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ladylaviniya · 10 months ago

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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.

135 notes · View notes

hand-written-dreams · 2 months ago

Text

CRIMSON SHADE

Chapter 07

Behind Closed Doors

You tell me your secrets

You keep your life between your lips.

- ( The song of the chapter is "Eyes Don't Lie" by Isabel LaRosa)

The door to her walk-in closet creaks open, revealing the warm, smiling face of Buaji. She hands her the matching glass bangles she loves, along with a jewellery set to go with the saree she’s wearing. Buaji is the most constant presence in her otherwise volatile life. Her presence as familiar as the air in the room.

She lets her eyes run through the room she has known all her life. Her room on the second floor is more than just space, it is a fortress, one that holds her in both comfort and captivity. A large bedroom, a private bath, and a walk-in closet, everything is hers, as it always has been.

Growing up, nothing was denied to her. A mere mention, and whatever she desired would arrive at her doorstep, from the latest gadgets to racks of designer dresses. Clothes would line up like soldiers awaiting her approval. For a while, she equated it to love, believing her father’s way of caring was through giving. Thought his love was measured in possessions, wrapped in indulgence.

But she uncovered the truth early.

Slowly, Painfully.

She isn’t placed in this luxurious space to be cherished. No, she is stationed here, high above, to be observed, like a rare bird in a golden cage. Her every wish is fulfilled not out of affection but as a tether to keep her grounded in his world, so she’d never feel the need to fly beyond it.

The gifts, so beautifully wrapped, are chains in disguise.

She stops wishing for more.

She begins to carve out her own choices as much as the invisible chains around her wrists allow. Quietly, carefully.

Each decision is a whisper of defiance in a world built to silence her.

As she stands before the mirror, draped in the saree Mr. Jha gifted her, a sinking realization washes over her.

Choice is a luxury.

She never truly possesses.

No matter how much she yearns for it.

The fabric clings to her.

Beautiful yet suffocating.

Delicate yet unyielding.

Either this or termination of her life.

She always thinks ending her life can never be any answer to anything.

She still strongly believes that.

There's hope as long as she is alive.

She breathes deeply.

She needs to come out of her melodramatic bullshit.

It's time to wear her well-crafted mask.

The soft hum of conversation swirls around her, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery against porcelain, while the city below looks both close enough to touch and miles away.

Saffron, perched atop a tall skyscraper, stands as one of the most exclusive and luxurious restaurants in the heart of Delhi. It offers a breathtaking view of the city, its glittering lights stretching endlessly beneath the night sky.

The walls are dressed in rich shades of deep navy and gold, accented by deep velvet couches in midnight blues and soft greys and rich mahogany tables with golden accents. Low-hanging chandeliers give off a gentle, amber glow, casting soft intimate shadows that make you feel both at ease and on edge, like you are a part of something important just by being there.

This is where power quietly dines.

This is where every glance feels like it carries more weight than the words exchanged.

This is where whispered secrets linger in the air like smoke, while the hum of the city below is nothing more than a distant murmur.

She casts a glance at Mr.Jha, who is sitting across from her, animatedly discussing politics with his colleagues. His passion is palpable, shining in his eyes.

She sighed.

She hates being here.

She hates the small talk.

She hates the looks the men are giving

She hates the way the city pulses with energy while she feels frozen.

She pushes her food around on the plate without really eating, offering a fake smile at the woman sitting beside her. She is well-versed in the art of mindless conversation. She can entertain anyone from world leaders to a discarded piece of tissue paper.

Her skin is humming,

It's burning,

And tingling.

She lets her eyes glance over the restaurant, taking in the well-dressed waiters and the animated crowd, to find out a possible reason.

Maybe it's the air, or the clothes, or the food.

And then.

She sits up straight.

Ice needles prick her flesh.

Akash Singh Rathore sits a few tables down with two women, one is boredly typing on her phone, while the other is giggling, hanging on his every word.

She looks away quickly, her brow knitting together. What are the probabilities of having dinner at Saffron the same night as an Eagle? But then again, it wouldn't be unusual. It's a renowned restaurant and Delhi is their turf, after all.

Her blood quickens, the image of caramel-brown eyes flooding her mind.

He can't be here.

She discreetly glances at the Eagle's table, a wave of relief washing over her when she notices that no brown-eyed man is present nearby.

Not for miles.

He is not here.

The tension in her body begins to dissipate slowly. Quietly, she excuses herself from the table, giving a nod to her companions as she rises to go to the ladies' room.

The quiet hum of the restaurant is muffled behind the closed door of the ladies' room, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her reflection. She washes her hands with the cold water running from the faucet. It helps, if only slightly.

"Get it together," she whispers to herself.

On her way back, she bumps into an old friend from college. “Friend” feels like the wrong term. They never spoke a word to each other back then. Yet here, the girl is chatting animatedly as if they’re long-lost buddies. Perhaps it’s the effect of graduating, everyone feeling nostalgic.

Her skin is humming,

It's burning

And tingling.

Not again.

And then.

The air catches its breath.

Thunder growls in the distance, shaking the quiet night, as bolts of lightning tear through the dark clouds. The glass of the building vibrates faintly with each rumble.

He is here.

The murmur grows as everyone marvels at the spectacle unfolding in the night sky.

While she is trapped in a pair of caramel-brown orbs.

They are trained directly on her, as he emerges from the opposite direction, clad in a charcoal black suit, walking toward the table junior Rathor occupies. A small part of her can’t help but admire his lethal, powerful stride. Yet the larger part instinctively raises her defences, on high alert.

The tension in the air coils like a drawn bow.

He slides next to junior Rathore and leans back, draping his arm over the back, as if he owns this place, as if he commands every breath in this room. He probably does.

And

His eyes.

His eyes are never not on her.

She doesn't look away.

She can't look away.

She is drawn like a magnet.

Her heart pounds so loudly she is sure everyone can hear it.

And yet.

She refuses to give in.

She will not give in.

She can stare too. As hard as he can, maybe even more.

She will stare forever.

She won't even blink if it means to win this war.

Without breaking eye contact, she bids the girl she has been talking to, goodbye and starts walking back toward her table, aware of the way his eyes hold her and hers hold his with each step, with every sway of her saree.

She is aflame from head to toe.

Her blood sings in her ears, drowning the sounds of laughter and clinking of wine glasses to nothing but a distant static. She is floating underwater.

His stare is raindrops, sliding down her body.

She feels his hands around her wrists in his stare. She feels his hand sliding up her neck in his stare. She feels his body pressed tightly against her in his stare.

A silent threat wrapped in a promise.

She sits down. It is foolish of her to think she can stare forever. She answers a meaningless question asked by one of the wives, the entire time feeling the weight of caramel-brown eyes. She is not going to look back.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Her eyes find his.

A bead of sweat trickles down the curve of her spine. Her hair ends stand on high alert, sending a shiver through her skin, something he notices from across the room.

His eyes flare up.

Her mind screams,

'stop touching me with your eyes.'

A dangerously arrogant voice whispers,

'Make me'

The caramel-brown ones look unexpectedly amused as if he hears the conversation she is having in her head. A slight lift of his lips forms a crooked smirk, marring his finely chiselled face.

His evil calculated smirk.

Oh, how she hates this man.

She hates him so freaking much.

For making her feel so powerless.

For making her sweat.

In this thoroughly air-conditioned room

Only with his eyes

Sitting across the room.

'Fuck you.' her hate whispers.

'You wish,' his voice in her head whispers back like he did a few days back.

He gives her an air toast as he lifts his glass to his lips.

The glass touches his lips.

His throat bobbed.

And, she is an avid watcher.

She averts her gaze, forcing down the knot forming rapidly in her acutely dry mouth.

Mr. Hazard is bad for her health.

And her body.

And her brain.

And her heart.

And, she hates him.

"Khushi?"

She blinks, pulled out of her thoughts as Mr.Jha calls out her name. He stands with the rest of his colleagues. She nods a distant farewell to the faces she knows she won’t remember tomorrow. But it’s that gaze,

Intense and unrelenting.

That keeps her rooted in place.

"I'm heading toward the bar. It's going to rain soon. You should go home," Mr. Jha states in a low voice. "My bodyguard will take you home."

With that, he leads them toward the bar, his bodyguards trailing after him, except for one who lingers, waiting to follow her.

That gaze is still on her.

Piercing and unwavering.

The air between them has thinned out.

She exhales slowly.

Hazel eyes meet caramel-brown ones.

Eyes cut through the dim light.

Eyes pin her in place.

Unsettling and sharp.

Without another glance, she picks up her purse and turns, heading toward the elevator, eager to escape, eager to breathe in the cool night air.

The thunder strikes again.

The elevator doors ding as they open, revealing a middle-aged man with a very homely appearance. He smiles politely at her. She smiles back as he steps aside to let her in.

The doors are about to close.

A hand shoots out.

The doors ding open.

A man in a charcoal-black suit stands before the doors.

The guard beside her springs into action and steps out, “You’ll need to wait for the next one, Sir.” he says firmly and then panics pointing a gun at him. She bets the guard never expects him to be in the vicinity of them.

He arches an eyebrow at the guard, not even glancing at the gun pointed at him. With an almost casual demeanour, he grips the guard’s wrist suddenly and in a move that nearly drops her jaw, he twists the wrist, applying pressure and bending it backwards until the guard falls to his knees with a sharp cry. The gun in the guard's grip, is now pointed back reversely, yeah... at the guard.

The tables have turned.

His eyes never sway from hers.

She clutches the fabric of her saree, while willing for her heartbeat to slow down. Her nail digs into her palm, hard enough to draw blood.

The doors ding open, stopped by his hand.

She waits raptly to see what he will do next. The soft light of the corridor casts a dark shadow over half of his face, while the light from the elevator illuminates the other half of it, making him look lethally dangerous, predatory.

He takes the gun from the guard and pulls it apart, piece by piece. With a flick of his wrist, he delivers a sharp backhand to the guard's face, sending him crumpling to the floor.

Unconscious.

The doors ding open, caught on the guard's feet this time.

Show-off, she mutters in her mind.

Then it dawns on her, how easy it must have been for him to kill her at any moment.

She gulps.

This is a knowledge she doesn't relish having, especially when she is completely and utterly armless and defenceless.

Kicking the guard's foot, that is stuck in the elevator door, he steps inside. Pulling out his phone from his slack pocket, he unfolds it to make it a tablet and swiftly types something on the screen.

The doors ding closed.

The elevator starts moving.

He leans on the wall, crossing his ankles, as if he will be in this elevator for a long time, except for a few seconds.

"Mr. Roy, is it?" his voice rough, as he asks the man beside her. He snaps his phone shut, making the poor man jump.

"...ummm..yyeess, sir."

He slides his phone back into his pocket, alongside his hands. "Your floor has arrived." The doors open two floors below. The corridor is empty.

".... but sir, I need to go to the basement."

He stares down at the poor soul. Silently.

The man gulps, "....yes, sir, my floor has arrived, " and he steps out of the elevator.

The doors ding closed.

He crosses his arms over his chest.

Eyes back on her.

Him and Her.

Trapped in a box.

She mimics him, crossing her arms, while refusing to break the silence or the eye contact.

Every interaction with him feels like a risky download.

Thrilling yet potentially hazardous.

She has no idea what he wants. Following her as he has, knocking out the bodyguard as he has, it sure as fuck wasn't just to stare at her.

The door of the elevator is not opening, not even in the basement. The elevator started to ascend.

Fuck.

"What all one has to go through just to meet you, Miss Gupta," he states quietly.

All of a sudden, fury blooms in her chest at the sound of his voice. The anger magnifies at his words but she forces herself to calm down.

"So gracious of Mr.Raizada. Why the formality, especially given the kind of liberties you take?" Her tone is cool, chilling.

"I haven’t taken any liberties," he replies, arching an eyebrow, "yet."

"I should have known you would corner me in an elevator. So many walls for you to execute your special hobby," she says casually.

His lips curve up further.

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeat.

Three heartbeat.

"Have you decided yet?"

"What?'

"About my offer."

"Really?" exasperated, she rolls her eyes, while he stares, silent, waiting.

"It's not possible."

"You haven't heard the full details yet."

"I am not interested."

"Ahh..I see..so what are you interested in? Raising snake babies, perhaps?"

Condescending, Egoistic, Asshole.

She clicks her teeth together to stop herself from lashing out at him.

"Are you sure, I can't offer you a deal you can't resist?" He shrugs, tucking his hands back in his pocket.

"Huh...Really? how?" Her tone's suspicious, doubtful, challenging.

"Ever heard of Paragon Tech company? I bought it recently. You can work there as an IT expert. You will have access to whatever you need.......And your father won't know. The company isn't registered in my name." He studies her, the eyes searching for something. "You work for me. I'll provide you evidence equivalent to what you lost, maybe even more."

Her eyes shower fires at him for making such a dangerous yet irresistible offer. He has her all figured out, doesn't he? For an unknown reason that angers her even more. She isn't that easy to figure out. Damn it.

She wants to lash out and tell him he is absolutely wrong. His offer doesn't impress her at all. Instead, she bites her lower lip to keep mum.

The caramel-brown orbs glint with something, she doesn't dare to name, "I suggest you to reflect on the offer."

Is that a threat?

"Or what?" She snaps in response. His fire's burning her as well. Her eyes spark like moulted fire, barely contained. The elevator touches the basement again and starts its ascend. "Why is the elevator not stopping?"

"You always ask the wrong question. The elevator won't open until we are done here."

"I can’t help but wonder,” she says, faking a smile, her body simmering with anger. “Was all of this supposed to scare me?”

He straightens and steps up toward her. She glues herself to the opposite wall as he stands in front of her. Even in her heels, she barely reaches his chin. Her head tilts back to keep their eyes locked.

Brown eyes are holding her hazels captive, "You'd be quite naive if it didn't. "

"I don't think the eagles will hurt her." her father's voice floats in his mind.

She smirks, “I’m a lot of things, Mr. Raizada, but naive isn’t one of them. That’s precisely why I know you won't hurt me.”

The caramel-brown eyes ignite, the embers and oranges in his brown catching flame. His eyes are blazing lava, simmering beneath the surface of calm. He tilts his head to the side while he rests one of his hand on the wall beside her head.

And she steps closer, unsure where her boldness to provoke him is coming from. She doesn't care. She just needs to.

Craning her neck, she leans in until her chin nearly brushes his chest. She says softly, “Did you really believe, that whole 'I despise you' act Or this elevator fiasco would scare me? Not at all. It didn’t scare me one bit. It just pissed me off.”

He doesn't say a word or move a muscle. He merely gazes at her with those eyes and her heart races.

Yet, she continues, "There are four walls right there. Why don’t you just get it over with?" her gaze unwavering. "Pin me down. Invade my territory. Or if you despise me that much like you say you do, hurt me. Go ahead. What's stopping you?"

Her whole body shakes.

Her hazel burns into his brown.

Bodies nearly touching.

Her heart threatens to jump out of her rib cage. She controls her breathing to keep her chest from heaving.

Slowly, after what feels like an eternity, he lifts his other hand to slide over the back of her neck. His massive hand swallows her. His thumb glides along her jaw, the roughness of his skin contrasting with her softness.

Rough & uneven like a cracked leather.

Like he has callouses on his palm.

Like there are scars underneath.

He holds her head in place as their eyes remain locked. A shiver courses through her, involuntary and unwelcomed, his lips barely curving in a sardonic smirk.

The stubble on his jaw appears more pronounced at this distance, guarding his lips. And his eyes. They are abysses, ready to swallow her whole.

He presses his thumb against her frantic pulse. It has gone out of control. Her breath hitches.

“Your pulse is running too quick," His voice a low, dangerous whisper, brushing against her skin. The faint scent of his cologne, mingling with his own scent and something raw, invades the air around them.

Every detail imbeds in her mind.

The striking orange and green flecks in his eyes, the way his long lashes frame his piercing stare.

Everything.

His mouth's mere inches from hers, "I warned you. Don't fool yourself into thinking that you know, what I will do or won't do." he whispers.

Softly, lethally.

His thumb sinks a little deeper.

“And I warned you,” she whispers back, her voice low, yet feral, “not to underestimate me.”

A cold chuckle escapes him.

"When the time comes, Miss Gupta," His Eyes are alive, a dangerous glint sparking within. ".. mark my words....I will ruin you."

A chilling promise.

Under his thumb, her pulse runs wild with the heavens that grumble outside.

And inside.

His eyes are thunders

And she is the lightning.

Author's note: Hey, lovely readers! I hope this chapter made your day a little brighter. Until next time.

@arshifiesta @featheredclover @phuljari @jalebi-weds-bluetooth @chutkiandchotte @titaliya @shiyaravi @herelivesahobbit @msbhagirathi @arshisrabbaves @arshiradio

#arnav singh raizada #ipkknd #khushi kumari gupta #arnav and khushi #13 years of ipkknd #arshi #crimson_shade #arshi fanfic #ipk 13th anniversary fiesta

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enigma-the-mysterious · 4 months ago

Text

WIP Wednesday: All progress so far!

Original post

Rules

Join the Community

@aparticularbandit @whimsicalmeerkat @stonemaskedtaliesin @owlbearwrites @adhdavinci @mystarduststories

[Blue indicates previously written lines]

"Bhai, what would you do if you ever woke up as a jalebi? Would you try to eat yourself?"

"...."

"I know I would."

"Akhtar, what the fuck?!"

The point was, the man lived for food. He had the appetite of a baby elephant. At home, his doting mother had no qualms about spoiling her beloved son with his favorite delicacies. Even when he was at Ram's apartment, Akhtar was often helping himself to the snacks pilfered from his kitchen.

So, when Ram found himself wandering into an English confectionery shop on a whim after another long and futile day spent roaming the streets of Delhi in search of his target, there was one thought that dominated his mind.

Akhtar would have loved it here.

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

"What is this, bhai?" Akhtar asked as he curiously peered into the packet in Ram's kitchen.

Ram smiled as he put the stove on heat. "The English call it chocolate."

"Choco…late?" Akhtar repeated, rolling the new word off his tongue.

"You can put it in cakes, or sweets," Ram explained, walking past his friend to grab the bowl of water by his side. "Or use it to make a drink."

Akhtar followed him to the stove, watching as he placed the vessel on the stove. Always so observant, his Akhtar.

"Drink? Like a chai or sharbat?"

@eriquin @zyrafowe-sny @violet-prism-creatively

"Stop it!"

Bheem froze, not because of the command, but because of the voice. That damned voice.

The sea of khaki parted to make way for blood red and gold. Bheem's lips twisted in disgust.

He held his head high and kept his eyes trained on the bars of his cell, beyond the rigid shoulders that marched towards him. Bheem did not squander his attention on his enemies.

(And not because he could not bear to see the face that looked nothing like the man he once smiled at, laughed with, ate with, called broth-)

"Keep struggling and it is Malli who will pay for your stubbornness," he said, curt, low, cold.

@1attheedge @auburnlaughter

[Blue indicates previously written lines]

Ram hissed as he began to pull the shirt off himself. The fabric caught on the congealing blood over the claw wounds and pulled on the fragile scabs.

Fuck, that hurt.

He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw and ripped the shirt off his torso.

Ram's vision blacked out and his knees almost buckled from the searing agony that shot through his chest. He choked on a sob as hot tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

It was from the pain throbbing through his wounds, he told himself.

(He had gone through worse without batting an eye, without shedding a single tear)

@somefishycat @kalira @scifikimmi

[Blue indicates previously written lines]

The whip was slick with his blood.

"Kneel."

He wouldn't.

His back was flayed to the bone.

"Kneel."

He wouldn't.

The nails stuck to his skin, hugging, crushing, suffocating, ripping off his flesh and muscles and veins.

"Kneel."

He would'nt.

"Kneel, or die."

He chose death. It did not come easily.

@sourb0i @wizisbored @violet-prism-creatively

"And I am sorry for giving you so many scars."

"Because you never struck me at the same place twice."

Ram's breath hitched in his throat. His head snapped up and he stared at Bheem, wide eyed and dumbfounded.

Did he....

Bheem simply smiled.

"I am a healer too, anna. Do you think I do not know how the human body works? How much punishment it can take?"

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mrhaitch · 3 months ago

Note

Hello Mr.Haitch!!

I hope you and your family are doing well ^^

So my questions for you are—

1) Would you consider yourself a picky eater?

2) Thoughts on the debate around pineapples on pizza. Do you like/dislike Hawaiian pizza? Also mint chocolate ice-cream yay or nay?

3) If you could eat only one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?

4) Can you give me a lesser known food related fun fact?

5) Do you like Indian food? (Also I’ll add a little rant)— As an Indian, it peeves me a bit, whenever people reduce Indian food to only Naan, Tandoori chicken, Biryani, and Butter chicken.

India has such a vast variety of food. With each state having its own cuisine. The food which the western world is more familiar with, hails from different states. Like butter chicken is from Delhi, tandoori is from Punjab and Biryani (originally from Iran, brought to India by the Mughals) is typically from Hyderabad.

Also, India has a vast variety of vegetarian food. As far as I know, India is the only country with a vegetarian menu for McDonald’s

Okay. My rant here is done!

I hope you have a great rest of the day!

And thank you in advance for answering my silly questions ^^

1. Nope, I'm a fairly opportunistic eater when not at home. Otherwise I've got a fairly loose regimen that I follow.

2. I'm fairly neutral - I'll eat it if it's there but I won't seek it out. Mint chocolate has never been to my taste but I wouldn't deprive someone else of it.

3. This changes often, but probably salted pistachios.

4. Button mushrooms are incredibly toxic, but only at high concentrations. Unless you eat your bodyweight in mushrooms you're absolutely fine.

5. I'm hesitant to answer, in light of your comments, but not because I disagree. It's a colonial hangover where cuisines from other cultures are imported, bastardised, and then the bastardised version becomes the standard. I love what we call Indian food in the UK: lamb Rogan Josh with saag aloo is my standard. We also cook it a little, particularly keema muttar. I still use the same Madhur Jeffrey recipe my mum used, but even that's likely to have been altered for western palates.

#mr.haitch #mrhaitch #mr haitch #mrhaitch answers you too

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sideeffectsofhavingnolife · 2 months ago

Text

IPKKND S:1 EP-5

Thinking of doing a sprint instead of one each day.

Let me grab some tea and churn these out

Me, when high on chai.

Fifth Episode of Iss pyar ko kya naam doon, hoping for progression.

Her being surrounded by men, is just an uncomfortable feeling.

Stop it with the overreaction guys. It's clearly an accidental fall. They are acting like she had a sex tape released.

Oh! Hey Mom, who just came around Khushi after 4 episodes of sulking. Ready to be disappointed once again?

Look at Arnav watching their video, quite fondly, if I may say.

"Meri bezatti karni ki himmat na aaj tak kisi ne ki hai, na ab koi karega." 🙄 He is such a fussy kid!

I just saw Tees Maar Khan's poster behind them. A bit sad that fewer people went to that movie because they were busy watching Khushi's video. Khushi's got Akshay Kumar and Katrina Kaif beat. Nice going girl!

Oh there we go! The catcallers are here. Why are they always in a group of three though? It was the same in Ishqbaaz.

I doubt you all got even a penny in your pockets.

What the fuck is this acting! Lol!

Damn! The mother is very coy. I'd expect her to get in at least one slap.

A group of hooligans disrespecting women. Tick.

The sleazy dupatta pulling. Tick.

Pushing an elderly man off. Tick.

No interference from the crowd. Tick

Setting the stage so a younger man can magically appear and save the day. Tick

This is an every 2000s and 10s bollywood movie scene ever.

And our savior's got the iconic Salman Khan bracelet.

Could you walk a little slower dude? This way you might actually reach in time.

Why are there people just standing around. Like they are not even hesitantly walking by. They are full-on standing and watching as if that's what they stepped out for.

Yo! What kind of acupuncture pressure point did this man hit for the goon's hand to be shaking that much?

"Kaun hai be tu?" Honestly, I have the same question.

Holy Shit, He just made a 'I fucked you mom' comeback.

Not the shawty eating the watermelon.

More people just entered.

Did the bat just break after coming in contact with his arm?! Is this man unbreakable?

I think they forgot to put the snapping neck effect.

Not him instantly falling in love with our girl. Or does he know her from before?

Stop looking at her, my guy. She wouldn't want a man looking at her for the entire next month.

Also they don't know each other at all. This is an entirely new interaction. I need to prepare my second lead syndrome heart. Why are the second leads always the better choice?

Aghh! Bua ji please shut the fuck up! Why don't you visit the ganga ji yourself, perhaps in a kalash?

Ooh, they are going to delhi? Nice, develop the plot.

But does she really think that Delhi is the place to learn 'sanskaar'?

Ab Bua ji ko bahut problem ho rahi hai.

Oh his sister's still here.

It's the divorce you alll.

Nah! This man is really such a child. Isn't it embarrassing to talk such emo shit in front of his employee.

"Di relax, please." He got so triggered.

She saw the news? But didn't she see it live, I am pretty sure she was there.

I know Khushi feels bad but Payal literally has nothing to do with any of this, yet she is trying her best to cope with it.

"Soch ke hi to kiya hai." This bastard is so turned on by this stuff.

"Aapka pati kaha hai?" Lol.

He is gone, boy, they are divorcing.

I am kinda digging this dynamic more.

No! Tease him more. I can just tell she is gonna be a big shipper of Arnav and Khushi in the future.

Khushi! Girl! I love your spirit but please don't make this worse. This isn't as bad, you should learn to be less dependent on your parents. It's about time.

Yeah! sure this makes you so much less suspicious.

Wow! they really pulled up to the news station.

Does she think that they would have even an iota of regret about it.

At this point she would have to take it to the court which she is likely to lose because well, money.

Dubey ji and Chaubey ji. Right, Not at all fictional.

"Uske liye to aapko Delhi jaana padega!" So it's Arnav then.

Oh, so now they feel bad.

"Hum galat the" Well, that was easy.

Now she knows!

Not that she could do much about it anyways! But atleast she can hate him more viscerally now. And that's what we want!

Okay Byeeee!!

Onto the next one, I go!

#ipkknd episode liveblogs #I'll be waiting for my girls in Delhi #Finally the story shall begin #Brainrot

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yummraj · 3 days ago

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Inja (the Manor hotel, Friend’s colony, delhi)

In a nutshell: ‘Not so Strange bedfellows’ we realized after dining at Inja – poles apart Indian & Japanese cuisines getting along well at Inja – a new age experimental fusion of Indian & Japanese food. Excellent warm & professional service. Beautiful interiors Address & other details: Instagram – Inja Facebook – Inja Google – Inja Reservation…

#Asian Restaurants in Delhi NCR #Casual Dining in Delhi NCR #eating out in delhi #Indo Japanese #indo Japanese fusion food restaurant delhi #Inja #Japanese Restaurants in Delhi NCR #manor hotel delhi #New Delhi Restaurants #restaurant at manor hotel delhi #restaurants in Delhi #Restaurants in New Delhi #South Delhi restaurants #What to eat in Delhi

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milkthecouch · 15 days ago

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So I was trying to listen to Billy Joe McGuffery yesterday, when all of a sudden, a weird version of the song pops up. It turns out it was from from a radio disc to promote the home video release of Jonah, and guess what...it has never-before-heard audio of Khalil.

youtube

Some takeaways from this:

• I wasn't expecting Khalil to say "gun powder" and "kill myself".

• It's implied Khalil likes candy and Dairy Queen. So we know know what Khalil loves to eat (the website says he hated garbonzo beans...)

• This is how his role in The Ballad of Little Joe was revealed?

• Khalil has a cousin named Vishnu and lived in New Delhi as a teenager. We know he has an uncle, but I didn't know one of his aunts or uncles had a child, too. On the New Dehli part, does this mean the rumor about Khalil being Indian is true?

• About the salt joke, I looked it up and salt kills worms.

• Khalil lied and said the falling off a cliff blooper was the only one to exist. Did he forget about the one where he nearly died in a bag of cheese curls and screamed for help?

#veggietales khalil #khalil veggietales #jonah a veggietales movie #veggietales #Youtube

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srbachchan · 2 years ago

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DAY 5413

Jalsa, Mumbai Dec 10/11, 2022 Sat/Sun 8:36 AM

✨ Ef Birthdays update .. 🪔💖 December 11 .. birthday of the little one , Ef Bob Siddhant Roy the Son of Ef Shiv Roy From Assam .. and also birthday of Ef Rekha Prashant Kawadia .. December 10 .. birthday of our dear Poet Saab from Ladnun Ef Ankur R Churiwal .. and Poetess Saheba Ef Sonia Chopra .. and Ef Abhishek Patodia from Kolkata .. Greetings to all .. and the affection of love and wishes ever .. keep well .. ❤️❤️❤️🌿 ✨

.. and .. down lane memory ..

.. at New Delhi's Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium in 1987 ..

Photo Curtsey : India Today Anniversary Issue 26 Dec’ 11 , 1987 .. Ef Rupam .. Love ❤️

Birthday - EF Ankur R Churiwal .. Sonia Ef

.. Saturday, 10 December .. and apologies for the belated reference .. but the very best from us all .. love ❤️❤️❤️

Missing out the Blog on two days is unforgivable and there is a desperate attempt to catch up so to say .. which I shall presently ..

but bear with me .. I have the next schedule waiting on me at my door and I must leave .. but back in a while ..

My love to you for your patience and continued presence here ..

Amitabh Bachchan

Sunday 5:06 PM ..

promised to be back and even though it gets time to be before the gate for the well wishers on the Sunday, finding time for the Ef is always a welcome delight ..

the KBC draws to an end and the last few episodes being dedicated to the FINALÈ .. which is time and content consuming but ever such a privilege to be among them ..

some of them with their unique stories of life and times .. some so filled with the most unknown information and their description of the most unknown factors in theirs and our lives - a revelation and so interesting to know ..

eg., .. did you know that the very famous dish or food item, particularly from Southern India , the ‘idli’ is not an Indian product .. it was brought from out of the Country and then became a delicious eat here in India ..

from where ..?

ah hah .. see the episode and find out 🤣🤣🤣

Love to all

Amitabh Bachchan

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punishabel · 2 months ago

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But we weren't the kind of friends to lose contact despite all that. Akash went to Delhi to continue his Higher Secondary, he hated it over there. All kinds of new people, mostly racist towards him, but in any kind of place you went to, there was bound to be that initial discrimination, soon he had made some good friends and was starting to have some slight fun although the barely bearable heat and the recent heatwaves had him crying tears of blood at night.

The bastard really missed me and Bishu, of course we grew up in the same neighborhood but only became friends way later in 6th grade.

Summer really hit him bad this time.

He tried to find at least one good thing that Delhi had going for itself, but sadly the poor guy could not come up with even one thing, it was simultaneously both saddening and hilarious.

Myself being in Guwahati, proudly reputed as being one of Northeast India's most boiling cities, I could relate to him. We would often call and ask which city had it worse in terms of temperature. Guwahati lost a few times but was off with just one 3 or 4 degrees.

He really really missed Shillong and his old house, our childhood base of operations.

Bishu on the other hand had it easy since he went to Bangalore, the Tech City situated in the southern peninsula. Weather there was much like Shillong, "Very very pleasant and welcoming" in his own words, miles off from Delhi, though he got sick and caught a fever as soon as he reached the place he was going to stay at. Must've been the variety of new microbes entering his body.

We all had summer break for approximately 2 months and in the deepest and most unused corners of Akash's brain, rose an idea. And before we knew it, we were standing infront of our most cherished meeting spot, Akash's infamous house. The pungent smell that defined his home, though nostalgic, always remained a mystery to me.

Even after four years, I still can't seem to forget his house.

Me and Akash were just chilling inside his house, lounging on the worn-out bamboo couches and reminiscing about our old days. The air was thick with laughter and inside jokes, echoing through the familiar rooms that held so many memories. Bishu brought out a dusty old board game from his house, it was Ludo, and soon we were engrossed in a heated competition, teasing and cussing at each other mercilessly with every move. The hours slipped away unnoticed as we caught up on each other's lives, sharing tales of triumphs and setbacks since graduation. It was a moment frozen in time, where worries faded and bonds grew stronger amidst the oddly comforting scent of Akash's dilapidated wooden floor.

But suddenly, ours phones started to vibrate at the exact same time, almost in harmony. The sudden notification sound and intense vibration startled all of us. There appeared to be texts from the NDCAI

The messages read "Citizens are strictly prohibited from going outdoors and if you're outside head home immediately. this text is for your safety. Stay inside your houses and do not let any suspicious or strange individuals inside your houses.

National Disease Control Authority of India"

They were texts from the government. Normally messages that came from the government bodies were very detailed

with precise instructions but this text sounded very abrupt and seemed to be very much written in a hurry.

We get curious and turn on the news and we were blasted with reports of people panicking and screaming and right then...... a cameraman pointed to a scene where maddened people were eating and attacking others, it was a scene of blood and carnage everywhere and for some reason the channel operators didn't censor all the gore happening on the streets.

It was the doing of a zombie virus that was plaguing the streets of lower Shillong, it was called the Avita virus and there were more than 5800+ cases of infection, in one single day. It was insane.

Every major country had been the victim of Avita, there were infections everywhere. Scientists were also baffled as the RNA structure of this virus was impossibly unpredictable, they couldn't get a hold of Avita.

The three of us get dazed from watching the carnage unfold, I instantly reach for my phone to call my parents, but as I dialled the call, I was hit by a robotic voice saying communications are down for the network service provider.

It was to be expected, I couldn't imagine the number of people trying to call their loved ones to make sure they're okay.

I looked over Akash and Bishu and they had the same problem. It was incredibly frustrating, I wanted to know how my parents were doing and above all if they were safe.

All the screaming and panic from the news was starting to disconnect me from reality before Bishu turned it off.

I could see visible panic and uncertainty from Akash and Bishu, it was to be expected as they too must have wanted to know about the safety of their parents and siblings.

"Man we gotta figure something out guys" I said.

"No way this shit is real. A zombie virus seriously? What is the army doing?" Said Bishu.

He was visibly confused. He had every right though, seeing a zombie apocalypse unfold in front of our eyes was as unreal as the word unreal could define it.

"All our parents live in scarcely populated rural areas so they should be relatively safe." I said to reassure them.

Akash sighed.

"I guess you're right, my property in Manipur has very few people near us, but you know, still worried about my family man." said Akash.

I understood it all too well because that was case with me too.

Akash was trying to take it calmly but I could see a trickle of sweat on his forehead. Worry and panic are contagious things much like a virus.

"Fuck it man, we will survive. We ain't dying no dogs death. These undead fuckers can come to all they want, we'll send them back to hell as many times as they want. And don't you fuckers dare die on me now, I need y'all to think of yourselves as gods if you have to but make absolutely no fucking mistakes, make every decision with everyone's survival in mind. YOU WILL FUCKING SURVIVE AND THRIVE IN THIS WORLD!" I exclaimed.

I don't know where that speech came from, but at that moment I felt it, no we felt it together, something awakened in the three of us, a change that we all furiously wanted, but it had to be suppressed because of the peaceful good times.

This was what we always wanted, an apocalypse. A test of our wits and will, a challenge to push ourselves to the extremes of any moral, physical or psychological dilemmas. We dreamt of surviving an apocalypse. We will survive. We will protect each other until death, even after death.

"Guys now who wants to live and kick zombie ass?!" I cheered.

"We do!²"

They both forgot about their worries and cheered back

"Then now lets check what we have in stock in the house, check for any food and some weapons too, wait I saw a sack of potatoes Akash, how old are they?" I inquired while trying to distract myself from my thoughts.

"We just bought that sack 4 days ago, my parents wanted to take it along to Manipur but it was too much of a hassle" answered Akash.

The moment Bishu heard the word weapon he had a silly grin on his face. He was always into weapons, any kind, melee weapons such as aluminium bats, kukris, traditional swords from Meitei culture, he even crafted ranged weapons such as slingshots, bows and arrows. He was an incredibly crafty guy.

The houses of Akash and bishu were connected to each other, Akash's house being directly above Bishu's house. Though my house about 30 steps away. Very near.

There were a few knives in Akash's house but not the kind we could defend ourselves with but thankfully he had a few small shovels in his storage room. There were lots of useful things stored in the room, things like tarps, many buckets, hammers, axes, wood and planks and more.

"Aye Bishu, what happened to all those weapons you collected?" I asked.

"Shit man, I sent them all to Manipur, who'd know there would be a damned zombie apocalypse waiting for us man." He answered with remorse.

"Ah man, its alright, you still know how to make them right?" i said

"Yep its all in my brain. I can craft them again if i get the materials."

" We'll be counting on you for that then."

He flashes a confident smile.

I had two Kukris in my house as well as tons of firewood, I also had a 500 litre tank of water filled to half, for now we didn't have any worries for food, water or shelter.

While we were planning and looking at our inventory, there was a loud scream outside, probably of a middle aged woman, we ran to the front door and before we could pull the curtains to see what was happening, there was blood being splattered everywhere on the front porch and there it was, our first encounter with The Mad a.k.a. the zombies.

These 2 infected "people" if we could call them that were tearing this old lady's legs apart.

Akash was about to bolt outside because that woman was his neighbour who lived just beside him.

He was a brave guy, and I always admired that courage of his to shoot towards any kind of problem without a care for himself, a Hero if we could call him.

But just before his hand could reach for the doorknob, I stopped him. He gave me a questioning look, it was to be expected. I pointed to the woman's legs, Akash after catching a glimpse of the woman's legs was horrified. Her legs were practically none-existent from the Mad feeding on them, we could see her femur poking out of her right thigh. Akash appeared to be deeply saddened probably because he grew up seeing that woman as an older sister.

It was regrettable but any hope of her living was gone.

Akash composed himself and said "Although we cant save her life anymore, we can grant her life a peaceful end."

His determination exorcised any hesitation Bishu and I had. A brave lad he was and we had to honour his decision.

He opened the front door and ran towards the half alive woman.

we followed in suit to protect his back.

Akash was strong guy. He never boasted his strength and was always humble. He could give his literal all to have his people's back.

And with one swing of that blunt decade old shovel, he severed the head of the first zombie who appeared to be a middle aged man. His hands were trembling because even though whatever he put an end to could hardly be called a human anymore, whoever that zombie was, it still used to be someone's father and husband.

After finishing off the zombie, his eyes met the old woman's eyes. Her retinas were starting to dilate.

While he was staring at the motionless woman, the other zombie lunged at him, but was repelled by a straight kick from Bishu. The zombie appeared to be of the same age as the other zombie and made a strangely human shriek as it crashed onto the asphalt.

"YOU BRAINLESS FUCKER! What the hell are you just standing there for?" said an enraged Bishu.

"Give him some slack man." I said to Bishu as i finished off the fallen zombie.

"...akash.." muttered the old woman, she was barely holding onto consciousness.

His lips quivered.

The old woman didn't have any children, her husband too died in a housefire. She saw Akash as her own son and he saw her as another mother figure.

"....aunty why did you go outside?..." said Akash, while tears started to well up in the corners of his eyes.

"...Beverly..called in a hurry saying that her husband was acting.....very strange." said the woman as her voice got increasingly softer and quiet.

Mustering the last bit of her strength, the old woman moaned

"...than..k.....you kids." before her body went limp.

It was a grieve-stricken goodbye.

"God fucking damnit." sweared Bishu at the absurdity of this forsaken world.

Akash bit his lower lip as he looked away from the old woman.

I embraced him, not knowing what to say in a situation as dire as this.

"Let's bury her in a nice and quiet place, okay?" I told him.

"Yeah okay." he replied.

As Akash went inside, me and Bishu investigated the zombies for anything that could come in handy. The male zombie had a phone, a pack of Marlboro cigs, and 150rs.

The female zombie didn't have anything useful on her except for tattered rags.

We didn't notice it before but there was a thin trail of blood reaching from, the old woman's body to the what would be the old pair's house.

I made a mental note to go check it out later. For now we needed to head back inside but as we were heading back, I saw movement in my peripheral vision.

In the blink of a eye the old woman's body began showing erratic movement similar to a person experiencing a seizure. We were mortified, seeing a phenomenon like the dead coming back to life was so absurd to comprehend, yet, there she was, rising to what seemed to be an imitation of life.

I don't know how it was possible, she appeared to have died from blood loss, how could a body devoid of blood even move?

No use applying common sense to this situation.

Her body was moving in ways not quite human. In fact, I don't know in what way any part of her could be considered human.

I sure was glad Akash wasn't here to witness her try walking with just half a leg. In a flash, "it" realized how it's moving was inefficient, and quickly adapted to use both her hands as well.

This virus was adapting at an alarming rate.

Before we could see her become more and more inhumane, we put an end to an end to her now miserable life. It was getting late so we decided to head back home and check how Akash was doing. As we entered through the front door, we saw Akash peeling some potatoes and onions. We

#zombie #survival #apocalypse #tragedy #friendship #friends

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