking" She said, when Ram looked at the time. He should get going.

He stood up, smiling. "I do, I guess" he looked down to see Kainat's hand reaching up towards him. He clasped it to pull her up, some flowers loosing their hold from her hair. "Why don't you come over?" Kainat's heart filled with excitement upon his question. She nodded aggressively, holding the door as Ram made his way out. "Just ask Akhtar to drop you there" Ram put his shoes on and then put his hands in pocket.

The evening glow filled her eyes with brown honey, and a pink cascade on her face. Ram really tried to look away, but he couldn't. He didn't even notice when her hands reached forward, plucking the rice from his thick moustache. "I'll take my leave now" he muttered, his eyes lost. Kainat nodded. She felt like she should say something- but what? Ram turned around and left, a soft glow in his heart. He fisted the hand he touched her with.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tagging: @yehsahihai @definitelyhim @vijayasena @jkdaddy01 @jeniniie @starlight-1010 @ramayantika @lilliebeingdelulu @panikk-attackkk @multifandom-boss-bitch

[squirrelstone]

The International Boxing Association is corrupt af stop pretending their word means anything

This was originally meant to be a reblog of this post, but then I ended up on a rambling deep dive into the IBA's suspicious actions surrounding disqualifications.

What's happening with Imane Khelif is the same thing with Lin Yu-Ting. These are two intersex(1) women of color being discriminated against for being good at their job. And this is a feature, not a bug. I recently found out that in the 19th century, British and American scientists argued that only white people could fall within the gender binary; everyone else was suspect(2). The use of gender testing by the IBA is a remnant of that racist ideology.

Speaking of the IBA, their practices are arguably suspect based on their own meeting minutes. On page 2, the CEO and Secretary General stated that neither athlete was tested until it was requested by the Medical Jury and Technical Delegate. However, in the very next paragraph they said both athletes were tested the previous year and their results delivered after the competition, implying they would have been disqualified if not for the delay in testing. In that case, why not test the women before the event in the year they were disqualified? The CEO then went on to contradict himself by claiming that he had results from "two independent laboratories in two different countries" but that he couldn't get the second set of tests until after competitors arrived in New Delhi. And then of course there's the claim of "independence" when this is the doping authority chart:

The only situations they don't have authority over are multi-sport events (like the Olympics) and the sample collection for an international event not organized by the IBA.

Having presented their findings across seven paragraphs, the IBA only included the following line about the opposition: "Mr Adel Bouda, Acting Ambassador of Algeria in New Delhi, was invited to present the position of the Algerian side and requested a second opinion on the issue." That's it. One sentence. Didn't even acknowledge if the request was granted.

Oh, and when the IBA board of directors voted to disqualify Yu-Ting and Khelif, there were four members missing. The board's own rules state there should be 18 members, but as of right now there are only 17, three of whom were not in place until after the vote, so who knows how many people were in the meeting. Let's be generous and say sure, they had all 18 at the time, that means 12 voted in support of disqualifying them, or two thirds of the board. Not bad, it's a fair majority. Alternately, let's go the other way and say there were only 14 people total, in which case 8 voted in support of disqualifying them, or around 44% of what the board should have been there.

Fun fact! The President of the IBA Board is Russian. You wanna know who came in third overall? Russia. Which country did Khelif beat when it got down to 16? Russia. And who would she have been up against in the finals? China, one of Russia's (unofficial) allies. And which country did Yu-Ting beat in the semifinals? Kazakhstan, another one of Russia's allies.

We could go around and around about the IBA's suspicious behavior as a group, but ultimately the International Olympic Committee determined that their methods and outcomes were bullshit (3) and let these women compete.

-----------

(1) Neither Yu-Ting nor Khelif identifies as intersex in the cultural sense (unsurprising as neither of their home countries are very queer-friendly), but the general consensus in Western medicine would classify them as intersex due to their natural testosterone levels.

(2) This is the post where I learned this info, and supporting information can be found here and here. As a warning the second of the three links is a letter from the time period and contains outdated, racist and sexist language.

(3) This BBC article states "the IBA failed to meet set reforms following its 2019 suspension over governance issues and alleged corruption" so the IOC been calling them sus for a while

[nohkalikai]

"As an environmentalist, I am very concerned about the fragile and sensitive ecosystem of Ladakh,” said Magsaysay Award-winning educationist Sonam Wangchuk, who recently concluded his 21-day hunger strike in Leh. Popularly known as 'climate fast', Wangchuk had begun observing it on 6 March, demanding constitutional safeguards for Ladakh.

On the final day of his fast on 26 March, Wangchuk said that the people of Ladakh are trying to awaken the conscience of Prime Minister Narendra Modi and Home Minister Amit Shah so that they take suitable action to safeguard the fragile ecosystem of Himalayan mountains in Ladakh and preserve the unique indigenous tribal culture.

“We don’t like to think of Modi ji and Amit Shah ji as just politicians, we would rather think of them as statesmen but for that, they will have to show some character and farsightedness…” he posted on X.

Wangchuk had become the face of a sustained agitation in the cold desert where people are up in arms against the central government for discarding their concerns regarding land and job rights.

"Every drop of water is important here. Ladakh can't support large numbers. It will make refugees out of locals and even for those who arrive, the situation would not be any good. That's the fear people have regarding the fate of our land and our culture – finely tuned over tens or even thousands of years to survive in these mountains, now at risk of dilution and unable to sustain itself,” he added.

However, this was not the first time that Wangchuk had undertaken a climate fast:

In January 2023, he undertook a five-day climate fast at his institution, the Himalayan Institute of Alternatives (HIAL) in Ladakh at -20 degrees Celsius.

In June 2023, Wangchuk again went on a nine-day climate fast to save "Ladakh’s fragile ecology."

The Ecological Connection to Ladakh’s Demands

Ladakh is a high-altitude desert inhabited by around 3 lakh people. The region is considered ecologically fragile due to its extreme climate conditions, scarce vegetation, and limited water resources. Most people are dependent on agriculture as a means of livelihood.

A separate territory was a long-pending demand of the Ladakhis but they were expecting one with constitutional safeguards – somethingthat was categorically denied by the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP)-led government earlier this month.

Their land and job rights were taken away with the Abrogation of Article 370 on 5 August 2019, and the region was thrown open to people from other states.

Sensing that New Delhi is not in any mood to extend the Sixth Schedule that would safeguard the region and grant limited autonomy to the tribal region, the engineer-turned-educational reformer had announced a "climate fast” back in 2023 in a bid to turn attention towards the region's delicate ecology.

Speaking to The Quint, Wangchuk said that global warming has been melting glaciers in the Himalayan region where Ladakh is located. He also added that shifting weather patterns are resulting in frequent flash floods, landslides, and droughts that are impacting the lives of people living in the sparsely populated villages of the region.

"We are protesting to safeguard the mountains of the Himalayan region from indiscriminate exploitation and mining which have already wreaked havoc in places like Uttarakhand, Himachal Pradesh, and even Sikkim. All these activities are now poised to impact Ladakh,” he added.

Wangchuk’s Relentless Efforts To Save Ladakh: The ‘Third Pole’ of the Planet

Lately, the glaciers are receding fast and many sectors in Northern India rely on them.

Wangchuk said that Ladakh, which is home to an extensive glacial system, is known as the "Third pole of the planet." It feeds two billion people directly or indirectly.

"If mining industries are introduced in these areas, not only will the local communities suffer, but the entire Northern Indian plains will face water shortages. Therefore, it is crucial that we safeguard these fragile regions as sacred zones of water,” he said.

"For the local people, it's about protecting their region, customs, culture, and land –all of which are enshrined in the Sixth Schedule of the Constitution, as our forefathers have established 75 years ago," Wangchuk added.

Back in 2015, Wangchuk had invented the 'Ice Stupa', an artificial glacier created by piping mountain streams to tackle the water crisis in Ladakh which faces water scarcity in April-May – the peak farming season.

Since then, the farmers in Leh have benefitted from such Ice Stupas.

Not only that, in 2021, Wangchuk whose life inspired a character in the Bollywood movie 3 Idiots, developed an eco-friendly solar-heated tent that Army personnel can use in extremely cold places like Siachen and Galwan Valley in the Ladakh region.

How Will the Sixth Schedule Save Ladakh’s Ecology?

For the Sixth Schedule to be applicable, the Constitution mandates that a region's population must consist of at least 50 percent of tribal communities. In Ladakh, around 97 percent of its population are tribals.

Wangchuk asserted that they are trying to do everything possible to safeguard the mountains.

"The Sixth Schedule of Article 244, which gives safeguards to these regions, the people, and their cultures where they can determine how these places should be developed without interference from others,” he said. "This is what Ladakh has been demanding for a long time before it was made into a Union Territory (UT)," he added.

Notably, the Sixth Schedule contains provisions that grant indigenous tribes significant autonomy, enabling the establishment of Autonomous District Councils (ADCs) with legislative and judicial authority. These councils are empowered to enact regulations concerning various aspects such as land, forest, water, agriculture, health, sanitation, mining, and beyond.

"That was our hope which later turned into uncertainty when the government, as generously as it granted Union Territory status to Ladakh, promised that Ladakh would be safeguarded under the Sixth Schedule but did not fulfil it,” Wangchuk said.

He further argued that if Ladakh is left free for all with no safeguards, there will be mining companies coming. "We hear often they are scouting the mountains and valleys," Wangchuk said, adding that people are apprehensive that huge hotel chains will come up, each potentially bringing in thousands of visitors, that will pose threats to the dry desert ecology of Ladakh.

'The BJP Needs To Keep Its Promise’

Wangchuk said that the BJP needs to fulfil its promise that they made during the 2019 Lok Sabha Elections regarding the “Declaration of Ladakh under the Sixth schedule of the Indian Constitution."

"It's like giving a cheque and if the cheque bounces, then we don't care. Hence, what happens to Ladakh with this promise will set a precedent to the rest of India in all elections to come whether leaders can just say anything and not care later and also get away with it,” he added.

[calaisreno]

Letters

“You really have moved on, haven’t you?” His former landlady grins at him.

“Mrs Hudson—”

“Oh, I almost forgot. You’ve got some mail. I know, I might have sent it on to you, but I kept expecting you’d come by.” She holds out a small stack of mail. “Nothing very important looking. No bills.”

“It’s fine. You’re right. I should have called or stopped by after…” Flipping through the envelopes, he sees that it’s mostly junk, but there are three addressed in a familiar hand, narrow and angular, not particularly legible. “It’s fine.”

He says his goodbyes to Mrs Hudson, promises to come by again soon. 

Heading home on the bus, he studies the three envelopes. Each is addressed to Dr John H Watson, 221B Baker Street, London, NW1 6XE, UK. The first was postmarked somewhere in Nepal, April of 2012. The second bears a New Delhi postmark and is dated a year after the first, April of 2013. The final one is recent, just weeks earlier, mailed from Istanbul. He doesn’t open them. 

Closing his eyes, he tries not to think. 

I can tell you what you can do. You can stop being dead.

Mary’s not home when he arrives at their flat, and for some reason he’s relieved to be alone. He pours himself a drink, sits down, and looks at the first envelope. 

The envelope is just a normal envelope, somewhat squarer than a business letter. What’s inside feels like card stock. The other two envelopes are identical. 

When he’s satisfied that the outside has no more clues, he uses a knife to slit the top flap and slides the contents out. 

Happy Birthday. A bunch of multicoloured balloons. Inside: I’m sending this card / As I wanted to say / I hope you have / A truly amazing day.

Written below, by the same hand that addressed the envelope: I heard you.

He thinks about that birthday, over two years ago. He remembers coming home, finding Sherlock on the sofa, contemplating some problem. 

Before he can dwell on that memory, he opens the second. Another birthday card, this one with birds and flowers, the kind of card you’d buy for an acquaintance, not a relative or friend. Everything your heart desires / Is what I wish for you / Not only on your birthday / But throughout the whole year too!

Another handwritten message: I’m sorry I can’t be with you today. 

The final envelope was sent in early September. What’s inside is another card, a generic lighthouse scene, the moon over a calm sea. There is no verse, just a handwritten message: I’ll see you soon.

Taking a deep breath, he rubs the tears from his eyes. 

The note he leaves for Mary is a bit terse, maybe even cryptic. They were supposed to have dinner tonight, and he’d made reservations. He might cancel, but she was looking forward to it, so he just tells her to invite a friend. He passes the jewellery store, doesn’t stop inside to pick up the ring. 

Instead, he heads back to Baker Street. Hearing sounds in the flat above, he moves quietly up the stairs.

He’s standing at the window, looking out. From behind, he looks much the same. Thinner, perhaps. He might sense a presence behind him, and turns his head. When he sees who it is, he turns all the way towards the door, smiling. The dead-white tinge of his skin tells John that he hasn’t been leading a healthy life. And somehow, he found the time to mail John three birthday cards. 

Sherlock is silent, his eyes wide. John can’t think of a single thing to say. 

“I didn’t know,” John finally says, stepping towards him. “You must have had your reasons, but I wish…”

The grey eyes overflow. “John.” His voice is rough with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

There must be no more distance between them, no more silence. Putting his arms around the thin ghost of his friend, he says, “Welcome back.”

663 Words / Flash Fiction

This is a sequel to the last two: Green and Burn. Less angst, more realisations. 💕

I'm not sure if anyone is still interested in doing this, but I plan to fill out the month. You can read the rest of my ficlets HERE.

If anyone wants to suggest a prompt/scenario, please do!

@raina-at @lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @keirgreeneyes @totallysilvergirl @momma2boys @helloliriels @elwinglyre

Let me know if you wish to be un-tagged. Or tagged ;-)

[handeaux]

Your Grandparents Canoodled In Passionate Petting Parties Along Cincinnati’s Country Lanes

Around one hundred years ago, a new theme was introduced to the long-established images decorating paper Valentines. While hearts and flowers, little birds and rosy-cheeked children still predominated, the Valentines of 1924 often featured something new – the motor car.

While innocent enough when surrounded by lace and flowers, the motor car had already begun to arouse the suspicions of Cincinnati parents. The old fogies suspected that automobiles represented much more than transportation to the kids. Those jalopies might be nefarious vehicles of illicit lust!

Well, the old folks were correct. Young people throughout Cincinnati were tootling out to the nearest country byway and canoodling in extended make-out sessions known as “petting parties.” The Cincinnati Business Women’s Club got together to grumble about “rolled stockings, petting parties and abbreviated bathing suits as they affect the adolescent girl.” The Cincinnati Post [4 April 1924] quoted Alma Hillhouse, educational director of Cincinnati’s Social Hygiene Society:

“The child gets its instinct for petting from the mother. When a babe she is held on the mother’s knee and fondled. When she grows up she seeks satisfaction in petting parties. It is the standards in the home that count. The daughter of the wise mother will come through petting parties unscathed; the uncontrolled girl comes to grief.”

You will notice that neither Dad nor any adolescent males are assigned any sort of accountability in this matter. Some things never change.

While the Business Women’s Club debated, the Indian Hill Rangers, organized, according to the Enquirer [3 June 1924], to “trail horse thieves, cattle rustlers and pillagers of hen roosts,” were confronted with a new threat to village security.

“Indian Hill Rangers are after motorists who have been using the shady lanes and sylvan retreats of that pretty hilltop east of the city and the adjoining countryside for ‘petting’ and gin parties.”

One evening, the Rangers encountered a limousine parked on Drake Road, its windows curtained with newspapers. While not disturbing the occupants, the Rangers copied the license number and mailed a letter to the owner, a woman living in Avondale. They never saw that particular vehicle again.

While Indian Hill was dealing with limousines, the real action was out in the Western Hills among the still-rural expanses of Delhi and Green townships. According to the Enquirer [14 October 1924]:

“For months residents have complained that autoists have forsaken the dim-lighted parlor and its sofa for the moonlit roadside and the cushioned seats of the automobile. Even private driveways and lawns have been converted into trysting bowers by these seekers for seclusion, who have openly defied property owners to the extent of drawing weapons on them, it has been stated.”

Alfred Bennett of Green Township blamed the recent crackdown on Cincinnati’s “red light” district in the West End for the flight of depraved and lustful characters into the hinterlands. He told the Enquirer [25 October 1924} that illicit smooching was just the beginning:

“‘Much of the objectionable practices in country districts is not entirely “petting parties,”’ Mr. Bennett stated, ‘but gross immoralities that shock the residents.’”

So gross were these alleged immoralities that they inspired a flurry of ecumenism between the Catholic and Protestant congregations of Bridgetown, with the Rev. Paul Schmidt of the Evangelical Protestant Church standing shoulder to shoulder with Father William Spickerman of Saint Aloysius Catholic Church in demanding more patrols by the county sheriff. The clergymen offered to recruit volunteer deputies from among their flocks. In neighboring Delhi Township, Justice of the Peace M.J. Roebling lumped petting party participants among nuisances such as “bootleggers, bandits and hold-up men.”

The Delhi magistrate wasn’t that far off, it seems. Widespread outrage about romantic parkers, combined with very public statements by the county sheriff that he did not have the budget nor the manpower to patrol the county’s lovers’ lanes, suggested a business opportunity for the local footpads. The Enquirer [28 July 1924] reported that outlaws impersonating county deputies were robbing couples caught on deserted roads:

“Two more hold-ups were committed late last night by a gang of five bandits who are blamed for a total of 17 known hold-ups and who, it is said, have collected hundreds of dollars by swooping down on ‘petting parties’ on county highways and extorting money under the guise of deputy officers.”

Many of the township roads favored by passionate petters led to roadhouses established outside city limits to avoid enforcement of Prohibition laws. Cincinnati’s Juvenile Protective Association claimed that the immoral environment promoted by these roadhouses spilled over into steamy backseats. And, of course, the media were blamed as well. A new film, “Daughters of Today,” written by a one-time Cincinnati newspaper reporter named Lucien Hubbard and starring Zazu Pitts, opened that year. According to the Enquirer [29 September 1924]:

“It is an ultra jazz production, with petting parties, cocktail shakers and syncopation distributed throughout the length of its half dozen or more reels.”

By October 1924, the scandal had reached such an extremity that the Cincinnati Automobile Club passed a strongly worded resolution condemning “petting parties” as a safety hazard and demanding more patrols by the sheriff. So vehement was the public condemnation of “petting parties” that the Enquirer actually editorialized in favor of passionate parking because a total crackdown would force hormonal youngsters into petting while driving and thereby endanger pedestrians!

Although it is unlikely the Automobile Club’s wrath had any effect, by the next year the Cincinnati Post [20 July 1925] reported that petting parties, the bane of 1924, seemed to be passé in 1925. Two deputy sheriffs spent a long and fruitless summer evening looking for lovers along the East Miami River in Anderson Township:

“In two hours, we found only one spooner. That was on Broadwell-rd, where a boy and his sweetie were spooning in the moonlight to the strains of a victrola on the back seat of their machine.”

[questlation]

STATEMENT BY Mrs. DEEPA GOPALAN WADHWA, JOINT SECRETARY, GOVERNMENT OF INDIA, MINISTRY OF EXTERNAL AFFAIRS, NEW DELHI. AT THE 59TH SESSION OF THE COMMISSION ON HUMAN RIGHTS, AGENDA ITEM 12

STATEMENT BY Mrs. DEEPA GOPALAN WADHWA, JOINT SECRETARY, GOVERNMENT OF INDIA, MINISTRY OF EXTERNAL AFFAIRS, NEW DELHI. AT THE 59TH SESSION OF THE COMMISSION ON HUMAN RIGHTS, AGENDA ITEM 12

STATEMENT BY Mrs. DEEPA GOPALAN WADHWA, JOINT SECRETARY, GOVERNMENT OF INDIA, MINISTRY OF EXTERNAL AFFAIRS, NEW DELHI. AT THE 59TH SESSION OF THE COMMISSION ON HUMAN RIGHTS AGENDA ITEM 12:INTEGRATION OF THE HUMAN RIGHTS OF WOMEN AND THE GENDER PERSPECTIVE . Madam Chair, The last half-century has seen a great improvement in the absolute status of women and in gender equality worldwide. Despite…

[biblioklept-writes]

Daydream

(Stargirl Part 2 Modern!Aemond x F!Reader)

A/N: Reader lives in India, but no specification of her family or her appearance is there except for her residence in Delhi and Indian food. Reposting because the tags didn't work

Summary: You are back home, but thank gods for the miracle of texting. Later, Aemond gets a little surprise from his professor.

Word Count: 2.6k (almost)

Series Masterlist | HOTD Masterlist

Two days had passed since that party, and you had packed up to leave for home. After an entire year of grilling, you were finally able to go back to see your family. You still hadn’t reached out to Aemond, though, figuring it would be best to wait until you return. Or if he wanted to speak with you, he had your number.

He hadn’t texted you either.

Although, you kept the napkin with his handwriting in your wallet, looking at it as you sat in waiting for the gates to open. You had called your mother to let her know that you had reached the airport on time, and yes there was still a good hour left before the boarding would start. She said to call her once you were boarded before she hung up.

Next you called your roommate, Casey, and Haelena to let them know that you had safely reached the airport.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when you were in the comfort of your bed in your home, that you received a text from Aemond.

Aemond Targaryen: Hello Y/N. I hope you had a comfortable journey. You: Hey, Aemond! I did, I am with my parents now. Aemond Targaryen: That’s good to know. Do you have any plans? You: To sleep away the jet lag and then meet my friends. Do you have any plans for the month-long break? Aemond Targaryen: Nothing much, just a bunch of family dinners and then I have to visit a historical site. You: Ohh, that sounds great. Where are you thinking of going? Aemond Targaryen: I haven’t decided yet. Open for any suggestions. You: Well… what are the places that you haven’t been to? Aemond Targaryen: I have been around Westeros, and seen whatever there is of Essos. I don’t feel like revisiting. You: I am glad I don’t have such ‘rich people problems’. Aemond Targaryen: Is that sarcasm that I detect? You: You tell me, Mister. You: Okay, my mom’s calling. Ttyl!

Later, you went to bed, tired of the jet lag. The next afternoon, as you were in the metro going to meet your friends, you texted him again.

You: Hello

Then you went to scroll through instagram, and found a new follow request: vhagaristhebest, and you smiled as you accepted the request and sent a request back. His profile picture held his side with the lilac eye and he looked down at his lovely doberman, Vhagar. He is dressed in a dark-grey sweatsuit from what you could make out, hair pushed back from his beautiful face. In your mutuals is shows haelenalovesbugs and heyjacaerys and you grin with your teeth despite yourself.

Your phone buzzes again and you check your messages, and you first text your friends that you are on your way and would be there in forty minutes.

Aemond Targaryen: Took you long enough to speak with your mom. You: I fell asleep. Why are you still awake vhagaristhebest? Aemond Targaryen: I was up reading, hotgirlslovetoread. What are you doing right now? You: I am going to meet with some of my friends. Currently in the metro You: sent a photo Aemond Targaryen: You look stunning, as usual. Is that the subway? You: Thank you, and yeah. Anyways, what book were you reading? Aemond Targaryen: Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy You: No way! I love that book. What else does your reading might entail, Mr. Targaryen? Please tell me you love fiction. Aemond Targaryen: I do, actually. And others, you know the basics - the Picture of Dorian Grey, Harry Potter, Percy Jackson yada yada. You: Percy Jackson is like holy scripture to me. Aemond Targaryen: I am a religious man then. What do you like to read, Miss? You: All sorts of things - mostly fantasy though. But I have read a few of the classics. Might I interest you in the Scarlet Pimpernel? Aemond Targaryen: Added to tbr. You: How chivalrous of you. Alright, I should let you off now. Go to bed and get some rest. I am sure you need your beauty sleep for that flawless skin and hair. Aemond Targaryen: Shh… Don’t go about spilling my secrets. Take care.

One of your friends entered the metro, and squealed as you hugged her. “King’s Landing seemed to have been kind to you,” she observed.

“And that is the biggest lie,” You said. “It’s all being-back-home. Man, I missed the food there. No one seems to get the paneer tikka right?!”

“Oh, the menace,” She sighed.

.

Half-way across the world, Aemond sat for dinner with his family, constantly checking his phone. Everyone was there: his father, mother, grandfather, step-sister, her husband, and their children. It was a mess, and he only found comfort with Haelena, Daeron and Aegon, as miserable as it was. He was quiet most of the time, keeping to himself like he normally did - only speaking to Haelena or Daeron or answering if he was asked something. He looked around the table once more, Aegon was busy stabbing his food and Haelena and Daeron conversed about something.

He looked at your profile picture for a long moment, admiring the way your hair looked as you faced away from the camera. He refreshed his feed once again, and saw that you had updated a story. With an excited heart, he opened it - finding you with your friends from back home. You were dressed in a green dress that reached a little above your knees and your hair was free of any confines. You looked so different from that night - you had been a temptress that night as you were now - but that night you were a storm, and today you were a gentle wind.

Aemond scrolled through the stories, screenshotting the one you had of yourself. The next picture was with a guy with his arm around you, and he looked at you with a soft smile on his face as you laughed at the camera. There was a sudden pang in his chest, but he ignored it. You wouldn’t have made the move on him if you had a boyfriend, would you?

He decided to reply to the story that you had of yourself. I know I said it already, but I’ll say it again - you look gorgeous, he sent, and put the phone down.

Daeron was applying for his subjects, more interested in Computer Science than finance like their mother wished to. Haelena told him that she had a lovely friend in the department and could speak to her regarding any queries that he had. 

Jacaerys, who was seated across from them, looked up at Haelena’s mention of “my lovely friend,” and smiled. “Do you mean Y/N?”

“Oh yeah,” Haelena agreed. “She was a part of your project wasn’t she?”

“Yup,” Jace said, nodding dreamily. “She is so pretty – and of course talented too, she made all of us do the work, stayed up till 4 with us to integrate the Artificial Intelligence bit to the moving parts. Daeron, if you want any help for Computer Science, Y/N should be your favoured contact.” 

“What did you say about Y/N?” Aegon asked, and Aemond internally groaned. He knew - 3, 2, 1 – there it was “I am sure Aemond knows a lot about her,” Aegon raised his glass as if for a toast, his brow raised and a smirk plastered on his face. “Don’t you brother? Or were you too busy eye-fucking each other to talk?”

“Aegon!” Their mother looked positively repulsed. “This is no manner of speaking for a man of your stature.”

“I am merely speaking the truth, mother,” Aegon said, shrugging. “Ask Aemond if it’s true or not. Don’t you find Y/N pretty?”

Aemond pursed his lips, glaring at his older brother. “Are you ashamed that she called you bad company?” he said, and their cousins snarked. 

At that, the glare he received was full of spite, but Aegon seemed to have calmed down enough to sit back in his seat. He returned stabbing at his food, but Aemond was left to deal with a confused Haelena. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Haelena, it’s nothing.” He attempted to placate her. “I’ve only seen her at the party, and we exchanged phone numbers. We have barely even talked.”

“Because you were too busy eye-fucking?” Daeron added with a laugh. Aemond rolled his eye, lightly smacking his little brother. 

“Oh not you too.” Aemond sighed. “And even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. She’s gone back to India to see her family.”

Daeron elbowed him in the ribs, grinning like a fool. “Sure, you keep telling yourself that, Aemond.”

“Come on, don't you have anything better to do than bully me?” Aemond sighed.

“I do, but this is more fun,” Daeron said.

Aemond’s phone buzzed, as he checked the notification to see your message an involuntary smile graced his usually stoic features. 

.

Meanwhile, your group chat with the girls was exploding with messages as you slept the night away in Delhi, exhausted after a day of enjoying with your old friends. You were surprised to wake up to over five hundred messages from the group chat, confused as to what could have happened. Did someone die?

Shaking that thought away, you first did your business in the bathroom and started brushing as you opened the chat. There had been so many tags to you, all of it screaming, “BITCH WHO WAS GONNA UPDATE??”

You spat out the toothpaste immediately as you saw Helaena’s text. She was very, very mad, furious. 

Helaena (Sweetheart): YOU HAVE BEEN TALKING TO AEMOND AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME! TELL ME WHY I HAD TO FIND IT FROM AEGON OF ALL PEOPLE! (cussing emoji) NEITHER OF YOU DID! Roomie<3: BITCH Y/N WHAT THE FUCK- Helaena (Sweetheart): IFKR? YOU TELL HER, CASEY. I AM FURIOUS WITH YOU Y/N, YOU ARE NOT GETTING AWAY FROM THIS

Rinsing out the remaining toothpaste, you quickly gathered yourself and thought of the best response that you could give. Perhaps the truth would be just fine.

You: I literally bumped into him at that party and then we exchanged phone numbers and we started texting like yesterday calm down guys, I didn’t tell you because there was nothing to tell. Helaena (Sweetheart): Aegon said that he found you, and I quote, “eye-fucking”. You: Well, Aegon’s an idiot. I literally bumped into Aemond and I would have fallen down the stairs if he didn’t hold me.

Roomie <3: How does that lead to number exchange. AND THEN THIS? You: then what? Helaena (Sweetheart): sent a photo

You gasped and nearly dropped your phone as you saw the napkin with your phone number and the red lipstick stain that was most certainly yours. 

You: I WAS DRUNK! AND HE DID IT THE OLD FASHIONED WAY Helaena (Sweetheart): What did he do? You: He had written his number on a napkin and gave it to me, and my drunk self thought it was only fair to return the favour. Roomie <3: Spill. Everything. You: *sent a voice note*

The group chat fell silent for a long moment as they listened to you speak, and then the two of your friends started yelling at you through the messages. As you want to have your breakfast chila, you read their commentary, waiting for them to calm down enough to let this go.

Aemond Targaryen: You seem really fond of “The Love Hypothesis”, hotgirlslovetoread. Might I enquire, why? You: Read around and find out ;P

A gasp had left your mouth as you read his text, and now you stared at your risky response to it. I shouldn’t have done this, I shouldn’t have done this. You glared at it in horror, but it was too late and he had already seen the message. Have you gone too far? Stunning him into silence? What if he thinks you are weird and stops speaking to you altogether? Gods, why am I like this?

Helaena (Sweetheart): Tell us immediately if you get any message from Aemond. I would like to know what my little brother is up to these days. Roomie <3: You want to see if you raised him right? Helaena (Sweetheart): Fucking hell I do. Look at him acting all grown up and not telling me that he actually met Y/N. You: Well, we’re just talking about books and stuff. Heleana, you did raise him right with the manners, I must say. Helaena (Sweetheart): Well, I must have gone wrong somewhere with the both of you since both of you met each other and decided not to tell me. You: I was a busy woman this past couple days, if anyone deserves these taunts it’s Aemond, not me. 

.

Helaena sits in front of Aemond Daeron, carefully watching the chess game her little brothers are playing. Aemond moves his black pawn diagonally, taking Daeron's white queen. "Checkmate," He says, face stoic as ever.

"How do you always manage to win?" Daeron sighs, stretching in his chair. 

"You missed important observations," He explained. "When you play, all of your mind should be on the board, trying to figure out my next move instead of yours. If you get that fine, you'll win."

"Enough of chess now," Helaena said. "I want to go out with you guys now."

"We can go in half an hour, I just need to be on a short call with Professor Leyland," Aemond says, going to his laptop desk. "Shouldn't take more than 10 minutes,"

"Would it be a problem if we stay here?" Daeron asks, looking at him with big pleading eyes. 

"It's fine," He turns to his laptop, putting a finger to his lips to tell them to stay quiet.

"Good afternoon, Professor Leyland." Aemond speaks.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Targaryen." the other voice says. "You said you wanted a new topic for your research, and I was thinking of assigning you Indian history. It's a vast topic and I am hoping that you wouldn't have issues with the travel expenses."

"I am grateful that you think I am capable of covering that topic," He politely smiled, ignoring the burn of the glares being sent his way by his siblings. "Of course, expenses are not an issue."

"Good then, you will cover your project works in the subjects with the same. Feel free to choose any city for your report work." The old voice said. "That’s it Mr. Targaryen, have a good day."

"Good day, Professor." Aemond said as he hung up.

"What was that?" Helaena asked as he closed his laptop, looking at his too still hands. "This is some sorcery that you are doing."

“It’s fate!” Daeron said, clapping his hands together in his little drama queen fashion. “This is a sign from the universe, mate!”

Aemond couldn’t stop the heat that flooded his cheeks, but he cleared his throat as Helaena and Daeron shared a look. “Didn’t we have to go out?” he said instead. “You know what, we should go to the mall. I want to get… a new chain.”

“Sure,” Helaena commented, and Daeron snickered. “I will speak with Y/N,”

“Thank you,” Aemond said, straightening his straight sweater sleeve.

.

.

.

Tags:

@depressedperson88

[kccinstitutes]

Guest Lecture on ‘The Power of Communication’

On 20 Sep, 2023, School of Journalism and Mass Communication organized a Guest Lecture on ‘The Power of Communication’ was a highly insightful and engaging event. The lecture aimed to highlight the significance of effective communication in various aspects of personal, professional, and societal life.

The Guest Speaker, Mr. Pradip Bagchi, Senior Editor, The Times of India, New Delhi explained about the importance of Clear and Concise Communication, Building Strong Relationships, Communication in Professional Settings, Influence and Persuasion, Case Studies and Practical Examples.

The event included an interactive Q&A session where students had the opportunity to seek clarification on specific topics and receive personalized advice from the speaker.

The guest lecture on the Power of Communication provided attendees with a profound understanding of the critical role communication plays in various aspects of life. The event was a resounding success, leaving the students inspired and equipped with valuable tools to become more effective communicators.

[ofxbutcher]

Task 1 @woodrowhub -- How does your character react to Richards passing?

The girl to his right kept turning in her sleep and although the one to the left might not have moved an inch, she happened to breathe very loudly still. So as fun as his night - and very early hours of the morning - might have been, that fun was now over and he was dying for some good and proper sleep. The issue was simple, Jacob could only sleep in complete and utter silence, regardless of how tired he had been. Any slight movement, any loud breathing, any noises down the hall or out on the street -- it all kept him awake, and alert, and exhausted.

So he snuck out of bed, leaving the girls behind, and he pulled on a pair of boxers before grabbing his pack of cigarettes and exiting the room directly into the front yard. There was a small set of chairs set-up, and the sun was starting to rise, and he wished he hadn't been too tired to make himself a cup of coffee and roll a well-deserved joint. New Delhi was positioned perfectly at the northern side of India, and the ganja which grew freely at the Indian Himalayas was harvested and transported south with relative ease, making the good herb cheap and simple to acquire. It was part of the reason Jacob staid for so long. Much longer than he'd originally expected. The weed, the festivals, the people, the culture. India always had a lot to offer. Maybe too much at times. -- Lost in that thought, he sparked his cigarette and let the nicotine rush pass through his body as he sunk into the seat with his eyes closed, expecting the morning sun to greet him at any moment. And he found himself missing home -- missing Woodrow.

He pictured now, a warm morning, such as this one -- and Mrs. Tristan calling him and the others down for breakfast. The usual bickering around the table, the noise and the smell of the dining area. He pictured his fifteenth birthday, and how from then on he chose the most ridiculous or utterly disgusting meals to add to the menu just to mess with the other wards. He pictured Angus and his disappointed stare, and he felt a sting of guilt not having called him in two whole days. Timezones had gotten the best of him this time around. He missed Darcy and Talia too, Alison and Mick, and as he kept thinking, he kept on missing the whole lot of them, the whole place, the whole life he had once lived. There was a weird sense of nostalgia that got to him, when he felt tired and lonely and alone. And he tried to think of something -- anything else to make that feeling less heavy overall. But just as he felt himself dozing off, his mind emptying, his breath slowing, there's a sound of a postman clearing his throat, right in front of him, and his body instinctively pushes him forward and a wide smile greets the other as he's handed over a single letter.

He recognised the writing right away, and his heart sunk deeper into his chest as his hands began to shake. Jacob knew it was not good news. He didn't know how he knew, only that he did. And he was not in a right frame of mind to open the letter just yet, to open it now, to confirm his suspicions. So he folded it, two times, then three, and went back inside.

-- 24 HOURS LATER --

Meenakshi pulled his sleeve as he stared at the closed white envelope yet again, toying with it above the candle light as he tried to make out a word or two -- and a smile will spread across his face as his eyes met hers. "Are you ever gonna read it?" she asks softly, her words slurring a bit as the alcohol began to take its toll. "Eventually..." he replies back, just as softly, pushing the envelope back into his pockets and focusing entirely on her. "Why don't you just read it? Get it over with? Like...like a band-aid, you know?" her question is fair, more than fair -- but the truth was, he didn't actually have an answer. He simply wasn't ready. And so he shrugged, at the other, and he took a sip of a burning drink and scratched the back of his neck. Thinking. -- "Would you...would you read it for me?" perhaps it was a good idea, perhaps a bad one -- guess he would find out shortly. Her enthusiasm at the offer does not go unnoticed, and she'll dig into his pockets to pull out the paper catching him by surprise.

It's as she begins reading, that he can notice her features change from excited, to neutral, to concerned --

"Dear Jacob Butcher,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you today to convey the most unfortunate news: --" she pauses, looks up at him and then back at the paper. "-- our dear Richard has passed away."

There is ringing in his ears following those words, and his face stays neutral and his eyes gloss over. He doesn't hear the rest of the letter, he will read it again later, countless of times, on the first flight back home. But for now, he is simply still. Still and cold and lost in thought that was not really a thought as much as it was a feeling. A dark, bottomless feeling he couldn't shake off. --- Meenakshi folds the paper neatly again, handing it back to him before squeezing his hand gently, pulling him back to reality, and he'll smile briefly, finish his drink and kiss her goodbye.

[ramcharantitties]

Rangrez

Chapter 5: Police Police

"Huzoor, there is a police officer to meet you"

Phatto didn't raise her head to see, she didn't wish to meet Waheeda's fate. Mallika's eyes trailed to Zulfikar. Didn't they finally buried the case? Zulfikar sits up and nods at the younger woman, who makes her way to see the officer.

"We've got a phone call from Delhi, asking about Kainat. Do you want us to tell them the truth?"

Delhi? Mallika wasn't expecting Kainat to be there of all places. She thought hard about it. Kainat's nawab did come back, asking where she is. But Mallika was able to manipulate and send them back saying that the girl is theirs now, doesn't matter what she does. Kainat managed to escape from this hellhole, and as much as Mallika hated her, she didn't want Kainat to come back to Heeramandi. Also because Mallika didn't want Kainat to probe the Rehana's death scene. Mallika knew Fareedan and Kainat were close.

"No, she's happy where she is. She has no relations with Heeramandi whatsoever"

Waheeda stayed rooted to her spot, salty tears burning the newly made wound on her cheek. It should have been her.

_

"Police?" Akhtar was amused.

"You never know, what if she is only faking and using you?"

"You need to start believing people"

"Akhtar, do you really think I was going to trust just anyone?"

"She's just a young girl who escaped from her toxic family. What if they found she's here and will take her back?"

When the dinner was being served, Kainat saw Ram and Akhtar in a deep conversation, as of Ram broke their sacred knot. Not wanting to interrupt, Kainat waited until the dinner was served. As Ram and Akhtar made their way to the dining area, Kainat pulled Akhtar in a corner, showing a bracelet to him.

"What is this?"

Kainat places the yellow band, adorned with orange and red designs in Akhtar's palm. A doe eyes Akhtar showed plain confusion on his face. Kainat giggled, showing a matching band on her wrist too. "I got us matching bands as a token of appreciation. Akhtar bhaiya, if I wouldn't have met you that day, I'd probably be dead by now" Kainat's words melted Akhtar like ghee on flame. He cupped her cheek, taking the band from her.

A call from Ammi broke Akhtar and Kainat from their intimacy, hurrying them for dinner. Everyone sat down, passing and serving dishes.

"I am thinking of starting a dance class to earn money." Kainat announced, earning voices of appreciation. "Do you know how to dance?" It was only Ram, with a question hooked like fish on his tongue. "I do, in fact, my sisters has taught me ever since I was a child" Kainat amused. The same anxiety came back in her gut when thinking about Rehana.

"She's such a nice girl, so cultured and educated, such sincere. And you were calling Lahore, asking the polic-" a tight grip on Akhtar's bicep stopped him from saying further. A pin drop silence casted on familiar faces, staring at the young men. "Police?" Kainat's words fainted.

"Uh, well we had to confirm if-"

"I'm lying or not?" Kainat's tone was justified. "I wouldn't have mind if you did this weeks ago when we met, Mr. Ramaraju. But now? What's the point of it?" Ram sighed. "And you knew?" Kainat turned to Akhtar now. "I just got to know, I asked the same thing" Akhtar's voice faulted- whom to choose? His Anna or sister? Ram gave him a side eye for not defending him, but Akhtar wasn't entirely to blame. "We were just cautious since there are so many revolutionaries and-"

"Fine, go on. But Lahore? You called Lahore? What if my family finds out and comes back?" Akhtar's head whipped at Ram at super speed. Ram gaped and didn't say anything. Kainat didn't want to ruin everyone's dinner. She stood up from her seat, followed by Akhtar, who whispered a faint "I told you so". Before leaving, she turned around one last time, tears welling in her eyes. "Even if I was a delinquent, what if I wanted to change my whole life and that's why I came here? Would you have let me live with my new found family if you found I have an ill past?"

Ram stayed rooted on his seat, silent like soil. Meanwhile, Akhtar's parents exchanged looks. Police? Ram should have at least talked to someone first before doing this. Kainat stormed off that night, not eating her dinner.

The next morning, Ram visits the police station again, searching for his answer. He has seen various kind of criminals- stubborn, rude, kind and even innocent. And some manipulative. Ram believed Kainat was one of those, who has wrapped her amarbel around Akhtar's family so she could flourish. No matter how many emotional dramas she does, Ram was set to find the truth.

Ram stepped in the police station, making his way to the same constable. Upon seeing Ram's face, the constable pulled out a sheet of paper- that concluded the talk he had with Lahore police. Ram's eyes skimmed over the conversation, and for some reason, his face fell. Did he want her to have a bad past?

"They said that she has no criminal record, and is not related to Heeramandi either". Ram's eyebrows furrowed at the last statement. "Not related to Heeramandi?" He asked, giving the sheet back to the constable. The old constable nodded. "Heeramandi is a bazaar where tawaifs live, it's pretty well known. Seems like the woman you're after, she's a clean chit." Ram nodded, and left the police station. He has some mending to do.

Ram met Akhtar after leaving the police station. He told Akhtar about it, only to receive silent glares from him. "Go and apologize to her" Akhtar said, skipping a stone in the lake. "I didn't do anything wrong" Ram skipped another stone. It drowned on the second skip. "She didn't say it was wrong to do her background check. She said you didn't trust her for so long. And that you called Lahore" Akhtar skipped another stone. 5 skips. Ram held the flat stone in his hand, and looked up at Akhtar.

_____________________________________

Tagging: @ramayantika @vijayasena @jkdaddy01 @yehsahihai @lilliebeingdelulu @definitelyhim @starlight-1010 @panikk-attackkk @multifandom-boss-bitch @jeniniie