#arnavsinghraizada

Tropes in iss pyaar ko kya naam doon

4. Grumpy × sunshine

5. Office romance / employee-boss romance

6. Soulmates

7. She fell first, he fell harder

LETS TALK ABT THIS SCENE (ranting abt ipkknd is my fav pastime)

This scene is perfect in EVERY. FUCKING. WAY

Props to Sanaya and Barun for the overtime acting with their eyes bec oh my gawd this snapshot of every single emotion just there in their eyes. Khushi's desperation for comfort, for his love, for reassurance that after everything that he doesn't hate her, that he believes her, he's on her side but also her guilt for the pain she put him through unwittingly just for the truth to come out fully. Desperate for his touch to prove that he's here. He's here. Right in front of her. Finally. Within her reach. Safe. And his touch, his hand is right there on her face, warm, soothing. Her solace.

when she didn't even know if she'd get this again with him if he'd survive. And his gaze so gentle and filled with so much love, guilt and wonder at everything she is-

summary: khushi had always dreamt of motherhood—until the possibility stared back at her with arnav’s defiant eyes. And when he, ever the voice of infuriating reason, asked the one question she hadn’t considered—"what do you actually want?"—the dream suddenly felt too real to touch.

themes: romance, mature, COMMUNICATION, FLUFF, babies, growth, long-distance (kinda), the start of yearning

word-count: 4.2k (she's chonky)

a/n: IT'S FINALLY HERE!!!~ as always, i hope you like it (・ω<)

Nani’s laughter followed her like a playful ghost for the rest of the day, the teasing a constant hum in Khushi’s ears. But beneath the embarrassment, something unfamiliar stirred—a quiet unraveling of assumptions she’d never questioned. Marriage, children, growing old—it had always been a linear path, a script written by generations before her. Yet now, faced with the reality of it, the certainty felt fragile, like sand slipping through her fingers.

How does it happen for everyone else? she wondered, mindlessly watching Paayal pull out dishes to serve dinner in with methodical precision. Do they plan it? Do they just… know? The thought was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

She’d dreamed of a family, of laughter echoing in hallways, of tiny hands clutching hers. But those dreams had been faceless, abstract. Now, when she tried to picture a child, she saw Arnav’s sharp features softened in infancy, his stubborn frown mirrored on a smaller face. The image sent a jolt through her—theirs. A life they’d create together.

“Khushi, I-I really have to tell you something.” Payal’s whisper cut through her daze, halting her hand from carelessly stirring the pot. Khushi looked at her sister, her nervous energy contagious. 

Payal’s fingers trembled around the dish she was holding. “It’s… we’re—”

"What is it?" Khushi whispered seeing Paayal’s hesitation, now abandoning the ladle in her hand entirely.

Paayal’s fingers trembled as they reached Khushi’s. "Promise you won’t scream."

"What the? I never scream—"

Paayal leaned in, her breath warm and hopeful against Khushi’s ear. The words she spoke were soft, sacred, and Khushi’s spine straightened as if struck by lightning.

For a heartbeat, the kitchen vanished. The simmering curries and vegetables, Mami’s distant scolding in the living room, the hum of the ceiling fan—all of it blurred into white noise.

Khushi’s free hand flew to her mouth. "Paayal!" Her voice cracked. Paayal’s eyes—wide, vulnerable, joyous—held hers, and then they were clinging to each other, stifled giggles shaking their shoulders. 

Khushi’s heart hammered against her ribs, her mind racing. The future unfurled before her, bright and terrifying.

Dinner was a symphony of clinking plates and familiar banter, but Arnav was quiet, exhaustion lining his shoulders. Still, Arnav noticed Khushi’s restlessness immediately. He ate every bite of her palak paneer, sending glances her way, his smiles small but deliberate—gentle and constant reassurances that settled like warmth in her chest. He was comfort embodied. Her comfort. 

She’d barely touched her food, her fingers drumming against her thigh under the table. Every few seconds, her gaze darted to Paayal, then away—like she was guarding a secret.

"You okay?" he murmured, nudging her foot with his under the table.

Khushi startled. "Hmm? Oh! Yes, just…thinking." Arnav arched a brow. Her tells were painfully obvious—the way her nose scrunched when she lied, the nervous flutter of her pulse at her throat. He would question her later, he thought. 

Before he could think of anything else, Aakash cleared his throat. Khushi’s grin split her face before he even spoke. Across the table, Payal’s blush was answer enough. 

“We’re expecting…Paayal is pregnant!” Aakash’s voice boomed, pride lighting him up from within.

At first, there was pin drop silence around the table, the news settling in, eyes widening, gasps beginning to form. And then the room erupted at the announcement. Anjali’s chair toppled backward with a clatter as she vaulted over the table, nearly knocking over the raita in her rush to crush Paayal in a hug. “My little sister is going to be a mother!” she shrieked, leaving greasy fingerprints on Payal’s shoulder from the ghee she’d been eating. Anjali clung tighter, her chest heaving. She needed this—a new light, a fresh heartbeat in the family.

“Oh my goodness!” Mami screeched, hands fluttering like panicked birds—before grabbing Akash’s cheeks in a vice grip. “You rascal! Making me a grandmother before I’ve even formed a wrinkle!” Her dramatic wail couldn't disguise the sparkle in her eyes.

Nani rose with quiet grace, her movements belying the tears glistening in the creases of her radiant smile. "My grandchild's child," she murmured, the words thick with emotion. With trembling hands, she plucked a golden gulab jamun from the dessert tray and pressed it into Payal's palm. "For my strong Paayal," she whispered, cupping Payal's face with her other hand. They both looked at each other, as if Nani’s wisdom was passing through their tear glazed eyes alone.

Arnav clapped Akash’s back, pulling him into a brief, tight hug. “Congratulations,” he said, voice rough with warmth. After taking in the moment with his family, he turned on his heel, desperate for the sanctuary of sleep.

Just then, with perfect comedic timing, Nani's gaze snapped to Arnav. "You're paying attention, aren't you Arnav?" she called, wagging a finger. "Your turn next!"

Khushi’s laughter melted into the chaos, but her hand drifted absently to her own stomach—a quiet, unspoken wonder.

Arnav and Khushi walked to their room after the family's joyful celebration of Payal and Akash's pregnancy news. Khushi practically glowed with excitement, her smile infectious.

"Are you that excited?" Arnav asked, amusement coloring his tone. He himself hadn’t given children any thought at all, ever, he realised.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, bouncing slightly. "We'll be uncle and aunty soon! Can you believe it?"

As the door clicked shut behind them, Arnav automatically reached for her wrist, pulling her into his space. Their bodies aligned, as if they were molded for each other, warmth radiating between them.

"Today, nani-ji kept asking me..." Khushi trailed off, her nose turning pink.

"Mhmm?" Arnav prompted, curiosity piqued by her sudden shyness. His finger intrinsically reached to gently flick her rudolph nose, a habit of his only Khushi evoked.

"She asked...when I'll give her grandkids," Khushi blurted, wishing the floor would swallow her whole.

To her surprise, Arnav's chest vibrated against hers as he burst into laughter—a rich, unfiltered sound that rolled through him like monsoon thunder. His arms tightened around her, pulling her so close she could feel the rumble of his amusement in her own ribs as his breath caressed her when he gasped between chuckles.

"Thanks Khushi, I needed that," he said when he finally caught his breath, gazing at her like she hung the stars.

"What's so funny?" she huffed. "I'm serious! I'm ovulating right now anyway—"

Another laugh cut her off. "Arnav!" she protested, tugging his shirt. "I'm serious!"

His eyes never leaving Khushi’s drained of amusement, the mirth dying on his lips as he searched her face. "What the—" he started, before stepping back. "Khushi..."

Her hands animatedly sketched visions in the air. "Imagine if we had a baby too! They could grow up together, go to school—"

"Khushi!" Arnav interrupted firmly. "Do you want children? Now?" 

Her brow furrowed. "We're married, isn't that the next step?"

Arnav shook his head. His left hand running down his face as his other guided Khushi to sit on the bed. He sat beside her, now keeping hold of her hands with his. "Khushi, having children is a big decision. It's not just the 'next step.'"

"I know that!" she bristled.

"Listen first," he said gently. When she opened her mouth to argue, he added, "I'll listen to everything you have to say after. Promise."

"Why do you always think you know everything?" she exploded, scooting away. "You can be wrong too!"

"No…I'm always right," he said in his usual smug tone. But he caught the hurt flashing across Khushi’s face at his words and instantly regretted it.

"Then I'll prove it by becoming the best mother!" Khushi declared, her chin jutting forward defiantly as she moved to stand. The words tasted bitter even as they left her lips - another challenge thrown down, another gauntlet picked up in their endless battle of wills. Her hands trembled slightly where they gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening as she prepared to storm out.

Arnav's fingers closed around her wrist with surprising gentleness, his calloused palm warm against her skin. "Wait—just wait a second." His voice had dropped into that low register that always made her pulse stutter, not commanding, but tender.

Khushi sank back onto the mattress, her body tense as a coiled spring. "For what?" she snapped, eyes flashing like sunlight on steel. The familiar ache bloomed in her chest—that hollow feeling of being once again the student to his teacher, the child to his adult. "So you can tell me how wrong I am again?" The words came out sharper than she intended, laced with accumulated frustration.

She watched as Arnav dragged a hand through his already disheveled hair, the dark strands standing up in chaotic peaks. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper in the dim light, the lines of exhaustion more pronounced. "No," he said, and something in his tone made her breath catch. Not exasperation, but...recognition. "Just...why do we always do this? Turn everything into some competition you have to win?"

"Me?" Her voice climbed an octave. "You're the one who started with your 'I'm always right' nonsense!"

Arnav opened his mouth—no doubt ready with some infuriatingly logical retort—then froze. Khushi saw the exact moment realization struck him, his dark eyes widening slightly, lips parting on an unspoken thought. "Shit." The curse fell softly between them, weighted with understanding.

Khushi's arms folded protectively across her chest, her nails digging into her own biceps. "What?" she demanded, though her voice had lost some of its fire. The defensive posture was as much to steady herself as anything—her heart hammered against her ribs.

"You're right. I did say that." He exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound like steam releasing from a pressure cooker. His fingers flexed at his sides before rising to hover near her face—close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his palms, but not quite touching. "And then you immediately—"

"Wanted to prove you wrong," Khushi finished, her own anger giving way to something softer, more vulnerable. Her arms uncrossed slightly. 

Arnav's hands finally made contact, cradling her face with a tenderness that made her throat tighten. His thumbs swept over the apple of her cheeks, wiping away tears she hadn't realized had fallen. "That happens a lot, doesn't it?" he murmured, his voice rough with recognition.

Khushi nodded, scooting closer in silent understanding.

Arnav continued, "I say something arrogant. You get that look—"

"What look?"

"That 'I'll show him' look you were wearing." He tapped her furrowed brow gently and smiled. "Then you charge ahead trying to prove something."

Khushi swatted his hand away, but her scowl softened. "Well maybe if you weren't so...so..."

"Insufferable?" he offered with a wry smile.

"I was going to say 'matter-of-fact'," she muttered. "Like you're some all-knowing—"

"And you're not?" Arnav countered. "Who decided she'd become a mother just to win an argument?"

Khushi's mouth opened, then closed. A reluctant laugh escaped. "Okay, that was...maybe not my best plan."

Arnav caught her hands, his thumbs brushing her knuckles. "The thing is...when you challenge me, I forget. Forget how much younger you are. How unfair it is to hold you to my standards."

Khushi tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He searched for words. "If I know more about business, it's because I've been running companies since you were in school. If I seem 'always right,' it's because I've already made all the mistakes you're just now getting to make."

Khushi's eyes widened slightly. "I...never thought of it like that."

"And I never stopped to explain it," Arnav admitted. "Just lorded it over you like some—"

"Laad governor?" she supplied helpfully.

He snorted. "Exactly." His grip on her hands tightened. "But Khushi...the fact that you challenge me at all? That's what amazes me. No one else does. No one else could."

A slow smile spread across her face. "So you're saying...I'm extraordinary?"

Arnav rolled his eyes but pulled her closer. "I'm saying maybe we both need to stop keeping score. You're not behind, Khushi. You're exactly where you should be."

Khushi flopped backward onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, Arnav followed, positioning himself to lay sideways so he faced her. "No keeping score," she declared, poking his chest.

Arnav caught her finger with a chuckle, then his warm hand wrapped around hers. "No keeping score," he agreed, pressing the captured finger to his lips.

They lay there for a moment, Khushi's rolled over to face Arnav as well, her knee absently rubbing against his. When her fidgeting finally stilled, Arnav nudged her chin up, knowing she was getting all in her head again. "What's that look for?"

She worried, her lower lip between her teeth. "Then...about the..."

"Baby talk?" he offered, earning a half-hearted swat from her free hand. Catching her other hand, he laced their fingers together against the mattress. "Khushi." He waited until her eyes met his. "We've got time. Decades of it."

"You're so young, Khushi. We have our whole lives ahead of us. I want you to think about what you want - not Nani, not your family, not even me." He cupped her face. "School? A career? Travel? Whatever it is, I want you to do it all."

Tears welled in her eyes as she laid down a trail of thought she was avoiding. "Do you think I wouldn't be a good mother?"

"God, no." His voice broke. "Is that what you were thinking in that head of yours?” he paused, finally understanding Khushi more.

“If anyone will be an amazing parent out of the two of us, it's you Khushi. I can't wait to see you with my—our children someday." He kissed her forehead tenderly. "But I want that 'someday' to be when you're ready. When it's your choice, not anyone else's."

Khushi exhaled shakily, the weight of his words settling over her. She hadn't realized how much external pressure had shaped her desires until now.

"Breathe, Khushi," Arnav murmured, his hand moving to rub her back as he pulled her in for a cuddle. "There's no rush. Think about it. We'll talk whenever you're ready." 

The weight of possibilities suddenly felt dizzying—like standing at the edge of an endless ocean, toes curling into unfamiliar sand. "But..." Khushi's fingers twisted. "Where do I even begin?" The question came out smaller than she intended.

Arnav’s palm was gentle on her back, the other on her face. "Anywhere you want," he murmured, eyes lost on Khushi’s face. "We could make a list. Visit colleges next week. Or—" He paused as her eyes widened slightly. "—just try things, take it slow. Take a class you hate. Quit it. Try another." A corner of his mouth lifted. "I’ll fund every terrible idea until you find a brilliant one."

Khushi stiffened. "I don’t need your money." The words came out sharper than she meant, her spine straightening against his warm hand. "I can figure it out myself."

Arnav blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh—not mocking, but fond. "Khushi." His palm cradled her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. "My money is your money. I’m not doing you some grand favour. I’m your husband, this is your right. This is what sharing a life means."

Her lips parted to argue, but he pressed on, voice softening. "You don’t have to be defensive. Or pay me back. Or turn this into another competition." His thumb swept over her cheekbone. "Let me be part of this with you. Not because you need me to, but because I want to."

A beat of silence. Khushi’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. "…It’s hard," she admitted, voice small. "Letting you in like that."

"I know," he murmured, pulling her even closer. "You trying to means a lot to me."

Khushi exhaled, long and slow, her body finally yielding against his. The weight of the day—the excitement, the arguments, the revelations—settled over them both like dust after a storm.

With that, the couple called it a night, too tired to untangle anything else.

Before they knew it, Sunday slipped away.

With Arnav back at work, Khushi was left alone with her thoughts—and the daunting question he’d handed her: What do you want? She turned it over in her mind like a pebble in her palm. Likes. Strengths. Arnav’s guidance from Sunday had echoed. 

Jalebis. Arnav. Family. Children. Desserts. Cooking. Clothes. Stitching. Handwork. The list spilled endlessly, but the more she added, the heavier her chest grew. A chef? Fashion designer? Teacher? The possibilities sprawled before her, vast and paralyzing.

Just as her thoughts threatened to overwhelm her, Arnav arrived home Monday evening with news that shook her fragile focus. "I need to fly to New York tomorrow. There's a business emergency."

Her chai cup clattered against its saucer. "How long?"

"Five days." Seeing her face fall, he immediately added, "Come with me. We'll make it work."

She shook her head. The thought of being alone in some sterile hotel room, stranded with her thoughts in an unfamiliar country, made her skin prickle. "I…I need to stay home."

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t push. Instead, he pressed a sleek iPhone into her hands, expecting her to say no to his initial offer. "I’ll call you every day. Promise. This way, we can still see each other."

"I already have a phone—"

"Not one that can do video calls," he countered, already setting it up. "I want to see your face, Khushi. Really see you. Not just hear your voice." His thumb paused over the screen. "I need this."

Her protest died on her lips. There it was—that raw vulnerability he rarely showed. This wasn't about the phone. It was about tethering them across continents. "Okay," she whispered, accepting both the device and the unspoken promise: no matter how lost she felt, she wouldn't be alone.

Khushi had insisted on driving with Arnav to the airport despite his protests. "It's a 4:00AM flight, Khushi," Arnav had argued, his thumb brushing circles on the back of her hand as their car idled at a red light. "You should sleep." But the memory of that terrible period when he'd disappeared—the hollow terror of not knowing if he was alive—had lodged like shrapnel in her chest. She needed to see him board that plane with her own eyes.

Now, standing at the security barrier, Khushi's fingers twisted in the fabric of his coat sleeve. The airport fluorescents washed out his complexion, highlighting the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes. Around them, travellers rushed by in a blur of rolling suitcases and boarding calls, but time seemed to slow as Arnav turned to face her fully.

"You'll call when you land," she said, not a question but a command. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—too bright, too brittle.

Arnav's gaze dropped to where her knuckles had gone white against his arm. Instead of prying her loose, he covered her hand with his own, his palm warm and steady. "Before the wheels even touch down," he promised. His hand then came up to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, lingering there.

As Khushi trembled against his touch, Arnav made a mental note to have his CFO run the numbers again. He'd dismissed the idea of a company plane last quarter as an unnecessary extravagance, but feeling the barely-contained panic in her grip—the way her eyes kept darting to the security line as if expecting armed men to drag him away—the $50 million price tag suddenly seemed trivial.

She should be able to accompany me every time, he thought, watching her bite her lower lip raw. Or at least know I'm flying on a secured aircraft. He pulled her lip free by gently tapping her chin, his thumb brushing over the delicate skin beneath her eye where dark circles were forming. She hadn't slept properly since he'd mentioned the trip.

The boarding call for his flight crackled over the PA system. Khushi's breath hitched.

"Khushi." Arnav waited until her eyes met his. "I'm coming back." Simple. Certain. 

Her throat worked around all the things she wanted to say—about the conversation they hadn't finished, about the future that suddenly seemed both too close and impossibly far away. Instead, she surged forward, pressing her face into the space between his shoulder and neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his clean cologne mixed with sleep-deprived warmth. His arms came around her instantly, one hand cradling the back of her head as if memorizing the feel of her on him.

When they pulled apart too soon, his lips brushed her forehead—a silent vow—before he turned towards security. Khushi stood rooted to the spot, watching until his tall frame disappeared into the crowd, her arms wrapped around herself against the sudden chill of his absence.

Only when the final boarding call echoed through the terminal did she finally move, her feet carrying her to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the runway. Khushi pressed her palm to the terminal window, the glass cool against her skin as Arnav’s plane taxied toward the runway.

Dawn painted the aircraft in streaks of rose and gold, its massive bulk dwarfed by the endless sky. Her new phone suddenly buzzed in her hand—his name flashing with a photo she’d taken just that morning, his hair still sleep-mussed, his smile lazy, half-hidden behind a coffee cup.

She swiped to answer as fast as she could, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re supposed to turn your phone off.”

Through the tiny window of his seat in the First Class seating area, Arnav watched her silhouette shrink against the terminal glass. The plane’s engines whined as the cabin pressurized, the sound muffling his words. “Two minutes left.” His fingers tightened around the armrests—not from turbulence, but from the visceral need to stride back down that jet bridge. “I love you damn it”, he whispered humorously, hoping to lighten Khushi’s mood.

“Me too, damn it” Khushi let out a light chuckle, easing the knot in Arnav’s heart.

Then the call disconnected.

Khushi stayed rooted to the spot as his plane rode away. She watched until the aircraft became nothing more than a speck against the dawn-streaked sky, praying for her husband’s safety.

Shantivan had never felt so cavernous. Khushi wandered through rooms that seemed to hold their breath, her footsteps echoing off marble floors that usually absorbed sound when Arnav was home. In the kitchen, the stainless steel appliances reflected her solitary figure back at her, distorted and lonely. She caught herself reaching for two mugs instead of one when making chai, her body operating on muscle memory.

When her phone rang that evening, the sudden vibration against her hand made her jump while she walked back into their room. Arnav's face filled the screen—his hair slightly mussed from travel, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Behind him, an elegant hotel room stretched into darkness, the only light coming from the bedside lamp that cast gold highlights in his tired eyes.

He had texted her when he landed, promising to call once he was settled into the hotel.

"You're still awake," he said by way of greeting, his voice roughened by the late hour and miles between them. The corners of his eyes crinkled in that way they did when he was trying not to smile. "I told you not to wait up."

Khushi curled her legs beneath her on the chaise lounge in Arnav's room, the fabric of her loose shalwar pooling around her. "Who said I was waiting?" she teased, but the effect was ruined by the way her free hand had already risen to touch the screen, as if she could bridge the distance through the glass.

A quiet moment passed between them, the silence comfortable yet charged with everything left unsaid—about family planning, about her uncertain future, about the way the room felt too large without him in it.

Arnav broke first, his voice dropping into that private register he used only with her. "I miss your snoring."

Khushi's laugh was startled out of her, bright and unexpected. "I do not snore!"

A rough chuckle from Arnav followed.

"I need you with me Khushi." 

The raw honesty in his voice made her breath catch.

"Of course you do," she chided gently, earning a fond eye-roll from her husband.

"Now stop distracting me—we need to get this working properly." He leaned closer until his face filled her screen, his tutorial on FaceTime controls interspersed with affectionate jabs. "See this button? Swipe up for brightness."

Khushi mimicked the gesture with exaggerated care. "Like this?" He loved seeing her face crinkle and scrunch as she played with the device.

"Too much—you'll blind yourself." His laughter was a warm rumble through the speakers, momentarily bridging the distance between continents. "Gently. There."

Then with the brightness up, Khushi noticed the way his eyelids grew heavy even as he stubbornly fought sleep. "Now go to sleep," she murmured, pressing her fingertips to the screen where his lips appeared. "You'll call me tomorrow?"

"Try and stop me." His voice was already thick with impending sleep. "Text me if you need me before then—time zones be damned, we'll make it work."

The call ended with his drowsy smile still lingering on her screen. Khushi sat in the quiet, the weight of his absence settling around her shoulders. Outside, a night breeze stirred the curtains they'd chosen together just a few weeks ago.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Arnav was likely already asleep, his phone still clutched in his hand.

She reached for his pillow when she made her way to their bed, pressing it to her face to inhale his scent. The ghost of his laughter seemed to echo in the empty space beside her as she whispered to the darkness:

"I miss your snoring too."

> ch 5

author's note: i've given you fluff back to back, you know what that means ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)~

i posted a zaroon drabble and realized there may be no audience 4 it LOL, regardless, i shall still simp for him too. i FINALLY have time this week, can't wait to go crazy and read everyone else's arshi fanfics i have been saving up 🤠.

I also have Turkish subtitles up to episode 320.

I couldn’t find Turkish subs beyond episode 310, so I’ve been subbing the rest myself (bit by bit).

If anyone needs them, I’d be happy to share my link!

If only Hotstar was available worldwide… 😩

There was only one force powerful enough to shut down every dhaba in Haridwar:

Holi.

And if there was one day Arnav Swami dreaded more than undercooked rajma or soggy papad, it was this unholy, color-splattered, chaos-drenched carnival.

It wasn’t just the colors. It was the trauma.

The faces smeared beyond recognition, the wild laughter, the horrific memories.

Like that one year when young Arnav mistook his color-drenched cow for his Naniji…

And, in a sincere act of reverence, brought her home and garlanded her with marigolds.

Or that dark day when he drank bhaang-laced thandai, declared himself “Jalebi Einstein,” 

and spent six hours trying to milk a parked scooter.

No, Holi was not for him.

Not now. Not ever.

Not even in reincarnation.

As always, he planned a tactical retreat:

Lock all doors.

Bolt the windows.

Switch off the lights.

Tell Chotu to report anyone who said “Bura na maano.”

And pretend the sun had applied for casual leave.

Until she happened.

 Khushiji did not play Holi.

Holi played with her. 

She was the brand ambassador, mascot, and chief mischief officer of the festival.

If Holi were a national sport, Khushiji would have won:

Three gold medals

One honorary doctorate in Gulaalogy

And her face printed on every packet of gulal from Rishikesh to Rajouri.

And this year, she had made her plans very clear.

Not only would she be celebrating from dawn to dhoop,

She would also be gracing the Hasya Kavi Sammelan that evening

“Swami Ji,” she had said, twirling far more than was socially necessary,

“If poetry were a person, it would get down on one knee and beg me to write it.”

Arnav had serious doubts.

About the poetry.

About the evening.

And mostly, about his blood pressure.

But the real problem wasn’t Holi.

Not the avalanche of gulaal.

Not even the DJ, who played only three songs on loop, all remixed versions of Rang Barse.

No.

The true menace… was Advay Goswami.

That good-for-nothing, self-declared Casanova.

To his horror, he was lurking around Holi milan samahroh with a mischievous grin, two pichkaris, and an unlimited supply of bhaang.

Now Khushiji, being the radiant little disaster that she was, had the self-preservation instincts of a Parle-G in monsoon.

Of course she would drink it. Of course she would start a revolution. 

Of course she’d then hug a tree and deliver Megh Malhar to the bark.

So, naturally, Arnav had to go.

Not to play Holi, of course. 

Never.

He was simply going to keep an eye on things. Nothing more.

The moment Arnav Swami stepped onto the Holi grounds, two truths hit him like pichkari to the face:

 One: His pristine white kurta was now an endangered species.

Two: So was his peace of mind.

Colors detonated like happy grenades. 

Dhols thundered.

And in the middle of it all was Khushiji, arms raised, head thrown back, grinning like she’d personally invented joy.

She was covered in so much pink and yellow…

..and looked like a rasgulla that had joined a Holi boot camp.

He wanted to scream.

He also wanted to stare forever.

His stomach flipped, his ears twitched.

And then, his worst fears came true.

She grabbed a glass of bhaang.

And another.

And another.

Before he could stop her, she had declared, "Swami Ji! Bhaang is just badam milk with confidence!" and downed two more glasses.

Somewhere inside his heart… something gave up and sighed fondly.

+15 minutes: Petting a goat.

“It’s as soft as Swami Ji’s soul,” she informed the goat gravely. “Also, hello.”

The goat nodded. Respectfully.

+30 minutes: On top of a vegetable cart, one foot in a basket of karelas, reciting a poem about pichkaris, unfulfilled love, and the tragic lack of poetry in jalebi pricing.

Crowd: Applauding.

Swami Ji: Internally combusting.

+45 minutes: She slipped on a puddle of pink disaster, arms flailing like a flamingo, and fell.

Right into Arnav Swami’s arms.

Her head thunked against his chest. Her arms flopped around him like she was attempting a half-hearted hug or a surrender.

She looked up at him, drunk, dazed, and absolutely delighted.

“Swami Ji…”

“Yes?”

“You’re so handsome up close.” She squinted hard. “Like a ghevar. A very squishy ghevar.”

Arnav blinked. “You’re drunk, Khushiji.”

She gasped. "You noticed!"

And with that great achievement... she passed out cold.

Arnav looked around.

On one side: a crowd hurling colors and questionable singing.

 On the other: a woman unconscious in his arms, smelling of bhaang, bravery, and nonsense.

Two options.

One:

Leave her here. Let fate, gravity, and possibly goats, take over.

Two:

Take responsibility for this color-soaked jalebi of a human and ensure she didn’t wake up in a gutter, or inside a tandoor.

He sighed.

Option Two it is.

With great effort, he walked her to the Kavi Samelan, where she was supposed to perform.

When he arrived, organizers rushed over.

“Where is Khushiji?”

A weak reply: “currently unavailable due to excessive intoxication.”

A pause.

“Then her Swami must perform.”

Arnav stared at them.

They stared back.

He considered faking a seizure. A mild one. Just enough to avoid the mic.

But alas. Destiny, betrayal, and peer pressure won.

And thus began the most humiliating moment of Arnav Swami’s life.

Because he, who was 

the Dhaba owner. Holi avoider. Definitely not a shayari-writer.

Was now... the star act.

Under the bright Holi moon, in front of a cheering audience, Arnav Swami recited a poem for the first time in his life.

His voice was hesitant at first, then stronger:

Pehla rang jo tune lagaya, kuch toh khaas baat thi,

Ek pal mehfil-e-gulaal thi, ek pal mein barsaat thi.

Tere qareeb aate hi, dhadkenein wahdat mein dhal jaati thi,

In rangon mein chhupi koi roohani saugaat thi.

A hush fell.

Like the crowd had forgotten to breathe.

And then

Thunderous applause.

Somewhere, unconscious in a corner, 

thee faintest smile bloomed across Khushi’s lips, like her heart had heard him.

Even in sleep…

She knew.

With his poetic dignity in tatters and his kurta now a canvas of seventeen untraceable shades,

Arnav Swami had one final mission:

Extract Khushiji from the Holi battlefield.

He could’ve slung her over his shoulder like a sack of onions.

Practical. Efficient. Emotionally accurate.

But no.

Dignity.

Stray witnesses.

Inconvenient feelings.

demanded something more absurdly cinematic.

So, he did the unthinkable.

He picked her up- bridal style.

She smelled like gulaal and bhaang and the kind of trouble he no longer wanted to avoid.

Halfway to her house, she stirred.

Eyes fluttered open, sleep-drunk and soft.

She blinked up at him.

For a moment, everything stopped.

The laughter outside faded.

And all he could see… was her.

“Swami Ji,” she murmured, breath curling against his neck,

“Tell me you like holi”

He looked down at her.

Her cheeks streaked with yellow.

Her hair a halo of absurdity.

Her smile… dangerously soft.

And for once,

 he didn’t lie.

“…Maybe a little.”

She inhaled deeply, dreamily.

“You came.”

Something tightened in his chest.

His arms followed suit.

She snuggled in closer, face smushed peacefully into his neck.

He stiffened.

Then melted.

In exactly that order.

The night softened around them.

The colors faded.

The chaos slipped into dreams.

And in the middle of it all, carrying one deliriously drunk muse,

Arnav Swami finally understood that

Maybe Holi wasn’t all horror.

Maybe it was half madness...

And half magic.

Just like her.