chaiandtakkar

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of Misplaced Melody

The loudspeakers had arrived with the elections, their booming voices promising prosperity, change, and the grand revolution of Hariprakash Ji’s school board candidacy. But now that the elections were over and Hariprakash Ji had conquered the throne of educational governance, the loudspeakers had been abandoned like an empty Thums Up bottle at a family wedding.

Except, of course, for the neighborhood youth, who had seized the opportunity.

What was once a tool for political sloganeering had now transformed into an unofficial DJ booth. Every evening, without warning, the speakers would crackle to life, unleashing Bollywood hits upon the town with zero regard for volume, timing, or the concept of human survival.

And thus began Arnav Swami’s personal descent into madness.

At first, he had tried to ignore it. After all, he was a man of patience. A man of fine business acumen. A man who understood that the youth needed space to express themselves.

But by the fifth evening, when Jumma Chumma De De blared so loudly that it nearly knocked a pickle jar off his shelf and sent Bankelal Ji into a brief spiritual crisis, his legendary restraint crumbled like a stale rusk in hot chai.

Khushiji, of course, found it delightful.

“Swami Ji, listen to the energy!” she grinned, perched on the counter of his dhaba, swinging her feet like a child high on Rasna and bad decisions.

Arnav Swami, who had spent the last ten minutes wrestling with a napkin dispenser that had vibrated off the table like a possessed tabla, gave her a long, exhausted look.

“Energy?” he repeated. “You mean Doordarshan static at full volume?”

She gasped, clutching her heart as if he had just compared Madhuri Dixit’s dance sequences to Sunny Deol attempting Kathak.

“Khushiji,” he said, rubbing his temples like a man debating renunciation, “my customers are fleeing. Fleeing. I am losing business.”

“No, no, no,” she waved her hand as if swatting away the lies of the ignorant. “They are just dancing away happily, that’s all.”

“They are evacuating,” he corrected, watching a group of behanjis practically parkour over chairs to escape.

“They are vibing,” she insisted, pointing at one man who was indeed moving…except he was frantically chasing his runaway samosas, not the rhythm.

Arnav took a deep, suffering breath, the kind taken by men who know peace is but a distant dream. “I am going to get that loudspeaker removed.”

Khushi’s eyes widened in unholy betrayal. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He folded his arms. “Watch me.”

She dramatically staggered backward like a heroine shot in the chest in a tragic romance,  “Rakshas.”

And then, in an act of sheer protest, she turned her back to him, lifted her chin and began singing along at full volume.

He stared at her.

She butchered the lyrics.

He winced.

And yet…

He didn’t stop her.

It was ridiculous. 

She was ridiculous. 

And yet, the sheer joy on her face, the way she glowed in the warm setting sunlight, made it impossible for him to look away.

Until she suddenly disappeared.

Well, not exactly disappeared, she dropped below a table so suddenly that he almost knocked over a plate of rajkachodi in shock.

“…What the,” he yelled, blinking down at her crouched figure.

She turned her head slightly, whispering, “It’s Madhumati Buaji”

Arnav followed her gaze and spotted Madhumati Buaji approaching, a formidable woman in her fifties with an unconventional grasp of classical dances, who believed matchmaking was not just a hobby, but a divine mission.

Khushi’s gasp was so sharp, so filled with dread, that for a brief second, Arnav wondered if they had been discovered by law enforcement.

“No no no Buaji,” she whispered like a fugitive.

“Are we criminals?” he whispered back, genuinely unsure.

“Worse,” she said. “We’re eligible.”

And then, in a move that would haunt him for the rest of his days, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him down beside her.

“Khushiji,” he said slowly, “you are a grown woman. You cannot just hide every time Buaji walks by.”

“I can and I will,” she shot back, pulling him closer to her.

Arnav Swami, a man who once stood tall with his arms folded in wisdom, now found himself crouched behind a table, hiding like a guilty teenager. His knees were protesting, his dignity was in shambles, and his life had officially lost all meaning.

Meanwhile, Buaji stopped in the middle of the dhaba, hands on her hips, squinting at the empty space where two people had existed just moments ago, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.

Her eyes narrowed.

Something was off.

Her instincts, honed from years of unasked-for matchmaking, tingled.

Where had that troublesome girl disappeared to? And more importantly…why?

Arnav stared at Khushi, willing her to breathe quieter.

Khushi stared back at Arnav, willing him to stop looking at her like that.

Somewhere, Chura Ke Dil Mera continued blaring through the speakers, as if personally mocking his existence.

It was ridiculous.

It was so ridiculous.

And yet, when he attempted to glare at the source of his suffering, he found Khushi biting her inner cheek, clearly to keep from laughing. Her eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that had definitely led to his downfall in the first place.

And then, Buaji turned.

Looked down.

And met his eyes.

For one long, horrified second, neither of them moved.

Then, Buaji screamed.

“AJEEEEE!”

Arnav hallucinated his Nanaji extending two Varmalas.

Khushi shrieked, seized his hand, and bolted like a stolen auto-rickshaw. Arnav barely processed the hijacking of his existence before his legs fell in line.

Because his fate was tangled with hers. Because sanity had long since abandoned him. Because the universe had gifted him  Khushiji, only to make him suffer for it.

He ran, too.

The music grated on his nerves. 

“Chura ke dil mera… chali main chali!”

The situation was absurd. 

And yet…

Even as he complained, he noticed the way Khushiji’s hand remained clasped around his.

And despite all logic, he… didn’t hate it.

The last thing Arnav Swami heard before diving into the nearest hiding spot was Buaji declaring to the world…

“Aye Nandkishore! Yeh toh bhagwan ne milaya joda hai!”

Arnav exhaled, pressing his palms over his face, resigned.

Maybe, just maybe…this was his fate. To suffer. To run. To be forever tangled in the chaos of  Khushiji. And possibly, just possibly…to never escape.

Also on blog here and Wattpad here

[chaiandtakkar]

Fanaa

13

Read from the beginning

12.........

The sunlight streamed into the room, waking up its inhabitants. Her eyes fluttered open, even as his grip on her waist tightened. She stilled as his lips met the nape of her neck.

“Morning”, his sleep riddled voice slid against her skin.

“Good morning “, she whispered.

He stretched, making her go crazy. Brushing her hair away, he spoke into his ear, 

“You want to take a break or go to the office today?”, before nipping at her ear playfully.

Khushi shifted, his warmth flaring the butterflies in her.

“Office”, she said softly but decisively.

———

It was what corporate dreams are made of. AR media was in the heart of the city. A magnate building bustling with people and paper. 

And as Arnav walked in with her in tow, she couldn’t help but draw parallels with Miranda Priestly. She could see from the corner of her eyes, all those who scurried off upon seeing him.

Walking far from the normal set of elevators, he led her to a copper encased one.

She glanced at him, when he didn’t speak a word. He didn’t even meet her eyes.

The doors opened to reveal an empty floor. Fully furnished in purple and pink hues, but empty.

“Welcome to your office”, he smiled.

“Could you be any more late?”Aman's chirpy voice reached them a moment before him.

“Khushi ! Welcome to Rhapsody “, he grinned.

She looked around to see the luxe interiors. 

“It’s going to be a vision. Mix style with politics. A magazine aimed for youth. And Khushi you’ll be heading it with NK”

“NK?”

“Nikhil Khurrana, he used to be an editor in Vogue”

“Vogue! That’s so cool”

“Yes, so he’ll bring in the style and you will bring in the words. We’ll have a team of photographers, off site journalists and fact checkers. You take charge from now on!”

Khushi stared at Aman, trying to keep her face neutral. Arnav stood silent, eyes moving between them.

“How much time do I have?”, she asked after a pause.

“A month from now”

She nodded, “I’ll get right on it. When can I meet NK?”

“I have asked him to meet you for lunch”

“Thanks sir”, Khushi smiled.

But Aman looked mildly affronted.

“Please Khushi,  call me Aman “

“Even here?”, she frowned.

“Of course. After all only this guy runs a risk of being called partial to you”, he chuckled , rolling his eyes at Arnav.

“Board meeting at ten, remember?”Arnav cut in smoothly before heading towards the elevator , only to be followed by Aman, who waved at her one last time.

 

She looked around at the pretty office, the role seemingly too big for her. But if she won’t muster up the courage, somebody else will. And she couldn’t let the golden egg slip by, even if she felt undeserving.

——

“Khushi Gupta? Oops! Sorry, Raizada ain’t it now?” 

NK was nothing like what she imagined. Dressed in rugged jeans and a leather jacket, with a helmet in tow, he looked far from the vogue editor she had in mind.

“It’s okay”, Khushi smiled, “You can call me Gupta. Or Raizada. Whichever’s convenient “

NK returned her grin before plopping down beside her.

“I actually had a couple of meetings with Raizada before this”

“You were still working in Vogue?”

“Yes, you know Arnav. He is someone who goes after what he wants head on. Once he decided he wanted me for Rhapsody, he made the offer so lucrative, I would have been an idiot to  or accept it”

She knew. Of course.

————

By the time the clock struck four and four cups of coffee were downed, they had come up with a plan for the first issue, finalised the core members from a list Aman had given them and decided on the celebrity they want for the cover.

“Dhruv Singhania. Industrialist. Silver spoon guy. Known for funding paralympics. And also opened up a rehabilitation centre in Mumbai for amputees”

“That’s generous”

“Well, he used to sail when he was younger. Had to undergo a below knee amputation after a disaster. He has a prosthetic leg and has done much since then for the cause. He even sponsors prosthetics for the Lucknow city hospital”

“Is he coming here anytime soon? Or do we have to go all the way to Bombay?”

“I’ll email his manager”

“That’s great!”

NK shut his laptop and looked at her in awe, “You know an aweful lot about the intricacies of high society here.”

“Oh I was always surrounded by them. Even though my family really wasn’t one of them”

“Is that how you met Arnav ?”

“No, my sister married his cousin and…”

“Oh! The world was wondering who is the girl who got Arnav Singh Raizada to settle into matrimony ”

A sudden uneasiness fluttered through her.

“What?” She asked cautiously.

“He is quite famous you know. But nobody had the scoop on him. There was news here and there. But nothing substantial. Well, there was something five years ago”, he frowned as if remembering.

“Lavanya Kashyap”, she provided dryly.

“Yes! She kept calling my juniors to get a gossip article into the magazine. She wanted to break the news of their relationship”

“Oh”, she muttered, not wanting to hear anymore.

“Shit! Sorry Khushi, I didn’t think-“

“It’s okay! Please don’t measure your words for me NK. I know she was a part of his life years ago. It’s not really a secret”, Khushi assured him.

NK smiled, relieved of his folly.

“So, same place tomorrow?”

“We should meet early. Brief everyone.”

With that, tha ball on Khushi’s first job started rolling.

———

Khushi didn’t know if she should call Arnav or take a rickshaw. She guessed his schedule was too hectic to be disturbed by her, and anyway it was just a short ride from here.

She stepped into the elevator, stilling upon noticing Arnav and an elderly man.

“Welcome to the company Mrs Raizada , I hope you had a good day. I am Mr Dixit, Arnav’s adviser”

“Thank you Mr Dixit. I have had an eventful day”, Khushi smiled sheepishly 

“Good. Good. I hope my son’s not giving you any trouble ha? NK?”

“Oh no, not at all. He was remarkable. I learnt so much from him”

“Well! That’s a relief to know”, Mr Dixit chuckled.

Turning to Arnav with a twinkle in his eyes he said in an exaggerated whisper, “You did good Arnav”

She blushed and before she could look at Arnav the door opened once again, now filling the lift to its full capacity.

Shuffling back, Khushi’s back hit the wall. And the descent began.

It was slight at first. Just a brush of skin. A mistake, she thought. But then he was there sliding his finger against hers. Taking her hand in his 

She trembled, feeling herself unravelling. Looking at Arnav, he was staring straight ahead, engaging in conversation with whoever vied for his attention.

He was Arnav everywhere for her except here. Here was ASR. The man responsible for every single operation taking place in the building. The man who managed the top media company in the country. The man who held her hands discreetly and looked at her like she was a sin.

She wanted to go home and she wanted to go now.

————

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of the Silent Schemer

Arnav Swami had faced many things in life. 

Unruly customers at the dhaba, tax officers with the emotional range of a brick wall, and Khushiji’s endless (and terrifyingly precise) commission calculations.

 But nothing, not a single thing, had prepared him for Payal.

Khushiji’s cousin from hell.

She wasn’t loud, nor was she particularly intimidating in stature. No, her power lay in her silence. That quiet scrutiny, those knowing eyes that tilted just enough to make Arnav feel as though she had read through every chapter of his soul and made snide annotations in the margins, like:

"Chapter 4: Arnav Swami’s Weakness - Extreme Awkwardness When Confronted by Women."

“Chapter 5: Arnav’s Swami’s Talent - Overdramatic Reactions Triggered by Assumptions.”

And to his utter misfortune, Khushiji had suddenly developed an unwavering need to bring Payal everywhere.

Every. Single. Where.

Arnav tried to remain calm. He limited his words, measured his expressions, and maintained his usual subtle (read: not-so-subtle) exchanges with Khushiji.

And yet, Payal had a way of making him feel as if she saw right through him, like a very determined, very judgmental x-ray machine.

Then came the evening that shook his world.

Khushiji had arrived at the dhaba, as she always did, to collect her commission, an arrangement that had, over time, turned into something far more than business. It was an unspoken ritual, a quiet dance between them, wrapped in playful banter, stolen glances, and the very obvious fact that Arnav Swami would never, ever let Khushiji leave unsatisfied.

 (With her commission, obviously. What were you thinking?).

But tonight, before Khushiji could say a word, Payal had stepped forward with the kind of casual ruthlessness only an older cousin could manage.

“You know, Swami Ji,” she mused, inspecting the accounts with an air of manufactured innocence, “Asli Chotiwala is offering a far better deal than this. A whole 3% more, I believe.”

A cow mooed ominously in the background.

Arnav stiffened. Then, against his better judgment, he turned.

The cow was staring at him.

Not just any stare. A deep, all-knowing, soul-piercing gaze that screamed:

"You fool. You absolute clown. This is your karma, and I have returned in bovine form to witness your downfall."

Somewhere in the background, a random customer misread the tension entirely.

“Shaadi mubarak ho, Swami Ji!” the old man called out happily, raising a steel tumbler of chai in an unsolicited toast.

The cow chewed once. Twice. Slowly. Like it was savoring his downfall.

Live Audience Commentary at the Dhaba:

 Observation #1: Arnav Swami dropped a steel tumbler. Swami Ji does not drop things. Conclusion? Emotional turmoil. Suspect: Khushiji. Instigator: Payal Ji.

Khushi hadn’t said a word, because she wouldn’t. She was still floating in whatever blissful haze she existed in when it came to him. But Payal? She had looked right at him, daring him to react. And the worst part? 

He was doing a terrible job of pretending to be unaffected.

Arnav bristled. He had never been one to cower before negotiations, but something about the way Payal’s gaze flickered between him and Khushiji, so unbearably knowing, it made his spine stiffen.

This wasn’t about money.

This was about something far, far more dangerous. And it wasn’t like he had a plan for this.

So, he did what any self-respecting man would when staring down the barrel of disaster.

He panicked.

“Khushiji’s commission is already very generous,” Arnav had said smoothly, attempting damage control .

(Damage control, MY FOOT… like a drowning man trying to hold a floating coconut!!)

Payal raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Arnav cleared his throat. The walls of the dhaba suddenly felt too close. 

Observation #2: Beads of sweat detected on Swami Ji’s forehead. Not a hot day. Not near the stove. Possible causes: Panic, or the realization that he is doomed.

From the side, Gopu, who had been listening in far too intently, leaned closer to Om Prakash, dhaba’s head dish-washer. 

“Kuch toh gadbad hai,” he whispered, eyes glinting with mischief.

Om Prakashji stroked his beard. “Arrey, Gopu beta, this is not gadbad. This is prem ka shubh arambh.”

Arnav gritted his teeth. He could feel their combined stares burning into his back. This was getting out of hand.

So, a man had to do what a man had to do.

He drafted a new contract. 

One that very subtly, very strategically raised Khushi’s commission. Just enough to look like a grand gesture, but not enough to bankrupt him.

Observation #3: Swami Ji adjusting his kurta twice. Swami Ji raising Khushiji’s commission by 5% in sheer panic. Confirmed: He is a goner.

He placed it in front of Payal for her ‘casual’ inspection, and she had perused it with the same calm precision one might use when examining a suspect confession letter.

Like she was waiting for him to trip—and he was.

And Khushiji? Sweet, unsuspecting Khushiji?

She tapped the paper lightly, her fingers tracing idle patterns before looking up at him with a smile so utterly guileless it made his brain short-circuit.

"Swami Ji is always so thoughtful," she murmured, entirely unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on his nerves.

And then Khushiji had signed it with a smile, entirely oblivious to the silent battle of wills happening between her cousin and her not-so-secret admirer, handing the pen back to Arnav Swami.   

(NO NO, the author  means not-an-admirer).

Victory.

Sweet, sweet victory.

Or so Arnav Swami had thought.

Because the next thing he knew, Payal was making yet another ‘innocent’ suggestion.

“You know,” she said casually, setting the papers down with a wicked smile, “since this is such a substantial change, I think it would be best if you two reviewed the accounts together. Daily meetings, perhaps?”

"After all, financial clarity is very important in a partnership."  she said, tilting her head in the universal Didi-knows-everything manner.

Arnav froze. There it was. The intent wrapped in professionalism. His heart skipped a beat. 

Was this the moment? 

The moment when the universe hit him with a wedding proposal via contract? 

Daily. Partnership

Arnav Swami saw his entire life flash before his eyes.

A future where he was balancing Khushiji’s hotel accounts with a toddler on his lap, while the cow, his eternal karmic witness, watched smugly from a distance.

He was one signature away from eternal damnation, or a lifetime subscription to Khushiji’s fluttering eyelashes.

But just as he was bracing himself for whatever fate had in store, Khushiji finally spoke. Or rather, whispered.

“That... um... that doesn’t sound... unreasonable.”

She wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she was staring at the table’s surface, her fingers tracing idle patterns against the wood. Her cheeks were dusted with the faintest hint of pink, and…

Oh no.

She was biting her lip.

A known, certified, Swami Ji-approved dangerous habit.

For the first time in his life, Arnav felt his entire existence unravel.

Somewhere, a temple bell must have rung. Some poor, unsuspecting soul had just achieved enlightenment. Meanwhile, Arnav Swami had just achieved his doom.

Observation #4: Swami Ji is gripping his pen like it is the last branch before falling into a ravine. Diagnosis? Hopeless case of emotional entanglement. But if Swami Ji clutches that pen any tighter, it may just explode in his hand, much like his self-control.

Payal smirked, and his survival instincts yelped and tried to kick in.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to think. 

Rationalize. This was not a romantic moment.

The cow that had somehow stopped mid-chew to stare at him, judgingly, was a figment of his imagination.

Then Khushiji peeked up, all soft lashes and innocence, like the first bite of warm Imarthi. 

Sweet. Dangerous. Fatal.

He stopped thinking.

Arnav Swami’s fate was sealed.

He had walked into battle against a force far greater than himself.

And he had lost.

Because while Khushiji was busy blushing at the very idea of spending more time with him, Payal had already moved on to the next step of her grand master plan.

Observation #5: Om Prakash humming a wedding tune.

Observation #6: Gopu running to alert the dhaba staff.

Observation #7: The cow, damn that cow, was still staring.

And as the universe itself conspired against him, Arnav Swami realized one undeniable, terrifying truth.

Final Conclusion:

Arnav Swami shall suffer.

At the hands of a woman far too perceptive... And another far too blissfully unaware.

And maybe... just maybe, that blush had made it all worth it.

Also on Wattpad here and Blog here

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of the Unfortunate Endorsement

The elections had turned Khushiji’s enthusiasm up a notch, well, several notches. It all started when she enlisted as the campaign manager for Hariprakash Ji. Now, this wasn’t exactly a high-stakes political drama. Hariprakash Ji was running for a school board position. 

As the ONLY contender.

But Hariprakash Ji had big dreams. Once elected, he intended to leave behind his glorious tenure as the receptionist-cum-part-time-maintenance-person at Khushiji’s hotel and step into his destined role as the Municipal School Board Manager.

For this, he needed a campaign.

For a campaign, he needed a manager.

For a manager, he had Khushiji.

And that was how Arnav Swami’s peace perished.

Because Khushi had not come to play.

She stormed into his dhaba one evening, election pamphlets in hand, and slammed them onto the counter with the force of a woman on a mission.

“Swami Ji,” she said, leaning forward, eyes ablaze with purpose. “I need you.”

Arnav leaned back instinctively. He did not like the way that sounded. “For what?”

“To endorse Hariprakash Ji’s campaign, of course.”

Arnav leaned back, arms crossed. “I don’t give speeches, Khushiji.”

“You own a dhaba,” she argued. “You talk to people all the time.”

“Yes. About food. Not… school board reform.”

Khushi gasped. Loudly. Dramatically. A true cinematic betrayal.

“Swami Ji!” she cried. “You mean to say… you don’t support education? You don’t believe in the future of our children?”

Arnav’s eye twitched. “That is not what I said.”

Khushi clasped her hands, looking up at him with a hopeful, almost dangerous glimmer in her eyes.

And…oh no.

Oh no.

“Please, Swami Ji?” she said sweetly, tilting her head, voice a little softer, eyes wrinkling at the corners.

Arnav exhaled sharply. 

It was not because of the please. And definitely not because he had noticed the way the light caught the hazel of her eyes.

No, Absolutely, NOT. 

(He is a fool of the highest order, SIGH!)

And that was how he found himself standing in front of a grand audience of exactly eight people that evening, with a rickety microphone in hand.

A goat was also present.

Khushiji inducted him.. 

“And now, a man of the people! A man whose dhaba has seen more intellectual debates than Parliament! A man who once convinced a skeptical customer that dalda was, in fact, not just ghee’s slimmer cousin! SWAMI JI!”

Arnav cleared his throat. The goat blinked expectantly.

Hariprakash Ji nodded in encouragement from the side.

Khushi was beaming.

And so, man had to do what man had to do.

“Esteemed members of our community…” he began, keeping his gaze locked somewhere above their heads, “I am here today to endorse a man of integrity, a man of great ambition, and most importantly, a man who has been fixing a leaky pipe at Khushiji’s hotel for seven months and still believes it can be fixed.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Khushi clapped. Enthusiastically. As if he had just delivered the Tryst of Destiny speech.

The others, perhaps out of obligation, joined in. 

Even the goat let out an approving meh.

Arnav took that as a victory. A sad, ridiculous victory.

Trapped by circumstance (and Khushiji), he continued…

 “Hariprakash Ji is a visionary. He sees a future where schools run efficiently, where education is prioritized, and where…”

He hesitated, glancing at Khushi, who was nodding eagerly, mouthing say something inspiring!

“...where no child is left behind,” he finished, vaguely recalling the line from some campaign slogan he had seen once.

This time, the applause was a little louder.

 One of the eight people whistled. 

The goat tried to eat a pamphlet.

And just like that, the speech was done.

Later, as the small crowd dispersed (the goat, still committed to civic engagement, kept chewing a pamphlet), Arnav turned to Khushi, who was grinning at him like he’d just rescued democracy itself.

“You did so well, Swami Ji,” she praised.

He gave her a look. “I spoke for two minutes to eight people.”

“Exactly! And it was riveting!” she declared. Then, in a lower voice, she added, “Maybe next time, try smiling?”

Arnav inhaled patience and exhaled regret. 

“There will be no next time.”

“Oh, Swami Ji.” She patted his arm lightly, eyes twinkling. “Once a man gives his first speech, the world is never the same again.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Khushiji, that sounds suspiciously like a threat.”

She gasped. “A promise, Swami Ji. A promise.”

And then, with all the confidence of a woman who had just single-handedly changed the course of local politics, she walked off, humming the campaign jingle she had written herself, off-key, but absolutely fearless.

“Hariprakash Ji! He’s fixing the pipes! 

He’s running the school! 

He will change our lives!”

Arnav winced.

“Khushiji, you just rhymed pipes with lives.”

“It’s called poetic license, Swami Ji. The greats do it.”

Arnav rubbed his temples. “Khushiji, I think I need a drink.”

“Of course! We must celebrate! Chai for all! On the campaign budget!”

“…We had a campaign budget?”

She waved him off. “Technicality.”

Arnav watched her go, shaking his head to himself.

“Yeh ladki mujhko pagal kar degi”.

He had been cornered. Tricked. Manipulated by a pair of hazel eyes.

And yet, he knew.

He was probably going to give more speeches.

Against his will.

Under extreme duress.

Only if Khushiji asked.

Also on blog here and wattpad here

[chaiandtakkar]

ArShi OS: Chhap Tilak

[ Words: 1332; Genre: Angst; TW: none ]

Khushi crumpled the delicate paper in her fists, the ink smearing into her palms. Her empty wrists didn’t miss her mother’s gold bangles. Taking a deep breath she tossed the crumbled paper in his garbage can and tore another sheet from his writing pad. Before he could come into his office, she needed to pen why he couldn’t leave, break the heart, destroy the dreams of-

Lavanya

The pen paused, soaking the paper in ink, as words left her. With a quick glance she threw away the paper, it wouldn’t take him a minute to realise Khushi Kumari Gupta was the author of the letter.

So she wrote a short letter, familiar to Lavanya’s tone and vocabulary, with a touch of desperation she had heard in the other woman’s voice over the past few days.

And for once, Khushi found the words to seamlessly bleed into the paper. Tears betrayed her emotions, in anguish and relief, that she could write what ruthlessly churned in her mind in the guise of another’s name.

Chaap tilak, sab cheeni rey,

Mose naina milayke

Keep reading

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of Ordered Disruption

Arnav Swami was a man of discipline.

A man of order.

A man who firmly believed that leisure was an overrated concept - one peddled by those who failed to appreciate the sanctity of perfectly symmetrical restaurant table arrangements.

He did not engage in frivolities like sports, dance, or (he shuddered) antakshari on road trips. Not because his stamina, agility, or voice was questionable (he would duel anyone who dared suggest such blasphemy), but because he simply had better things to do.

Like ensuring his aloo paratha-to-butter ratio was mathematically flawless.

That is… until she happened.

One fateful afternoon, Khushiji stormed into his dhaba like an action hero, except instead of sunglasses and a slow-motion entry, she was clutching a prehistoric transistor radio in one hand, its six-foot antenna extended so far it nearly took down his newly serviced ceiling fan.

“Swami Ji, LISTEN to this!” she declared, swinging it dangerously close to Bankelal Ji’s head.

Arnav, who had been peacefully ensuring his jalebis were soaking at the optimal syrup saturation level, sighed. “Khushiji, if this is another episode of Shrimaan Shrimati..”

“It’s cricket!” she announced, eyes sparkling with the kind of enthusiasm when she spotted a huge discount on Lifebouy soaps for her guest rooms. “They’re building a new team for the  Ganga Warriors League! And guess what?” 

“You, my dear Swami Ji, are going to the trial.”

Arnav froze. His soul momentarily left his body. 

Cricket? Him? That was about as likely as a dosa rolling itself into a perfect cylinder on the first try.

“Khushiji…” He carefully removed his reading glasses (which, to be clear, had no number but were purely for intimidation purposes).

(Also author’s nod to @Hand-picked-star’s Crimson Shade, Chapter 35.)

 “There are two things I do not do. One: I do not eat at competitor’s dhabas. And two: I do not play sports.”

Khushi gasped, clutching her transistor like it had just been personally insulted. "Swami Ji, that’s exactly what all legends say before they become legends. Haven’t you seen Lagaan?"

Arnav rolled his eyes. "Wasn't that about taxes and colonial oppression?"

Khushi waved him off. "Details. The point is…you have potential."

Arnav folded his arms. "The only thing I have is common sense, which is why I’m going to say this very slowly. I. Do. Not. Play. Cricket."

Khushi’s eyes narrowed.

A slow, mischievous smile curled on her lips.

Dangerous.

"Oh?" she mused, tapping her chin. "I see… So, you're scared."

Arnav’s jaw twitched. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, it makes sense," she continued airily, inspecting her nails. "You’ve built this whole ‘intimidating dhaba owner’ persona, but deep down, maybe you're just…" She trailed off dramatically. "A little… uncoordinated?"

Arnav bristled. "Khushiji, I…"

Khushi, completely unfazed, grabbed his hand and started dragging him out. “Enough said. You’re going.”

“Khushiji, NO”

“Bankelal Ji, secure the pedas! He’s trying to run!”

“ON IT, KUSHIJI!”

And just like that, the most feared dhaba owner in Haridwar found himself hauled to a cricket trial, against his will, like a child being taken for his first polio shot.

The cricket ground was a dusty expanse of regret.

A very short man with an unnervingly squeaky voice stood in the center, wielding a clipboard like it contained state secrets.

“Alright, boys! Step up, step up! My name is…”

He said his name, but it came out so fast and high-pitched that it sounded suspiciously like Squeachin Teller.

Arnav squinted. “What?”

“SQUEACHIN TE—OH NEVER MIND! JUST BAT!”

Khushi elbowed Arnav forward. “Go on, Swami Ji! Show them your hidden talent!”

Arnav had hidden talents. Avoiding human interaction was one of them. Cricket was not.

Nevertheless, he took his stance at the crease. He could do this. He just had to imagine that every ball flying toward him was a Bengali rasogulla.

Except…

He could not do this.

One ball hit his pad, another flew past his ear, and one particularly aggressive one nearly knocked off his reading glasses. 

He really tried but then he swung with the grace of a malfunctioning table fan, missing each one so spectacularly that even the neighborhood halwai selling stale pakoras outside the stadium winced.

The bowler, a lanky fellow with a face that screamed mohalle ka gunda, but very round glasses, was enjoying this way too much.

“Arre bhai, are you trying to play cricket or swat mosquitoes?” he snickered.

Khushi had had enough.

She stepped forward, snatched the bat from Arnav’s hands, and pointed it at Squeachin like a warrior queen ready for Mahabharat 2.0.

“You. Squeaky voice. Get in there.”

Squeachin hesitated. “But…I…”

“Now”

The short man gulped, grabbed the bat from Khushiji and strutted up to face the bowler, clearly confident in his ability to show these amateurs how it was done.

Big mistake.

With the fury of someone personally offended, Khushiji grabbed the ball from the lanky fella, took her position, and hurled it straight at him.

Clean bowled.

The stumps flew. 

The bat dropped. 

Squeachin let out a noise somewhere between a meep and a yelp.

Silence.

Then, from the sidelines, Bankelal Ji erupted in laughter. “Kya baat hai, Khushiji! Arnav bhaiya, maybe YOU should be holding her transistor while SHE plays instead!”

Arnav scowled.

Khushi turned to him, tossing the ball up and catching it effortlessly, looking entirely too smug.

"Swami Ji," she said sweetly, stepping closer, "sometimes, it’s not about catching the rasogulla…"

She let the ball drop, watching it bounce near his feet.

"It’s about making sure no one else even smells it."

For a moment, Arnav Swami forgot how to breathe.

The sun shone behind her, a slight breeze catching the end of her dupatta, and for one horrifying second, he was tempted to close the distance.

Instead, he muttered, dangerously low, "Khushiji, one day, you will regret this."

Khushi grinned. "Looking forward to it, Swami Ji."

And with that, she picked and tossed the ball back to him and sauntered off, her transistor blaring the latest S.P. Balasubramaniam hit in the background, leaving Arnav standing in the middle of the pitch, contemplating a few things:

One, that cricket may actually be the most humiliating sport ever invented.

And two… that if Khushi ever joined the Indian Cricket Team, the rest of the world would just have to deal with it.

And three… that maybe, just maybe…he’d be there, transistor in hand, shouting her name in the stands. Not that he cared. He just didn’t trust Bankelal Ji to keep score properly.

Also on blog here and Wattpad here

[chaiandtakkar]

Fanaa

02

01

The gazebo provided her with the much needed shade in the midst of summer. But she could hardly relax under the expectant gazes of Buaji and Manorama aunty.

Payal was far more subdued, holding a neutral front. The only help against two persistent women. 

“Khushi bitiya, Arnav is a wonderful man. He is…what do people say? Yes! That he is a man of substance. You know, the kind of principles nowhere to be found these days-“

“Why didn’t he marry then?” Khushi arched her brow.

“What?” Manorama was stumped, “Well, nobody dared to question him. He was twenty six when he lost Ratna to cancer. Poor thing, it hit him hard. And after that, it just didn’t cross any of our minds. But mind you, he’s a well sought after man. Women have never been able to resist him! Khushi, I won’t lie to you, he is not a charming man. Neither does he talk sweet. But he’s a man who has a quality-“

“I just don’t understand why he must marry me! I mean just look at our ages! What would we even have in common?” Khushi scoffed.

“You are both in the field of media!” Buaji piped in.

“I have a degree in journalism ,buaji. I am going to begin from the ground level. He has been living on the peak since ages! What an awful match would that be”

“Khushi”, Payal warned.

“Let it be Payal”, Manorama sighed.

“Do you think we conjured the idea of you two out of thin air? Absolutely not! It was him who suggested it!”

She felt her stomach erupt in an uncomfortable sensation, her grip tightened on the arm of the wicker chair. 

The shock on her face made buaji squirm.

“Why don’t you meet him? Ask him all these questions yourself. And then reject him, if you find him an unsuitable partner for you. As simple as that.”

She hesitated, her mind was confused between rage and fascination.

“He’s a busy man..”, her voice trailed lazily.

“Aah! No problem! I’ll set it up!”

All was right again in Manorama Malik’s world.

———

‘Bubbles’, that was the restaurant she drove to in her fufaji’s old but sturdy car.

A prominent restaurant in the upscale neighbourhood was certainly what Khushi had been expecting of Mr. Raizada. Even with such a cute name, the restaurant screamed elegance. 

The valet was polite enough with her Maruti Esteem even though it was surrounded by Bentleys. She was beyond grateful to spot the man of the evening himself, walking over to her, as she handed over her keys to the valet.

“Miss Gupta”

His voice. God, his voice.

Is it a rich people thing, she wondered. It felt like his vocal cords were crafted out of the finest silk ,dipped in a potion of perfect masculinity. She needed to keep her cool during this dinner. But Mr Raizada, was not being fair at all. By just being himself, he was at an advantage.

“I am glad you came. Shall we?”

And that’s how he guided Khushi to an exclusive corner of this already exclusive place. His arm hovered around her, guiding her past tables and waiters, but never actually touching her. He was a gentleman, she knew. But it really didn’t help the anticipation soaked evening.

——

Seated, and having ordered some sushi and another Japanese dish recommended by him, she braced herself to fire all uncomfortable queries at him.

“I know your mind is running overtime”, he smiled softly, “Mami told me how you had tons of doubt about the prospect of us. I don’t want to leave anything unsaid between us”.

He paused. Only for a moment. Only to hold her eyes captive under his gaze.

“Truth be told, I don’t want to wait. And I hope that after I answer your questions, you won’t want to as well”

She gaped at him like an idiot for a moment, before gathering her senses

“Well…I think I’ll just…Why do you want to marry?”

“Well, why not?”

Khushi could do nothing but stare. He sat there, all calm and strong. But there was something. Something in the eyes which gave away the intensity of the man.

“I saw Akash getting married”, he continues when she stays silent, “Felt like I was missing out on something”

She narrows her eyes, “You don’t seem like someone who gets married because they feel…envy”

“I am human”, he says simply.

“Why me? We are so apart in age. It doesn’t make any sense…”, she bit her lip.

It was working. There was a creeping curiosity in her to know more about this man, his motives. But what it disguised was an embarrassing lust she felt for this man.

It was there in the way, he adjusted his cufflinks, before wielding the chopsticks. It was there in the way his fingers, attractive in the most masculine way, settled around his glass of whiskey. But most of all it was there in his air of self assurance. This was a man who could rival the K2! And damn her luck to be weak in front of such a fine specimen!

“Khushi”

God damnit! There’s that tone again.

“It’s the only obstacle that came into my mind regarding us. I can’t promise that it won’t be a problem between us. But it seems like an issue we can overcome, don’t you think?”

She knew that on paper these words probably would have seemed incomplete. But the way he said it, she knew Mr Raizada was least bothered by their age difference. His eyes held thousands of promises, some even deluding her into believing she was seeing her desires mirror in his eyes.

———

A few more questions, and two glasses of chilled lemonade later, Khushi found herself walking up to the entrance, where the valet waited with her car. 

Before she could take the final few steps to reach her leather seat, Mr Raizada stopped her.

“I don’t think you addressed the elephant in the room, Miss Gupta”

Puzzled, Khushi felt her face express her confusion.

“You didn’t share your plans after graduation.”

“Well…I plan to work.”

“You won’t work in AR”

The matter of factly tone of his voice offended her more than she could have anticipated.

“Of course! I have applied in several companies, even heard back from-“

“I meant you’ll be working in Rhapsody”, he cut in smoothly.

“Rhapsody?”

“AR’s new venture. It aims to bring a new perspective on journalism. I am sure you would understand Miss Gupta, sensationalism sells. My main channel could never do that. It goes against our brand value. So we have created this magazine. A fortnightly treat for everything scandalous.”

“And you want me to work there?”

“No. I want you to lead it”, he smirked.

Shock would have been an understatement to describe the emotions running beneath her skin.

He led her, in that very distinct way of his, to her car.

“But after all, it would all depend”

She looked up at him,dazed beyond measure.

“On whether you say yes”

And then he was gone. Like a dream you chase fruitlessly in the throes of ecstasy.

————

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of the Smoldering Rivalry

For years, no, decades, Chotiwala Restaurant had reigned supreme as the undisputed, benevolent sponsor of exactly ₹300 for the annual Ramlila Mahotsav.

It was tradition. A sacred pact. A bond between history and perfectly fried kachodis.

It was, of course, entirely immaterial that Khushiji was now the president of the Ramlila committee. Completely. Utterly. Immaterial.

And yet, this year…

A betrayal so deep, poets would weep.

A treason so severe, even Raavan himself would shake his many heads in disapproval.

A dagger in the heart of tradition, dipped in the chutney of deceit.

Because there, standing smugly in the middle of the Ramlila ground, was Advay Go-swami, owner of Asli Chotiwala Dhaba, a name so audaciously similar to Arnav’s Chotiwala Restaurant that it might as well have been a crime.

Advay not-a-ji had taken the prime exhibition space. The one that had, by divine right and well-fed committee members, always belonged to Arnav Swami.

And to make matters worse, Advay was currently leaning toward Khushiji, all smiles and charm, as if he belonged there.

Arnav clenched his jaw.

Advay Goswami’s shameless behavior was…

Unacceptable.

“Swami Ji, why are you standing behind me like a statue?” Khushi glanced at him, adjusting the stack of Ramlila script in her hands.

Arnav narrowed his eyes at Advay, who was still there, still smiling, and, by the looks of it, still breathing near Khushiji’s personal space.

“I was just admiring the… architectural flaws of the tent,” Arnav muttered.

Khushi blinked. “The tent?”

“Yes. The poles look structurally unsound,” he added grimly. “Might collapse any second.”

Advay chuckled. CHUCKLED.

And for extra effect, polished his nails on his kurta like a villain savoring victory.

“Swami Ji,” he drawled, “it’s a shame we didn’t meet earlier. I would’ve asked for your advice on tent stability.”

Arnav grit his teeth. “I’m sure you would have.”

And then, as if to brandish his victory, Advay gestured to the giant banner behind him:

ASLI CHOTIWALA DHABA OFFICIAL SPONSOR OF RAMLILA 1998

The words burned.

“I must say, Khushiji has been so kind,” Advay continued smoothly, flashing his teeth. 

Too many teeth. Suspicious. 

“Without her support, I wouldn’t have gotten this prime location.”

Arnav turned to Khushi.

Khushi, suddenly fascinated by the sky, avoided his gaze.

A terrible suspicion took root.

“Khushiji,” Arnav said, slow and measured, “did you… approve this?”

Khushi squirmed. “Well… see… it’s not like we didn’t want Chotiwala Restaurant, but Advay Ji..”

“Advay Ji?” Arnav echoed. 

“...offered extra funds for the sound system!” Khushi cut in quickly. 

Advay smiled. 

A villainous, conceited, obviously evil smile. 

“I simply wanted to support the arts, Swami Ji.”

Arnav’s eye twitched.

Arts, my foot.

This was war.

The battle lines had been drawn.

If they wanted war, war they would get !!!!

A man had to do what man had to do.

He worked through the night. 

Milk was boiled like his rage. Saffron was sprinkled like the ashes of his ruined legacy. A lone veena played..,no, no, an entire sangeet mandli of fury played in his mind.

The air smelled of triumph.

By morning, right at the entrance of the Ramlila ground, Chotiwala dhaba unveiled the largest Kulfi counter in Ramlila history.

It was a spectacle.

A monument to chilled desserts. 

A counter so massive that whispers spread through the crowd.

“Did you hear? Swami Ji’s counter has over 21 flavors of kulfi!”

Only Arnav knew there was a No. 22.

A new secret flavor. 

The taste of vengeance.

“I heard it’s so good, even Meghnath himself came back for seconds.”

“Did you know Swami Ji sources saffron from a secret Himalayan valley blessed by saints?”

“Wait… is that… a giant rotating matka of malai kulfi?!”

Khushi gasped when she saw it.

“Swami Ji,” she breathed, still clutching her Ramlila script, “you… you did all this?”

Arnav crossed his arms, gaze unwavering and victorious. 

“We must support the arts.”

Advay Goswami’s face fell.

Because even a man with a stolen prime location couldn’t compete with endless, creamy, saffron-infused kulfi.

The war had been won.

Later that night, when the Ramlila ground twinkled with fairy lights and laughter, Khushi approached Arnav’s stall, absently brushing her fingers along the edge of the counter.

“The kulfi is a big hit,” she said, watching the crowd gathered around.

Arnav shrugged. “People appreciate quality.”

Khushi hummed, picking up a kesariya kulfi. She took a slow bite, eyes drifting over the festive scene before settling on him for just a moment longer than necessary.

“A lot of effort,” she murmured, “for a simple counter.”

Arnav glanced at her, then back at the kulfi in her hand. 

“It was a… necessary business expansion.”

Khushi licked a stray drop of kulfi from her thumb. "And?"

Arnav cleared his throat. “Some things are worth the effort.”

Khushi took a bite, sighed in happiness, and then smiled at him.

A small, understated smile.

The kind that wasn’t loud or obvious. The kind that wasn’t for show.

The kind that made a man feel like he had just won more than a kulfi war.

Arnav exhaled, relaxing for the first time that evening.

And when Khushi handed him the kulfi, nudging it toward him like a quiet acknowledgement, he took it.

Because some battles weren’t about territory.

Some battles were about winning where it truly mattered.

And tonight?

Arnav Swami had won.

(Of course, just as Khushiji’s friend.)

Also on the blog here and Wattpad here

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of the Unyielding Yogi

Arnav Swami had always been a man of discipline when it came to moderation, especially with food. He was not one to frequent an akhada at the break of dawn, nor did he believe in punishing himself with endless rounds of running. Yet, despite owning fourteen and counting dhabhas, he had been blessed with excellent family genes and a naturally lean frame, which had served him well over the years.

Just last week, Manorama magazine had approached him for a feature on his sprawling dhaba empire. The reporter had taken a few photographs and, in a rather approving tone, remarked on how fit he looked for someone constantly surrounded by Paneer Makhni and Khoya Matar.

So, really, he was doing just fine. He had to maintain this reputation…After all, he was now the face of Haridwar’s version of Manorama. Who knew? Maybe Reader’s Digest was next.

And then, one peaceful afternoon, just as he was sipping his chai and planning the next big thing in dhaba expansion, Khushiji meandered in, her energy disrupting the lazy lull of the day like a sudden power cut in the middle of a Doordarshan serial.

She wasn’t just walking, she was marching with purpose, clutching a pink pamphlet in her hand, eyes shining with barely contained excitement. It was the kind of excitement usually reserved for Parle-G biscuit sales or new film posters outside Sanjay Talkies.

“Swami Ji!” she declared, landing in front of him like a victorious postman delivering urgent news.

Arnav peered over his cup, instantly wary. “I don’t like that look, Khushiji. That look means trouble.”

“This look means revolution, Swami Ji!” she corrected, waving the pink pamphlet dramatically. “A most divine opportunity has come to Haridwar!”

Arnav leaned back, unimpressed. “If it’s another 10% discount at Tiwari Mishtan Bhandar, I’ll pass.”

Khushi gasped. “Swami Ji! This is bigger than discounts! This is yoga, a solution to all ailments, including your biggest problem!”

Arnav raised a brow. “And what exactly is my biggest problem, Khushiji?”

She folded her arms. “Your refusal to try Surya Namaskar. Do you even know how many benefits it has? It increases flexibility, improves digestion, and…” she lowered her voice conspiratorially,

“It might even help with your mood.”

Arnav gave her a dry look. “And how did you arrive at the conclusion that I need mood improvement?”

Khushi waved him off. “It’s not just for you! I am joining too. This yoga guru is supposed to be the fittest teacher in all of Haridwar.”

That got Arnav’s attention. A little too quickly for his liking.

“And how do you know that?”

“It’s written right here!” she said, pointing to a particularly dramatic line on the pamphlet that read: “Aacharya Nandkishore: The Guru of Strength, Stamina, the fittest of all in Haridwar.

Arnav gave the pamphlet a once-over and let out an exhale. This smelled suspiciously like a well-crafted marketing scam.

Still, Khushiji was beaming. Her enthusiasm was so unchecked, so infectious, that for a fleeting second, Arnav almost considered signing up.

Almost.

Instead, he did what absolutely needed to be done.

He decided to stake out this so-called yoga camp and personally verify whether this Aacharya Nandkishore was, in fact, a certified yoga instructor or just a man in saffron robes performing elaborate stretches.

And so began Arnav Swami’s most unexpected investigation.

The next morning, dressed in what could almost pass for yoga-appropriate attire (a simple kurta and pajamas ) because, let’s be honest, he wasn’t about to wear dhoti like some overenthusiastic yoga students , Arnav arrived at the camp.

He had come with only one objective, to observe.

Blend into the background.

Make sure Aacharya Nandkishore was legitimate. That was it.

But as fate would have it, Khushiji spotted him within three seconds.

“Swami Ji!” she gasped, delighted. “You came!”

Arnav sighed.

So much for subtlety.

Before he could escape, Khushiji dragged him toward the front of the class.

Great. Just great.

The session began with a simple breathing exercise. Harmless enough. Arnav Swami could handle this.

Then came the Surya Namaskar.

“Swami Ji, stretch your arms more! Like this!” Khushi instructed, demonstrating an exaggerated movement.

Arnav tried. He really did. But his body refused.

The instructor, Nandkishore looked like he could bend steel rods with his bare hands, stood nearby, nodding approvingly at Khushi’s form.

Arnav found himself suddenly disliking him.

As he adjusted his posture with the grace of a reluctant giraffe, Acharyaji decided to do a one-handed push-up… effortlessly. Because why not?

The women in the class sighed in admiration, and to Arnav’s absolute horror, even Khushiji clapped.

Actually clapped.

As if she had just witnessed Hanumanji carry Sanjeevani.

The real disaster, however, struck when the class moved into Shirshasana.

Khushiji executed it perfectly, her face glowing with self-satisfaction.

Arnav?

Well. He attempted it.

And in that attempt, he promptly lost balance, tipping sideways and before he could comprehend what was happening, ended up sprawled on the floor like a fallen mango.

He had tasted defeat.

And also, quite literally, the yoga mat.

It tasted like dust and regret.

Khushi gasped dramatically. “Swami Ji! Are you okay?”

Arnav closed his eyes. He was never going to hear the end of this.

“Perhaps,” he muttered, “I should’ve stuck to running a dhaba.”

Khushiji, to her credit, tried to look sympathetic. But the way she bit her lip, her shoulders shaking, she was laughing.

Then, she crouched beside him and, before he could react, reached out and smoothed back his hair.

His stomach did something highly inconvenient.

“At least you tried,” she said, her voice softer now, teasing but oddly warm.

Arnav cleared his throat, still refusing to meet her eyes. “I don’t do yoga.”

Khushi grinned. “Clearly.”

Arnav sighed. “I think a laddoo does yoga better than me.”

Khushi blinked. Then, with an amused gasp, she reached out and booped his nose. “Swami Ji, you’re adorable.”

She booped his actual nose.

Arnav shot her a look. She beamed.

And then..because he wasn’t suffering enough.. Acharyaji spoke again.

“Devi,” Nandkishore Ji mused, looking at Khushi with approval, “you have excellent control over your core strength.”

Arnav, on impulse, muttered under his breath, “I could teach her better control.”

Khushi, oblivious, chirped, “Really, Swami Ji? I’d love to learn!”

Arnav choked on air.

Acharyaji raised an eyebrow.

Khushiji simply beamed at him, utterly unaware of the war happening in Arnav’s mind.

And despite himself, despite his entire predicament, he found his lips twitching.

He spent the rest of the session in Shavasana, of course.

There were many things Arnav Swami could endure. But watching Khushiji be impressed by a man who treated stretching like a divine art?

That, he had to investigate further.

Who knew? Maybe he’d accidentally knock Acharyaji off balance next time.

Purely out of scientific curiosity, of course.

Nothing personal.

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of a Sweet Conundrum

Arnav Swami had perfected the art of kulfi-making. Not just as a trade, but as a sacred science, a legacy as old as the chipped kulhads in which his Nanaji had once served it.

And over the years, Arnav had refined every element, the audaciously generous pistachios, the cardamom measured with precision, the cream thick enough to start a family dispute if tampered with…until his kulfi was nothing short of a legend.

If you asked him, he would tell you; matter-of-factly, with no room for argument, that his malai kulfi was beyond reproach. People had gushed over it, fought over the last stick, and frequently found it sold out before noon.

That afternoon, feeling particularly smug about his latest saffron-infused batch, he was wiping his hands when he spotted Khushiji sauntering down the street near his dhaba.

Now Arnav had seen Khushiji in many moods. Rushing like a monsoon wind when she was late, skipping over puddles like a child, bargaining loudly with street hawkers, or marching off indignantly when someone tried to overcharge her. 

But today?

Today, she was walking at an uncharacteristically unhurried pace, her steps languid, almost… graceful. Her hair, which was usually braided into two playful plaits, was instead gathered into a single elegant braid like Madhuri Dixit ji in Beta.

And yet, none of this was what truly caught his attention.

It was the fact that she was juggling not one, but two ice bars. A mango bar in one hand. An orange bar in the other.

Arnav frowned. He was nothing if not open to new ideas, but these foreign frozen indulgences? That was still a concept he was warming up to.

Khushiji, of course, was blissfully unaware of his judgmental stare as she made her way toward the dhaba. She bit into the mango bar, then took an immediate bite of the orange one, a delighted hum escaping her lips. 

From behind the counter, Gopu, his errand boy and an unlicensed connoisseur of street food, looked up from stacking kulhads and whispered conspiratorially, “Swami Ji, she’s doing it again.”

Arnav folded his arms. “Doing what?”

Gopu nodded solemnly at Khushi. “Mixing flavors. Yesterday, it was papdi chaat with peanut chutney.”

Arnav suppressed a shudder. This woman was a menace. A chaotic force of nature with no regard for the sacred laws of flavor compatibility. 

First peanut chutney with papdi chaat. 

Now this. 

What was next? 

Gajar ka halwa with ketchup?

Before he could question her life choices, she planted herself in front of him, eyes bright. “Swami Ji, your ceiling fan is slow.”

Arnav blinked. “What?”

Khushi gestured toward the fan with her orange-bar-wielding hand. 

“I’ve struck a deal with the local repair shop. Ten fans serviced, and we get a hefty discount. It’s practically free money, Swami Ji.” 

She grinned, leaning in like a seasoned scam artist. 

“We just have to act fast.”

From his usual corner, Manohar Mamaji, a quiet and perpetually flustered man, cleared his throat. “Advertising gimmick. They always say discount,” he mumbled into his chai before retreating into his newspaper as if he had revealed state secrets.

Arnav barely processed her words, his gaze locked on the melting ice bars, dangerously close to dripping onto her bangles. 

“You’re eating both?” he asked, unable to help himself.

Khushi licked the corner of the mango bar before answering. “Of course. One moment you want mango, the next moment, orange. Why choose when you can have both?” She grinned. “You should try it, Swami Ji.”

Arnav scoffed. “I’ll pass.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your loss.” 

And just as she went in for another enthusiastic bite, she froze.

Her face scrunched up, her eyes squeezed shut, and she let out the softest, most helpless little whimper. She clutched her head with one hand, while still perfectly balancing both ice bars in the other, swayed slightly, and whispered in an almost betrayed voice, “Hai Devi Maiya…”

Arnav, who had been watching in mild exasperation, suddenly found himself caught off guard.

Not because of what had happened. That was predictable. It was the way she looked.

A moment ago, she had been a force of nature, bargaining for ceiling fan repairs and demolishing two ice bars at once. Now? Now she looked absurdly innocent. 

Small. 

Momentarily defeated.

Mamaji peered over his newspaper cautiously. “B-b-brain freeze?”

Gopu, ever helpful, nodded sagely. “Happens when you don’t respect the food, Mamaji.” He exhaled deeply, as if recalling a great tragedy. “I’ve seen it before.”

Arnav cleared his throat. “You do know kulfi doesn’t give people brain freeze, right?”

Khushiji, still recovering from betrayal, cracked one eye open. “Maybe kulfi isn’t trying hard enough.”

He smirked despite himself. “Or maybe Kulfi does not need to”

Khushiji groaned and dramatically flopped onto one of the dhaba’s wooden benches, still cradling her forehead. “Swami Ji, the world needs solutions, not judgments.”

Arnav said nothing. But for the first time, a thought struck him. Perhaps this was the angle he hadn’t considered before.

That evening, Arnav sat with his chai, staring at his saffron kulfi. 

Kulfi never betrayed its consumers. It was steadfast, reliable. A dessert of integrity.

But ice bars? They melted too fast, disappeared too soon, left you with nothing but sticky fingers and suffering.

 But… was that the appeal of ice bars? Did suffering create an attachment?

And more importantly… was that why he couldn’t stop thinking about Khushiji?

The next day, ever the adaptable businessman, Arnav installed a freezer display at his flagship dhaba, stocked with mango and orange bars, purely as an experiment, of course.

A day later, Khushiji , like a clockwork, returned to the dhaba, this time empty-handed, and that should have been the first sign of trouble.

She leaned against the counter and started “You know, Swami Ji,” she mused, popping a piece of saunf in her mouth, “that saffron twist you added to the kulfi? Genius.”

He froze.

She had noticed?

Khushi tapped the table thoughtfully. “I mean, I always knew your kulfi was the best, but saffron? Swami Ji, that was a game-changer.”

Arnav, who had been feeling quite content with his chai, suddenly felt the need to inspect the architectural integrity of the dhaba’s roof. Anywhere but at her.

Then, just as he had barely recovered, she delivered the final blow. “By the way… since you’re all about innovation these days, have you ever considered mango-orange kulfi?” She smiled, a little too innocently. “Just saying.”

From his corner, Mamaji’s newspaper trembled slightly. As if sensing that a great shift was about to occur in the universe.

And with that, she got up, leaving behind a trail of mischief, while Arnav sat there, suspiciously aware of his own heartbeat.

Of course, he told himself, her idea was genius. Nothing more.

Mango-orange kulfi.

Now there was a thought.

He reached for his notebook.

Perhaps, just maybe, this was another experiment worth trying.

Also on the blog here and Wattpad here

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of the Overzealous Benovelent

For as long as he could remember, Arnav Swami had maintained a cautious, if not outright adversarial, relationship with UP Roadways buses.

The thick diesel fumes, the rattling windows that seemed one good jolt away from detaching mid-ride, and the occasional goat occupying a seat made for an experience best avoided.

And yet, here he was.

Because life had a way of testing his patience.

When his Nani suggested scouting plots in Rishikesh for a potential new dhaba, he had agreed purely as a business move. Strictly professional. Nothing more, nothing less.

That it involved subjecting himself to UP Roadways was merely an unfortunate side effect.

It was, of course, entirely unrelated to the fact that just a few days ago, Khushiji had burst into his dhaba, raving about river rafting with such aggressive arm movements that he had genuinely considered ducking for cover.

"Swami Ji, imagine! The wind in your hair, the water splashing… adventure at its peak!" she had declared, eyes sparkling like she was describing some spiritual awakening.

Arnav had nodded sagely. “Or death at its peak.”

She had gasped, scandalized. “Swami Ji! You have no spirit of adventure!”

“Running a dhaba is an adventure, Khushiji,” he had countered. “You should see people fight over the last piece of balushahi”

She had shaken her head, muttering something about laajawab log  before prancing off.

But that had nothing to do with his decision.

So, like a man on a mission, Arnav braced himself, squared his shoulders, and boarded the bus.

It was only a 45-minute ride. Maybe an hour if fate decided to test his patience. 

Manageable.

That morning, he had skipped breakfast, perhaps an unwise decision given his delicate travel constitution, but sacrifices had to be made. Business came first.

Settling into his seat, he let his eyes wander over the hawker dramatically displaying plastic combs and Shani Raksha Yantras, when suddenly…

A burst of color outside the window.

Bright. Unmistakable.

And then, emerging through the dusty air, balancing on her toes, Khushiji.

Peering into the bus with a grin, her nose scrunching ever so slightly as she squinted at him.

"Swami Ji!" she called out, reaching into her purse with the enthusiasm of a magician about to pull out a rabbit. “Here, take this!”

Before he could react, an orange candy was thrust through the window, landing squarely in his palm.

Arnav stared at it. Then at her.

"What is this?"

"Preventive measures," she declared. "You skipped breakfast, didn’t you? Bankelal ji stopped by and looked worried! He said you left in a hurry. You get all grumpy when you’re hungry.”

Arnav frowned. “I do not.”

She didn’t argue, just smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that said she knew things.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she frowned, her nose crinkling again.

"Wait, this is not enough. Hold on"

Before he could protest, she started digging into her tiny purse again, muttering under her breath. 

First came another candy, yellow this time, which she shoved into his other hand. 

Then a small packet of namak pare.

Then, after some deep contemplation, a single cashew.

Arnav just stared at the growing pile of unsolicited snack offerings in his hands.

"Khushiji, this is a bus ride, not an Everest expedition."

She ignored him completely, instead leaning forward slightly into the bus, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

"Ugh, Swami Ji, this smells terrible! Do you really have to take this bus? It’s so… so…" she paused, searching for the right word.

"Functional?" he offered dryly.

"No. Questionable." She nodded firmly, as if that settled it.

Arnav exhaled, pressing the bridge of his nose.

"Khushiji, I do not need…”

"Oh! Wait!!! Swami Ji, are you carrying water?"

He gave her a flat look.

"I am not an amateur."

She didn’t look convinced. Her hands were already at work again, fishing out a small tetra pack of frooti from her bag.

"Here, at least take this."

"I…"

But before he could complete the sentence, she was already poking a straw through the tiny hole, then thrusting the juice box toward him with both hands, her brows furrowed with pure, unfiltered concern.

"Swami Ji, please. Diesel fumes and an empty stomach? You’ll get dizzy. And then you'll faint. And then what will happen? Who will take care of the dhaba?"

Arnav sighed, pressing the juice box against his forehead in sheer surrender.

"You have given this entirely too much thought."

She beamed.

"Of course. Now, chaliye, have a safe trip! And don’t think too much! Business is important, but so is eating!"

And just like that, she was gone, skipping away with the same chaotic energy she had arrived with, her chunari floating behind her like she was starring in her own Bollywood montage.

Arnav looked down at the ridiculous assortment in his hands.

An orange candy. A yellow candy. Namak pare. One lonely cashew. And a mango juice box.

What was he supposed to do with one cashew? Frame it? Worship it?

None of this should have mattered.

It was ridiculous.

It was just an orange candy. Just sugar and artificial flavoring.

And yet…

As he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, the tangy sweetness cut through the thick fumes, and something even more ridiculous happened.

It helped.

He exhaled, reluctantly fiddling with the straw into the Frooti.

Maybe, just maybe… Khushiji knew things.

Also on blog here or Wattpad here

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of the Unexpected Dilemma

Arnav Swami had always trusted Masterji with his tailored clothes.

Masterji, with a blue chalk tucked behind one ear and a pencil behind the other, carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had stitched his way through history. He had crafted Arnav’s Dadaji’s clothes, his father’s, and now his; legacy, quite literally, sewn into every stitch. Specializing in Nehru Kotis, his craftsmanship was so impeccable that a peek into Arnav’s Godrej almirah would reveal a shrine of neatly folded masterpieces.

For Preetiji’s wedding, Arnav had donned his favorite black Nehru Koti, an exclusive masterpiece, stitched with painstaking care by Masterji. Standing before the mirror, smoothing out an imaginary crease, he gave himself a satisfied nod.

He looked dignified. 

Timeless.

Classic.

Like a well-groomed historical figure who would never, under any circumstances, be caught dead in anything other than a Nehru Koti.

And then he arrived at the wedding.

Preetiji’s father, ever the gracious host, seated him among a circle of seasoned gentlemen; uncles, grandfathers, distinguished men with stories in their eyes. And to Arnav’s mounting realization, every single one of them, without exception, was also clad in their finest Nehru Koti.

Now, this wasn’t exactly a problem. Arnav enjoyed the company of seasoned wisdom. But then, she walked in.

Khushiji.

Draped in a stunning green lehenga that somehow defied the laws of fashion by being almost mistaken for pants, Khushiji shimmered under the wedding lights like some kind of enchantress. She settled among guests dressed in impeccably tailored double-breasted coats, and suddenly, Arnav noticed something he had never paid much attention to before: structure, sharp lapels, the effortless fall of a well-cut jacket.

Khushiji laughed, tilting her head ever so slightly at one of the men in those very coats. Arnav, who had always believed the Nehru Koti to be the pinnacle of sophistication, found himself wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, his Godrej almirah had room for a navy or black coat.

Strangely, he wasn’t hungry that night, despite the mouth-watering moong dal cheela and aloo tikki calling to him. Instead, he spent the evening in an existential fog, half-listening to conversations, half-dreaming about betrayal… not of a person, but of fabric.

By morning, he found himself in Masterji’s shop, shifting awkwardly, like a man about to confess a great sin.

“Masterji,” he began cautiously, “what do you think about… double-breasted coats?”

Masterji, who had been pinning a sleeve with intense focus, froze mid-stitch. His blue chalk dropped to the floor. His eyes slowly lifted to meet Arnav’s.

For a moment, all was silent.

Then, in a voice laced with the weight of generations, he whispered, “A coat?”

Arnav cleared his throat. “A double-breasted one.”

Masterji dramatically wiped an invisible tear. Then, with the strength of a man accepting change against his better judgment, he straightened. “A man must always keep his options open,” he declared. “Who knows? The world changes… and so must we.”

Arnav swallowed the guilt of a lifetime of kotis. But Masterji, ever the eternal optimist, reassured him with a gleam in his eye. 

Then he left, unaware that fate had one last twist waiting.

A week later, Khushiji strolled into his dhabha, flipping through the wedding photographs with the casual expertise of someone who had spent years dissecting family albums for gossip. She narrated the evening like a seasoned storyteller; who wore what, who danced terribly, who made reckless life choices at the moong dal cheela counter, until she stopped at one particular picture.

“Swami Ji,” she mused, tapping the image lightly, “you did look… quite distinguished that night.”

Arnav, mid-sip of his chai, froze. 

Distinguished?

Was this how style legends were made? 

Did it start with an innocent remark from an unreasonably captivating woman? Was he, at this very moment, ascending into the hallowed ranks of timeless fashion icons?

He kept his face carefully neutral, but Khushiji was already leaning in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And that Nehru Koti?” she added as if discussing a relic of national importance. She sighed, her eyes glinting with amusement. “It was… perfect.”

Arnav placed his cup down with slow precision, suddenly aware of the way his sleeves fit, the way his collar rested against his neck. 

His pulse, uninvited, had decided to participate in this conversation, hammering a little faster than necessary.

“I mean…” Khushi’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Who else could have carried it with such… authority?”

Authority.

Arnav exhaled through his nose, resisting the very real urge to check if he had, in fact, looked that authoritative. Was she teasing him? Was she serious? Was his Nehru Koti now a historical artifact?

“But,” she continued, her voice light but laced with mischief, “if you ever feel the need to expand your collection, I suppose... a yellow koti wouldn’t be entirely awful.”

Arnav narrowed his eyes. A yellow koti. The woman who had just sung praises of his distinguished taste now wanted him to consider looking like an overenthusiastic sunflower.

He let out a slow breath and shook his head, half-smiling. “I’ll be sure to consult you before making any wardrobe decisions, Khushiji.”

“Good,” she said, handing him the photograph, her fingers brushing his ever so slightly. The touch was fleeting, but it left behind a strange warmth, like the aftertaste of strong chai. 

Her smile turned impossibly more mischievous. “I wouldn’t want you to lose your… legendary charm.”

And just like that, she winked and skipped away, leaving Arnav standing there, gripping the photograph as if it held the answers to life’s greatest mysteries.

His mind was a tangled mess of laughter, teasing, and the unmistakable glint in Khushi’s eyes.

Tomorrow, he was definitely visiting Masterji again.

Just… to keep his options open.

Also on the blog here and Wattpad here

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of the Reluctant Romantic

Arnav Swami prided himself on being a man of logic. A man of practical investments. A man who did not believe in unnecessary nonsense.

Which is precisely why he did not believe in Valentine’s Day.

He did not see the charm in overpriced chocolates, heart-shaped balloons, or, God forbid, giant teddy bears that took up too much space and contributed nothing to society.

No, thank you very much.

Until, of course, Khushiji happened.

And Khushiji… had a twisted understanding of the day.

"Swami Ji," she had announced one fine afternoon, dramatically throwing herself into the chair across from him, "Valentine’s Day is not about love.”

Arnav raised an eyebrow.

She leaned forward conspiratorially. "It is about strategy.”

He blinked. "...Come again?"

Khushiji clasped her hands like a seasoned war general. “Think about it, Swami Ji. If people are encouraged to celebrate love, then they will want to continue that celebration later.”

"And...?"

“And that is when I launch my Honeymoon Packages!” she declared, throwing her arms in the air. “Limited-time offers! Romantic couple stays! Heart-shaped parathas in breakfast buffets!"

Arnav stared at her. "Heart-shaped parathas?"

"Don’t interrupt my pitch,” she scolded. “We are discussing business.”

He rubbed his temples. "We?"

But somehow, against all logic, this was how, on the morning of February 14th, Arnav Swami’s respectable no-frills, no-nonsense dhaba had been overtaken by marigold flowers.

Everywhere.

Dangling from the ceiling, wrapped around the chairs, stuffed into the napkin holders…there were even three unfortunate marigolds floating in the dal makhni.

And the patrons?

The patrons were suffering.

The dhaba was unusually crowded that evening. Not because people had suddenly developed a new appreciation for romantic gestures, but because Khushiji, with her never-ending enthusiasm, had somehow convinced every hesitant customer that today was a historic event.

The first-ever Valentine’s Day Special at Arnav Swami’s dhaba.

"We must support love, Swami Ji!" she had declared, clapping her hands excitedly. "Or at least the economy!"

Which is how, by some force of nature, the usual patrons had been forced into participating.

Exhibit A: The Elderly Card Players.

These were the legends of the dhaba, four old men who spent their evenings playing cards, drinking endless cups of tea, and providing unsolicited political commentary.

Today, however, Khushiji had interrupted their intense Rummy tournament by plopping a single red rose in the middle of their game.

“For the spirit of romance,” she had said brightly.

The old men had stared at the flower. Then at each other.

Then, with a collective sigh of resignation, the oldest among them picked up the rose, ate a few petals, and resumed playing.

Because at the end of the day, what choice did they have?

Exhibit B: The Newly Married Couple.

A poor, unsuspecting couple had made the mistake of stepping into the dhaba at the wrong time.

Khushiji had immediately pounced.

"Newlyweds!" she had announced loudly, as if she were a game show host. "A perfect audience for our Valentine’s Day special!"

The couple had blinked in terror.

Within minutes, they had been seated at a table decorated with heart-shaped cutouts. A marigold garland had been placed around the groom’s neck. A candle, which Arnav was certain had been stolen from the dhaba, had been lit between them.

And before they could protest, a small bowl of kheer was placed in front of them.

"A symbol of sweetness!" Khushiji declared. "Go on, feed each other!"

The poor groom, very nervously, picked up a spoon and offered a bite to his equally terrified wife.

The moment their hands brushed, Khushiji clapped with delight.

The groom, now sweating profusely, shot Arnav a pleading look.

Arnav, who had long given up on controlling Khushiji, simply exhaled and poured himself another cup of chai.

Exhibit C: Manorama Mamiji and Her Terrified Husband.

Now, Manorama Mamiji was a frequent visitor. She had a very questionable grasp of English, an undeniable love for gossip, and a husband who existed in a constant state of polite fear.

Which is why, when Khushiji cornered Mamaji, her very scared-looking husband, with a bunch of marigolds and declared, “Go on, Mamaji! Give this to your beloved!” the poor man nearly fainted on the spot.

Mamiji, however, gasped in delight.

“Oooh-hoo-hoo, Khusiji! What a wonderphool ideaa!”

Mamaji hesitantly took the flowers. And, in an unexpected act of quiet rebellion, he did not hand them over.

Instead, very shyly, he tucked one behind his own ear.

Mamiji let out a dramatic gasp, clutching her heart.

"Oho! You naughty boy! What is this behavior, Jee?!”

The poor man turned a shade of red that should not exist in nature.

And Arnav, watching from behind the counter, exhaled. He had survived yet another day of Khushiji-induced madness.

Or so he thought.

Because later that night, after closing up, he found himself hesitating near Khushiji’s hotel.

She had worked hard today. Too hard.

And for reasons he chose not to analyze, he reached into his pocket… and pulled out a single, lonely rose.

A practical man would have just handed it to her.

Arnav Swami, however, was not a fool.

So he did the next best thing.

He placed it carefully on the hotel reception desk, not too obvious, not too hidden. Just enough.

And as he walked away, shaking his head at himself, he already knew…

No matter how foreign this day was to him…

He would probably end up frying more heart styled jalebis.

More decorations.

More heart-shaped confetti, even.

If Khushiji asked.

Of course, in support of business strategy.

Also on blog here and Wattpad here

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of the Unstoppable Optimist

Arnav Swami was not a frivolous man. Despite his sprawling business and growing reputation, he believed in the simple joys of life. And among those joys, his most prized possession was his Bajaj scooter. It was an heirloom of sorts, passed down from his Bauji’s Chachaji. A fine piece of machinery, truly. They just didn’t make them like that anymore.

For as long as he could remember, Arnav Swami had ridden that scooter with unwavering loyalty.

Until that one fateful day.

He had been returning from the sabzi mandi, his scooter expertly maneuvering through the bustling lanes, when he spotted Khushiji. She stood there, looking utterly exhausted, her arms weighed down by enormous striped cloth bags brimming with vegetables.

Like the chivalrous man that he was, Arnav had offered her a ride.

Khushiji had hesitated for a moment, glancing at his scooter the way one might look at an ancient relic in a museum - reverence mixed with mild suspicion. But she was too tired to deny, so she shyly accepted.

So, naturally, he did what any responsible scooter owner would do: he carefully placed her grocery bags in the small front basket, hung a couple more off the handlebars, and, with great confidence, patted the seat behind him.

Khushiji climbed on, her movements a little unsure. Instead of holding onto the handle behind his seat like a normal person, she clutched the spare stepney tire for dear life, nearly toppling over in the process.

Arnav Swami, exasperated but patient, cleared his throat. “Khushiji, if you don’t want to fall off, perhaps you should hold the grab-handle behind my seat instead.”

Khushiji, looking like she very much did not want to fall off, quickly obliged.

And just as Arnav was about to set off with the dignity of a man in control of his trusted machine… the scooter stopped.

Dead.

Gone was the fine piece of machinery he had so proudly spoken of.

Arnav sighed. No problem. He knew his scooter. He slanted it slightly.

"Oh... Swami Ji?" came in Khushiji’s squeaky voice as the scooter tilted. She instinctively tightened her grip on the handle while the other hovered in the air as if bracing for impact.

Arnav winced and delivered a firm kick to the starter.

But the kick did … nothing.

Another kick. Still nothing.

By the fifth attempt, Khushiji had politely slid off the scooter. By the seventh, she was pushing it alongside him. And by the time they reached Happy Ji’s garage, Arnav was questioning all of his life’s choices.

Happy Ji, ever the enthusiastic mechanic, cheerfully cleaned the spark plug and sent them on their way. But by then, the sun had taken its toll. Khushiji was red as a tomato, fanning herself as she reclaimed her sabzi bags.

And that… well, that was a little concerning.

So, like any good businessman who took feedback seriously, Arnav did what had to be done. That evening, he found himself at a motorcycle dealership, returning home with multiple brochures and discount offers.

Happy Ji had mentioned motorcycles were a popular choice. Reliable. More suited to his tall frame.

Arnav Swami had then scoffed.

His scooter was a fine choice. 

But then Khushiji’s dehydration would have been a disaster, he cared for his friend after all.

The next morning, as he arrived at his dhaba, he found a small box waiting for him. Inside was a brand-new spark plug.

And beside it, in the neatest handwriting, a small note:

“For the next time, Swami Ji.”

Arnav sighed.

His scooter was a fine choice.

Really.

Also on blog here and Wattpad here

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of Curious Mustache

For as long as he could remember, Arnav Swami had lacked in the department of facial hair. He had attributed this to family genetics, and honestly, it was fine. Really. He was a man of business, of integrity, of perfectly crisp samosas. Who needed a mustache?

Until one day.

That fateful afternoon, Khushiji had visited the dhaba and much to his horror had been glued to the television screen. A cacophony of awful music blared from the TV playing a runaway hero with an unquestionably thick mustache, smoldered at the heroine. Khushiji had turned an alarming shade of red.

He had frowned. A daring hero? Fine. But a mustache? Was that… was that what impressed her?

To make matters worse, Khushiji had dragged in a group of patrons, all whispering excitedly about that very mustachioed hero. Bankelal Ji, the dhaba’s cook, who sported a particularly large and twirly mustache, had swelled with pride at their admiration. Never mind that he had a potbelly and a mole that could practically be its own person.

Arnav gritted his teeth. He had seen enough.

The next morning, when Khushiji returned to the dhaba, Bankelal Ji was still basking in the afterglow of his newfound fanbase. And worse…Khushiji had brought him chana. CHANA!

That was it.

Arnav Swami, a man of business, could handle many things; food market fluctuations, spice shortages, even the occasional grumpy patron, but this? This was an attack on his pride.

So, as any rational man would do, Arnav took matters into his own hands.

He visited Vaid Ji, the local Ayurvedic healer, and procured the most potent herbal aushadhis for hair growth. Twice a day, without fail, he applied the concoction and waited.

One week. No change. Two weeks. Still nothing. Four weeks. Hope was a distant memory.

And that was when Arnav had to do what a man had to do.

He bought a set of fake mustaches.

It was a simple plan. The mustaches transitioned from light stubble to a full-fledged, dignified mustache over the course of several days. Business was all about subtlety, after all.

The next morning, he placed the first ‘shadow mustache’ carefully on his upper lip, checked his reflection, and nodded in satisfaction.

When Khushiji arrived, Arnav sat behind the counter, poised like a man of great wisdom and, hopefully, impressive facial hair.

Khushi stepped in, humming a tune, and barely spared him a glance.

“Swami Ji, I hope the dhaba is flourishing?” she said, flipping through his ledger.

Arnav cleared his throat. “Indeed, Khushiji. But more importantly… have you noticed anything different?”

Khushi finally looked up. Her brows knitted together as she scanned his face. Arnav held his breath, his lips twitching ever so slightly in anticipation.

And then...

“OH!” she gasped, stepping back. “Swami Ji! What happened to your face? Did you fall into a tandoor?”

Arnav nearly choked on air. “Excuse me?”

Khushi leaned in, eyes wide with concern. “There’s… there’s something on your upper lip. It looks like; oh no! Swami Ji, did you accidentally burn yourself? That explains why it’s so… patchy.”

Patchy? PATCHY?!

Arnav reeled, his confidence plummeting like a misjudged jalebi loop unraveling in the hot oil.

“This is not a burn, Khushiji” he bit out. “It’s my mustache.”

Silence.

Then...

“Your what?”

“My mustache.”

Khushi clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Oh. OH. Oh, Swami Ji,” she snorted. “That’s your story? Really? You’re sticking with that?”

Arnav’s jaw locked. “Yes.”

That was all it took. Khushiji erupted into full-blown laughter, doubling over, hands on her stomach. The sound echoed through the dhaba, drawing the attention of Bankelal Ji, the cook, and a few amused patrons.

Arnav scowled.

Bankelal ji fastened the pace at which he was stirring the halwa.

This was not the reaction he had envisioned. He had imagined awe. Admiration. Perhaps even a shy compliment. Not… this.

But then, before he could respond, Khushi reached into her bag, pulled out a small mirror, and handed it to him.

He looked down.

The mustache had shifted. One corner was slightly peeling off.

Through her gasps for air, Khushi wheezed, “Swami Ji… I.. I appreciate the effort, truly. But…” she leaned in, eyes twinkling, “next time, maybe try growing one instead of… er… pasting it on?”

Arnav groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.

Khushi, still giggling, reached forward and, before he could stop her, plucked the offending thing right off his face.

“Khushiji!” Arnav yelped, scandalized.

Khushi twirled the fake mustache between her fingers, her lips pressing together as if trying to hold back a smile. “Swami Ji… you really didn’t have to.”

Arnav crossed his arms. “And why is that?”

Khushi tilted her head, pretending to consider. Then, with a small smile, she said softly, “Because… some things are better left in their natural state.”

Arnav inhaled sharply. “Khushiji…”

“Hmm?” she blinked at him innocently.

Arnav stared at her, unsure whether to be flattered, frustrated, or just completely defeated.

Then, with a shake of his head, he muttered, “I really should’ve invested in a better adhesive.”

Khushi grinned and, as she sauntered out of the dhaba, she paused at the door, glanced back, and winked.

"Swami Ji," she murmured, her gaze flickering toward him with a teasing smile, "Since we’re on the subject, I suppose a haircut for Diwali might be a good idea."

Arnav exhaled, running a hand through his unruly hair. He had lost. Completely.

And yet, as he glanced down at the discarded mustache, a small, begrudging smile tugged at his lips.

Khushiji was impossible.

And maybe… just maybe… he didn’t mind so much…

Also on blog here

[chaiandtakkar]

The Case of Nervous Jalebi

Arnav Swami hadn't gotten to where he was in life without talent. Unveiling the 14th Chotiwala Dhaba in Haridwar, he felt a deep sense of pride. After all, his jalebis and Mathura aloo had reached legendary status. But if he were being honest, a small part of that success was due to Khushiji.

Khushiji, with her modest little hotel near the banks of Ganga, had struck a fine deal with him. She sent her guests to his dhaba, and in return, she got a commission. It was a solid arrangement, one that had lasted years. She was a good friend. But lately, something about her had changed.

The night before, when she had come to collect her commission, she had been... different. No cheerful banter, no exaggerated bargaining, no dramatic complaints about how he was making millions while she got "peanuts." Instead, she had been fidgety, eyes cast down, fingers playing with the loose thread of her dupatta, and answering everything with an oddly meek, "Ji, Swami Ji."

He had frowned. "Khushiji, are you okay?"

"Ji, Swami Ji." The words had been barely above a squeak.

And then, she had fled. Actually fled, like a startled bambi caught in the headlights of her curiosity.

Now, he was restless. Something was up with Khushiji, and it was bothering him. His usually feisty commission-collector had been reduced to a bundle of nerves, and he had to know why. Chotu, Khushiji's most trusted aide, arrived with a message, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Swami ji, I hope you have a good day ahead. Will visit soon for commission. Stay well."

There it was again. That tone. It was too polite, too formal. It lacked the usual spark of "Swami Ji, your choley bhature are overrated, and I demand an extra percentage for my pain and suffering."

This was unacceptable.

Decision made, he marched to her hotel. The moment he stepped inside, he spotted her behind the counter, pretending to be deeply invested in her register. He smirked.

"Khushiji."

Her head snapped up. For a second, her eyes widened in panic before she attempted a casual smile, one that looked more like a grimace. "S-Swami Ji! What a surprise!"

"Is it?" He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her squirm.

"O..Of course! I mean, you usually don't..um...come here. You're busy! Big businessman and all! Lots of jalebis to fry!" She laughed nervously, looking everywhere but at him.

His brow lifted. "Are you okay?"

"Ji, Swami Ji."

There it was again, the squeak. He tilted his head, amused. "You were breathing heavily last night. You've been fidgeting since I walked in. And now, you can't even look me in the eye."

Her hands flew to her sides as if caught in the act. "I..I..Swami Ji, I think I have acidity."

He smirked. "Too much chai?"

She nodded frantically. "Yes! Chai! That's the culprit! Too much chai!"

Arnav hummed, pretending to consider it. "Oh really?" he said, narrowing his eyes, watching her intently.

She gulped, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. "I..it's just that...you are so handsome, and you make me nervous!"

Silence.

Khushiji's eyes widened in horror as the realization of what she had just said hit her. Her hands flew to her mouth as if she could shove the words back in.

He stilled, his smirk vanishing for a brief moment before something softer, more amused, replaced it. "Oh?"

"NO! I mean, yes...but no! I mean..." Khushi groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Forget I said anything!"

He chuckled, thoroughly enjoying her misery. "Khushiji, are you saying I make you nervous?"

"No!" she yelped, then winced. "Maybe. Possibly. Oh, leave me alone, Swami Ji!"

He patted the counter, his smirk returning full force. "You know, I'm working on a new jalebi recipe."

Khushi blinked. "What?"

"They say sweets are good for the heart. And..." he leaned in, voice teasing "...for calming nerves."

Her mouth opened. No words came out.

"Maybe we should test them together?" He tilted his head, enjoying how she seemed to turn a deeper shade of pink with every passing second. "You are my best critic, after all."

Khushi gaped, still recovering from her own outburst. "I...I..."

He smirked. "I'll take that as a yes. See you at the dhaba, Khushiji."

And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving her clutching the counter, staring after him like she had just been hit by a spiritual awakening.

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[chaiandtakkar]

Whispers beneath the stars

Chapter 29

May,1999, Amritsar

Arnav leaned back in his chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard, eyes fixed on the screen as he waited for that familiar green icon to light up beside her name. Around him, the café buzzed with laughter, the aroma of chai mixing with the soft crackle of Bollywood tunes drifting from a dusty speaker. Yet, he was elsewhere. His world, in this moment, was reduced to the glow of her name — OceanBreeze — a pull as comforting and nostalgic as a half-remembered song.

Nestled on a busy Amritsar street, the café had become a gateway, a corner of stillness where, with each keystroke, it felt like she was just a breath away. He drummed his fingers, almost nervously, until the screen blinked, her message popping up like an invitation.

Tonight, he wanted something different, something that felt like her.

Skybound: Kishmish, I’ve been thinking about the day we finally meet. And I’ve decided I’ll recognize you the moment I see you. Not in some quiet café, but someplace alive, filled with lights and laughter. A carnival. Can you imagine it?

There was a pause, and he pictured her reading his words, fingers hesitating, perhaps playing with her bracelet or fidgeting with a strand of her hair, her telltale signs of distraction she’d once shared with him. The thought brought a soft smile to his face, as if he were standing beside her, close enough to notice the tiny details that made her her.

OceanBreeze: A carnival? You, in a crowd like that? That’s an interesting choice for someone who likes his peace and quiet. Are you saying you’d hide from me in all that chaos?

He grinned, already hearing her laughter in his mind as he typed back.

Skybound: Oh, I’d be easy to spot. Picture this: I’d be wandering through the crowd, dodging clowns and balloon vendors, my eyes only searching for you. I’d find you under the lights, surrounded by colors and noise, but you’d be the quietest thing in my world.

There was a beat, and her response came, laced with a familiar playfulness.

OceanBreeze: Oh? And how can you be so sure? You don’t think I’d make you work for it, Sky?

He chuckled, sinking further into the vision forming in his mind—a night painted with warm hues, laughter swirling in the cool night air, and the glow of carnival lights catching on her hair as he finally caught sight of her.

Skybound: I’d search every corner, Kishmish. The Ferris wheel, the candy stalls, the ring toss booth, until finally… I’d see you standing beneath a string of fairy lights, just like I imagined. And in that moment, everything else would fade. It’d be just us.

The words lingered on the screen, and he felt the café around him slip further away, lost in the warmth of what he was creating with her, word by word. He pictured it so vividly—her standing there, a touch of surprise on her face, like she couldn’t quite believe he’d found her, yet something about her gaze said she’d been waiting.

Her response arrived, teasing yet soft, carrying a weight that held him in place.

OceanBreeze: And then what, Sky? Would you just stare at me like some lovesick hero?

He shook his head, feeling the corners of his mouth lift in a quiet smile. She thought she had him all figured out, yet she didn’t know how often he’d wondered about her laughter, or how he’d memorize every fleeting detail if he could.

Skybound: No, I’d be a little less obvious. Maybe I’d wander over with two sticks of cotton candy—one pink, one blue. I’d hold out the blue one, and when you look at me all puzzled, I’d say, What? You don’t like a little sweetness in your life?

Her reply came almost instantly.

OceanBreeze: Smooth. So you think a sugar stick is enough to sweep me off my feet?

Skybound: I think you’d pretend to be unimpressed. You’d take the candy, probably roll your eyes at me. But as you bite into it, you’d smile that little smile—the one you save for things that surprise you. And I’d feel like the luckiest guy in the world just for seeing it.

A warm silence settled in as he let the words linger, filling the quiet spaces between them. He imagined her face, framed by the gentle light of the screen, maybe catching her own reflection and realizing that his words had touched her.

Skybound: After that, we’d wander through the stalls, you laughing at my terrible aim as I try to win you something at a game booth. I’d fail miserably, of course, but you’d cheer me on just the same.

Her message popped up, playful yet tender, a layer of warmth woven between her words.

OceanBreeze: You failing? Now that’s a sight worth seeing.

Skybound: Maybe my aim would be off because I’d be trying too hard. But I wouldn’t give up until I won you something silly—an elephant, maybe. You’d pretend not to care, but you’d hold onto it anyway. And I’d remember the way your hand brushed mine when I handed it to you.

The café around him blurred, his world becoming only her responses, his heartbeat syncing to the imagined rhythm of her quiet laughter, the softness of her hand in his. He let the moment build in his mind, the image of her standing below those string lights, just for him.

Skybound: And when the night grows softer and the music fades, we’d drift toward the Ferris wheel. I’d suggest we ride it, and you’d act hesitant, but you’d agree. We’d sit side by side, slowly rising above the crowd, above the lights and laughter.

Her reply arrived, tenderly inquisitive, as if she, too, had become lost in the vision he was painting.

OceanBreeze: And what would you say to me up there, Sky? More sugar-laced words?

He swallowed, fingers trembling slightly as he typed, knowing she might feel the quiet sincerity in his response.

Skybound: No words up there. I’d just look at you, like you’re the answer to every question I’ve ever asked myself. I’d feel like a fool and a poet at the same time.

Her response didn’t come right away, and he could almost see her sitting there, her fingers hovering over the keys, the glow of the screen illuminating her face as she absorbed his words. The café’s hum faded into silence, the moment held in an almost sacred stillness as he waited.

Finally, her reply appeared, carrying the gentle ache of shared longing.

OceanBreeze: It’s dangerous, you know, to make me feel this way. We’ve never even met, but you make me believe in impossible things.

A pang of longing and hope welled up within him. He closed his eyes, seeing her standing there as clearly as if he were beside her, her laughter like music, the warmth of her presence wrapped around him. The ache of distance, of the vastness between them, felt somehow smaller now.

Skybound: Maybe that’s the beauty of it, Kishmish. Maybe impossible things feel real because they’re waiting to become real.

He hit send and watched as her typing indicator blinked, a tiny light in the quiet that bound them across the miles. He didn’t need her reply to know she felt it too, the shared heartbeat between them, bridging space and time, something gentle and timeless woven into the quiet.

After a moment, her final message appeared, delicate and filled with a tender hope.

OceanBreeze: And what would you say to me up there, if that moment ever came? If you could say just one thing?

He took a deep breath, fingers finding each letter with care, the words flowing from somewhere deep within, an unguarded place he hadn’t realized existed.

Skybound: I’d say… I think I waited my whole life to meet someone like you. Someone who makes every silly, hopeful thing feel real, like it was waiting for this exact moment.

The screen remained silent, but he could feel her presence as if she were right there, as if that night at the carnival, below the string lights, was as real as anything he’d ever known. In the stillness, he knew they were both holding onto the same hope, each a heartbeat closer to bridging that space between them, bound by the gentle ache of a shared dream.

@arshifiesta

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