#i am not even from delhi

[i-wanna-b-yours]

delhi haters dni

[nivea-ah]

I am so horribly disappointed by the Paris Olympics, I can't even frame a sentence without having to take a pause to just scream in fury.

Vinesh Phogat from India was the first wrestler ever, man or woman, to reach the finals and have the opportunity to play the Indian National Anthem at the Olympics. She usually always played in the under 53kg category but due to some issues, she went with under 50kg.

She then went on to ANNIHILATE all competition by winning so wonderfully, it made all Indians proud. She won the semifinals, progressed to finals and even had an opportunity to win it. However, at night, she realised she'd gained roughly 3kg and wouldn't be able to participate with that weight. She ran on a treadmill with thick jackets on, sat in a hot sauna, didn't eat or drink anything and, in desperation, cut her hair off. After all this effort, her reading was 50.1kg and she was eliminated from the Olympics.

The weight of 100g pushed her back to the last position, not even letting her get her well-deserved silver medal. Due to severe dehydration, she fainted on the venue and was later admitted in a hospital. Just today, she announced her retirement.

In spite of not winning the gold medal, she is a champion, not only because of her other accomplishments, but because of her relentless support and participation in the wrestlers' protest against the then chief of Wrestling Federation of India for sexual harrasment. She spent months on the streets of New Delhi to get the government to do something and nearly threw all her medals in the River Ganga to get the authorities to act. She was a champion through and through. Gold medallist or not, she truly is gold.

[depressedraisin]

here's how armand can still be bengali

why do i think so? no other good reason than i am bengali myself and i want armand to be. (also assad zaman's family is from bangladesh. bengali solidarity!!!)

bengal: the region in south asia comprising present-day bangladesh and the indian states of west bengal, odisha, assam and parts of bihar.

armand said in the season one finale, that takes place in 2022, he is a 514 year old vampire. is it 514 years including or excluding his human years? let's go with including. that means armand would have been born in 1508.

now what was going on in india and bengal in 1508? well, the mughals hadn't come to india yet; it's still about two decades before babur makes his way here. delhi was under the rule of the lodi dynasty, the delhi sultanate was in its dying days. most of north india, mainly uttar pradesh and bihar was under the jaunpur sultanate. bengal was still it's own independent kingdom, called the bengal sultanate. alauddin hussain shah had just seized power and become the sultan of bengal in 1494, beginning the hussain shahi dynasty (they ruled in bengal till 1538 when the mughals captured the region).

india as a country did not exist yet. even it's conception would be a few centuries away still. the subcontinent was a collection of big and small kingdoms and sultanates, constantly warring amongst themselves, some ruled by hindu rulers others by muslims, each with their own distinct histories and cultures. bengal was one of the most prosperous and thriving among them. the bangla language and bengali culture was just beginning to develop.

vasco da gama had arrived in india in 1498, landing at kozhikode on the malabar coast. this began the arrival of the portugese in india, and soon other european colonialists followed. they soon set up their capital in goa, built forts all along the western coast and established trade through obtaining licenses and exclusive permits from local rulers. they first made their way to the bay of bengal region around 1516, with the first portugese representative- a guy called joao coelho- coming to chittagong (present day bangladesh). the first factory was set up in chittagong the next year.

the portugese traded in spices and cotton and fruits and muslin and also slaves. the european indian ocean slave trade began with the coming of the portugese in the early 16th century. slavery in south asian societies had obviously existed long before, and it was a deeply complex and diverse system of dependency and regimes of slavery. slavery of youth and children was also pretty prevalent: it would not be uncommon for poor, farming families to sell away themselves or their children to zamindars (landlords) and colonial overlords in desperation. there were many, many cases of young children being forced to get onboard ships where they'd be held agains their will and taken to europe, the americas or south-east asia. goa and lisbon were the two cities that linked the movement of goods and people between the indian and atlantic oceans, but goa wasn't the only place where enslaved children were traded in portugese india nor lisbon the only european they were taken to.

one of those kids might as well have been arun.

i know the brief glimpse at the talamasca files showed armand's origin to be in delhi but in this particular scene he clearly says that he was sent *to* delhi, thinking he was going to work on a merchant boat.

this is just a theory i have btw. armand could've been from maharastra or the deccan as well idk. anyway.

armand is a monster, a vicious, villanious creature of unfathomable powers and ferocity. but he is also so deeply tragic. he had been forcibly torn away from his people and his land. he has no memory of his family or his humanity. he has lived for over half a millenium. the india he might've known hasn't existed for centuries, and he never got to know the one that exists today. the bangla he might've spoken no one remembers anymore. he has nothing left of the human he was except that name.

further readings (STRONGLY SUGGESTED!!!):

[sillybillytime]

Let’s talk about Armand’s speech.

First of all, he starts it out in third person:

“This is Amadeo, he's 20 years here.”

He purposely distances himself from his past. Honestly, I think that he disassociated for much of his young life, as we see here:

“He was rescued from a brothel when he was 15, named named Arun then, I think. I cannot be sure. The abuse in the brothel was such that he cannot be sure that's what his parents named him. Arun. The parents that sent him to work on a merchant boat in Delhi when in actuality they had sold him into slavery to the ship's captain. All fragments.”

All fragments. A clear indication that Armand was dissociated. And who would blame him? He also refers to his parents as “The parents,” which distances even Arun from his parents.

“Shackled on the boat. The brothel.”

Not even using a personal pronoun, mirroring his own feelings of depersonalization.

“My maker's purchase. His renaming me. His reluctance to share the Dark Gift, knowing what it would do to his beloved Amadeo.”

Adding in first person pronouns as we shift to Amadeo, indicating that he feels more connected to that time in his life.

“I served him with all my heart. Basked in his mercy, his worshipful mercy.”

And we can see why here. Armand felt more human here, with his vampire master than he did with human beings. The monstrousness of the vampires is often mirrored in their humanity.

“Still... Amadeo had a skill. And if a friend wandered into town, I was occasionally... donated.”

We can see kinder words being used for what Marius did to Armand. After all, Amadeo had a skill, it would be a shame to waste it.

“Meatier in the forearms, but then this was... seven years before I was stricken with illness, before I was turned, and imbued with my powers.”

He was turned when he was less useful, presumably less attractive to Marius.

“And Armand? The name the coven in Rome gave me. After they set fire to the studio. Set fire to my maker.”

Based on how Armand uses language in this speech, he would prefer to be called Armand. He is no longer Arun or Amadeo, as those parts of his life are over.

“And sent me to Paris, to reign over the coven abandoned by Magnus. Magnus who begat Lestat. Lestat who begat Louis. On and on. And on and on and on.”

Armand doesn’t know who he is outside of an abusive relationship. This is extremely common in people, especially those that have been abused young. Armand doesn’t know what love feels like.

“Who am I, Louis? I am my history I have endured? I am the job I do not want? I do not know anymore. No one has painted me in over 400 years.”

Who is Armand? In the end, I don’t think even he knows. He wants someone else to tell him.

[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.

[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.

[shunrehihosumedha]

Today, I met a truly enchanting soul near Patel Chest at Delhi University, where the air was thick with the promise of new beginnings. As our eyes met, a spark ignited between us, a silent understanding that transcended words. When we embraced, it felt as if time stood still, our hearts beating in a harmonious rhythm. He took my hand with a gentle yet firm grip, guiding me across the bustling road, a knight in a modern fairytale, ensuring my safety amidst the chaotic dance of vehicles.

After navigating the lively streets, we found refuge in a quaint café on Hudson Lane, where the aroma of freshly made mock tails and pizza mingled with the laughter of other students around us. There, our hands intertwined like vines, each touch sending electric currents through me, igniting a warmth that enveloped my heart. His fingers brushed against my cheek, a tender caress that made my pulse quicken, as if he were tracing the outline of a beautiful dream.

Despite the weight of an impending exam, he chose to be fully present, weaving moments of joy and connection that made the world around us fade into a blur. Every puddle I encountered became a playful challenge; he was my steadfast protector, ensuring I could leap freely without fear of wet shoes. With each jump, he laughed, his eyes sparkling with mischief, as if we were two children rediscovering the simple joys of life.

As our time together drew to a close, he accompanied me to the metro station, where the reality of parting loomed. Yet, he remained by my side, his presence a soothing balm against the bittersweet ache of goodbye. He patted my head gently, he wrapped me around his arms and kissed my right cheek as a gesture filled with warmth and affection, and gazed at me with an elegance that made my heart flutter. In that moment, it struck me how this university, once a place of trauma and uncertainty, had transformed into a backdrop for a beautiful encounter—a serendipitous meeting with a mirror image of myself, just a little older, yet so wonderfully familiar.

I find myself being admired by him, a feeling that words can scarcely capture. Each moment spent together felt like a page from a romantic novel, filled with unspoken promises and the thrill of discovery. I am thankful for our meeting, a reminder that even in places that once held pain, love can blossom unexpectedly, painting our lives with vibrant hues of hope and connection.

[hand-picked-star]

The 13th Annniversary Arshi Fiesta

Moodboard : historical AU

Whispers of the Heart | Chapter 02

I am not very good at writing ffs. I even read ffs very selectively. But it was an attempt of me to participate in the 13th-anniversary arshi fiesta. I might be wrong about certain aspects of that age and era, but it's a fantasy, so why not?

I don't own Arnav and Khushi and the story is purely fictional and has no relation to any living or dead. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 2

After 10 years

Arnav was threading the busy traffic of the Bazar with his ambassador mark 1 to reach the St.Stephen all-women college of Delhi to pick up certain someone who he hadn't talked to, for almost 2 years. Though it was the cheapest car of that generation, it was his most prized possession at that moment, brought by the profit he got from his first export shipments of the textile factory he bought 1 year ago. But his mind was on that girl who lived in his mind rent-free till that fateful day 2 years ago and hadn't left ever since. Even at that moment, he could still feel her, if he closed his eyes.

Shaking himself off to get rid of that feeling, he concentrated on the road. Arnav's focus cleared to zoom in on that girl of question, no no, a young woman, in a simple white saree with a blue border, a mandatory college ware. The way she drapped the saree over her was very modest, but modesty seemed to allude Arnav today. His heart gave a thud realizing he could vividly feel how that petite body felt pressed to his. 'control yourself, Arnav. you've done so much damage already', Arnav chastised himself, willing his heart to a normal rhythm. Her jet-black hair was pleated into a single braid and a simple black bindi in the middle of her eyebrows that brought out her hazel-coloured doe eyes even more highlighted by a thin line of kajal. That was what Arnav was so scared of. Her little bindi had the power over him that the whole Oxford female fraternity didn't. He might have not talked to her but he saw her secretly every time he came to Dehli and watched her spread her wings like a butterfly to be the beautiful woman she ended up being. Roma Chachi had given her an apt name 'titliya'. All those times watching her from a distance Arnav tried his best to control his heart and mind, but ended up failing every single time. There was a reason why he avoided her for 2 years.

Khushi was standing at the gate of the college with her classmate, Sarita Chauhan, waiting for Akash Vai to pick her up. Khushi was irritated, she insisted on taking the rickshaw back home but due to the overprotective nature of Bhai and Babuji, she couldn't do that. But she didn't expect to see Him that day and somehow she knew he had come to pick her up. The last two years did a kind of magic to him or was it London or the girls of London to be exact, she didn't know. The Arnav sitting in front of her in that car donning the black glasses and clad in a rolled-up white shirt and black suspenders was a far cry from the man she last saw. But he was still Arnav among all of these, Her Arnav. That's why it didn't surprise her when her heart went overboard 'dhak-dhak,dhak-dhak,dhak-dhak'. Her friend beside her produced a small sound of appreciation,

"oh Khushi, you've never introduced me to your brothers. now I understand why." giving her a little nudge with her shoulder.

Khushi scoffed at her comment " he is not my brother. "

It's been 10 years since she lost her parents. And in the middle of all of these when Mahindar Chachu became her Babuji and Manoroma Chachi became Amma, she couldn't exactly pinpoint. And as a result, she got two brothers who loved her fiercely as their own. Abba had arranged a home tutor for her when she was 10 years old, because she couldn't bear the stress of public schooling. As soon as she started to form complete sentences her tutor advised her to write letters to her brothers, studying in Darjeeling. She wrote letters to Akash bhai and Aman bhai and then she wrote another letter to Arnav addressing him as 'Dear Arnav'. Her tutor chastised her for not adding a 'bhai' or a 'ji' at the end of his name. But Arnav was never her 'bhai', was he? He never felt like a 'bhai'. He was so much more. But above all, he was Her 'Arnav'.Just 'Arnav.' she used to call her 'Arnav' since she was 8. Nobody corrected her till she was 16. Then she started to call him 'Arnavji'. Now she didn't know what to call him anymore.

Arnav parked the car in front of her. when she made no move to sit inside, he took off the glasses unleashing his dark brown eyes on her. he opened the car door from inside and addressed her -

" what are you waiting for Khushi Kumari Gupta? Pandit bulake mahurat nikal na parega kya?" giving her the crooked half-smile that she adored. His familiar husky voice sent a wave of wistfulness through her. A thousand memories spun in her head, tangling together. God, she missed him so much. "Akash bhai and Aman are busy in the printing press. Cachu asked me to drop you home."

Khushi stared at him for another moment then with a huff she entered the car, which was a bad decision she understood not long after. Being in a closed space with him was torture. His enchanting woody scent engulfed her and transported her to a particular day that was in the centre of conflict between them. Both of them stared at anything but at each other, but soon Khushi couldn't resist the temptation to steal a look at him, which was a far worse decision than the previous one. Her eyes found his hands on the steering wheel, clutching it and as soon as a flashback of those hands flooded her mind - those hands clutching her smaller ones when they used to take a walk, those hands closing the hook of a payal around her ankles, those hands teaching her smaller ones to hold the chalk to write on the black slate, those hands helping her to plant rose plants on the garden. Her mind shifted to her smaller hands giving prasad to his larger ones, his hands cracking open the peanut shell for her whenever they went to the mela, his hands pulling her braids.'Have those hands become larger till the last time she saw them?' Khushi mused silently. Then a switch flipped in her mind, more flashbacks, she started to feel his hands on her cheek, on her waist, on the back of her head. Khushi closed her eyes tightly and clutched the books in her hands and to drive away those visions from her mind, blurted out what came to her mind at that moment " Anjali di said, you could not come to Delhi for another 3 months"

Arnav, looking at Khushi from the corner of his eyes, said "I didn't plan to. But My best friend is marrying my little sister. I wouldn't miss that wedding for the world and Roma Chachi said no more auspicious 'mohurat' after this month until the end of this year. And it's not like I have not been travelling to and fro between Delhi and London in the last couple of years."

Khushi nodding and trying to swallow down the hurt, said solemnly "I know."

Arnav had been studying law at Oxford University for the last couple of years. He had passed his bar exam and had been doing an apprenticeship under a Barrister in London for the last year. She knew all of this from Aman bhai. On the other hand, Arnav sold the land that his grandfather gave him and bought a run-down textile factory in old Delhi. She knew he had been very busy and she also knew he had been to Dehli multiple times in the last 2 years. He didn't stay in Rajput haveli nowadays when he came to Delhi. He had rented a two-storied bungalow on the outskirts of the town. But what hurt her more was he went to Rajput haveli to meet Amma and Babuji every time he came to Delhi, only when she was in school. So, it was not so difficult to figure out, who he was avoiding. Why, why she have to ruin the most important friendship she had in her life??? If only she wouldn't have done what she did 2 years ago.

It didn't escape Arnav's eyes the pain that flashed through her face. He still could read her like an open book, could decode the emotions that transpired through her pretty eyes. He regretted hurting her so much, but it was for the greater good. Sometimes he thought he preferred to remember her as still eight years old because she'd adored him then. She would gladly follow him anywhere. In fact, whenever she saw him leave, heading toward the garden where he liked to walk and think, she would come running after him. Even though she frequently fell, her little legs no match for his long, strong ones, she never cried and never complained. She was strong even back then.

Little Khushi used to fill their conversation with a million inquisitive questions though, looking at him with trusting big eyes. Her questions made him laugh and stumbled over answers.

When she was eight, he was her Hero.

As soon as the car reached Rajput Haveli, she all but sprinted away from him. Arnav sighed grabbing the package from the backseat he also entered the house. As soon as he reached the living room, he was met with Madhumati ji scolding Khushi for running around carelessly, even at the age of eighteen and her praying to God to give her 'sanka devi' same 'satbuddhi'. Then there was Roma Chachi, who came rushing towards him to give him a hug. Roma Chachi never failed to make him feel loved. Arnav admired this woman for her enormous capacity to love those who weren't hers.

"London suits you, Arnav Bitwa, look at you, how handsome you've turned out to be!!!! "

Arnav's tall figure folded itself to return her hug, teasing her he proceeded "And you didn't change at all Roma chachi. Still as gorgeous as ever. I missed you so much."

Manoroma smiled at him fondly. A child she once wished was hers so that she could have protected him from the heartbreak he endured at such a tender age " I missed you too, Bitwa. Don't be a stranger now like you have been for past years, ab toh hum ristedaar bhi banne wale hain."

Arnav smilled at her " I'll try."

Manoroma continued, "I hope you are staying with us this time, aren't you?" seeing Arnav nodding his head, she continued "Good, now I am going to the temple, we'll talk after I come back. chaliye, madhumati ji."

Arnav watched them leave and then silently proceeded toward the first floor crossing the stairs. At the very least, he could try to save whatever was left of the friendship he once shared with Khushi.

Khushi sat cross-legged on her bed, looking at the payal that broke as soon as she entered her room hurriedly a few minutes ago. It had been her room since her parents had died. It had seen so many of her tears and held so many of her secrets. Bua ji nowadays, began to get on her nerves, reminding everyone of her spinster status, but Khushi was adamant not to get married before she enrolled for college, now that she finally did it, she didn't have any excuses left.

Looking at the payal, Khushi thought of how it's been almost 10 years since she was wearing that particular payal. One morning 10 years ago, in the garden, looking at her rag doll, she confessed to Arnav that she used to have a similar payal like her doll once, that the bad guys had stolen from her too. And she missed wearing the payals. It was one of the first things she had admitted to Arnav during their long walks.

He'd asked her why she didn't just ask Mahindar Chachu and Chachi for payals and Khushi had tearfully confessed her fear that if she wanted too much, her new guardians would give her away. And the sound of payals must disturbed them as well.

That very weekend, he'd bought her this payal and its pair. She'd loved it. It was the first time since her parents died that she'd bounced in places with joy like she was really eight and not eighty. She giggled with her delighted-little-girl pleasure.

Khushi stared at the payal with a sad smile on her face. The clasp had been given away. Just like their relationship now. She still remembered how the payals were too big for her small ankles, he had to make a loop at the end to adjust them to her size.

Arnav had adored her once.

But she'd messed that up good and proper a long time ago. But did she really mess it up beyond repair?

A knock on the door drew her thoughts out of the past. To her surprise, it was Arnav standing in the doorway, his expression as passive as ever. "Can I come in?"

She nodded, automatically scooting backwards to lean back against her headboard. He came to sit in front of her, and Khushi smirked, remembering playing Ludo with him at that same position, at that same spot when she was 10, 11, 12.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked, curious. A smile played at his lips that made her heart feel like a thunder about to strike.

"I was just remembering beating you in ludo," she said quietly. In her room, it was harder to be aloof as she tried to be with him. How long had she been trying to show him she was grown up, grown past the foolish girl she'd been when they...

His smile broadened but only slightly. Still, it was enough to make her blood feel warmer. "So you found a game you can actually beat me at, Phati sari. Don't get arrogant." He pointed a finger in her face.

Laughing lightly, she remembered the origin of her nickname at the kanya puja day, when she was 10, Amma had made her wear a red saree made for little girls. it was so beautiful. She ran to the garden to show it to Arnav where he was helping Babuji to sow the vegetable seeds and ended up tearing the pretty saree in that process. She cried the whole day so much that Babuji ended up buying two more similar sarees just like that. But she couldn't get away from the torment of Arnav's teasing. She gained that nickname a day later. she stared down at her lap, tracing the broken payal with the pad of her finger. He sounded like his old self just then addressing her with the name he gave her, the one who wasn't so uncomfortable and cold around her. 'O Devi maiya, what do she need to sacrifice to have that again.' she sighed and asked "So what did you want to talk about?"

"This is awkward," he said after a moment of silence. "It seems almost pompous for me to say I'm proud of you."

"Why do you think it's pompous?" she asked, curiously. "I mean, everyone else has said it... unless you don't mean it."

"Of course I mean it," he said, his tone sincere. "A graduate degree in English literature" He looked down, then back at her again"You always wanted to be a writer. I am sorry I wasn't there when you enrolled on college, I should have been there." he said with a decisive, displeased tone. "I know I haven't been as supportive as I could have been these last few years."

Khushi shook her head. Arnav had always been something of an enigma to her. Well, not always. There was a time when their relationship had been simple. At some point, something had changed. What that was, Khushi was still at a loss as to explain. She knew when the switchover had happened, though.

"Arnav," she said with a sigh. "If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have even tried to get into a college. You have always encouraged me to write and kept me interested in the world of literature with the books you used to send me."He even sent her books when he was avoiding her those last few years.

Looking up at him, she smiled. "you were the only one who never doubted my capabilities. You just seemed so certain I could do it - even if it would be hard."

"Most things worth doing are difficult," he said quietly. "It never occurred to me to doubt you. If that was what you wanted, I knew you were capable."

And because he knew, she believed, she thought but didn't say. "It was difficult. Still, I did it, and I think I made the right choice. You had everything to do with that."

Their silence then was not so awkward, but more comfortable. Then Arnav reminded the package in his hand and extended it to her. As soon as she saw the package, her face brightened with a brilliant smile and she all but tore the packaging of the book. 'A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens ' It's her favourite book, but it was special.

"you brought me the first edition" She looked in awe both at the book and at the man. When the awe subsided awkwardness seeped in. Arnav was about to leave.

"Arnav," she began hurriedly, blowing out a breath in a huff, she was ready to right wrongs in her life, and start fresh. "I know you've been... wary about seeing me since... since then. And I don't blame you. I know things have been strange for a long time. But I was a stupid girl then. A lot has changed - I've changed. I'm not going to... do that again. So if that's what you're worried about-"

"Khushi," he said quickly, reaching across the space that separated them, putting his index finger over her lips.

For the space of a few breaths, Khushi's heartbeat began to stutter. Time stood still, their breaths caught. She didn't know how long it had been since she was watching his hooded eyes, looking at his dilated pupil.

And then a moment later, a curtain seemed to fall over his expressive eyes, hiding all the secrets she so desperately wanted to reveal, his eyes holding hers. He let his hand drop slowly before he broke eye contact, staring out the window. For long moments, he was silent. "It's not you. It's never been you."

She waited, but he didn't seem inclined to explain further. "Is it so unthinkable ?" she asked finally. She cringed because she'd feared the answer to this question for years. He was her best friend, her confidant - the most important person in her life since almost before she could remember. That had never changed. And she didn't want to lose him. She would take him in whatever capabilities he would like to share with her.

"Is what so unthinkable?" he asked, dreading the answer himself.

"Can't we try to be friends again?" Her voice was quiet, and she struggled to make it not waiver. It felt strangely like her world would crumble if he put the final nail in the coffin of their relationship, as melodramatic as that sounded.

To her surprise, his eyes were wide, almost horrified. He shook his head, chuckling nervously. He thought she would ask about something else. "I never imagined you would interpret my attitude that way." He rubbed a hand over his chin, tracing the line of stubble - it had been some days since he'd shaved. She'd noticed that almost instantly when he walked in the door. She still remembered the way that little bit of stubble felt, brushing against her cheek.

"To answer your question, of course, we can be friends. I've never not been your friend," he said finally.

This cheered her considerably, and Khushi sat up straight, smiling. "Good."

@arshifiesta @featheredclover @phuljari @msbhagirathi

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[kutputli]

I have been bullied, outright bullied, I say, into finally watching Interview with the Vampire. Apparently Delhi boy Arun is the way to persuade me over my gore squick.

So three years late and several hours after the train has passed - my episode by episode live-blog. (These will probably be shallow reactions because I know all the meaty meta and analysis has already been written. I remember reading it back when I was an innocent parasocial of your gifsets.) Also, I am coming into this with a series of biases; I've been completely spoiled by way of seeing gifs, reading meta and going through the book summaries. This is also not my genre; I don't enjoy gothic or horror, I was never into the vampire mystique, and I learned vampire lore via Buffy and Angel fandoms back when. So I am predisposed to watch this for the specific angle of how to intersect with my friends' interest in the characters. Disclaimers out of the way...

Season 1 Episode 1 - Mmmm, I see what people say about the art direction. This is a very very beautiful show. Very deliberately staged historicity, very artfully selected colour palattes and design. I imagine watching it on a big TV would be rewarding (I'm on a laptop.) But actually, more than the quality of the design, I think what I am enjoying is the quality of the actors. Because I have been forewarned, I realise all the cast is serious scenery chewing theatre rats. But the energy they bring to their scene work is palpable even through the screen.

Louis for instance, is oddly not beautiful. I can think of several other actors who would look far more physically arresting. To be frank, I don't see what Lestat saw in him, that moment did not have an impact on me. But what Louis is, because of Jacob, is intensely watchable. He brings such commitment to the character that my admiration for the actor translates into sympathy for the character. And of course, the Theatre Voice. Absolutely A+ choice to choose Shakespeare trained actors to deliver what I imagine must be quotes from Anne Rice's original florid prose?

It's a dangerous risk to use that sort of of heightened textual narration, which can work on a page, to sit against the visuals we are already seeing. I remember how Good Omens season 1 did so much quoting from the book to disasterously flat effect. But it works here, and that is, I think, because Jacob delivers the lines with so much integrity to bringing us back to the Dubai penthouse as we watch the New Orleans scenes.

I really enjoyed Daniel Molloy, who I remember finding rather delightful in the gifs even before we all knew his importance and where he was headed. I love grumpy irascible characters and he's lovely at being surly and sardonic. And physically deteriorating and mundane and ordinary, which makes him such a good foil to -

my precious little murderboy Armand! I really do want to watch things unspoiled, so I carry some regret about going into this so very equipped with hindsight. But I did giggle as the very first vampiric contact we see is a cup of tea being placed by Unnamed Brown Guy hand in front of Daniel. That's the love of your life, dude! Give or take a few divorces and deaths. I was watching Assad very closely to see what choices he was making - if there were any clues to pick up on. He was pretty stoic during the hand burning.

But that silent service thing going on - that's definitely something that packs more of a punch if you imagine him learning that from childhood as a human. I've got all kinds of headcanons going on for him, which I've been discussing with @quark4561 and I think his backstory can be a heartbreaking foil to Louis's, in terms of service, and sex work, and segregation.

Speaking of race, I know much of the fandom adores Lestat, but I thought the great thing about casting Sam Reid, is that he isn't the kind of drop dead gorgeous version that Tom Cruise might have been (never seen the film) and so he comes across right from the very beginning as ordinary except for the priviledge of his power. We know already that his power is vampirism, but because of the casting choices, it also becomes the power of whiteness. Lestat isn't some idealised homosexual awakening for Louis, or at least, that wasn't the way I read it. Lestat uses money, whiteness, physical force and vampirical power to get to Louis, and that sets their relationship on a dark, abusive path from the get-go.

In contrast to this was Louis's relationship to Lily. I loved her and the gentleness of their bond. The needless cruelty of Lestat killing her (thankfully offstage, I do not need to see Black women murdered any more), hammers in that this is a person who is selfish and cruel (beyond the ordinary carnivorous murders that one expects of the vampiric genre).

I'm not sure I understood why Louis's brother killed himself. Were we supposed to believe Lestat fucked with his mind? Were the voices he heard a sign of suicidal delusions?

But seeing both of them hoofing together - and I am so glad we didn't see Lestat lurking about then, it was a Black wedding and needed to be closed to the community - was so moving. It made me feel Louis' love for Paul more than his monologue narration. I'm not Black or USAmerican, but I did feel that the Black experience of these characters was respected and integrated into the storytelling choices, from writing to casting to design to cinematography, in a way that really worked for me.

I'm looking forward to spending time with Louis and his assistant, and the grumpy old fart interviewing them.

[misalpav]

I think in light of recent events, it should come to attention for a lot more people that the western education system needs MASSIVE upheaval especially in the social sciences. "World history", as taught in the United States (because that's where I live and is the system I know best, but from what I've seen, most of the west is like this) is just a ruse at best to focus on Eurocentric history for 7 months and spend the 8th and 9th touching on literally everywhere else. Before anyone says it, no it's not because European history is more relevant to America because the parts of European history that are relevant to the USA are touched on extensively through the almost 3-4 years of US specific history classes I had. Meanwhile, real conflict that actually does affect our daily life because of internet and social media like Israel/Palestine, Russia/Ukraine, China/Taiwan, etc. were never mentioned and we were left shocked as those events transpired and rushed to learn about those histories.

I'm an Indian and a Hindu, so on that front I will also go ahead and say to America: what the absolute fuck? You had absolutely no qualms while teaching the practice of jauhar but couldn't mention that it was an act of desperation by women to salvage their dignity from the Muslim terrorists that wouldn't have wasted a second to r*pe or capture them. You went ahead and taught how Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal because he was upset his wife died but failed to mention the countless native people he killed and temples he desecrated. But you could never mention the native Hindu temples in India that stump modern architects? You could mention Aurangzeb and the Delhi Sultanate but not Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj or Rani Rudramadevi because, according to you, the only important things that happened in India were the Muslim and British imperialists right? Then you wonder why, as a society, we struggle with hinduphobia and terrorist groups like the D*tbusters were given the confidence to exist but I don't actually think it's that surprising considering the narrative taught to children as early as middle and high school. Obviously, this narrative also expands to the countless other minorities that have their histories skewed like this, enabling continued bigotry. I think it's absolutely horrendous how the president of Harvard was able to say "it depends on the context" when it came to punishing antisemitism and still stay as faculty at the university with her high 6 figure salary. That kind of bullshit so high up in our educational structures is exactly what keeps fucking us over.

No, I'm not saying you need to go into the details for everything in the world either because that would be impossible, but what I am saying is history can and should be more equitable. In the United States, you can and should teach American history in detail and I have no issues with that (except for how "American history" itself is being watered down by politics and censorship but that's a whole other conversation), but I think 3 centuries after America got independence from the British, the fact that Henry VIII created a church j so he could divorce his first wife is just so unnecessary when people can't even distinguish the fact that Jesus was a Jew and Judaism is one of the oldest surviving religions and then use false information to hurl insults at the Jew community.

Obviously, a lot of what I said was addressed to America, but that definitely does not give the rest of the West a free pass.

[featheredclover]

Orphic

Epilogue

Read from the beginning

Also on Wattpad

Chapter Seven>

A burst of champagne bubbled out, glinting against the shine of the beautiful chandelier. That shine still dimmed against the glow Khushi was brimming with.

Her hand firmly ensconced in his, she looked at the happy faces across the hall and let out a sigh of relief.

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

“I am glad we had a small engagement party “

He smiled.

“Yes well, Garima aunty agreed to let go for now. But the wedding is going to have all of Lucknow and Delhi and some more.”

She groaned, “Just when I thought I had to deal with less people! “

“Less people?”

Khushi jumped as her mother joined them.

“My only daughter is getting married. It will be a wedding Lucknow couldn’t have dreamt of witnessing!”

“Of course aunty. Anything you wish”, Arnav said with an endearing wink.

“Traitor”, she muttered under her breath.

And one look at his smug face, she knew he had heard her.

“Come Khushi, you have to greet some of our friends” 

And with that she was stirred across the hall.

—————

“K! This house is massive!”

She smiled at Preetika.

“I don’t even know when Arnav bought it!”

Payal laughed, “Engagement present from Junior Raizada hah?”

“I guess”

“Ladies” Noah greeted them, placing a kiss on Preetika’s blushing cheeks.

With raised eyebrows, the girls coughed away, sharing a meaningful look.

Khushi saw Akash saunter up to them with flutes of champagne held precariously in his hands.

Preeto, not letting the spotlight rest on her, said “So, Akash you have been dating Payal for three years and here Arnav is on the way to be hitched after just a few days! Where is the ring, man?”

“Preeto” Payal warned her with a sharp glance.

To their surprise, Akash instead of his ever ready practical response flushed and took a clumsy sip from his glass.

“Here comes the man of the hour” Noah announced.

“Hello” Arnav slipped an arm around her waist, his eyes flitting over others.

“Nice house Raizada “ Preeto whistled.

“Yes Arnav, it's really beautiful. When are you giving us a tour?” 

“Thank you. Um…the house is not finished yet. Even this drawing room was done up just in time for today”

Khushi glanced up at him curiously. She also hadn't seen the rest of the house. It felt strange. To know that by the end of the year, they’ll live here as man and wife. He will belong to her.

Whirlwind romance was too tame a term to describe their tale, she thought with a secret smile.

“Come with me” his whisper flooded her senses.

“Where?” she whispered back.

He said nothing. His eyes seducing her against her sense of common propriety.

Escaping? From their own engagement party?

——————

They stood in front of a beautifully embossed door. 

“Are we going to go in or….”

“Shush” he took out a set of keys.

He picked one and opened the door, motioning for her to go in first.

She stepped in. Her gasp echoed across the room.

A beautiful oak wood table dominated the room. Shelves and shelves lined with books. The curtains in her favourite shade of green. 

And the best of all, a magnificent velvet red chair.

“You didn’t!”

“Do you like it?”

She turned around to see Arnav look around, his hands in his pocket, the firm set of his lips giving his nerves away.

She smiled and turned towards the shelves.

“You bought these?” she asked as she ran a hand along the binding of ‘ Interior designing: The Bible’.

“I had a little help from your aunt”, his eyes wide, seemingly still searching for her approval.

She walked towards the chair. She settled herself, crossed her legs and flashed him a smile.

“Khushi,” he warned.

“What? No whiskey tonight?” She giggled.

Her smile dipped for a moment, as Arnav reached for a desk behind him.

Flashing a beautiful gold whisky flask at her, he poured down a glass.

“You are indeed a devil!” 

He raised a perfect eyebrow.

“A devil?”

“Yup” she said with much glee.

“So that makes you an angel, hah?” He handed her the glass, “An angel who trapped the devil”

She took a sip, feeling the burn down her throat, warming her chest.

“It’s the other way around Arnav”

“Really?” He bent his head down to take a sip from the glass, locking his eyes with hers.

Khushi swallowed. 

Damn him

He rested his arms on the chair’s edge and took her lips in a rough kiss. He tasted of their shared whiskey and something more. Something inherently Arnav.

She melted against him, her lips moving softly against his pressure. He slowed the kiss down, taking her breath away.

Blinking, as he kissed her forehead.

“This is your new office “

“New office?”

“Yes, my gift to you. And well with your aunt's blessings.”

“You are giving me an office” she cupped his face as the implications of the gesture sank in.

Her own office 

She gasped as she was lifted off the chair into his arms.

“Arnav” she admonished as her arms winded around his neck.

“I am going to be your husband Khushi, and it’s my duty to know every little dream. Every little wish of yours”

She gave him a watery smile, her heart marvelling at the man she had fallen in love with.

Planting a soft kiss on her cheek, he mumbled into her ear, “Let’s head back before they send the CBI behind us, shall we?”

She laughed, her eyes filled with love.

“Let’s “ she said solemnly .

Arnav grinned. And she was lost once again.

The End

Thank you for reading 'Orphic'! Inspired by the era of vintage mills and boon romances, it's a story I really enjoyed writing! Let me know what you think of the story (and also any suggestions to improve my writing) !

Tagging: @arshifiesta

@hand-picked-star @phuljari @msbhagirathi @thenainitaldisaster @thedupattaknowswhatsup @jalebi-weds-bluetooth @barshifan @andli @shiyaravi @chutkiandchotte @laad-governess @minpdnim @bigfatreader @arshiradio @simplycurlz @scorpio-smiles @bengudill @exosexosekai @0218fm

[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.

[lokischocolatefountain]

Unveiled || Chapter 1

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Rating: PG 13 for violence. Subsequent chapters’ ratings may vary

Word count: 1.7k words

Summary: Saving a life was noble. You didn’t expect applause or praise for it. But kriff it would be nice if you weren’t treated as the scum of the Earth for it.

A/N: Gonna make this the SADvent calendar instead of the advent calendar. At this point, I have to admit that I won’t be posting everyday. But I’ll still post when I can. When I have internet and am able. Lot of shit happened. My friend and I got fucked over in three different cities in a very short period of time. We were humiliated in Venice, robbed by an intentionally dysfunctional system in Riyadh, and almost sexually exploited in New Delhi. It’s a round the globe horror story. But some good things happened too- we made friends through our shared trauma and I got to meet my internet friend I’ve been moots with for a loooong time. So in true fanfic writer fashion, here’s a fic I’ve been writing posted during some of the most difficult days of my life

“Go!”

He screamed loud enough to break through the sounds of the intensifying battle. You ignored his heart-wrenching screams and dragged him with all your strength, your own weapon slung over your shoulder and reachable should you need it to defend the wounded Mandalorian. You were a warrior, trained through years of life or death battles. It was why you were sent to the Mandalorian covert on Navarro to train with them. But this was an impossible one. Even for you. Even for the man you were dragging past enemy combatants using your own body as a shield.

You settled him against the walls of the cave you’d dragged him into. You reached into your armor and retrieved the bacta patches you had with you. You took a look at the patches and then at the large gash on his neck that went up who knew how far. The hope you had for saving his life dwindled. But you couldn’t give up. The motto of your teachers back home rang loud and clear in your head.

No soldiers left behind. No life collateral.

“Not s-safe. Not safe you— Listen to me,” he choked out as you leaned in close and inspected his wound.

“Shut up, Din! Shut the fuck up!” You spat as you retrieved more medical supplies from your pouch. You’d done this many times in training. You could do this. You could fucking do this!

“My helmet…” he whimpered too soft to be audible if you weren’t so close to him.

“It’ll be okay, Din. I got you,” you reassured as your brain finally comprehended the exact risk he was in and you knew what you had to do.

“This is gonna hurt at first, alright?” You warned more than asked as you inserted the needle. It was the last thing you did before he lost consciousness in your arms. The last thing you did before making the big mistake that would change the course of both your lives.

———

“Din.”

He looked up at you from his bed, resting after a long session in the bacta tank. You imagined him underneath the helmet, the only face you knew in the covert other than that of the children who were yet to take the creed. His features came to memory, bloodied and bruised and at the edge of life itself. His strong nose, his messy black hair and blood. So much fucking blood. That he was alive at all was a miracle.

“Din?” You called again when he did not respond.

“Why are you here?” He asked, his voice stoic, emotionless as it came through his helmet. It was how it always was. Something about wearing a helmet filtered out part of the humanity of voices. But there was something about the way he spoke this time that was chilling to you.

“I…I just wanted to see if you’re doing well.”

He snorted, turning away from you as though your mere presence disgusted him. Rage boiled through your veins as pain shot up through your legs as a reminder of the blow you’d taken in the process of saving his fucking life.

“You know what? Fuck you, Din. I know you’re hurt and shit, but you have no right to speak to me like that.”

“Get out. Right now. I don’t want to see your face ever again.”

You flinched at the way he spoke. The coldness of his voice and the words themself. You turned away from him and walked out of his room, bearing the pain in your leg as you trodded on to your own room. You didn’t expect him to thank you. No, that was not why you saved his life at the risk of ending your own. But you didn’t expect him to behave so appallingly either. You raked through your addled mind for clues on what you could possibly have done to deserve this. Did you say something before the battle? No, it couldn’t be. You’d exchanged few words before battle and he was…nice. As amiable as could be for a man who spoke in grunts and sighs more than he did words.

You crashed on your own bed, whimpering when the act shot another piercing sensation throughout your body. It did nothing to alleviate your anger for Din, reminding you of what you’d done to yourself for him. For someone you thought a friend until now.

On a strange planet, fighting for space and acceptance, Din was one of the first people to be amicable to you. Well, you took his grunts and sighs as a sign of friendliness. For all his stoicism and his beskar like facade, he never did snap or show signs that he wanted you to fuck right off. So you stuck by. Stuck by when training, when you ate your meals and he sat by listening to your idle chatter. Stuck by when he took a hit and needed saving.

Perhaps he had a concussion.

That should be it. For a man clad fully in beskar, he had a soft heart. Never did he speak to you or anyone else in the harsh manner he just spoke to you. You shivered as images of his dark messy hair and blood so dark it matched returned to your mind. His closed eyes and his limp body collapsing on you as you attempted to remove the shrapnel that has somehow gotten underneath his helmet to his skull. A sharp pain shot through your leg again and you let out a cry. It was a mess pop emotions. You were happy it did not hurt as much as it did on the battlefield yet annoyed that your body was outside your control.

You jumped, both from the pain and from the opening of the door. You looked up, hoping to find the nurse droid that visited you every now and then to check your vitals. The gleaming gold helmet on a tall, strong stature told you that this was no small visitor. Despite all the beskar and the strong shoulders that carried an entire covert, she was very human.

She said you name, in a way that was gentle, calming, yet told you that she could be relied on.

“Did we win?” You managed to ask through the spasms of pain.

“We did,” she said, stopping in front of you. “You did well, warrior.”

You snorted. “I succumbed within minutes of the battle.”

“You did. So did a few others. That does not make you any less of a warrior. You were valiant.”

Despite disagreeing, you nodded. You were in no mood to start an argument with the leader of the community that was housing, feeding, teaching, and caring for you. No matter how much you disagreed with their way of life.

“So, do you visit everyone who got a little scratch of their leg?”

“I do, yes. But my visit is not just to check on your wellness.”

“Oh?”

“You saved one of ours. Din Djarin.”

You said nothing, feeling too embarrassed to acknowledge it even though it was true. It would sound too much like boasting if you accepted. In poor taste in your dismissed it. It was best to take a sip out of the mandalorian pog soup and remain silent.

“Do you know what this means for his future?”

You tilted your head as you considered her words. What the kriff was she expected to say to that? What if it was a rhetorical question and you’d just acted like a womp rat in the snow about it?

“You removed his helmet, soldier.”

“To tend to his wound,” you quickly interrupted. “You— you didn’t see what— you weren’t there! He would’ve died if I hadn’t done that,” you sputtered, shaking your head in disbelief of the implication in her words. The Mandalorian were quite strict about wearing their helmets. Once a child took the creed and wore their helmet, they would never take it off again. But there were exceptions. Right? There had to be. Receiving emergency medical help had to be one of them.

“I know.”

You waited, not for long, for her to proceed. For her to reassure you that it did not count because you had no other choice but to remove his helmet to save his life. With no words coming from her, you shot up from the bed, pain be damned and dragged yourself to where she stood.

“He would have died!”

“I know,” she said, more sternly this time.

“Go on then, tell me how you are going to punish him for the audacity to be alive.”

“He became an apostate the moment his face was seen by a living thing.”

“An apostate?”

“He has strayed from the way and will be cast out from the covert. He is Mandalorian no more.”

You shook your head frantically. That was some bantha shit! “No. No, no, no. No,” you sputtered. “That is not fair. Look, it’s not his fault. He was unconscious when it happened— when I did it,” you said, thumping your chest. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He told me to go away. He was ready to die. Kriff— you can’t— This is not fair,” you screamed, your voice breaking at the cruelty of it all.

“This is the way,” she said in a manner that was too cold for you to consider calm.

“Oh, for void’s sake, spare me the kriff about the way. What kind of way of life is it to cast someone out for being alive?” You spat, all your reservations about rudeness and your sense of cultural relativism flying off into a blackhole.

“There is only one way for him to remain in the covert and he rejected the proposal. Said he could not possibly do that to you.”

“What is it? Does the way ask for a human sacrifice? Is that what it will take to keep him from being excommunicated from everyone he knows and loves?”

“I understand you think us barbarians, soldier. I will discount it on account of your efforts to save one of our own. And for how you have protected us. There need be no blood. Only the establishment of a riduurok so that he will have been seen by the only being he is permitted to show himself to.”

“What is a riduurok?” You asked, even though you had a sinking feeling about it.

“Marriage.”

.

.

.

Masterlist

[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

[octuscle]

Could I take DEL 2 suitcase?

Actually, you don't know what you would have expected…. What do you associate with India? Spices? Colorful robes? The gold treasure of a maharajah? You certainly didn't expect a suitcase that heavy. And full of strange boxes and ampoules. All labeled in a language you don't understand at all. What on earth are these letters?

Disappointed, you put the suitcase in the corner. No treasure of gold. So you have to try honest work again. But first you should finish your MBA. Otherwise your parents will cut you off.

While zapping through the TV program, you get stuck on a Bollywood tearjerker in the evening. Hey, you recognize those letters. They are also on the contents of your suitcase. And in fact, after a while, you find the tearjerker not so bad. Some of the actors look really hot.

You fell asleep in front of the TV. When you wake up in the middle of the night, the news from Delhi is on. The morning is already over there. It's getting close to noon. Drowsy, you listen to see if anything is going on. But only the usual reports of government crises and floods. What is wrong with this country. You fall into your bed and fall asleep immediately.

Your alarm clock rings at 06:00. You have to work a bit before going to university. You work in the first level support of a software manufacturer. Annoying customer inquiries. But well paid. And if you're lucky, you'll be hired after graduation. Although, as a Data Scientist you will always find a job. As long as you have your bachelor's degree.

On campus, you'll be drawn outside during your lunch break. The others avoid the heat. But 32 degrees Celsius is not heat for you. You're used to something else. You do a few pull-ups on the horizontal bar. It's time for a proper workout. Tonight you really have to go to the gym.

When you finally get home, you remember the suitcase. Some of the things are not quite legal here. But if you want to reach your goals, you need support. You pick out a protein shake. And take one of the L-carnitine ampoules. Why didn't you clear out the suitcase yesterday? You sort everything neatly into the cupboard and prepare your nutritional supplements for the next day. And you go to bed.

You get up at 3:00 am. Damn the time difference. But as the head of your startup, you have to attend one or the other online meeting in Noida. You hide your long hair, which you are so proud of, under a cap. When the call is over, you go to the gym for an hour. And after that, your hair is washed and groomed. But right after sleeping you can't show it to the public.

Good workout! Now you can show the losers in the lecture hall that they know nothing about data science. They may make fun of your Indian accent. But you are the youngest lecturer the faculty has had. And the only one who teaches in a tank top.

[msbhagirathi]

IPKKND LIVE BLOG SEASON 1 [Epi. 6]

Come, let's begin.

1. Episode starts with Khushi flashing back to all the horrible moments that happened that day. Mind you, this is the same day going on, the day just after Payal's marriage broke and the day all of them went to The Dargah.

2. The same day Arnav and Khushi had their fight regarding Gods and their existence. Then him releasing those clippings and the Mul Rajani part and Khushi in the market with her parents and all of a sudden people giving her annoying glares and muttering things about her character, then their encounter with Shyam and coming back to GS, her parents' decision to send her away to Delhi and then finally, them going to the office of that news channel and her finding out about him, releasing those clips. Uff. A lot to happen in a single day. I think, they forgot to end a day, in between. Lol. Enough. Now back to the epi.

3. Khushi is adorably ranting about her horrible day which was made even more horrible by that 'Laard Gorverner'. (Yes that's the official spelling for me now. But who cares? Lol.)

4. I don't think we should take it jokingly tho but I don't know why did they show as if Khushi is intrigued by him more than being indifferent to his existence completely. She's already given him a nick name and keeps using it, at every chance she gets.

5. She's got insulted by almost the entire Lucknow and her neighborhood and yet they show as if she is not that serious with his misbehavior and him in general entirely for something so terrible that happened to her. She never even mentioned it at least once about this incidence later.

I agree that they did it for the show, but still, they could have shown her anger, her indifference like they did it in the guesthouse track. The fierce and no-nonsense Khushi. Whatever.

6. While she is recalling her opinion regarding "Bina dil ki Dilli, machis ki tilli." (It's a rhyme made for Delhi and it's heartless people.) There, Shyam comes up, after stalking and following her from that office and is now pretending as if he was passing from there and merely happened to coincidently see her there too. Bloody b_stard.

7. Now. Tell me. How did he know it was her father's 'batua' ? Okay. Fine. His photo must have been there. And address too. Coz he reveals that he was coming to her house. And Khushi is caught off guard by the revelation, but seeing her astonishment he quickly diverts her attention by twisting his answer. KHUSHI!? DON'T IGNORE YOUR GUT INSTINCT OKAY!?! DON'T!!! I AM WARNING YOU OF THIS LEECH!

8. Lol. Who am I kidding? This is the same girl who was in denial of her feelings for a certain someone, okay let's not go there right now.

9. Btw, this is for all the girls who are reading this. Never ignore your gut-instinct or more precisely the girl-instinct. Never ever. Be very aware of who is around you for what purpose or intention. Now. Back to the epi.

10. Khushi, naively, tells him everything about who she knows there and who is she going with. Girls, I am warning you again. Never indulge into a complete stranger, let alone giving them info bout yourself or your location.

11. She did not have to tell him, any of that. Don't be too good for your own good, Khushi, please.

12. The atmosphere in GS is very melancholic as they complete their last minute packings and babuji comes and offers a spoonful of dahi-chini. Khushi has tears in her eyes but probably this is the last time that she would cry and anyone would not get affected by it, because after this Arnav would always, always, always get hugely affected whenever he would find Khushi crying. Ok. Ab chalo, Dilli.

13. The sun dawns, the next day and we find ourselves standing on the busy roads of Delhi, outside the railway station.

14. Khushi complains about the speeding cars and compares them to the ones in Lucknow.

15. Buaji demonstrates the method to cross a road, this busy. Buaji, leave the girls, even I won't be able to cross the road the way you did. You are unique, Buaji. You are you. No one can be you. Lol.

16. The girls fret over a little, but nervously start to cross the road. But, ultimately, they end up creating, a traffic jam.

17. Hahahahaahahah. The auto scene always gets me. Lol. Buaji tries to get in the auto, while complaining about the size of the 'darwajja' (door). And when she gets in from this side, Khushi falls down from the other side. Lol.

18. "Humara auto mein toh teen ka hee permit hai, mataji." "Toh hum kaa chaar dikhayi de rahe haen?" *smacks the driver* "Chal nikaal riksa." Lol. (My auto permits only three people, ma'am. Do we seem to be four people, here? *smacks the driver* Now come on start the riksha.)

19. So. Tho. Funnily portrayed. But, sad, as well. The driver adjusts the mirror to stare at Khushi while driving and Khushi is well aware, so she covers her face with her dupatta. This. Right, here. You won't believe but this kind of behavior is so damn common, even I have faced these kinds of situations. I HATE THIS. I DESPISE THIS. I DOWNRIGHT ABHORE THIS. UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH. Enough. Now get back to the epi.

20. They are there. Laxminagar. They get out of the riksa. Buaji asks the fare and the driver says it's 200. Khushi feels that it is ridiculously high. She starts arguing but the driver says he is ready to dismiss the fare for her, in a very flirtatious tone. So, Khushi being Khushi, pulls a suitcase so hard, that it smacks his head from the back, before giving a final blow, she says "Maaf kijiye, Bhaiyyaji. (scowls)" Lmao. I love Khushi.

21. Buaji tells them about the situation of water supply in Delhi. And, she goes inside the house. Khushi and Payal share their feelings of the 'weird' experiences they faced up until now.

22. AND. HI BITWA. Oh. When did you land in Delhi? You know what your wife has also arrived in Delhi. Ahhhhhhh. The cravat. (😍) Lol. ASR guitar BG score is so soothing. Arnav is leaving for office. Anjali di has made his 'favorite' Bhuni methi ke parathe (roasted fenugreek seeds' flatbread) "Side rakhne ke liye nahi de rahe hain, kha lena." Lol.

23. Anjali di reminds him to come back home early as today Naniji is coming back from her pilgrimage to Vaishno Devi and there is a puja at their house. But, our chhotte straight up refuses to 'waste' his precious time in 'these' things and asks her to make up some excuse for his absence.

24. Anjali di is reminded of the 'prasaad' that she has to make for the puja so after saying, "Chhotte tum na bohot baatein karte ho, dekha sab gadbad karaa di, hum chalte hein, bye.", (when she did all the talking and didn't even let her chhotte speak a single word. Lol.), she leaves. Her chhotte is left incredulous at her antics.(Those who say that he started smiling or feel any positive emotion only after Khushi came into his life permanently, SEE THAT, GO AND OPEN THE EPISODE.)

25. Phuphaji? Worked? In? Railways? Lol. See this.

26. "Tohre hoth bijli aawat nahi, girat hai girat. Dham dharaam." Lol. Buaji. I hate to admit this. But. You are so damn right.

27. "Haan. Jaise aaj aap girin." Famous Last Words Ft. Khushi Kumari Gupta Singh Raizada.

28. And Buaji throws a cushion at her for spitting the fact of the century. Buaji. Please let her be.

29. Did I say it earlier? I think not enough. I will say it again. Babuji is the only person who can read Khushi so well.

30. Hmm. So. Buaji. WHAT IS YOUR DAMN PROBLEM, HUH? Whatever.

31. Buaji makes fun of her tears. Why Buaji why? Why do you exist?

32. Khushi and Payal enter ~what seems to be like~ their room as Khushi describes it aptly- Kamra nahi puratatva vibhaag ki site (Not a room but an archaeological site. Lol. I snorted.)

33. Both the sisters take up the meticulous job of cleaning the room.

34. One jerk of the dirty bedsheet and Buaji is immediately having an attack of asthma from all the dirt shoved her way.

35. Both of them panic and help her lay down on the bed. Khushi rushes to find her pump but to their utter dismay, it's empty.

36. Khushi snatches her basta and phone and rushes out to buy a new one. She takes Paaji's scooter along with her.

37. Bitwa informs his manager that he is crossing Connaught Place and that he will be there for the meeting in ten minutes.

38. His manager further goes on to give him a 'good' news that 'that fashion show wali ladki' has been humiliated so much by the people that she has left the city altogether (Arnav, did you send your men to keep a check on your dear wife Khushi?)

Arnav admonishes him for wasting his 'precious' time. (Tell me something honestly Bitwa, you did feel bad for her, even if it was just for a fleeting second, didn't you?)

And just as he says the line that it doesn't affect him even if she leaves the country, Khushi's reflection appears on the side glass of his car and she whoosh pasts him in a second. (Watch out Bitwa, she is definitely not in some other country but in the same city as you, not very far too, so be careful, you might fall in love.)

39. And, now yet another time, Khushi is on a scooter with a funny-looking helmet and she is driving.....or more like running, skidding, jumping but in a scooter way. Lol. This is her 'Hum Khushi Kumari Gupta' style driving.

(Remember the 'Hum Khushi Kumari Gupta' style running, skidding, jumping, i referred to in Epi. 3? This is the driving edition. Lol. Whatever.)

40. Okay, one more point, after that i am coming back to the epi. See, the last time, Khushi was on the scooter and where did she end up? Infront of her husband Arnavji.

This time as well she is on a scooter, so where will she end up? Not very hard to guess it, i think? Kyun meri Parmeswariyon? *winks*

41. So. Now. Back to the epi.

42. Payal informs her sister that 'pados wale Kaul uncle' had brought a pump for Buaji and now she is fine but Khushi insists that she should get her a new one anyways.

43. And. Within a few moments. Sure enough. She takes a turn towards the wrong side and runs right into a car; scratching it all the way along with one of the mirrors from the scooter, crashing into pieces on the road, within a few seconds.

44. She picks up the broken glass and guiltily walks towards the driver's side of the car only to come face to face with her husband Arnavji.

45. I love how her guilty expression immediately changes into something more like she is about to admonish him for his 'mischiefs'.

46. And our Bitwa. Oh damn. Just look at his positively delicious face and that expression is something like 'Oh. Damn. Uss ullu ke patthe ne toh kahan tha ki isne sheher chor diya tha. Toh phir yeh yahan kya kar rahi hai. Ab tera kya hoga Arnav.' Lol. No. Its something like 'Shit. Shit. Shit. Arnav. Shit. You are a gone case now. No one can save you from falling for this beautiful girl.' Lol. No. You decide his inner thoughts from this expression. A homework for y'all. I will ask y'all in the next one.

47. But look at that face tho. *keeps staring at the screen* *doesn't realize that the screen is now flashing the precap* Shit. Shit. Shit. Sorry. I don't watch precaps but I couldn't stop myself from staring at his beautiful face.

P.S.: Ok. So. Howazit? Do tell. Ok. Then. Bye. Y'all. God bless you.

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