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Chapter 1
“The quarterly reports are in, Mr. Rathore. We see a significant dip in our South-East Asian market, particularly in the textile division,” the man in the sharp grey suit, Mr. Sinha, droned on, his voice flat and devoid of any discernible emotion as he gestured towards the colossal holographic projection shimmering at the head of the polished mahogany table. The room, an echo chamber of hushed whispers and the rustle of expensive suits, was packed with the Rathore Global board of directors, each face a carefully crafted mask of grave concern or mild boredom.
Aarav Rathore, however, wasn’t concerned, nor was he bored. He was in his own world, a universe populated by whirring gears, microchips, and the elusive flight patterns of urban pigeons. His pen, instead of highlighting the damning figures on the financial report open before him, danced across the pristine white paper, sketching furiously. He hummed a low, tuneless melody, entirely oblivious to the collective sigh that rippled through the boardroom.
“Mr. Rathore? Are you with us?” a stern voice cut through his reverie. It was Mr. Sharma, a man whose eyebrows seemed permanently arched in disapproval.
Aarav blinked, his eyes, usually alight with some obscure invention, now a little hazy. He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the faces, settling briefly on the displeased Mr. Sharma, then drifting to the ceiling as if seeking inspiration from the ornate chandeliers. “Pigeons,” he declared, as if announcing a profound philosophical truth.
A ripple of confused murmurs spread. Mr. Sinha paused, his laser pointer hovering over a particularly depressing graph. “Pigeons, Mr. Rathore?” he asked, a hint of incredulity in his tone.
Aarav nodded earnestly, leaning forward, his pen still clutched in his hand. “Yes. They’re everywhere, aren’t they? Loitering, cooing, making a general nuisance. And the droppings, my God, the droppings. Imagine the impact on our new fabric line. You launch a premium silk sari, pristine white, then *bam*—pigeon poop. Market share, gone. Brand reputation, soiled. Literally.”
A long, agonizing silence followed. Some board members exchanged bewildered glances. Others coughed discreetly into their fists. Mr. Sharma’s eyebrows seemed to rise even higher, threatening to disappear into his hairline.
Just then, a calm, reassuring voice broke the tension. “What Mr. Rathore is eloquently articulating, gentlemen,” Khanna Ji began, stepping forward with the practiced grace of a seasoned diplomat, “is the pervasive, yet often overlooked, influence of… external factors. Factors that, much like pigeons, can descend upon our meticulously crafted strategies, leaving behind unforeseen, detrimental marks.”
Khanna Ji was Aarav’s executive assistant, a man of fifty-odd years, impeccably dressed, unflappably calm, and possessed of a truly astonishing ability to translate Aarav’s eccentric musings into boardroom-appropriate corporate jargon. He was the unsung hero, the silent architect behind Aarav’s reluctant reign.
Aarav, encouraged by Khanna Ji’s intervention, beamed. “Precisely, Khanna Ji! So, I’ve been working on a solution.” He excitedly pushed his doodle across the table. It was a detailed drawing of a sleek, futuristic drone shaped vaguely like a predatory bird, complete with tiny, menacing talons. Below it, in his scrawling hand, he’d written: *‘Super-Sonic Pigeon-Scaring Drone – Project Squawk-Off.’*
Mr. Sinha peered at the drawing. “A… drone? For… pigeons?”
Khanna Ji smoothly intercepted the report. “Ah, yes, ‘Project Squawk-Off,’” he said, holding the paper up as if it were a rare artifact. “A masterstroke of strategic thinking, gentlemen. Mr. Rathore envisions this not merely as a device, but as a metaphor, a symbol of our proactive stance against market disruptors. The pigeon, in this context, represents the unpredictable, the volatile elements that threaten our stability. This drone,” he tapped the drawing with an air of profound insight, “is Rathore Global’s swift, precise, and technologically superior response to mitigate unforeseen risks. It signifies our readiness to innovate, to deploy cutting-edge solutions, to literally ‘scare off’ the competition before they can even land on our turf.”
A few nods began to circulate. The board members, accustomed to Khanna Ji’s magical ability to find profound meaning in Aarav’s eccentricities, started to look less confused and more intrigued.
“A bold vision, indeed,” Mr. Gupta, a veteran board member with a penchant for flowery language, rumbled, stroking his chin. “To anticipate the pest, and engineer its deterrent. I see the parallel, Khanna Ji. Very avant-garde, Mr. Rathore.”
Aarav blinked, utterly bewildered by the corporate interpretation of his pigeon drone. He just wanted to stop birds from pooping on people’s heads. He glanced at Khanna Ji, who gave him a subtle, almost imperceptible nod – the cue that the damage control was complete.
“Excellent, then,” Mr. Sinha concluded, looking relieved. “If there are no further… unconventional insights, we shall proceed with the implementation strategies for the textile division, as outlined.”
Aarav didn’t wait. The moment the meeting adjourned, he was on his feet, practically bounding out of the room. Khanna Ji, ever watchful, gave the board members a polite bow before following his employer.
“Khanna Ji, you’re a genius!” Aarav exclaimed once they were in the deserted hallway, the solemn board meeting room fading behind them. “Did you see their faces? They almost believed me!”
Khanna Ji permitted himself a faint smile, a rare deviation from his usual stoicism. “They believed *me*, Mr. Rathore. Not entirely the same thing.” He adjusted his tie, his gaze softening as he looked at the young man, who, despite his immense wealth and position, seemed more comfortable discussing pigeon defense systems than market analytics. “But all’s well that ends well. Though I must confess, ‘Project Squawk-Off’ does have a certain… ring to it.”
Aarav chuckled. “Right? Anyway, I’m off. Need to iron out a few kinks in the drone’s flight path. The last prototype kept trying to land on my head.” He gestured vaguely down the hall.
Khanna Ji cleared his throat. “Mr. Rathore, with all due respect, your grandmother, the Rajmata, wishes to see you. She’s rather displeased about the Q2 report, and she mentioned something about your… disengagement.”
Aarav winced. “Rajmata. Right. She’ll want to give me a lecture about ‘responsibility’ and ‘legacy’ and ‘why can’t you be more like your father, Aarav?’ Look, Khanna Ji, tell her I’m deeply involved in a crucial R&D project. Top secret. National security. Something along those lines. I’ll see her for dinner. Maybe.”
Khanna Ji sighed internally. “As you wish, Mr. Rathore. Though I doubt ‘national security’ will deter the Rajmata when she has an agenda.”
Aarav was already halfway to the private elevator. “Just do your magic, Khanna Ji. You always do.” He gave a half-hearted wave and disappeared into the elevator, pressing the button for the underground parking.
***
The Rathore mansion was less a house and more a sprawling estate, a testament to generations of accumulated wealth and influence. Deep beneath its grand façade, tucked away in what was once an old, abandoned bunker, was Aarav’s true sanctuary: his secret workshop.
The heavy steel door slid open with a hiss at his palm print and retinal scan, revealing a world of glorious, unbridled chaos. Wires snaked across the floor like metallic vines, tangled and vibrant. Tools hung from pegboards in a haphazard symphony, hammers next to soldering irons, wrenches beside micro-drills. Half-assembled contraptions lay scattered on workbenches, some humming softly, others sparking sporadically. There was a faint scent of ozone, burnt plastic, and something vaguely like pizza.
Aarav stepped inside, and the tense, suffocating air of the boardroom instantly evaporated. This was home. This was where his mind truly came alive. He shed his expensive suit jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a pile of discarded circuit boards. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing strong, capable forearms.
“Alright, Beta-bot,” he murmured to a small, four-legged robot scurrying across the floor, collecting stray nuts and bolts. “Let’s see what havoc you’ve been wreaking in my absence.”
The Beta-bot whirred in response, its single optical sensor blinking. It dropped a shiny bolt into a designated bin with a satisfying clink.
Aarav walked over to a large, partially assembled contraption that resembled a giant, metallic birdcage with a miniature jet engine attached. This was the ‘Super-Sonic Pigeon-Scaring Drone’ in its current, physical form. He picked up a wrench, his fingers instinctively finding the right grip.
“You know, Squawk-Off,” he began, talking to the machine with the earnestness of someone addressing a sentient being, “Khanna Ji really outdid himself today. Said you were a ‘metaphor for proactive mitigation of market disruptors.’ Can you believe it?” He tightened a screw with a grunt. “I just wanted to make sure those pesky birds don’t bomb anyone’s head with their… organic waste.”
He leaned closer, examining a loose wire. “The problem, my friend, is the oscillation dampeners. They’re unstable. That’s why you wobble like a drunken flamingo mid-flight.” He made a mental note to order a batch of specialized dampeners from his usual obscure online supplier. Not the corporate procurement department, they’d ask too many questions.
His phone buzzed. It was Khanna Ji. Aarav glanced at the screen, then tossed the phone onto a nearby couch, letting it vibrate itself into silence. Corporate world could wait. The pigeons of Delhi, and the purity of his inventions, could not.
He spent the next few hours lost in his work, the world outside ceasing to exist. He adjusted, tweaked, soldered, and cursed softly when a component refused to cooperate. He calibrated the drone’s sensors, fine-tuned its propulsion system, and even added a tiny, high-pitched speaker designed to emit a frequency unbearable to avian ears but harmless to humans. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his hair falling messily over his eyes, a smudge of grease appearing on his cheek. This was Aarav in his element, a mad scientist in his sanctuary.
He paused, stretching his back, a faint ache settling in from hunching over the workbench. He picked up a dusty photo frame from a shelf. It was an old picture of his father, younger, vibrant, with that same spark of mischievous intelligence in his eyes. His father had been an inventor too, though his creations were more abstract, theoretical, often related to energy and sustainable technology. He’d died young, leaving Aarav, a mere child, to grapple with a massive legacy and an even more massive corporation.
“Wish you were here, Papa,” Aarav whispered, tracing the outline of his father’s smile. “You’d understand. All they see is ‘Rathore Global heir.’ Not… this.” He gestured around the chaotic workshop. “They call me ‘jhali.’ Goofy. Eccentric. If only they knew.”
He put the photo back, a wistful expression on his face. The pressure from his grandmother, Rajmata, was immense. She wanted him to be a ‘proper CEO,’ to wear suits, attend galas, marry a suitable heiress, and expand the empire. But his heart simply wasn’t in it. His heart was here, in this beautiful mess of wires and dreams. He was a creator, not a corporate titan. He just wished someone understood that. Someone who didn’t try to force him into a mold he couldn’t fit.
He looked at the pigeon drone, now looking much more formidable. It was almost ready for a test flight. Almost. Just a few more adjustments. He smiled. This was the life he wanted. If only the Rathore name didn’t come with so many expectations.
***
In the opulent, traditional drawing-room of the Rathore mansion, where antique Persian rugs softened the echoes of the grand marble staircase, Rajmata Devyani Rathore sat regally on a plush velvet armchair. Her posture was ramrod straight, her silver hair meticulously pulled back into a severe bun, and her gaze, sharp and unwavering, could cut through steel. She held a fragile porcelain teacup, but her knuckles were white.
Across from her, Khanna Ji stood, his expression carefully neutral. “He mentioned a crucial R&D project, Rajmata. Top secret. National security.”
Rajmata snorted, a surprisingly undignified sound for a woman of her stature. “National security, Khanna Ji? From Aarav? The last time he invoked ‘national security’ was to explain why he needed a high-altitude weather balloon for ‘atmospheric data collection’ that mysteriously ended up carrying his neighbour’s prize-winning poodle to the next district. The poodle was fine, I assure you, but the neighbour still doesn’t speak to us.”
Khanna Ji cleared his throat. “A slight miscalculation, perhaps, Rajmata.”
“Miscalculation? The boy is a walking, talking miscalculation! He skipped the Q2 review, Khanna Ji! The textile division is plummeting faster than one of his experimental gliders! And when he did grace us with his presence, he started talking about… pigeons!” She slammed the teacup onto its saucer, the delicate china rattling precariously.
“He believes external factors are a significant threat, Rajmata,” Khanna Ji offered mildly.
“External factors? He needs to be concerned about internal factors! Namely, himself!” Rajmata rose, pacing the room with an agitated energy that belied her age. “He’s Rathore. The Rathore name means something. It means precision, power, unwavering focus. Not… not pigeon drones and automatic samosa makers.”
Khanna Ji bowed his head slightly. “His heart, Rajmata, lies in innovation.”
“Innovation without direction is madness! He’s a jhali, Khanna Ji! A goofy eccentric! He fiddles with wires and robots when he should be signing multi-billion-dollar deals! His father, God rest his soul, was brilliant. But he channeled that brilliance into building this empire, into Project Phoenix… not into making a self-stirring chai cup!” She pointed a finger at Khanna Ji, her voice laced with exasperation. “Do you know what his latest project is, according to his security detail? A ‘self-navigating dustbin’ that sorts waste by type of… emotional residue!”
Khanna Ji suppressed a sigh. The ‘emotional residue’ dustbin had been a particularly baffling project, even for him.
“He is a good boy, Rajmata,” Khanna Ji continued, choosing his words carefully. “Kind-hearted. And undeniably intelligent. Perhaps his genius merely needs… a different outlet.”
“Outlet? His outlet should be the CEO’s chair, not a workshop full of glorified toys!” She stopped pacing, her eyes narrowing. “The board is nervous. Vikram Shekhawat is circling like a vulture. He smells weakness. Aarav’s… escapades are making us vulnerable.”
“Mr. Shekhawat is indeed a concern,” Khanna Ji conceded. “But Mr. Aarav has a unique way of handling challenges. He is resilient.”
“Resilient? He’s oblivious! He needs to grow up, Khanna Ji. He needs to take his responsibilities seriously. He needs a partner. Someone who can ground him, give him purpose beyond the next absurd invention.” Rajmata walked over to the grand fireplace, staring at the roaring flames, a flicker of genuine worry softening her stern features. “I love that boy, Khanna Ji. He’s all I have left of my son. But he’s adrift. He’s living in a fantasy world. And I cannot let the Rathore legacy crumble because my grandson prefers tinkering with toasters that sing ghazals over leading a global conglomerate.”
She turned back to Khanna Ji, her resolve hardening. “Get me the best matchmaker in the city, Khanna Ji. Tomorrow. I want a list of suitable alliances. Strong families. Sensible girls. Girls who understand responsibility, who can see beyond his… quirks. It’s time Aarav Rathore took a wife. Perhaps that will finally light a fire under him. Or at least, divert his attention from inventing robotic shoes that tie themselves.”
Khanna Ji bowed. “As you command, Rajmata.” He knew this was an order that would prove far more challenging than a simple board meeting spin-doctoring. Aarav Rathore and a ‘sensible girl’ was a combination that had disaster written all over it, but he wouldn't voice his concerns. His duty was to the Rathore family, and by extension, to its most eccentric scion. He could only hope for the best. And perhaps, quietly, pray for a miracle.
Chapter 2
Priya Sharma hummed a popular Bollywood tune, a cheerful, upbeat melody that seemed to perfectly match the rhythmic clang of her steel tiffin boxes. Her small kitchen, tucked away in the bustling lanes of West Delhi, was a symphony of sounds and smells: the sizzling of *tadka* in hot oil, the comforting aroma of freshly baked *rotis*, and the low murmur of her mother, Shanti, instructing their sole kitchen helper, Chotu, on the art of perfectly separating *dal* from *sabzi* in the compartmentalized containers.
“Chotu, *dekh!* This *dal* needs to go in the biggest compartment, and *sabzi* in the middle one. And remember, separate spoon for each. Nobody wants their *aloo gobhi* tasting like *rajma* on a Tuesday morning,” Priya instructed, her voice clear and firm, despite the early hour. She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, her eyes, sharp and observant, darting between the steaming pots and the neatly stacked tiffin carriers.
Chotu, a lanky teenager with an eager-to-please expression, nodded vigorously. “Yes, *didi*. No *rajma-aloo gobhi* confusion today. Today is special day.”
Priya grinned. “That’s right, Chotu. Today *is* a special day. So everything has to be perfect. *Ekdum* top-class.”
The air in the kitchen was thick with anticipation. Priya’s tiffin service, ‘Priya’s Pet Pooja’ – a name her younger brother, Rohan, had mockingly coined, but which had somehow stuck – had been chugging along for the past three years. It was a modest operation, built on her tireless work ethic, her knack for delicious, home-cooked meals, and her unparalleled mastery of *jugaad*.
Her prized possession, her lifeline, was her trusty red scooter. ‘Dhaanno,’ as she affectionately called it, was more than just a vehicle; it was a testament to her ingenuity. Its kickstand was held in place with a sturdy rubber band, the headlight cover was cracked but firmly taped, and the seat was patched with a piece of old denim that somehow matched its faded red. Dhaanno might not have been pretty, but she was reliable, thanks to Priya’s constant, inventive fixes.
Shanti, a gentle woman whose worry lines seemed permanently etched around her eyes, placed a freshly brewed cup of ginger tea on the counter for Priya. “Are you sure you checked the order again, *beta*? This is a very big order. For the Kapoor family. Their daughter’s engagement party. Eighty tiffins. *Badi baat hai*.”
Priya took a grateful sip of the hot tea. “*Haan, Amma*, I’ve checked it ten times. And Chotu has checked it five. *Dal makhani*, *paneer pasanda*, *naan*, *mix veg*, and *gulab jamun*. All accounted for. All packed perfectly. Don’t worry.” She squeezed her mother’s hand. “This is it, Amma. This order… it’s going to open so many doors for us. The Kapoors are big shots. If they like our food, it’s going to be a huge boost for Priya’s Pet Pooja. We can finally think about getting that bigger kitchen you always wanted.”
Shanti’s eyes welled up slightly. “You work too hard, *beta*. Always running, always worrying. You should be thinking about your own life, about settling down.”
Priya rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Amma, please! My life *is* Priya’s Pet Pooja right now. And settling down can wait. First, we get this kitchen. Then we hire a proper delivery boy. Then, maybe, I’ll consider a nice, sensible boy who understands that a well-cooked *dal* is the secret to a happy life.”
Just then, Rina, Priya’s cousin, sauntered into the kitchen, a half-eaten slice of toast in her hand. Rina was all sharp edges and calculated smiles, her eyes constantly assessing, comparing. She was about Priya’s age but had always harboured a simmering resentment towards Priya’s independence and unwavering spirit, something she considered naive and unsophisticated.
“Still slaving away, Priya?” Rina asked, her voice saccharine, but her eyes held a glint of something less kind. She leaned against the doorframe, observing the controlled chaos of the kitchen with an air of detached amusement. “Eighty tiffins? That’s a lot of manual labour, isn’t it? I mean, who even uses tiffin services for an engagement party? Don’t people just hire proper caterers these days? Like, ones with actual staff and proper vans, not… scooter-wallahs?”
Priya ignored the subtle jab. She was used to Rina’s passive-aggressive remarks. “We’re cost-effective, Rina, and our food tastes like home. That’s our USP. And yes, people hire us. Because we deliver quality. Something you wouldn’t understand from your armchair.” She gave her a pointed look.
Rina merely shrugged, taking another bite of her toast. “Well, good luck, then. Hope Dhaanno doesn’t break down on you again. Wouldn’t want to ruin the Kapoor’s big day, would we? Imagine the scandal. ‘Tiffin service fails, bride’s family left hungry!’” She let out a small, mocking laugh.
Shanti glared at Rina. “*Rina! Bolti kya ho tum?* Why are you talking like this?”
“Just being realistic, *Mausi*,” Rina replied innocently. “Priya is always so optimistic. Someone has to remind her of the harsh realities, right?”
Priya’s younger brother, Rohan, who had just stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, piped up, “No one asked for your ‘realism,’ Rina *didi*. Priya *didi* is the best. And Dhaanno is a rockstar!”
Rina scoffed. “Oh, look, the little fan club has arrived. Go on, Rohan, go play with your video games. Adult matters are being discussed.”
“This *is* an adult matter, Rina,” Priya said, her voice firm, as she started stacking the tiffin carriers into custom-made thermal bags. “This is my business. My future. And it’s looking pretty good right now. So if you’re not going to help, don’t hinder.”
Rina feigned a hurt expression. “Oh, so sensitive! I was just offering a little… cautionary advice. After all, what if something goes wrong? What’s your backup plan?”
Priya paused, a thermal bag in her hand. She looked at Rina, a knowing glint in her eyes. “My backup plan, Rina, is always jugaad. There’s no problem that can’t be fixed with a little common sense, a lot of elbow grease, and a bit of out-of-the-box thinking. And a rubber band, if necessary.” She smiled, a genuine, confident smile that didn’t quite reach Rina’s perpetually critical gaze. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have eighty hungry guests to feed.”
She finished loading the thermal bags, expertly balancing them on Dhaanno’s passenger seat, strapping them securely with bungee cords that had seen better days but still held strong. She checked her phone for the address, a grand banquet hall in South Delhi, a good hour’s drive away.
“Ready, Dhaanno?” she patted the scooter’s worn seat. Dhaanno seemed to hum in response as Priya kicked the starter. The engine sputtered to life on the third attempt, a familiar, reassuring rumble.
Shanti came out to the small porch, her face still etched with concern. “Drive carefully, *beta*. Call me when you reach.”
“I will, Amma. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Priya gave her mother a quick hug, a reassuring squeeze.
Rohan ran out, still in his night clothes. “All the best, *didi*! Get that big kitchen!”
“I will, Rohan! Just you wait!” Priya called back, a laugh bubbling up.
As she pulled away from the curb, leaving the familiar comfort of her narrow street, a sense of exhilaration bubbled within her. The morning air was cool, the city still waking up, and the possibilities felt endless. This was her moment. This was the opportunity she had worked so hard for, the chance to finally lift her family out of their cramped circumstances. The Kapoor order wasn’t just a catering job; it was a stepping stone, a promise of a brighter future.
She navigated the early morning traffic, Dhaanno weaving expertly through the cars and auto-rickshaws, the thermal bags swaying gently but securely behind her. Her mind raced, not with worries, but with plans. She imagined the Kapoors praising her food, word spreading through their high-society circles, more big orders coming in, maybe even a small feature in the local newspaper. She pictured her mother finally relaxing, Rohan getting into a good college, and perhaps, just maybe, Priya’s Pet Pooja growing into something truly substantial.
She smiled to herself. Today was a good day. A very good day. Everything was going to be perfect. She adjusted her helmet, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, filled with a determined sparkle. The sun, a golden orb, was slowly climbing into the sky, casting a warm, hopeful glow over the city. Priya accelerated, her heart full of dreams, speeding towards the biggest delivery of her life. Nothing could stop her now. Nothing.
Chapter 3
Chapter 3
The Rathore Global building, a monolithic structure of glass and steel, scraped the sky, its rooftop a vast, windswept expanse usually reserved for high-stakes meetings or helicopter landings. Today, however, it was the unlikely launchpad for ‘Project Squawk-Off,’ the Super-Sonic Pigeon-Scaring Drone.
Aarav Rathore, dressed in jeans and a grease-stained t-shirt – a marked contrast to his earlier boardroom attire – fiddled with a sleek, metallic remote control. Beside him, perched precariously on a custom-built, foldable launchpad, sat the drone. It was indeed shaped like a stylised peregrine falcon, its tiny jet engines humming with barely contained power. The sun, high in the sky now, glinted off its polished surface.
“Alright, Squawk-Off,” Aarav murmured, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. “This is it. No more drunken flamingo wobbles. No more attempts to land on my head. This is about precision. This is about… avian deterrence.” He pushed a few buttons, and a small, digital display on the remote flickered to life, showing altitude and wind speed.
“Ready for launch sequence. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Lift off!” he announced, pressing the main launch button with a flourish.
The drone’s engines roared to life, a surprisingly loud whine for such a compact machine. It lifted off the pad with surprising speed, ascending vertically into the clear blue sky. Aarav grinned, watching its flawless climb. “Yes! Who’s the jhali now, Rajmata? This is engineering, baby!”
He tilted the remote, guiding the drone. It soared gracefully, cutting through the air with the precision of a real bird of prey. He made it do a few elegant loops, then a swift dive, pretending to swoop down on an imaginary flock of pigeons. He was so engrossed, so lost in the pure joy of seeing his invention work, that he missed the subtle flicker on the remote’s screen, a warning sign he’d been dreading.
Suddenly, the drone gave a violent lurch. Its elegant flight path turned into a jerky, unpredictable zig-zag. The high-pitched whine of its engines became a desperate, screeching wail. Aarav’s eyes widened in alarm. “What the–? No, no, no! Come on, Squawk-Off! Hold it steady!” He frantically pressed buttons, twisting the control stick, but the drone had a mind of its own.
It spiraled downwards, picking up terrifying speed, looking less like a majestic falcon and more like a very expensive, very angry metal meteor. It plummeted past office windows, leaving startled expressions in its wake, an uncontrolled dive towards the bustling street below. Aarav rushed to the edge of the rooftop, leaning over the safety barrier, his heart pounding in his chest. “No! Not again! Not into traffic!”
***
Down on the street, Priya Sharma was navigating the mid-morning rush hour with practiced ease. Dhaanno hummed along, a steady, comforting rhythm beneath her. The thermal bags filled with the Kapoor family’s engagement feast were securely strapped behind her, emitting the delicious aromas of *dal makhani* and *paneer pasanda*. She was making good time, the banquet hall just a few blocks away. Her phone buzzed with a message from Shanti, asking if she’d reached. Priya smiled, typing a quick reply: *Almost there, Amma. Everything perfect!*
She was just approaching a busy intersection, planning her left turn, when she heard it. A high-pitched, metallic shriek, growing louder, closer. It sounded like a giant mosquito, or maybe a tiny, angry airplane. She glanced up, her eyes scanning the sky, just in time to see a blur of silver plummeting directly towards her.
“What the–!” she yelled, instinctively swerving Dhaanno to the left, trying to get out of its path.
But it was too late.
The ‘Super-Sonic Pigeon-Scaring Drone’ struck Dhaanno with the force of a small missile. There was a sickening crunch of metal, a shower of sparks, and then – a spectacular explosion of food. The thermal bags ruptured on impact. *Dal makhani* erupted like a golden-brown geyser, splattering across the road, coating every passing vehicle, and raining down on startled pedestrians. *Paneer pasanda* curried the windshields of luxury cars. *Naan* flew like fluffy white frisbees. And the *gulab jamuns*… they bounced, a sticky, sugary artillery barrage, leaving sweet brown stains on everything they touched.
Priya, still clinging to Dhaanno’s handlebars, somehow managed to stay upright, though her scooter now looked like it had taken a direct hit from a food fight. She was drenched. *Dal* dripped from her hair, ran down her face, and soaked her clothes. A rogue *gulab jamun* was plastered to her forehead, slowly sliding down her nose. Dhaanno was sputtering, steam rising from its mangled front wheel, half-buried in a puddle of *dal*.
Chaos erupted around her. Car horns blared, drivers shouted in outrage, and pedestrians screamed, trying to wipe the sticky, aromatic residue from their clothes. A few brave souls tried to salvage a *gulab jamun* or two from the ground.
Priya slowly dismounted from Dhaanno, her body trembling, not from fear, but from a growing, furious rage. This wasn’t just a ruined delivery. This was the Kapoor order. This was her big break. This was the new kitchen. This was the hope for her family. All of it, now a sticky, smelly mess on a busy Delhi street.
She looked up, tracing the trajectory of the metal menace that had ruined her life. Her eyes narrowed, following the path to a figure running down the street towards her, a tall, well-dressed man, who looked entirely out of place in the chaos.
Aarav, his face pale with horror and guilt, had rushed down from the rooftop, through the emergency stairwell, desperate to assess the damage. He stopped dead, his jaw dropping, at the sight before him. Dhaanno, crumpled like a tin can, submerged in a sea of *dal*. The pristine street, now a culinary disaster zone. And in the middle of it all, a woman, covered head-to-toe in yellow-orange curry, her eyes blazing with an intensity that made him want to melt into the pavement.
“Oh… oh my God,” he stammered, stepping into a squelchy patch of *dal*. “I… I am so, so sorry. Are you… are you alright?” He looked at the *gulab jamun* on her forehead. “You have a… a *gulab jamun* on your face.”
Priya’s nostrils flared. She wiped the sticky sweet off her forehead with a trembling finger, then stared at the remains of the drone, which lay mangled near Dhaanno’s ruined front wheel. Her gaze then snapped back to Aarav. He looked utterly flustered, his hair messy, a smudge of grease on his cheek. His expensive shirt was untucked, his jeans looked lived-in. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He looked… like a mechanic. A reckless, utterly incompetent mechanic.
“Alright? Am I alright?!” Priya’s voice started low, a dangerous rumble, then quickly escalated into a full-blown roar. She pointed a trembling, dal-splattered finger at the mangled drone. “What *is* this thing?! Some kind of rogue spaceship? An alien attack?!” She then pointed at Dhaanno. “My scooter! My Dhaanno! She’s… she’s dead! Look at her! Drenched in *dal*! And my food! My eighty tiffins! My entire day’s hard work! Ruined! Finished! *Barbaad!*”
Aarav flinched, taking a step back. “I… it’s a drone. My drone. It just… malfunctioned. I was testing it. I really am terribly sorry. I’ll pay for everything. Every single thing. I promise.”
Priya scoffed. “A drone? You were ‘testing’ a drone? You, a mechanic, are ‘testing’ drones? What kind of back-alley workshop are you running, mister? Are you even licensed? Do you know what this means?! This wasn’t just food! This was the Kapoor order! The biggest contract of my life! My chance to get a proper kitchen for my mother! My family’s future! All gone! Because you were ‘testing’ your little… toy!”
She gestured wildly at the dal-splattered road. “Look around you! You’ve turned a perfectly good Delhi street into a giant, disgusting *thali*! People are covered in curry! Cars are slathered in *paneer*! And my scooter… my Dhaanno… she’s a war casualty!” Her voice cracked with genuine despair, quickly replaced by renewed fury.
Aarav stammered, trying to formulate an explanation that wouldn’t involve admitting he was a billionaire heir who played with expensive toys. “I… I can explain. It’s a prototype. It’s usually very precise. This never happens.”
“Never happens? Look at the state of me! Look at the state of this street! This looks like something that happens every single day with your ‘prototypes’! You probably break things for a living, don’t you? You’re probably a jobless menace who spends all his time building ridiculous machines and crashing them into honest, hard-working people!” Priya yelled, her voice hoarse now. “You irresponsible, clumsy, good-for-nothing… mechanic!”
Aarav winced at the ‘jobless mechanic’ label, but he didn’t correct her. How could he? How could he tell this furious, dal-soaked woman that he was the heir to the very building from which his drone had just plummeted? It would only make him sound even more ridiculous, more arrogant. He just stood there, shoulders slumped, looking like a guilty schoolboy. He was covered in a mix of drone grease and dal, feeling utterly, profoundly terrible.
Priya took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside her. She looked at Dhaanno again, then at the scattered food, then back at the utterly helpless man in front of her. His expensive, albeit greasy, clothes seemed to confirm her suspicion that he was just a regular person, probably a struggling inventor or mechanic, who had accidentally caused this disaster. Her anger, though still simmering, began to mix with a strange sense of exasperation and pity. He looked genuinely awful, a puppy caught in a very large, dal-filled pickle.
“Well?” she demanded, hands on her hips, her voice still sharp but tinged with a weary defeat. “What are you going to do about this, Mr. Reckless Mechanic? Are you just going to stand there looking like a *dal* advertisement?!”
Aarav cleared his throat, rubbing his greasy hands together. He knew he had to fix this. But how? He couldn’t just write her a check for millions. That would blow his cover entirely. He needed to do it properly. He needed to make it right. And he needed to do it in a way that fit the persona she had created for him. He took a deep breath. An idea, half-formed, desperate, but perhaps brilliant, began to sprout in his mind.
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Aarav Rathore, still covered in a mix of drone grease and dal, swallowed hard. Priya’s furious, red-rimmed eyes bore into him, demanding an answer, a solution. He couldn’t just pull out his credit card and pay for the damage. That would expose everything, and besides, this wasn’t just about money for her; it was about her livelihood, her dreams. He had to think fast, think like… well, like ‘Avi,’ the broke, clumsy inventor she clearly thought he was.
“Look,” he started, running a hand through his already messy hair, making it worse. “You’re right. This is all my fault. Completely. One hundred percent. My drone… my stupid, malfunctioning drone… it ruined everything for you.” He gestured vaguely at the dal-splattered street, then at the mangled Dhaanno. “And your… your Dhaanno. I saw how you looked at it. It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
Priya scoffed, tears pricking her eyes again. “Mean a lot? It’s my entire business! My life! And now it’s scrap metal and… *dal pakoda*.” She kicked lightly at a rogue *gulab jamun* near her foot. “So, ‘sorry’ won’t fix it, mister. What *are* you going to do?”
Aarav took a deep breath. This was it. The impulsive, desperate plan. “I… I can’t pay you back all at once,” he blurted out, trying to sound genuinely apologetic and a little bit broke. “I’m… I’m just an inventor. A… a struggling one, you know? My workshop… it’s not exactly a big corporate office.” He winced, knowing that was a colossal understatement. “But I can make it right. I promise. I’ll fix your scooter. And I’ll pay for all the lost food. And I’ll… I’ll make sure you earn back what you lost. And more.”
Priya narrowed her eyes. “How? Are you going to invent a money-making machine? Because frankly, your last invention just created a giant food fight.”
“No, no! Not like that.” Aarav’s mind raced. He needed a job title, something she could actually do, something that would keep her close enough for him to discreetly help her, but not so close that she’d discover his secret. “Look, my workshop… it’s a disaster zone. Seriously. My ideas are brilliant, but my… my organization skills? They’re… non-existent. Things are everywhere. Tools, blueprints, half-finished projects. It’s chaos.”
He paused, looking at her, seeing her practical, no-nonsense demeanor even under a layer of dal. She seemed like someone who could bring order to chaos. “What I need is someone to… to bring order. To organize my space. To manage my… my projects. Help me keep track of things. You clearly know how to manage a business, even a tiffin one. You’re organized. You’re… efficient. You’re a master of *jugaad*.” He’d seen her resourceful spirit in the way she carried her tiffins, in the stories he’d heard about her scooter.
Priya stared at him, bewildered. “You want me… to organize your junk?”
“It’s not junk! They’re inventions!” Aarav protested, then quickly softened his tone. “Yes. Exactly. My inventions. I call it… an Organizational Manager. And I’ll pay you. A good salary. Enough to cover all your losses, and then some. Consider it… reparations. Until you’re back on your feet with your tiffin service. What do you say? A temporary arrangement? Just till I… I earn enough from my *next* successful invention to pay you properly.” He really leaned into the 'struggling' part.
Priya looked from the pitiful, dal-stained man to her ruined scooter, then back to the man. Desperation clawed at her. The Kapoor order was gone. She had no income for the foreseeable future. Her mother would be distraught. This man, for all his clumsiness, seemed genuinely remorseful. And the offer, bizarre as it was, sounded like a lifeline. She hated the idea of working for this bumbling idiot, but what other choice did she have? She needed money, and she needed it fast.
“An Organizational Manager, huh?” she repeated slowly, testing the words. “And you’ll fix Dhaanno? Properly? Not with more… drone parts?”
“Properly! I swear! I’m actually quite good with mechanics when I’m not… you know… launching things into traffic.” He tried a nervous smile, which came out as more of a grimace.
“And you’ll pay me a *good* salary?”
“The best! For a struggling inventor, I pay very well! I mean, I *will* pay very well, once I get my next big breakthrough.” He was digging himself deeper into the ‘broke’ narrative, but it seemed to be working.
Priya sighed, running a dal-sticky hand over her face. She felt a grudging admiration for his earnestness, despite his clear ineptitude. “Alright,” she said, her voice still wary. “Alright. I’ll come and see this… this workshop of yours. But if it’s just a shed full of broken toasters and dreams, I’m walking out. And I’m still sending you the bill for Dhaanno, even if I have to chain myself to your front gate.”
Aarav’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Excellent! Thank you! You won’t regret it! It’s… it’s not a shed. It’s a proper workshop. Very big. Lots of space. Just… needs a bit of… managing.” He looked around, suddenly remembering they were in the middle of a dal-covered street. “First, let’s get you cleaned up. And your scooter. I’ll call for a tow truck for Dhaanno right now. And… and I’ll get you a taxi. My place isn’t far. It’s… it’s the big mansion just down the road. I work in the garage there.” He gestured vaguely towards the direction of Rathore Mansion, his actual home. He hoped she wouldn’t question why a 'struggling inventor' would work in a mansion's garage.
Priya’s eyebrows shot up. A mansion’s garage? He was an employee there? That explained the expensive, though now greasy, clothes. A slightly more respectable ‘jobless mechanic,’ perhaps. Still, something felt off, but she was too tired, too defeated, and too covered in dal to question it further right now. She just needed a shower and a plan.
“Fine,” she mumbled, her voice devoid of its earlier fire, replaced by weary resignation. “Lead the way, Mr. Inventor. Just… try not to crash anything else into me on the way there.”
Aarav managed a real, if slightly anxious, smile. “You can call me Avi,” he said, extending a dal-free hand, which she pointedly ignored. “It’s… shorter. Easier.”
“Avi,” Priya repeated, the name sounding strange on her tongue, heavy with the weight of her recent misfortune. She watched as he frantically called someone, presumably a tow truck, then flagged down a passing taxi. She got in, eyeing him through the rearview mirror as he directed the tow truck driver towards Dhaanno. He looked like a man overwhelmed by the consequences of his own clumsiness, a well-meaning but utterly chaotic soul. He looked exactly like what she expected a ‘struggling inventor who worked in a mansion garage’ to look like.
The taxi pulled away, leaving the dal-covered street behind. Priya leaned back, closing her eyes. Her life had just been turned upside down by a rogue drone and a bumbling inventor named Avi. She had no idea what she was getting herself into, or what kind of ‘workshop’ awaited her. But she knew one thing: she had to make this work. She had to use her *jugaad* to fix this mess, even if the mess was now this eccentric ‘Avi’ and his ridiculous inventions.
Chapter 5
The taxi pulled up to the imposing gates of the Rathore Mansion. Priya craned her neck, taking in the sheer scale of the building – a sprawling edifice of polished stone and manicured gardens that seemed to stretch for acres. This wasn’t just a mansion; it was a fortress of wealth. She felt a knot of unease tighten in her stomach. Why would a “struggling inventor” like Avi be working *here*?
Aarav, having finished with the tow truck for Dhaanno, was waiting by the gates, looking slightly less dal-splattered but still disheveled. He gave the taxi driver a hefty sum – too hefty for a mere employee, Priya noted mentally – and then turned to her with a nervous smile.
“Welcome,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards a side path that led around the main building. “This way. The workshop is… around back.”
Priya followed him, her eyes still darting around the manicured grounds. The air here felt different – expensive, quiet, utterly removed from the bustling street where her life had just imploded. They reached a massive, standalone building that looked like a very large, very modern garage. The doors were made of dark wood and brushed steel, hinting at a hidden world within.
Aarav fumbled with a fingerprint scanner and a keypad, muttering under his breath. “Right, just a second. Sometimes it’s a bit… finicky. Biometric lock. Security, you know.” He finally got it open, and the heavy doors swung inward with a soft hum.
Priya stepped inside and stopped dead. Her jaw, which she hadn’t realized was clenched, dropped.
This was not a garage. This was not a shed. This was a cavernous space, at least three times the size of her entire family home, stretching back into what looked like a multi-level mezzanine. Every surface, every corner, was teeming with… *things*.
There were workbenches groaning under the weight of circuit boards, wires, and tools of every conceivable shape and size. Half-assembled contraptions hung from the ceiling on pulleys, some resembling giant spiderwebs made of metal, others like futuristic washing machines. Shelves overflowed with components, neatly labelled boxes sitting next to haphazard piles of what looked like salvaged robot parts. A faint smell of ozone and soldering wafted through the air, mixed with something else, something metallic and clean.
In the center, a gleaming, futuristic 3D printer whirred softly, fabricating a complex plastic part. On one wall, giant schematics were projected, covered in complex equations and bizarre doodles. There was a robot arm meticulously sorting tiny screws into color-coded bins, and in another corner, a contraption with multiple screens displayed lines of code.
It was chaos, yes, but it was *organized* chaos. Or rather, it was chaos with flashes of extreme organization that quickly devolved into more chaos. It was the lair of a brilliant mind that had no idea how to manage its own brilliant output.
Priya slowly walked further in, her initial shock giving way to a strange mix of exasperation and grudging respect. “You call this a ‘workshop’?” she finally managed to say, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space. “This is a… a mad scientist’s playground!”
Aarav winced. “Well, I prefer ‘innovator.’ But yeah, it gets a bit… messy. That’s where you come in! The Organizational Manager!” He beamed, clearly proud of his domain, despite its current state.
Priya picked up a strange-looking device from a workbench – it looked like a cross between a hairdryer and a ray gun. “And what exactly *is* this?”
“Oh, that’s the ‘Instant Toast and Jam Dispenser’ prototype. Still working out the ‘jam dispensing’ part. It tends to, you know, just spray jam everywhere.”
Priya put it down carefully. “Right. Of course.” She walked to a section where blueprints were strewn across a table, some half-rolled, some crumpled. “So, your idea of organizing is… letting things explode and spray food?”
Aarav nervously chuckled. “Well, no. That’s what *I* do. That’s what *you’re* here to fix. See? Total lack of systematic arrangement.” He gestured broadly at the disarray. “I need labels. I need filing. I need… order. Look, these wires! Are they copper? Are they fiber optic? Are they part of the ‘Self-Stirring Coffee Mug’ or the ‘Automatic Sock Sorter’?”
Priya’s eyes scanned the room, a plan already forming in her mind. This wasn’t just a job; this was a challenge. And she loved a challenge. She took a deep breath, the faint smell of solder now almost comforting. “Alright, Avi. First things first. We need to clear this main table. What’s important, what’s junk?”
“Nothing’s junk! Everything is a potential breakthrough!” Aarav protested, then quickly added, “But yes, this table… it’s a problem. Usually, I just push things to the side when I need space.”
“‘Push things to the side’,” Priya muttered, shaking her head. She picked up a stack of blueprints. “These need to be categorized. By project, by date, by… level of absurdity.” She shot him a pointed look. “And these tools. All mixed up. Spanners with screwdrivers. Wrenches with… what is this, a tiny laser pointer?”
Aarav brightened. “Oh, that’s my ‘Emergency Pet Laser Pointer.’ For when my pet robot, Sparky, gets stuck.”
Priya pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of course. A pet robot. With a laser pointer.” She pointed to a shelf overflowing with circuit boards. “And these? Are they working? Are they for current projects? Or are they… dead?”
“Some are working, some are dead, some are… waiting for inspiration,” Aarav admitted.
Priya rolled up her sleeves. “Right. New rule number one, Avi: if it’s dead, it goes into a ‘deceased components’ bin. If it’s waiting for inspiration, it goes into an ‘inspiration awaiting’ bin. And if it’s currently being worked on, it stays on a designated workbench. Got it?”
Aarav blinked, impressed. “Wow. That’s… surprisingly logical. And efficient. I like it!”
Priya ignored him, already moving. She grabbed a large, empty plastic crate from a corner. “Alright. Let’s start with this table. Everything off, then we’ll sort. Tell me what each thing is as I pick it up.”
For the next hour, Priya was a whirlwind of focused energy. She moved with purpose, sorting, stacking, and questioning. Aarav, initially hovering, soon found himself simply responding to her commands, mesmerized by her efficiency. She had a way of cutting through his convoluted explanations, of simplifying his chaotic thought process into actionable steps. He watched, utterly captivated, as she brought structure to the physical manifestation of his brain. His workshop, his sanctuary, was slowly beginning to make sense, not just to him, but to an outsider. It felt… lighter. More functional.
He leaned against a workbench, a thoughtful smile on his face. She was remarkable. Practical, sharp, and utterly undeterred by his bizarre world. He liked the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way she muttered to herself as she sorted, the decisive way she stacked things. He liked the way she had completely taken charge, treating him not like some rich kid, but like an exasperating, but ultimately harmless, inventor who needed a lot of help.
Priya, meanwhile, was getting into her rhythm. The sheer volume of gadgets was overwhelming, but she was a master of breaking down large tasks into manageable pieces. She was just about to tackle a precarious pile of wires when she noticed a small, wheeled device tucked under a workbench. It looked like a miniature vacuum cleaner, but with multiple extendable arms and a nozzle on top.
“What’s this little guy?” she asked, pointing to it.
Aarav looked up, startled from his reverie. “Oh! That’s… that’s my ‘Automatic Room Cleaning Bot.’ Model R-2-D-2-Go. Still in beta. It’s supposed to detect dust and messes and… well, clean them up.”
Priya raised an eyebrow. “Supposed to? Has it ever worked?”
“Sometimes,” Aarav admitted. “It has a few… quirks. Like, it sometimes confuses dust with small pets. Or it tries to ‘clean’ my shoes off my feet. But it’s mostly harmless.”
As he said ‘mostly harmless,’ his elbow accidentally brushed a large, red button on the side of the workbench. There was a low whirring sound from the little robot. Its arms extended, and the nozzle on top rotated.
“Uh oh,” Aarav mumbled, his eyes widening.
Before Priya could react, the nozzle on the ‘Automatic Room Cleaning Bot’ began to spray. Not dust. Not even water mist. It was a powerful, concentrated stream of water, like a miniature fire hose, aimed directly at Priya’s face.
“AHH!” Priya yelped, instinctively throwing her arms up. The cold water hit her full-on, drenching her already dal-sticky hair and face. Her clothes, which she had just started to feel like she was getting clean from the earlier dal incident, were now soaking wet.
Aarav panicked. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! It’s the water-jet cleaning mode! It sometimes activates randomly! I haven’t debugged that part yet!” He rushed forward, fumbling for a towel, anything, but only managed to knock over a stack of blueprints.
Priya spluttered, wiping water from her eyes. She looked at Aarav, who was now a picture of utter distress, his face pale, his hands flapping uselessly. She felt a surge of renewed irritation, then, unexpectedly, a bubble of amusement. This man was truly a walking, talking disaster zone.
She looked at her soaking wet reflection in a polished metal surface, a water droplet hanging precariously from her nose. She looked ridiculous. And then she looked at Aarav, who looked even more ridiculous, trying to apologize while tripping over his own feet.
Suddenly, a giggle escaped her. It was a small, surprised sound at first, then it grew, bubbling up from her chest, turning into full-blown laughter. She threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the vast workshop. It was a genuine, unrestrained laugh, the first she’d had all day, perhaps all week. The absurdity of the situation, the relentless string of unfortunate events, all culminating in a drenching by a rogue cleaning bot, was just too much.
Aarav, initially confused by her laughter, saw the sheer mirth in her eyes, the genuine amusement. He looked down at himself, then at the sputtering robot, then back at Priya, who was now bent over, clutching her sides. And slowly, a smile touched his lips. It was a real smile, not the nervous grimace he usually wore.
“It’s… it’s actually pretty funny, isn’t it?” he said, a chuckle escaping him. The chuckle turned into a full laugh, joining hers. He wasn’t sure why he was laughing, but her laughter was infectious. He laughed at the robot, at himself, at the sheer, glorious chaos of his life, which had somehow found its perfect match in this incredibly practical, yet surprisingly good-humored woman.
They stood there, two soaking wet individuals, in the middle of a chaotic workshop, surrounded by bizarre inventions, laughing until their sides hurt. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated connection, a shared release of tension. The sound of their laughter filled the vast space, a small, hopeful melody in the grand symphony of wires, circuits, and dreams.
The laughter eventually subsided, leaving them both breathless and damp. Priya wiped her eyes, a fresh, watery streak mixing with the lingering dal and now clear water. “You know,” she said, still breathless, “for someone who builds so many things, you really don’t seem to know how to *not* cause a disaster.”
Aarav grinned, a genuine, boyish grin that completely changed his face. “That, Miss Organizational Manager, is precisely why I need you. I’m the ideas man. You’re the… disaster prevention and management expert.”
Just then, his phone, which he’d forgotten about, started buzzing frantically. It was a distinct, high-pitched ringtone he had reserved for emergencies. He pulled it out, and his face immediately lost its mirth, replaced by a look of dread. The screen flashed: ‘Khanna Ji: URGENT CORPORATE EMERGENCY!’
Priya noticed the sudden change in his demeanor. The playful, laughing Avi vanished, replaced by a strained, worried expression. “Everything alright?” she asked, her voice softer now.
Aarav sighed, running a hand over his wet hair. “Yeah, just… my boss. He gets… agitated. Corporate stuff. Never ending.” He forced a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Just another day in the life of a mansion garage employee, right?” He didn’t quite meet her eyes, and a flicker of unease, a tiny, almost imperceptible seed of doubt, began to grow in Priya’s mind. But for now, the shared laughter still warmed her, pushing the doubt to the back of her thoughts.
Chapter 6
Vikramaditya Shekhawat sat in his office, a space as stark and minimalist as his personality. Walls of frosted glass, a sleek black desk, and a single, abstract metal sculpture were the only adornments. There was no warmth here, no personal touch. Just cold, calculating efficiency. His gaze was fixed on a framed photograph on his desk, not of a loved one, but of an old, faded newspaper clipping. It showed a smiling, confident man, Aarav’s grandfather, shaking hands with a politician. Beneath it, in much smaller print, was a brief mention of a rival company's sudden downfall. Vikram traced the lines on the old paper with a manicured finger, his eyes glinting with a desire for vengeance that had festered for decades. The Rathore family had built their empire on the ruins of his own, and he had spent his entire life planning this moment.
A soft knock on the door broke the silence. His aide, a meticulously dressed man named Khanna, entered, holding a tablet.
“You summoned me, sir?” Khanna’s voice was deferential, almost a whisper in the silent room.
Vikram leaned back in his ergonomic chair, his expression unreadable. “Yes, Khanna. It’s time to begin. The Rathore empire has grown complacent. They believe themselves untouchable.” He paused, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “They’ve let their future fall into the hands of a clown.”
Khanna merely nodded, awaiting instruction.
“Aarav Rathore,” Vikram continued, his voice low, almost purring. “A ‘jhali’ in a suit. He’s the weakest link in their chain. The perfect entry point. His grandmother clings to a bygone era, and he’s more interested in playing with toy robots than running a multi-billion dollar corporation.” He picked up a pen, twirling it idly. “Our objective is simple: dismantle them from within. Slowly, systematically, until they collapse under their own weight.”
“And our first move, sir?” Khanna prompted.
Vikram finally looked up, his eyes meeting Khanna’s with an intensity that made the aide subtly shift his weight. “We begin by bleeding them dry of their talent. I want a list of every disgruntled senior engineer, every overlooked manager, every key personnel within Rathore Global who feels undervalued or unheard. Pay them double, triple, whatever it takes. I want them here. And I want them willing to talk.”
“Understood, sir. We already have a few candidates in mind. A Mr. Ramesh Gupta comes to mind, passed over for his last two promotions. Been with Rathore Global for nearly thirty years, mostly in R&D and legacy projects.”
A flicker of interest crossed Vikram’s face. “Ramesh Gupta, you say? Thirty years in R&D? Excellent. Someone who knows where the skeletons are buried. The older projects. The ones that might have been shelved, forgotten.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Dig into those, Khanna. The projects from Aarav’s father’s time, especially. His father was the true visionary among them, not this buffoon they’ve left in charge.”
“Consider it done, sir. I’ll make contact with Mr. Gupta immediately. He’ll be… amenable, I imagine.”
“Ensure he understands the value of discretion, Khanna. We want information, not a public spectacle. Not yet.” Vikram’s gaze returned to the faded newspaper clipping, a quiet, predatory satisfaction settling over him. “The game has begun.”
Khanna bowed slightly and exited the office, leaving Vikram alone once more in the chilling silence. Outside, the city hummed with life, oblivious to the quiet machinations unfolding high above, machinations that promised to shake one of its oldest and most powerful families to its very core. The pieces were in motion. The first domino had been set to fall.
Chapter 7
The aroma of tadka dal and fresh rotis filled the small Sharma apartment, a familiar comfort after a day of unsettling revelations and new beginnings. Priya kicked off her sandals by the door, a weariness settling into her bones that went beyond just physical exertion. Her mother, Shanti, was stirring a pot on the stove, humming a devotional tune. Her younger brother, Rohan, was sprawled on the floor, engrossed in a comic book. Rina, Priya’s cousin, was meticulously polishing her nails on the sofa, seemingly lost in her own world.
“I’m home!” Priya announced, trying to sound cheerful, but her voice cracked slightly.
Shanti turned, her face immediately softening with concern. “Priya! What happened to you? You’re all… wet. And is that… dal? Again?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did that man cause more trouble?”
Priya sighed. “Long story, Ma. And yes, it’s dal. And water. From a rogue cleaning robot, believe it or not.” She managed a weak chuckle. “But no, he didn’t cause trouble on purpose. It was an accident.” She walked over and sat beside Rohan, who was now looking up at her, eyes wide with curiosity.
“Cleaning robot? Wow!” Rohan exclaimed, sitting up straight. “Di, did you see other robots? Does he have laser guns? Or flying cars?”
Priya ruffled his hair. “Not exactly laser guns, Rohan. But he does have some very… interesting gadgets. Anyway, the good news is, I have a job. With him.”
Shanti gasped, turning fully from the stove. “A job? With that… that reckless man who ruined your scooter and our big order? Priya, are you mad?”
“Ma, listen,” Priya pleaded, holding up her hands. “He felt really bad. And he offered to pay for everything. He’s an inventor, Ma. A brilliant one, actually. Just… a little disorganized. He’s hired me as his ‘Organizational Manager’ for his workshop.” She tried to make it sound more official than it felt.
Shanti wrung her hands. “An inventor? What kind of inventor? Does he have a proper job? Does he even earn anything? These artist types, Priya, they live in their own world. How will he pay you? You need a stable job, beta, not some… some quirky hobbyist who breaks things.”
“He’s not a hobbyist, Ma! He works from a huge mansion’s garage, it’s like a proper lab. He’s clumsy, yes, but he’s really passionate. And I think… I think I can really help him. And he promised to pay well. Enough to cover the scooter and more.” Priya glanced at Rina, who had finally looked up from her nails, a small, insincere smile plastered on her face.
“Oh, how exciting, Priya Di!” Rina chirped, her voice just a little too sweet. “A job at a mansion! You’re finally moving up in the world. I hope this ‘inventor’ friend of yours isn’t just some… some jobless dreamer, though. Those rich people, they just hire anyone for their silly hobbies, don’t they? To make them feel better about their own uselessness.” She sniffed delicately, returning to her nails.
Priya’s jaw tightened. “He’s not useless, Rina. And he’s definitely not jobless. He just needs someone to bring order to his genius.” She forced a smile, determined not to let Rina’s subtle digs get to her. “Besides, it’s a temporary arrangement, just until I can get the tiffin service fully back on track. But it’s good money, and it’s different.”
Rohan, meanwhile, was buzzing with excitement. “So, you’re going to work with robots and gadgets every day, Di? Can I come visit? Maybe he can teach me how to build a drone!”
Priya smiled at her brother. “Maybe one day, Rohan. Right now, I’m just trying to make sense of the chaos.”
Shanti, though still worried, seemed to accept it for the time being. “Alright, alright. But be careful, Priya. Don’t get carried away by these… big dreams. Remember our responsibilities.”
“I know, Ma. I always do,” Priya said, a touch of weariness in her voice. She pulled out her old, battered smartphone, wanting to text her friend about the bizarre day she’d had. The screen was cracked in several places, held together by a thin strip of clear tape, a testament to her constant jugaad.
Rina, finishing her nails, stood up and stretched. “Di, let me see your phone. Those cracks are so distracting. Maybe it’s time for an upgrade, no? This old thing looks like it’s been through a war.” She reached out, her fingers brushing Priya’s. And then, with a subtle shift of her hand, just enough to catch Priya off guard, the phone slipped.
It hit the tiled floor with a sickening *crack*. The screen, already compromised, spiderwebbed further, a dark blotch blooming in one corner. The clear tape, her previous fix, peeled away, leaving the phone in an even more precarious state.
“Oh my God! I am so, so sorry, Di!” Rina exclaimed, her voice filled with feigned distress. “It just slipped! Oh, your poor phone! It’s completely broken now, isn’t it? I guess you’ll have to get a new one. Such a shame, just when you’ve got a new job too.” Her eyes, though, held a flicker of something else—a small, almost imperceptible smirk.
Priya stared at the phone. Her lifeline. Her connection to the world, to her tiffin service clients. Her heart sank, but only for a moment. Her mind immediately shifted into problem-solving mode. A new phone was an expense she couldn’t afford right now. Not after the scooter and the dal disaster.
“It’s okay, Rina. Accidents happen,” Priya said, her voice even. She picked up the phone, examining the damage. It was bad. But not entirely beyond repair, not if she could help it. She walked into her room, Rina watching her, a smug expression now clear on her face. Shanti sighed, shaking her head.
A few minutes later, Priya emerged from her room. In her hand was her phone. The screen was still cracked, the blotch still there, but now, holding it all together, was a thick, robust strip of black electrical tape, painstakingly applied across the entire width of the screen. And for good measure, around the top and bottom edges, she’d wrapped two sturdy rubber bands, stretched taut, providing extra pressure and holding the phone’s casing firmly in place.
She tapped the screen. It flickered to life. The blotch was still there, but the touch functionality was back. It was ugly, it was clunky, but it *worked*. She smiled, a small, triumphant smile.
Rina’s eyes widened slightly, her smugness evaporating, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. “You… you fixed it?” she asked, disbelief in her voice.
Priya shrugged. “It’ll do for now. A little tape, a little rubber band. Never underestimate the power of jugaad, Rina. Sometimes, the simplest fix is the strongest.” She looked at her phone, then at Rina, a silent message passing between them. No matter what obstacles were thrown her way, Priya Sharma would always find a way to make things work.
Chapter 8
The workshop, thanks to Priya’s persistent efforts, was beginning to look less like a forgotten junkyard and more like a functional, if still eccentric, laboratory. Tools were now hung on pegboards, wires coiled neatly, and the endless piles of half-finished projects were grouped by category, however arbitrary. Aarav, surprisingly, found he rather liked it. He could actually *find* things now, a novel concept.
“Priya! Priya, come here! You have to see my latest masterpiece!” Aarav’s voice, usually a quiet murmur, was booming with uncharacteristic excitement. He was standing by a contraption that looked like a shiny, oversized blender crossed with a small cannon, complete with a chute and a nozzle.
Priya walked over, wiping grease from her hands with a rag. “Masterpiece? Last time you said that, your ‘Auto-Coffee Brewer’ ended up spraying espresso across the ceiling. What is it this time? A self-stirring chai machine?” She eyed the contraption with a healthy dose of skepticism.
Aarav beamed. “Better! Much, much better! This, my dear Organizational Manager, is the ‘Automatic Samosa Maker and Dispenser!’ No more greasy hands, no more waiting in lines, no more inconsistent filling! Just perfect, piping hot samosas, on demand!” He gestured grandly at the machine.
“A samosa maker?” Priya raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. “Avi, you know you could just call the local halwai for samosas. Or ask for some from the kitchen here. They make excellent ones, I saw.”
“But where’s the innovation in that, Priya? Where’s the elegance? This, this is about efficiency! Imagine, a world where samosas are always within reach, perfectly golden, perfectly spiced.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’ve perfected the dough-rolling mechanism, the potato-mashing algorithm, and even the frying temperature regulator. It’s foolproof!”
“Foolproof, you say?” Priya murmured, remembering the cleaning bot incident. “Alright, impress me, ‘Avi.’ Let’s see your culinary genius in action.”
Aarav clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Stand back, stand back! Safety first, you know.” He flipped a series of switches on a control panel. Lights on the machine blinked, gears whirred, and a low hum filled the air. He then poured a pre-mixed potato filling into one hopper and a prepared dough mixture into another.
“Commencing samosa production in T-minus ten seconds!” he announced with the solemnity of a rocket launch.
The machine whirred louder. A small piece of dough emerged, then a dollop of potato. It was supposed to fold and seal, but something went wrong. The dough folded awkwardly, the filling squirted out, and the next piece of dough jammed.
“Uh oh,” Aarav muttered, fiddling with a knob. “Looks like the dough consistency needs a minor tweak. Just a small… calibration…”
Suddenly, the whirring escalated into a frantic screech. The nozzle, instead of gently releasing a samosa, began to twitch violently. With a loud *POP*, a misshapen, half-fried samosa shot out like a projectile, ricocheting off a metal beam and splattering potato filling onto a blueprint on the wall.
Priya’s eyes widened. “Avi, I think your calibration is off!”
“Just a little… whoa!” Another samosa, still steaming, launched past Aarav’s ear. Then another, and another, faster and faster, turning the automatic samosa maker into a full-blown samosa cannon. Hot, greasy projectiles were now flying across the workshop, bouncing off walls, clattering against equipment, and leaving trails of potato and oil.
“Duck!” Aarav yelled, grabbing Priya’s arm. They both instinctively dropped to the floor, scrambling behind a sturdy workbench. Samosas zinged over their heads, some hitting the metal with loud thuds, others splattering against the far wall.
“Your foolproof machine is now a weapon of mass samosa destruction!” Priya gasped, pressing herself against the cold metal of the workbench, trying to suppress her laughter. A rogue samosa landed with a squelch just inches from her head.
Aarav, hunched beside her, peered cautiously over the edge. “It’s… it’s just enthusiastic! It’s still producing! Maybe the pressure valve is stuck open.” He tried to reach a button, but another samosa whizzed past his fingers, making him pull back sharply.
They looked at each other, their faces smudged with grease and potato. The absurdity of the situation, the chaos of the flying snacks, finally broke them. Priya giggled, then snorted, then burst into uncontrollable laughter, tears streaming down her face. Aarav, relieved and amused, joined her, his deep chuckles echoing in the confined space behind the bench.
They laughed until their sides ached, their shoulders bumping, their knees almost touching. The samosa cannon finally sputtered and coughed, making a final, pathetic *plop* as it expelled its last deformed projectile. Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing and lingering giggles.
Priya, still weak from laughter, turned her head. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with amusement. Aarav, similarly disheveled, turned at the same moment. They were inches apart, their noses almost touching, their breaths mingling in the small space. Her laughter died down, replaced by a soft, warm feeling that bloomed in her chest. His eyes, usually distant or focused on some abstract idea, were now fixed on hers, warm and surprisingly intense. A strange, unfamiliar current passed between them, pulling them closer.
The moment stretched, thick with unspoken emotions. Priya felt her heart thump, a rhythm entirely separate from the earlier adrenaline. She saw a vulnerability in Aarav’s eyes she hadn’t noticed before, a genuine connection that transcended the chaos of his inventions. Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she wondered…
*BRRRRING! BRRRRING!*
A jarring, insistent ringtone, loud and formal, shattered the fragile moment. It was Aarav’s phone. He flinched, pulling back abruptly, the sudden formality of the sound a stark contrast to the intimacy they had just shared. The spell was broken.
Aarav fumbled for his phone, his face instantly shifting from amused warmth to a tight, almost worried expression. “Khanna Ji?” he mumbled into the receiver, his voice low and serious. “What is it? Corporate emergency? Right now? But I’m… yes, yes, I understand. I’ll be there. Immediately.”
He snapped the phone shut, his shoulders slumping. He looked at Priya, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes – regret? Guilt? “I… I have to go. Something urgent has come up. With… with my boss. It’s a very important meeting.” He stood up, running a hand through his hair, already half-distracted, already pulling himself away from the playful inventor and back into the unknown demands of his secret life. “I’ll… I’ll clean this up later. Sorry about the samosas.” He gave her a weak, apologetic smile, then turned and practically bolted out of the workshop, leaving Priya sitting alone amidst the scattered potato filling and the lingering scent of fried dough, a new, unsettling question buzzing in her mind.
Chapter 9
The scent of fried dough still lingered in the air, a faint but persistent reminder of the chaotic samosa cannon. Priya spent the morning cleaning up the remnants, scrubbing greasy splatters from the workbench and sweeping up potato shrapnel. As she worked, her mind kept replaying the moment behind the workbench, the quiet intimacy, the almost-kiss, and then Aarav’s abrupt, almost frantic exit.
She knew he was a genius, in his own clumsy way. He was sweet, endearing even, and his inventions, for all their tendency to go haywire, were fascinating. But he was also completely impractical, living in a world of circuits and algorithms while seemingly oblivious to the real world’s demands. Like, you know, money.
The ruined dal, the broken scooter, the lost catering order – it had all hit her hard. She couldn’t afford any more financial setbacks. And she definitely couldn’t afford to work for someone who was more passionate than profitable. If “Avi’s Innovations” was to survive, let alone pay her, it needed structure. And a budget. A very, very strict budget.
Aarav returned to the workshop late morning, looking a little rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept much. The worried lines around his eyes were still there, remnants of his corporate life that he couldn't quite shake off. He gave her a sheepish smile. "Morning, Priya. Everything… cleaned up?"
Priya put her hands on her hips, a determined glint in her eyes. "Mostly. But Avi, we need to talk about finances."
Aarav blinked, suddenly looking nervous. "Finances? Oh. Right. My… my boss. He’s always complaining about budget cuts. Terrible, really. A brilliant mind like mine, being stifled by spreadsheets." He rambled, trying to deflect.
"Not your boss’s finances, Avi. *Our* finances. This workshop’s finances. And, by extension, yours," she stated, cutting him off. "Look, I know you’re passionate, but passion doesn't pay the bills. Or buy lunch. I’ve gone through the inventory. We have way too many experimental components, and not enough practical ones. And from now on, we operate on a strict daily budget for supplies. And for food."
Aarav nodded slowly, trying to look appropriately concerned. "Food? Yes, food is essential for brainpower. A healthy inventor is a productive inventor. So, a food budget. Makes sense." He tried to sound agreeable, inwardly amused by her practicality. It was so refreshing.
"Exactly. What are you having for lunch today?" Priya asked, looking at her watch.
Aarav cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a little awkward in his charade. "Oh. Lunch. Well, I, uh… I usually just… forget. Or eat whatever’s lying around. A biscuit. Or maybe a leftover… samosa?" He gestured vaguely at the still-slightly-samosa-splattered wall.
Priya frowned. "Avi, that's not healthy. You can't just 'forget' to eat. You need proper meals. Do you... do you have any money for lunch today?" She watched him expectantly.
Aarav shifted his weight. This was the tricky part. He couldn’t just pull out his platinum credit card. “Money? Oh, um… well, you see, with all these, uh, experimental projects, and the cost of parts, it really adds up. My, uh, my salary from my driving job, it’s not much. And my boss, he’s a bit… demanding. So, no, not really. Not today, anyway. I’m a bit… strapped.” He tried to look convincingly pathetic, avoiding her gaze.
Priya looked at him, exasperation warring with a pang of pity. He was a brilliant mind, but so utterly helpless with real-world things. It was almost charming, in a frustrating way. "Avi, you can't work on an empty stomach. How are you going to invent if you're starving?" She sighed, then reached into her own purse. "Alright, come on. I'm getting you lunch."
She led him out of the mansion’s gate and a few blocks down the busy street, away from the prying eyes of Khanna Ji or any of his staff. They stopped at a small, bustling street stall. The air was thick with the aroma of spices and frying oil.
"Two vada pavs, bhaiyya," Priya said to the vendor, holding out a crumpled ten-rupee note.
Aarav looked at the humble vada pav with an almost childlike wonder. He’d seen them on the street, of course, but had never actually eaten one. His meals usually involved Michelin stars and silver cutlery.
Priya handed him one, wrapped in newspaper. "Here. Eat. And listen. This is how you manage your money, Avi. You prioritize. Food, shelter, basic necessities. Then, if you have anything left, *then* you spend on your 'experimental components.' You can't just blow everything on your gadgets and then starve."
Aarav took a bite of the vada pav. The soft bun, the spicy potato patty, the tangy chutney – it was an explosion of simple, comforting flavors. He chewed slowly, savoring every mouthful. He’d eaten a thousand different cuisines, from Japanese fugu to French foie gras, but nothing had ever tasted quite like this. It tasted like… genuine care.
"This is… this is amazing, Priya," he murmured, his mouth full. "Best meal I’ve ever had."
Priya scoffed. "Please, Avi. It’s just a vada pav. It’s practical. It’s filling. And it’s cheap. This is how middle-class people survive. Not by dreaming up pigeon-scaring drones, but by making sure they have enough for today. You need to be more practical, more grounded. Like me." She took a bite of her own vada pav, still lecturing him between mouthfuls. "You need a plan, Avi. A proper financial plan. A savings plan. You need to think about your future, not just your next invention."
Aarav listened, nodding dutifully, a warm feeling spreading through him that had nothing to do with the chilli in the vada pav. He saw her earnestness, her genuine concern for his well-being, even though she believed him to be a broke, clumsy mechanic. It was humbling. It was… beautiful.
"You’re right, Priya," he said, looking at her with an intensity that surprised her. "You’re absolutely right. I do. Thank you. For the vada pav, and for the lecture. I… I needed it."
Later that evening, back in the quiet sanctuary of his Rathore Global office, Aarav stared at his laptop. The stock market figures, the quarterly reports, the complex acquisition plans – they all blurred into an unimportant haze. He picked up his phone.
"Khanna Ji," he said, his voice quiet but firm.
"Yes, Mr. Rathore?" Khanna Ji’s voice was crisp as always.
"I need you to do something for me. Something confidential. Get Priya Sharma’s bank details. The one who runs the tiffin service. And discreetly… anonymously, Khanna Ji… transfer a substantial sum of money into her account. Enough to cover any damages, any lost contracts, and then some. Make sure it looks like an anonymous client payment for her tiffin service. And ensure it never, ever traces back to me. Understood?"
There was a moment of silence on the other end, a pause that suggested Khanna Ji, for all his loyalty, was slightly taken aback by the request. But only for a moment.
"Understood, Mr. Rathore. It will be done by morning."
Aarav hung up, a small smile touching his lips. He still had to maintain the charade for now, but he couldn’t let her suffer. Not when she worried so genuinely about a vada pav. It was a tiny repayment for a kindness that felt bigger than any grand gesture he had ever received. He sat back, feeling a warmth spread through him. The best meal, indeed.
Chapter 10
The air in the Rathore grand living room was thick with the scent of jasmine incense and the unspoken weight of family legacy. Rajmata, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, sat on an antique armchair, her gaze fixed on Aarav. He sat opposite her, fidgeting with a loose thread on his cuff, trying to look attentive but failing miserably.
“Aarav,” Rajmata began, her voice firm but laced with a weariness that twisted his gut. “We need to talk about your future.”
Aarav braced himself. This was usually code for ‘stop playing with your silly gadgets and be a CEO.’ “Ji, Dadi. Always ready to discuss the future. Perhaps a five-year plan for sustainable… innovation?” he offered weakly, attempting to steer the conversation.
Rajmata’s lips thinned. “Not that future, beta. *Your* future. The one that involves responsibility, stability, and frankly, a suitable companion.” She paused, her gaze piercing. “I have observed you, Aarav. Your… eccentricities. Your detachment. It stems from a lack of groundedness. A lack of responsibility outside your own little world.”
Aarav’s shoulders slumped. Here it came.
“I have given it much thought,” Rajmata continued, her voice gaining momentum. “And I have come to a conclusion. It is time you got married.”
Aarav’s eyes widened. “Married? Dadi, but… why now? I’m still perfecting my… my, uh, eco-friendly waste disposal system! It needs my full attention!” He blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
Rajmata simply raised an eyebrow. “A wife, Aarav, will bring order to your life. She will provide you with purpose beyond your inventions. She will be your anchor.” She clapped her hands, and a moment later, Khanna Ji entered, ushering in a woman draped in an opulent silk sari, her hair a towering beehive, and her face a mask of professional geniality.
“Aarav, meet Mrs. Shobha Devi, the most esteemed matchmaker in the entire state,” Rajmata announced, a triumphant glint in her eyes. “She has found matches for the finest families in India.”
Mrs. Shobha Devi smiled, a dazzling, almost predatory smile. “A pleasure, Mr. Rathore. Rajmata-ji has told me so much about you. Such a brilliant mind, so… *unique*. But don’t worry, we will find you the perfect balance. Someone who understands your… *quirks*, and yet provides the stability the Rathore legacy requires.” Her emphasis on ‘quirks’ made Aarav inwardly cringe.
She opened a large, ornate portfolio, pulling out a series of glossy photographs. Each one depicted a woman of striking beauty, adorned in designer clothes, posing in front of sprawling mansions or luxury cars. “We have narrowed down the candidates, Mr. Rathore. Each one a gem. From old money, impeccable lineage, and with all the right connections.”
She presented the first photo. “This is Miss Ananya Singh. Her family owns the largest chain of diamond mines in South Africa. Intelligent, graceful, fluent in seven languages, and a trained classical dancer.”
Aarav stared at the photo. The woman looked less like a human being and more like a perfectly sculpted porcelain doll. He could already imagine the excruciatingly dull conversations, the forced smiles, the endless social obligations. His stomach churned.
“And here,” Mrs. Devi continued, flipping to the next. “Miss Kavya Reddy. Daughter of the shipping magnate. She holds an MBA from Harvard, runs three successful startups, and is a skilled equestrian.”
Aarav imagined her taking over his board meetings, correcting his grammar, and probably judging his choice of socks. “She sounds… formidable,” he managed to croak.
“Indeed!” Mrs. Devi beamed. “A perfect match for the Rathore empire. A true power couple!”
Rajmata nodded approvingly. “We have already set up a few preliminary meetings. The first one is next week. A high tea at the Grand Heritage Hotel with Miss Ananya Singh.”
Aarav’s heart sank. A high tea. With Miss Ananya Singh. This was his worst nightmare come to life. He couldn’t possibly marry someone like that. Someone who would probably faint at the sight of a soldering iron or question the viability of a self-making tea bot. He needed… he needed something else. Someone else. Someone who understood the joy of a perfectly executed circuit, or the triumph of a jugaad fix.
He barely heard Mrs. Devi rattling off the virtues of the remaining candidates. His mind was already whirring, not with the terror of impending matrimony, but with the excitement of a new, complex problem to solve.
As soon as he was dismissed, Aarav practically ran from the room, leaving Rajmata and Mrs. Shobha Devi discussing the finer points of pre-nuptial agreements. He burst into his secret workshop, slamming the door shut behind him.
He paced the room, rubbing his temples. “Sabotage,” he muttered to himself. “Yes. Sabotage. But how? It has to be subtle. Not too obvious. Something that makes them reconsider *me*, not the other way around. Something… inventive.”
His eyes scanned his chaotic kingdom of gadgets, his brain already firing on all cylinders. He picked up a half-finished device, then another, a manic grin slowly spreading across his face. This was a challenge he could sink his teeth into. This was a problem worthy of his genius.
“Okay, Aarav,” he said to himself, holding a multimeter like a microphone. “Mission: Operation Avoid Marriage. Step one: identify potential weaknesses of the targets. Step two: design a bespoke counter-measure for each. Step three: execute with precision and plausible deniability.”
He pulled out a large whiteboard, grabbing a marker. He started sketching furiously, his panic transforming into a focused determination. The first date was with Miss Ananya Singh. What would annoy a diamond heiress who lived a life of polished perfection? He tapped the marker against his chin, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Oh, this was going to be fun.
Chapter 11
The high tea at the Grand Heritage Hotel was exactly as Aarav had imagined: painfully elegant, stiflingly formal, and utterly devoid of genuine warmth. He sat at a polished mahogany table, adjusting the silk bowtie his grandmother had insisted upon. The bowtie, however, was not ordinary. Tucked discreetly into its lining were miniaturized sensors and a tiny, almost imperceptible vibrating motor. His latest invention: the ‘Veritas Tie,’ designed to detect and respond to… significant deviations from the truth. He called it his 'Lie-Detecting' bowtie.
He felt like a spy on a covert mission, not a man on an arranged marriage date. He’d spent the previous night meticulously calibrating the device, fine-tuning its sensitivity. It wouldn’t buzz for polite pleasantries or minor social white lies, he’d decided. No, it was programmed for grand, self-aggrandizing falsehoods. The kind that made him want to groan.
A wave of hushed whispers rippled through the tea room as Miss Ananya Singh made her entrance. She was a vision of perfection, draped in an emerald green designer sari, her diamond necklace sparkling under the chandeliers. She moved with an air of practiced grace, acknowledging murmurs and air kisses from socialites as she glided towards his table.
“Mr. Rathore,” she purred, extending a perfectly manicured hand. Her smile was as flawless as her jewelry. “It is an absolute pleasure. I have heard so much about your family. Such a legendary legacy.”
Aarav took her hand, noting the faint, almost imperceptible hum that emanated from his bowtie. *Fascinating. Already?* He managed a polite, stiff smile. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Singh. Please, have a seat.”
Once settled, a waiter placed a tiered stand of delicate sandwiches and pastries between them. Ananya picked up a tiny cucumber sandwich, barely nibbling at it.
“I must confess,” she began, her voice a soft, cultured melody, “I was quite intrigued when Rajmata-ji suggested this meeting. My life is *so* incredibly busy, you see. I’m constantly flitting between charity galas, fashion weeks in Paris, and my demanding philanthropic work in Africa. It’s truly exhausting, but one simply *must* give back, mustn’t one?”
The Veritas Tie gave a more distinct *bzzzz* against his Adam’s apple. It wasn't loud enough for her to hear, but Aarav felt it clearly. He stifled a cough. “Indeed. Philanthropy is a noble pursuit.”
Ananya sighed dramatically. “Oh, it is. Just last month, I personally oversaw the distribution of aid in a remote village. The villagers were so incredibly grateful. They said I was their angel. It was truly humbling to see their faces light up.”
*BZZZZZZZ!* The bowtie vibrated with a little more conviction, a noticeable hum now audible to Aarav, though still hopefully not to her. He subtly adjusted the tie, feigning discomfort. “Are you… feeling well, Mr. Rathore? You seem a little… flushed.”
“Oh, just a slight… a slight allergy to, uh, the tea leaves. Very sensitive, you see,” Aarav mumbled, trying to look apologetic. He felt a mischievous grin threatening to break through. This was already exceeding his expectations.
“Ah, yes, allergies can be dreadful,” Ananya commiserated, then brightened. “Anyway, I was saying. My latest project is to establish a chain of sustainable, ethical diamond mines. Of course, my family already owns the largest, but I believe in *true* ethical sourcing, from the ground up, you understand. I’ve personally spent months in the mines, getting my hands dirty, ensuring fair wages and working conditions.”
The bowtie began to whir, a low, persistent growl that sounded remarkably like a trapped bumblebee. Aarav’s eyes widened slightly. This was a significant fabrication. He quickly fumbled at his neck, trying to seem as though he was merely adjusting his tie. Ananya paused, a flicker of annoyance in her perfectly made-up eyes.
“Is something wrong with your tie, Mr. Rathore? It’s making a most peculiar noise.”
“Oh, this old thing?” Aarav stammered, pulling at it. “It’s, uh, it’s a vintage piece. Sometimes the, uh, the silk… chafes. Causes a bit of… static. Nothing to worry about, nothing at all.” He gave her an unconvincing smile.
Ananya narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it, but she proceeded, perhaps thinking he was just a bit unrefined. “As I was saying, my commitment to ethical practices is unparalleled. Why, just last week, a major international publication was clamoring to do a feature on my revolutionary methods. I had to politely decline, of course. I prefer to keep my good deeds private. Modesty, you see, is terribly important to me.”
*VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV!* The Veritas Tie went into overdrive. It vibrated so violently, it actually started to jiggle on his neck, producing a loud, high-pitched *thrumming* sound. It was no longer subtle. It was a full-blown mechanical fit.
Aarav clamped a hand over the bowtie, trying to muffle the sound, but it was too late. Ananya stared, her refined expression slowly morphing into one of open-mouthed astonishment, then disbelief. Other patrons at nearby tables began to glance over, attracted by the peculiar noise.
“Mr. Rathore!” Ananya exclaimed, her voice losing its cultured sweetness. “What in the name of… your tie is behaving most erratically! Is it… broken?”
Aarav forced a look of bewildered innocence. “Broken? Oh dear. I do apologize, Miss Singh. It’s never done this before. Perhaps the, uh, the ambient electromagnetic field in the hotel is… interfering with its delicate mechanism. Yes, that must be it. Very sensitive electronics, you see.” He attempted to look genuinely concerned, while inside, he was doing a happy little dance.
“Sensitive electronics? It sounds like a dying insect!” she snapped, her eyes flashing. The composure was cracking. “And are you suggesting that *my* presence, or this esteemed hotel’s atmosphere, is causing your… contraption to malfunction?”
“Oh, no, no, not at all!” Aarav insisted, though the bowtie was still buzzing like an angry hornet. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep a straight face. “It’s merely a highly advanced piece of… sartorial technology. A prototype, you understand. Still in beta testing. Clearly, there are a few bugs to iron out.”
Ananya pushed her chair back, a look of utter disgust on her face. “A prototype? Are you quite serious, Mr. Rathore? You wear a malfunctioning, buzzing piece of… *gadgetry* to a formal meeting? This is utterly disrespectful! Are you making a mockery of this entire arrangement?”
Aarav immediately looked contrite, his voice full of feigned apology. “Miss Singh, I assure you, that was not my intention. I simply… I wanted to make a good impression. To show you my… unique approach to things.” He gestured vaguely at his tie, which had now settled into a low, menacing growl, vibrating intermittently.
“Unique?” Ananya scoffed, rising to her feet. The entire tea room was now openly staring. “This is not unique, Mr. Rathore. This is… bizarre! I have never been so insulted in my life! My time is far too valuable to waste it on… on this charade! Good day, Mr. Rathore.”
With a furious swish of her emerald sari, she turned and stormed out of the tea room, leaving a trail of shocked silence and curious whispers in her wake. Aarav watched her go, a small, triumphant smile slowly spreading across his face. He reached up, gently tapping the now-silent bowtie.
“Good job, Veritas,” he whispered to the tie. “Mission accomplished.”
He picked up a macaron, popping it into his mouth. The taste of victory was sweet. He imagined Rajmata’s reaction when she heard about the disastrous date. He could almost hear her exasperated sigh. But it was a small price to pay for freedom. One down. How many more candidates were there on that dreaded list? He’d need to get back to the workshop. He had more inventing to do. This was far more interesting than any board meeting.
Chapter 12
Vikramaditya Shekhawat’s office was a study in stark minimalism. Glass, chrome, and dark wood dominated the space. No personal mementos, no family photos. Just a clean, cold efficiency that mirrored the man himself. He stood by the panoramic window, looking out at the cityscape, Rathore Global’s towering headquarters visible in the distance. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips. He was a predator, patient and precise, and his hunt had just begun.
The door chimed softly, and his aide, a severe-looking man named Rohan, entered. “Sir, Mr. Dev Sharma is here.”
Vikram turned, his eyes devoid of warmth. “Send him in.”
Dev Sharma entered, a man in his late fifties, his shoulders slumped, a briefcase clutched tightly in his hand. He had the air of someone who had been deeply wronged. He was a senior engineer, almost twenty-five years at Rathore Global, overlooked for a recent promotion that had gone to a younger, less experienced candidate. The bitterness radiated off him like heat from a furnace.
“Mr. Sharma,” Vikram said, his voice smooth, almost soothing. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.” He gestured to a chair opposite his large, empty desk.
Dev sat, his eyes darting nervously around the immaculate office. “You… you promised a generous severance, Mr. Shekhawat. And a position, if things… pan out.”
Vikram leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “My promises are always kept, Mr. Sharma. Especially to those who prove their value. And you, I believe, are very valuable indeed. Years of institutional knowledge, I presume?”
Dev nodded, a flicker of pride cutting through his resentment. “I know Rathore Global inside and out. Every department, every project… every secret.”
“Excellent,” Vikram murmured. “Let’s start with the secrets, then. Tell me about the Rathore’s internal structures. The IT infrastructure. The network security. And more importantly, tell me about the people. Who are the loyalists? Who are the discontented?”
Dev opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick file, pushing it across the desk. “Here’s a preliminary overview of their network architecture. It’s a bit outdated, but the core systems are still the same. I’ve also highlighted key personnel and their access levels. As for the discontented… well, let’s just say Aarav Rathore isn’t exactly inspiring confidence in the old guard.”
Vikram picked up the file, leafing through it. “Aarav Rathore,” he repeated, the name a soft hiss on his tongue. “Yes, our eccentric heir. He’s causing quite a stir, isn’t he? All this talk of drones and peculiar inventions. Makes him seem… flighty.”
Dev scoffed. “Flighty is an understatement. He spends more time in his glorified garage than in the boardroom. They handed him the CTO position, but he delegates everything to Khanna Ji. The man’s a genius, perhaps, but he’s utterly detached from the practical realities of running a multi-billion-dollar empire. He’s a liability.”
“Indeed,” Vikram agreed, a cold glint in his eye. “A significant liability, if exploited correctly. Tell me, Mr. Sharma, during your long tenure at Rathore Global, did you ever encounter any… particularly ambitious projects? Projects that might have been shelved, perhaps, or deemed too risky? Especially anything from the time of Aarav’s late father?”
Dev frowned, thinking. “Shelved projects? Oh, there were a few. The old man, Aarav’s father, he was a visionary. Always pushing the boundaries. Some of his ideas were… ahead of their time. Or too expensive. Or just too… out there for the board at the time.”
“Elaborate,” Vikram urged, his voice low and intense. “Anything specific come to mind? Any major research initiatives, particularly in energy or advanced technology?”
Dev tapped his chin. “There was one. A big one. It was top-secret, even for most of us. Code-named ‘Project Phoenix.’ It was his father’s pet project, something he poured all his time and money into right before… well, before he passed. It was mysteriously shelved after his death. No one really knew what it was, only that it was supposed to be revolutionary.”
Vikram’s eyes sharpened. “Project Phoenix. Interesting. Do you have any files on it? Any schematics, any data, anything at all?”
Dev hesitated, then took a sip of the water Vikram’s aide had placed before him. “I… I might. I had access to almost everything back then. I was one of the few engineers cleared for his father’s special projects. I copied some of the master files, just for my own records, you understand. A contingency, in case I ever needed to prove my worth. They’re encrypted, of course. Deeply encrypted. But I have them. A digital archive.”
“Good,” Vikram said, a genuine smile finally gracing his lips. It was a chilling sight. “Very good, Mr. Sharma. That is precisely the kind of ‘institutional knowledge’ I am looking for. I will have my own technical team work on decrypting it. For now, tell me everything you remember about this ‘Project Phoenix.’ Every detail, no matter how small. Every person involved. Every location mentioned. Everything.”
Dev leaned back, a comfortable, almost smug expression settling on his face. The bitterness remained, but it was now laced with a sense of importance. He had information, and that information was power. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was on the winning side. He began to speak, detailing years of hidden corporate history, unaware that he was simply a tool in a much larger, more destructive game. Vikram listened, absorbing every word, his mind already formulating the next phase of his attack. Rathore Global, and its 'jhali' heir, would soon fall.
Chapter 13
Chapter 13
The smell of freshly ground spices hung in the air of Priya’s kitchen, usually a comforting scent, but today it was mixed with the faint aroma of triumph. Priya hummed a Bollywood tune as she vigorously scrubbed a large dal pot, a wide, almost manic grin plastered across her face. Her mother, Shanti, watched her from the doorway, a look of amused concern on her face.
“What is it, Priyu?” Shanti asked, shaking her head. “You look like you’ve just won the lottery. Did someone finally pay back that old debt?”
Priya spun around, the sudsy sponge still in her hand. “Even better, Ma! Remember that presentation I was working on for the IT firm, ConnectSync?”
Shanti nodded. “The one you said was a long shot? You spent all night on it, burning the midnight oil with those fancy spreadsheets.”
“Well, it wasn’t a long shot anymore, Ma!” Priya threw her hands up in the air, narrowly missing splashing her mother. “They loved it! They absolutely loved the ‘Healthy Office Lunch’ concept! We got the contract, Ma! A regular, weekly contract for all their employees!”
Shanti’s eyes widened, a genuine smile replacing her worried frown. “Arre wah! Really? Beta, that’s wonderful! I knew your food was good, but a regular contract like this… this is big, Priyu.”
“It’s huge!” Priya beamed, wiping her hands on her apron. “They said their employees are tired of greasy canteen food and heavy tiffin meals that make them sleepy by afternoon. They wanted something light, nutritious, and consistent. And my ‘Jugaad Health Meals’ hit the spot!”
“Jugaad Health Meals?” Shanti chuckled. “What’s that, another one of your quirky names?”
“Kind of,” Priya admitted, a thoughtful look on her face. “It was actually something Avi said, indirectly. He was talking about how his inventions simplify complex problems, make things efficient and… well, healthy for the user. He was showing me some bizarre robot that measured nutrient intake and, I don’t know, projected a balanced meal plan onto a plate or something. It was completely over-the-top, but it got me thinking. Why not apply that ‘scientific, efficient’ approach to tiffin service?”
Shanti raised an eyebrow. “Avi and his gadgets. Always something unique with that boy.” She still wasn't entirely comfortable with Priya working for someone she considered so unconventional, but she couldn't deny the results.
“Exactly!” Priya snapped her fingers. “He has this way of looking at things, you know? Like, everything can be optimized. So I stopped thinking about just ‘making food’ and started thinking about ‘designing meals’ that optimize productivity for office workers. Less oil, more fresh veggies, lean proteins, balanced carbs. And delivered precisely on time, every single day, no excuses. No more late deliveries, no more dal disasters.” She gave a pointed look at the dal pot, remembering the drone crash.
“So, this is a direct result of his… influence?” Shanti asked, a hint of skepticism still in her voice.
Priya laughed. “Influence? Ma, he’d never take credit. He probably doesn’t even realize it. He just throws out these wild ideas, and I’m the one who figures out how to make them, you know, *real*. How to bring them down to earth and make them actually work in the real world. Like, he’ll talk about ‘nanobot-enhanced flavor delivery systems,’ and I’ll just figure out a better way to infuse spices in the tadka without burning them!”
She paused, her smile softening. “But yeah, I guess he did give me the push. He keeps saying my ‘jugaad’ is a superpower. And I guess… I guess it is. I took his crazy ideas and made them practical. And now, look! A new contract!”
Just then, her phone rang. It was an unknown number. Priya looked at it, hesitant, then answered. “Hello? Priya Sharma, Jugaad Tiffin Service.”
“Ah, Miss Sharma, it’s Ravi from ConnectSync IT Solutions,” a cheerful male voice said on the other end. “Just calling to confirm the first delivery for Monday. The team is really excited about the menu you sent over. The ‘Lean Green Paneer’ and ‘Power-Packed Pulao’ sounded fantastic in your presentation. We’re all looking forward to it.”
Priya’s smile grew even wider. “Yes, Mr. Ravi! Everything is confirmed. You won’t be disappointed. Fresh, healthy, and on time. Guaranteed.”
“Excellent! And by the way, the Rathore Global team heard about your presentation somehow. I guess word travels fast. They asked for your contact. Said they were impressed with your ‘innovative approach to corporate catering.’ Is it okay if I pass on your number?”
Priya’s jaw almost dropped. Rathore Global? The very company that owned the mansion where Avi worked? The idea of getting a contract from such a huge, prestigious company was almost unbelievable. Her heart started to pound. “Rathore Global? Yes! Yes, absolutely, Mr. Ravi! Please, pass it on. That would be… incredible!”
She ended the call, her eyes sparkling with a renewed fire. “Ma, did you hear that? Rathore Global! They’re interested! Oh, this is it, Ma! This is really it! After the drone… after everything… I’m finally getting back on my feet. No, not just back on my feet. I’m flying!”
Shanti pulled her into a tight hug, tears welling in her eyes. “My brave girl. I always knew you’d make it. This is your hard work, your talent. Don’t ever forget that.”
Priya hugged her back, feeling the warmth of her mother’s pride. The kitchen, with its familiar smells and comforting clutter, felt like the most exciting place in the world. The small victory with ConnectSync was not just a contract; it was proof. Proof that she could adapt, innovate, and thrive, even after a devastating setback. She was a master of jugaad, and she was going to use every bit of her resourcefulness to build her empire, one healthy office lunch at a time.
Later that evening, a discreet, anonymous transfer of a significant sum of money landed in Priya’s tiffin service account. The transaction simply read: "Gratitude for Innovation." Aarav, watching her account balance from a secure, remote server, smiled. She wouldn't know it was him, of course. He found immense satisfaction in her small triumphs, a satisfaction far greater than any corporate deal. He knew she deserved every bit of success that came her way. He was merely providing a little, anonymous push. Her confidence, her spirit, that was all her own. And it was captivating.
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
The fluorescent lights of Vikram Shekhawat’s private research lab hummed with an almost audible intensity. Monitors glowed with lines of cryptic code and complex algorithms. Dev Sharma stood nervously beside a lead technical expert, a young man named Rahul, whose fingers danced across a keyboard with impressive speed.
“Still no luck, Mr. Shekhawat,” Rahul announced, not looking up from the screen. “The encryption on these files is incredibly sophisticated. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Layer upon layer of proprietary algorithms. It would take a supercomputer weeks, maybe months, to crack this.”
Vikram paced restlessly behind them, his patience wearing thin. “Weeks or months are luxuries we do not have, Rahul. Dev, are you certain these are the only files you managed to retrieve concerning ‘Project Phoenix’?”
Dev flinched slightly. “Yes, sir. This is the master archive. His father kept everything locked down tight. Only a handful of us had any access, and even then, only to specific parts. I was fortunate to copy these before they disappeared from the main servers after his death.”
“Disappeared?” Vikram mused, stopping behind Dev. “How convenient. Meaning, they were actively hidden. That makes them even more valuable.” He leaned closer to the monitor, where a single, digitally locked file icon stared back at him, simply labeled: *Project Phoenix – Final Draft*. “Tell me again, Dev. What did you know about this project?”
Dev swallowed, remembering the hushed whispers in the Rathore Global corridors. “Just that it was Mr. Rathore Senior’s obsession. He poured a staggering amount of resources into it. Went against the board’s advice multiple times. Everyone thought it was some kind of… new energy source, perhaps, or a revolutionary AI. But no one truly knew the specifics. It was shrouded in secrecy. And then, when he died, it was all just… gone. Archived, buried, forgotten.”
“Not forgotten, Dev,” Vikram said, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Merely awaiting its resurrection.” He looked at Rahul. “Rahul, forget standard decryption protocols. I want you to employ every possible method. Brute force. Quantum emulation. Hire more specialists if you need to. But I need this file open, and I need it open yesterday. I don’t care what it takes, what resources it consumes. This is now our top priority.”
Rahul, sensing the shift in his boss’s demeanor, nodded gravely. “Understood, sir. We’ll work around the clock.”
“Good,” Vikram said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if sharing a sacred secret. “Because I have a very strong intuition about this ‘Project Phoenix.’ A very strong intuition indeed.” He turned away from the screen, walking to a whiteboard where a crude timeline of Rathore Global’s history was sketched. A large, dark circle was drawn around the section marked ‘Aarav Rathore’s father – Legacy and Shelved Projects.’
“The Rathore empire was built on innovation,” Vikram continued, almost to himself. “But the true foundation, the bedrock of its wealth, was always its intellectual property. Its patents. Its pioneering technologies.” He tapped the circle on the whiteboard. “If this ‘Project Phoenix’ is what I suspect it is… it’s not just a shelved project. It’s the Rathore’s most valuable secret weapon. The one they never had to deploy. The one they’ve been sitting on.”
He turned back to Dev, his eyes burning with an almost maniacal intensity. “Aarav Rathore is busy playing with his pigeon drones and samosa cannons, blissfully unaware that the real power, the *true* legacy of his family, might be gathering dust in a forgotten digital archive. An archive that *you*, Dev, have brought to my doorstep.”
Dev managed a weak smile, feeling a mix of fear and exhilaration. “I only did my duty, sir.”
“Indeed,” Vikram acknowledged, a thin smile forming. “And your duty will be richly rewarded. Because once we unlock this Phoenix, Dev… once we understand what it truly is… we will not only dismantle the Rathore empire. We will claim its greatest asset. We will make it our own. And the Rathore legacy will burn, quite literally, in the flames of its own forgotten brilliance. Find me the key to this Phoenix, Rahul. Find it, or find yourself looking for a new career.”
Rahul’s fingers flew across the keyboard, a sudden urgency gripping him. Vikram stood there, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the locked file. His intuition screamed that this was it. This was the weapon he needed. This was the ultimate humiliation he could inflict upon the Rathores. He would not only take their company; he would steal their future. His obsession with Project Phoenix had officially begun.
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
Priya was on cloud nine. The kitchen, still humming with the afterglow of her success, now served as her temporary office. Spread across the worn wooden table were the crisp, new contract papers from ConnectSync, along with her meticulously organized recipe notes and a fresh pot of steaming ginger chai. She hummed a happy tune, reviewing the terms, her pen poised to sign.
“Oh, Priyu, let me help you with that,” Rina said, gliding into the kitchen. Her voice was sugary sweet, almost too sweet, making Priya instinctively wary. Rina’s eyes, however, lingered a fraction too long on the stack of papers.
“It’s okay, Rina, I’m just cross-referencing a few details before I sign this final copy,” Priya replied, adjusting a sheet. “It’s a big one, you know.” She tried to sound casual, but the excitement still bubbled just beneath the surface.
“Oh, I know!” Rina exclaimed, picking up a stray utensil and fiddling with it. “A regular contract with an IT firm! Who would have thought? Especially after… well, you know. The drone incident. Everyone thought you were finished. But look at you, always landing on your feet. Must be all that… ‘jugaad’ of yours.” The word ‘jugaad’ was laced with a subtle sneer that only Priya seemed to catch.
Priya ignored the jab. “Yeah, well, a little resilience helps. And a lot of hard work.” She pointed to a section on the paper. “See, this part about the payment schedule… I just want to make sure it’s clear.”
Rina leaned in, ostensibly to look at the document, but her eyes darted around the table. Her gaze settled on the full cup of chai, sitting perilously close to the edge of the table, right next to the contract.
“Hmm, yes, very important, the payment schedule,” Rina murmured, then, with a seemingly clumsy movement of her elbow, she knocked the chai cup. It tilted, slowly at first, then tumbled over, splashing its hot, brown contents directly onto the pristine white pages of the ConnectSync contract. A large, dark stain bloomed across the crisp paper, spreading rapidly, blurring the ink.
“Oh, no! Oh, my God, Priya, I’m so, so sorry!” Rina gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with a perfectly manufactured horror. “I’m such a klutz! My hand just… slipped! Is it… is it ruined?”
Priya stared at the spreading brown stain, her heart sinking. A cold knot formed in her stomach. The ink was already bleeding, blurring the crucial details and the signatures. This was the final, signed copy she was about to send. “Rina! How could you be so careless?” Priya’s voice was sharp, a rare show of anger.
“I said I was sorry! It was an accident!” Rina insisted, feigning distress. “Now what will you do? You’ll have to get new copies, and the HR manager at ConnectSync is very particular. He might think you’re unprofessional. You might even lose the contract!” Her voice was filled with mock concern, but a flicker of satisfaction danced in her eyes.
Priya took a deep breath, fighting down the panic. She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them, her mind already racing. Lose the contract? No way. Not after all this hard work. Not after the drone crash. Not after getting back on her feet. This was her golden ticket, and she wasn’t letting it go that easily.
“Relax, Rina,” Priya said, her voice surprisingly calm. “It’s just tea.” She grabbed a clean kitchen towel and quickly blotted the excess liquid. “And it’s definitely not ruined.”
Rina frowned, surprised by Priya’s composure. “But the ink, Priyu! It’s all smudged!”
“Smudged, yes. Illegible? Not yet,” Priya replied, already rummaging through a drawer. She pulled out her trusty old hairdryer, usually reserved for drying herbs or quick fixes on damp clothes. She plugged it in, set it to a cool, gentle setting, and began carefully drying the paper, holding it at an angle.
The paper curled slightly, but as the moisture evaporated, the ink, though still faint in places, stopped bleeding. The main body of the text was still readable, especially the numbers and the crucial clauses. The signatures were a little faint, but still clearly visible.
“There,” Priya said, a triumphant gleam in her eye. She carefully smoothed out the slightly crinkled paper. “A little faded, a little wavy, but still perfectly legible. And still a signed, binding contract.” She then grabbed a small, transparent sheet of lamination film, the kind used for school projects, and carefully applied it over the stained area, sealing the document. “Just to be extra sure.”
Rina stared, her jaw slightly agape. Her meticulously planned sabotage had failed. Priya hadn’t panicked, hadn’t cried, hadn’t even truly lost her temper. She had just… fixed it. With a hairdryer and some plastic film. Rina felt a fresh wave of resentment wash over her. Priya always had a solution, always a ‘jugaad,’ always managed to come out on top. It made Rina’s blood boil.
“Well, I guess that’s… resourceful,” Rina mumbled, the sweet tone gone from her voice, replaced by a grudging admiration she quickly tried to hide. She hated it when Priya was resourceful. She hated it when Priya won. And she especially hated it when Priya won after Rina had tried to make her lose.
Priya smiled brightly, oblivious to Rina’s inner turmoil. “It’s just jugaad, Rina. Always find a way, right? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get this sent off before lunch. And then I need to start planning for Monday’s menu. Lots to do!”
As Priya turned away, humming again, Rina’s eyes narrowed. This small defeat only fueled her simmering jealousy. Priya might have fixed the contract, but Rina decided, then and there, that she wouldn't always be able to fix everything. Some things, Rina vowed, she would make sure were truly, irrevocably broken.
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
The workshop, even after Priya’s meticulous organizing attempts, still held pockets of glorious chaos. Aarav, in an uncharacteristic burst of proactive tidiness, decided it was time to tackle the ‘Bermuda Triangle’ corner—a notorious zone where tools, half-eaten snacks, and misplaced prototypes disappeared without a trace. Priya had left him with strict instructions: "No new projects until this section is sorted, Avi. Think of it as a clean slate for your brain."
“Clean slate, clean slate,” Aarav muttered to himself, donning a pair of pristine white gloves that Priya had insisted he wear for ‘dust-sensitive equipment.’ He carefully moved a stack of ancient circuit boards, then a perpetually charging robot vacuum that had somehow become embedded in a pile of wires.
“Khanna Ji, remind me again why we accumulate so much… historical data?” he called out, not really expecting an answer. Khanna Ji was busy in the main house, battling Rajmata’s latest attempt to introduce ‘wellness smoothies’ into Aarav’s diet.
He pushed aside a wobbly stack of old engineering textbooks, their spines cracked and faded. Behind them, partially obscured by a thick layer of dust and a forgotten tarpaulin, was a dark, wooden chest. It wasn’t large, perhaps the size of a small suitcase, and it looked ancient, far older than anything else in the workshop. Its brass latches were tarnished, and the wood was dark with age.
“Well, what do we have here?” Aarav murmured, his curiosity piqued. He carefully lifted the tarpaulin, coughing as a cloud of dust erupted. The chest was surprisingly heavy. He knelt, brushing away decades of accumulated grime, trying to find a lock or a clasp. There wasn’t one, just a worn leather strap that buckled shut.
With a soft click, he undid the buckle and slowly lifted the heavy lid. A musty, old-paper smell wafted out. He peered inside, expecting perhaps some antique tools or forgotten components. Instead, nestled amongst layers of faded velvet cloth, was a single, leather-bound book.
He carefully lifted it out. The leather was supple, worn smooth from countless touches. Gold lettering, though faded, was still visible on the spine: *Anant Rathore – Private Log*. Anant Rathore. His father. Aarav’s breath hitched. He had barely known his father, who had passed away when Aarav was just a small boy, leaving behind a legacy of brilliant, yet distant, memories.
He opened the diary gently, the old pages rustling softly. The first few pages were blank, or perhaps they had been torn out long ago. Then came the handwriting – precise, yet flowing, filled with dense, intricate sketches. They weren’t blueprints, not exactly, but conceptual drawings of machines he didn’t recognize, alongside mathematical equations that sprawled across the pages like alien constellations.
“What is all this?” Aarav whispered to himself, his finger tracing a complex diagram. He flipped through more pages. There were personal notes too, scribbled in the margins, often unrelated to the technical drawings. Phrases like, *“The problem is not the solution, but the perspective,”* or *“Sometimes, the greatest invention is simply seeing what others ignore.”*
He recognized a faint sketch of a bird, but it looked mechanical, its wings drawn with delicate gears and springs. Beside it, a note: *“If we could capture the sun in a box… unimaginable power.”* The phrase struck him as familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
He turned to a new page, which contained a series of numbers and symbols. He looked at the elegant script, so different from his own chaotic scribbles, yet somehow familiar in its passion. This wasn't just a technical notebook. It was a glimpse into his father's mind, a mind that clearly saw the world in a way not dissimilar to his own.
A strange warmth bloomed in Aarav’s chest, a feeling of connection he hadn’t realized he craved. He had always felt like an anomaly, the ‘jhali’ inventor in a family of serious businessmen. But here, in these pages, was proof that the core of his own being, his relentless curiosity, his obsession with invention, wasn't just his own eccentricity. It was a legacy. A shared madness.
“You too, Baba?” he murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You were also… a little bit jhali?”
The complex equations and abstract sketches were still a mystery, but the personal touches, the almost philosophical musings, made the diary feel like a conversation with a man he’d never truly known. He didn’t understand most of it, not yet, but he felt an undeniable pull. This wasn't just old paper; it was a treasure map to his own past, and perhaps, to his own future.
He carefully placed the diary back into the chest, closing the lid. He wouldn't show this to anyone. Not yet. This was too personal, too important. This was his father’s secret world, and now, it was his own. The Bermuda Triangle corner could wait. Aarav now had a far more intriguing mystery to unravel.
Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Chapter 17
The workshop hummed with the late-night energy of focused invention. Outside, the city was settling into a quiet rhythm, but inside, a single bright work lamp illuminated a tangled mess of wires, circuit boards, and the half-disassembled remains of Aarav’s “Automated Chai Dispenser 3000.” It had inexplicably started dispensing espresso shots instead of chai, a problem Priya had declared "a serious breach of cultural culinary integrity."
“No, no, Avi, you’ve put the thermal regulator from the espresso machine here,” Priya instructed, her finger tracing a diagram on a smudged blueprint. She wore a smudge of grease on her cheek, a badge of honor from their collaborative efforts. “The chai needs a consistent, gentle heat. This will just blast it.”
Aarav leaned in closer, his head almost touching hers, both peering at the intricate wiring. “But I thought… the efficiency matrix suggested this module would optimize heating time by 17.3%,” he argued, his voice a low murmur. His finger brushed hers as he pointed to a component, sending a tiny jolt through them both.
“Efficiency isn’t everything when it comes to chai, Avi. It’s about the *subtlety* of the boil,” Priya countered, her voice softer than usual. Her eyes, usually so sharp and direct, were now just inches from his, reflecting the glow of the lamp. The scent of her shampoo, faintly floral, mixed with the metallic tang of the workshop, filling the small space between them.
They were both so close, their breaths mingling. The world outside the circle of light faded away, replaced by the quiet hum of the machinery and the quickening beat of their own hearts. Priya looked up from the diagram, her gaze locking with Aarav’s. His usually darting, curious eyes were now fixed on her, dark and intense. He swallowed hard, a tiny muscle twitching in his jaw.
The air thickened, charged with an unspoken electricity. Her lips were parted slightly, a tiny smile playing on them, and his gaze dropped to them, drawn in by an invisible force. He leaned in, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his own lips parting. Her eyes fluttered, then began to close. The distance between them was almost gone, just a breath, a whisper…
Suddenly, a piercing, high-pitched alarm shrieked from a nearby workbench. A small, sleek device that looked like a futuristic alarm clock, but was actually Aarav’s latest security prototype, sprang to life, flashing angry red lights.
“DANGER! DANGER! PROXIMITY ALERT! HUMAN COLLISION IMMINENT! RECALIBRATING PERSONAL SPACE PARAMETERS! DANGER!” the device blared, its robotic voice echoing through the silent workshop, growing louder with each repetition.
Aarav flinched back as if he’d been zapped, his eyes snapping open wide, filled with immediate, comical panic. Priya, startled by the sudden noise, jerked back as well, her eyes flying open. She stared at the alarm clock, then at Aarav, her face a mixture of shock and mortification.
“Avi! What *is* that thing?” she exclaimed, her voice a little breathless, her cheeks flushing crimson.
Aarav, equally red-faced, stumbled over his words. “It’s… it’s my new ‘Smart Personal Space Sentinel’! For… for avoiding accidental bumps in crowded places! Or… or during… intense collaboration!” He fumbled desperately for the off switch, nearly knocking the device over. “It’s clearly… oversensitive! Needs recalibration!”
“IMMINENT! IMMINENT! ABORT! ABORT!” the alarm continued to screech, mockingly loud.
Finally, Aarav found the switch, plunging the workshop back into a sudden, awkward silence. The absence of the blaring alarm only made the moment feel heavier, the previous tension now replaced by a thick layer of embarrassment. He cleared his throat, avoiding her gaze.
“Right. So… the thermal regulator,” Aarav mumbled, pointing frantically at the blueprint, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy. “You were saying… it needs to be… subtle?”
Priya bit her lip, trying to suppress a giggle that threatened to escape. The absurdity of the situation was almost overwhelming. She looked at his panicked face, the way his hair was slightly disheveled, and the lingering hint of something profound in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual inventor’s eccentricity. She couldn’t help but smile, a genuine, if still slightly flustered, smile.
“Yes, Avi,” she said, her voice regaining its usual practical tone, though a little shaky. “Subtle. Just like… well, just like how you build suspense before a big reveal. The flavor needs to develop slowly.” She gestured to the wiring diagram, silently agreeing to pretend the last few seconds hadn’t happened. For now.
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
The smell of burnt chai was still faintly lingering in the workshop, a testament to the "Smart Personal Space Sentinel's" well-timed intervention. Priya had managed to diffuse the awkwardness, at least on the surface, and they’d spent another hour working on the errant dispenser before calling it a night. The device still wasn’t perfect, but at least it wasn’t trying to turn them into human magnets anymore.
“Right, I think that’s enough for today, Avi,” Priya said, stretching, a small yawn escaping her. “My brain is buzzing with circuits and my stomach is rumbling for some home food. Ma must be wondering where I’ve disappeared to.”
Aarav nodded, rubbing his eyes. “Yes, yes, of course. You’ve put in a long day. Even the most efficient systems require downtime.” He stood up, feeling a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. The conversation from earlier, the almost-kiss, was still a raw, electric memory. He needed to get her out, safely, without triggering another ‘proximity alert’ or, worse, a truth bomb.
They walked out of the garage, the grand Rathore mansion looming silently in the background. The moon was a sliver in the sky, casting long, dramatic shadows. As they reached the main gate, Priya paused. Her gaze drifted down the quiet, tree-lined street that led away from the mansion. A sleek, obsidian-black luxury sedan, a model she recognized from glossy magazines, was parked a little distance away, half-hidden by a large banyan tree.
“That’s a rather fancy car to be just parked on the street at this hour, isn’t it?” Priya remarked, more to herself than to him. She squinted, trying to make out the details. “Looks like one of those super-expensive German ones. Who owns that?”
Aarav froze. He had completely forgotten about the car. He usually had Khanna Ji park it in a discreet alley or a less conspicuous spot, but tonight, in his rush to get back to the workshop after a brief, obligatory meeting with Rajmata, he’d simply left it where it was, intending to move it later. *Of course* Priya would notice. Her eyes missed nothing.
His mind raced, a hundred panicked thoughts crashing into each other. *Tell her. Just tell her now. No, too much, too sudden. She hates lies. But if I tell her now, she’ll hate me even more. Think, Aarav, think!*
He cleared his throat, trying to sound nonchalant. “Oh, that? That old thing? That belongs to… to Mr. Rathore.” He winced internally. So far, so true, but where to go from there?
Priya raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Rathore? Your boss? The one you work for?” There was a hint of an amused smile on her face. “He parks his luxury car on the street? Doesn’t seem very… billionaire-like.”
“Oh, no, no, he doesn’t park it there,” Aarav stammered, flapping his hands dismissively. “He’s… he’s got a whole fleet, you see. That one… that one is his… his *extra* car. For when he wants to feel… rustic. Or something.” He mentally slapped himself. *Rustic? Really, Aarav?*
Priya looked from the sleek car to Aarav’s flustered face, a slight frown forming. “Wait, Avi. Why is it parked so close to the mansion, but not *in* the mansion? And why is it still here now?”
Aarav took a deep breath, clutching at the first semi-plausible lie his panicking brain could conjure. “Okay, look, Priya… since you asked…” He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially, as if sharing a huge secret. “Mr. Rathore… he’s a bit of an eccentric. And he’s… demanding. Very demanding.”
Priya’s expression softened, a glimmer of sympathy entering her eyes. “Demanding how?”
“Well,” Aarav began, choosing his words carefully, weaving a tangled web. “He often needs to be… driven around late at night. For… for his important ‘business’ meetings. And sometimes, his regular drivers are busy, you know? So, he… he calls me. To drive this car for him. On the side.”
He gestured vaguely at the car. “It’s extra work, but… you know, a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. The workshop doesn’t always pay the bills as quickly as the innovations take off, right? So, I… I sometimes drive him around. Discreetly. He doesn’t like his staff to know he uses his inventor’s… assistant… for his personal driving needs.” He tried to look humble and a little put-upon.
Priya’s frown deepened, but it was no longer a frown of suspicion, but one of concern. “Avi, you’re driving for him too? At this hour? And then you’re up all day in the workshop? That’s… that’s too much, no? You’ll burn out.” Her voice was laced with genuine worry.
“Oh, no, no, I’m fine!” Aarav said quickly, relief washing over him that she seemed to buy it. “I’m a machine, Priya! Built for endurance! Like a… a high-torque motor! Besides, he pays well for these… late-night excursions. Helps with the, uh, equipment costs for the workshop, you know?” He even managed a weary, yet proud, smile.
Priya sighed, shaking her head. “My God, this rich Mr. Rathore. He sounds like a complete tyrant. Making you work all day, then driving him around all night. Some people have no shame, exploiting others like that.” Her jaw tightened, a familiar flash of indignation in her eyes on his behalf. “But you shouldn’t let him, Avi. You’re too talented for all this extra running around. You need to focus on your inventions, your future.”
Aarav felt a fresh wave of guilt, sharper than the relief. She was so empathetic, so fiercely protective of him, believing him to be this struggling, earnest inventor. And here he was, spinning a ridiculous tale, making himself out to be a hardworking martyr, while she actually worried about his well-being. He was lying through his teeth, and she was pitying him.
“I… I’ll consider it, Priya,” he mumbled, trying to avoid her sympathetic gaze. “For now, though, I should probably… go move that car before he calls for it again. You get home safely, okay? And thank you. For today. For everything.”
Priya nodded, still looking concerned. “You too, Avi. Don’t work too hard. Take care.” She gave him a small, warm smile, then turned and walked away, her scooter parked a short distance further down the road. She glanced back once, seeing him walking towards the parked luxury sedan. Her heart ached for him, this brilliant, kind, yet seemingly perpetually struggling man, burdened by the demands of his arrogant, rich boss.
Aarav watched her go, a profound sense of misery settling over him. The lie felt heavier now, like a lead weight in his chest. He reached the sleek car, opened the door, and sank into the plush leather seat. It was the most comfortable car he owned, yet tonight, it felt like a prison. He had just dug his grave a little deeper, cemented another layer of deceit between himself and the woman who, unknowingly, was becoming the most important person in his world.
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Priya’s scooter hummed softly under her as she rode away from the grand Rathore mansion. The cool night air felt good against her face, but a faint hum of worry resonated within her. Avi. Poor Avi. Working so hard, caught between his eccentric inventions and the demanding whims of his arrogant, rich boss. It just wasn’t fair. He deserved better, someone to recognize his genius, not exploit his good nature.
She thought about the ‘almost kiss’ in the workshop, and a blush crept up her neck despite herself. It had been silly, of course, a misunderstanding, but the brief spark, the intense eye contact… it had left a warmth in her chest that the cool night air couldn't dissipate. She shook her head, trying to clear it. *Focus, Priya. Focus on the tiffin service. Focus on the Rathore party. No time for silly crushes on struggling inventors, no matter how charmingly clumsy they are.*
Unbeknownst to Priya, a shadow moved in the narrow alleyway across from the Rathore mansion. Rina, her cousin, hugged herself, shivering slightly in the evening chill, but her eyes were sharp, glinting with an unpleasant mix of curiosity and resentment. She had been observing Priya for weeks, ever since this mysterious “Avi” had entered her life. Priya was always so secretive about him, always rushing off to this ‘workshop.’ Rina knew Priya too well; something wasn’t adding up.
Priya, the ‘jugaad queen’ who could fix anything with tape and a prayer, was suddenly working for some unknown eccentric. And she was spending long hours away from home. Rina had tried to get details, but Priya was evasive, only saying Avi was a brilliant but penniless inventor. Penniless, but working out of a garage that, from the glimpses Rina had caught through the open gates, looked more like a small, high-tech factory. Something smelled fishy, and Rina intended to find out what it was.
Tonight, her patience was finally rewarded. She saw Priya emerge from the mansion’s gate. A few minutes later, the sleek black car Priya had admired earlier pulled out from its discreet parking spot and glided silently down the street, stopping precisely where Priya had parked her scooter. Priya got on her Dhaanno, but instead of riding off immediately, she talked to the man in the driver’s seat. Rina couldn't hear what they were saying, but the conversation was animated, hushed. Then, with a wave, Priya finally started her scooter and rode off towards her home.
Rina watched the luxury car for another minute. It didn't immediately pull away. Instead, the driver, whom Rina recognized as the ‘Avi’ Priya kept talking about, just sat there, watching Priya’s departing scooter disappear around the corner. Then, he let out a long sigh and slumped back against the seat, a picture of exhaustion. Rina scoffed. *So, this is the ‘broke inventor’ who drives a car that costs more than our entire house?* This was definitely not adding up.
As Rina was about to turn and follow Priya, her eyes caught another movement. Down the street, almost directly across from the Rathore mansion, another car was parked. It wasn’t as flashy as Avi’s, a more understated, yet undeniably expensive, dark sedan. And leaning against it, with a phone pressed to his ear, was a man in a sharp, expensive business suit. He was gazing intently at the Rathore mansion, his posture rigid, his expression grim. There was an intensity about him, a predatory stillness, that immediately caught Rina’s attention.
He wasn't just casually observing; he was *watching*. Watching the mansion, watching the gate, watching the very spot where Avi’s fancy car had just pulled away from. Rina’s mind, always quick to connect threads of opportunity, started whirring. This wasn’t just a simple, random late-night observation. There was something bigger going on here.
She stayed hidden, observing the man for another ten minutes. He made a few calls, spoke in low, clipped tones, and his gaze never wavered from the mansion. Finally, he straightened up, gave the mansion one last hard look, and got into his car, driving away in the opposite direction from Priya’s.
Rina smirked. Priya, with her endless talk of hard work and honesty, was clearly involved in something shady. And this mysterious man, who seemed to have a deep interest in the same mansion where Priya’s ‘broke’ friend clearly had a connection… this was a development. This wasn’t just about Priya getting a good job anymore. This was about something bigger, something with the potential for real money, real power. And if Priya, the simple tiffin girl, could stumble into it, why couldn’t she, Rina, who was far smarter and more ambitious?
A plan, nascent and wicked, began to form in Rina’s mind. She knew the Rathore family name, of course. Everyone did. And the man in the suit had the air of someone powerful, someone who might be interested in… *information*. Priya was getting too close to whatever this was. She was naive. Rina wasn’t. Rina understood the art of the deal, the value of leverage.
She walked out of the alley, a calculating gleam in her eyes. The night felt suddenly full of possibilities. Priya thought she was clever, with her little ‘Avi’ and her secret job. But Rina was smarter. Rina knew how to play the game. And she had just found her opening.
The address of the Rathore Global offices, she mused. Or perhaps a quick search for prominent businessmen with an interest in the Rathore empire. The man’s face was distinctive enough. She had seen it on business channels, hadn't she? A quick mental jog, and a name popped into her head: Vikram Shekhawat. Rathore’s rival, wasn’t he? She smiled, a cold, predatory smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The pieces were starting to fall into place.
This could be her ticket out of this cramped, middle-class life. All she needed was a little courage, a little cunning, and a willingness to step into the murky waters of corporate intrigue. And perhaps, a little nudge to help Priya stumble, clearing the path for Rina herself. It would be so easy. After all, Priya trusted her. Priya would never suspect.
Rina pulled out her phone, the old, slightly battered one that Priya had fixed for her. She opened her browser and typed in a name. The game, she decided, was officially on. And she intended to win.
Chapter 20
The polished mahogany door of Vikram Shekhawat’s office was even more imposing up close than it had looked in the photos Rina had found online. Her heart hammered a nervous rhythm against her ribs, but she held her chin high. This was it. Her chance. Priya thought she was the smart one, the resourceful one, always with her *jugaad*. But Rina knew that true resourcefulness wasn’t about fixing a broken fan with a rubber band; it was about knowing how to leverage an opportunity. And this, she instinctively knew, was a huge one.
She had spent most of the day since her late-night observation meticulously researching Vikram Shekhawat. He was a shark, a corporate predator, known for his aggressive takeovers and his relentless pursuit of rivals, especially the Rathores. His face, cold and sharp, had stared back at her from financial news articles. She’d found his office number, and after a moment of bracing herself, she’d made the call.
“Shekhawat Corp, how may I help you?” A crisp, polite voice answered on the third ring.
“Good morning,” Rina said, trying to keep her voice steady, professional. “My name is Rina Sharma. I need to speak with Mr. Vikram Shekhawat. It’s regarding the Rathore family.” She held her breath, hoping the name would be enough to pique interest.
There was a slight pause. “Mr. Shekhawat is very busy. Do you have an appointment?” The receptionist sounded unimpressed.
Rina pushed on, infusing her voice with urgency. “No, but this is extremely time-sensitive and highly confidential. It directly impacts his ongoing interests concerning Rathore Global. Tell him I have insider information, and it relates to… to Aarav Rathore personally.” She emphasized the ‘personally,’ knowing gossip and vulnerabilities were always more captivating than dry corporate news.
Another, longer pause. Rina could almost hear the receptionist’s mental gears turning. Then, the click of a hold button. Rina gripped her phone tighter. This was the make-or-break moment. She hated waiting, hated the uncertainty. Her palms felt clammy. *Come on, Rina. Just get your foot in the door.*
A different voice, deeper, more authoritative, came on the line. “Rahul here. Mr. Shekhawat is in a meeting. What is this about?”
“Mr. Rahul,” Rina began, sounding slightly annoyed as if she’d already explained this too many times. “I just told your receptionist. It’s about the Rathores. Specifically, Aarav. I have information from the inside. Information that could give Mr. Shekhawat a significant advantage. I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t crucial.” She infused a hint of exasperation, a touch of arrogance, hoping to project an image of someone who knew her worth.
“And who are you, exactly, Ms. Sharma?” Rahul’s tone was guarded, assessing.
“I’m Rina Sharma. I have a direct connection to someone currently involved very closely with the Rathore household. Someone who is unknowingly sitting on a goldmine of information. Information that Aarav Rathore himself is trying to keep secret.” Rina knew how to bait a hook. The promise of hidden secrets, of an unwitting informant – it was irresistible to someone like Vikram Shekhawat.
There was a muffled consultation on the other end, a low murmur of voices. Rina could almost feel the shift in interest. Finally, Rahul’s voice returned, sharper, more direct. “Mr. Shekhawat will see you at 3 PM today. Don’t be late. And be prepared to be very, very clear about what you have to offer.”
A triumphant smile played on Rina’s lips. She’d done it. The door was open. “I’ll be there,” she said, her voice dripping with confidence. “And I promise, Mr. Shekhawat won’t be disappointed.”
***
Three o’clock found Rina walking into the sleek, modern lobby of Shekhawat Corp. The place reeked of money and power. The minimalist design, the muted colors, the expensive art – it was a world away from her cramped little flat. This was where she belonged.
A stern-faced assistant, presumably Rahul, led her down a silent corridor to a large, corner office. The walls were glass, offering a panoramic view of the city, but the overall impression was cold, almost sterile. There were no personal touches, no warmth. Just efficiency.
Vikram Shekhawat stood by the window, his back to them, surveying his domain. He turned as they entered, his gaze sweeping over Rina, analytical, assessing. He was just as imposing in person as in his pictures, perhaps even more so. His eyes, dark and unblinking, held a chilling intensity.
“Ms. Sharma,” Vikram said, his voice smooth, devoid of emotion. He didn’t offer a handshake, simply gestured to one of the stark leather chairs opposite his imposing desk. “You claimed you have information. Be concise. My time is valuable.”
Rina felt a tremor of nerves, but she pushed it down. This was no time to waver. She sat, placing her handbag carefully on the floor beside her. “Yes, Mr. Shekhawat. And my time, or rather, my cousin’s time, is being wasted by the Rathores, specifically by Aarav Rathore.”
Vikram leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “Your cousin? And how is she connected to Aarav Rathore? My intelligence suggests he keeps a very tight circle, especially outside his professional sphere.”
“My cousin, Priya Sharma, runs a tiffin service,” Rina began, trying to sound as if she were reluctantly revealing a sordid family secret. “A small, middle-class venture. Nothing you’d be interested in normally. But recently, she’s been spending all her evenings and nights at the Rathore mansion. In their garage, specifically. Working with Aarav Rathore.” She paused for effect. “She calls him ‘Avi.’”
Vikram’s eyebrows, perfectly sculpted, rose a fraction of an inch. It was the only sign of surprise. “A tiffin service owner in Aarav Rathore’s garage? And he calls himself ‘Avi’? This sounds… fanciful, Ms. Sharma. Are you quite sure you haven’t mistaken him for an employee, or perhaps a gardener?” There was a hint of dismissive amusement in his voice, designed to test her confidence.
Rina straightened, a flash of annoyance replacing her earlier nervousness. “Fanciful, perhaps, but true, Mr. Shekhawat. He’s pretending to be some broke, eccentric inventor. Apparently, he crashed one of his malfunctioning drones into her scooter, ruined her biggest catering order. To ‘pay her back,’ he offered her a job. ‘Organizational manager’ of his chaotic workshop, she calls it. My cousin, bless her naive heart, thinks he’s just a struggling genius who needs a bit of order in his life.” Rina scoffed, letting her disdain for Priya’s perceived naivety show. “She actually *pities* him.”
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “But I saw him last night, Mr. Shekhawat. Dropping Priya home. He wasn’t driving a beat-up scooter or some old Maruti. He was driving a luxury car that costs crores. A sleek, black German model. The same one that’s sometimes parked discreetly near the mansion, hidden under a tree, as if he doesn’t want anyone to see it.” Rina felt a surge of satisfaction as she delivered this damning detail. It was concrete. It was undeniable.
Vikram’s expression remained largely unreadable, but Rina caught a slight tightening around his eyes, a flicker of genuine interest. He leaned forward slightly, mirroring her posture. “And why does this concern me, Ms. Sharma? Or rather, what value does this ‘insider information’ hold, beyond proving the Rathore heir has a strange hobby?”
“Because my cousin is *close* to him,” Rina pressed on, sensing his shift. “She’s in his personal space. His *secret* space, it seems. He confides in her. She’s seen things in that workshop. Gadgets, plans, even some old papers, she vaguely mentioned once. Stuff she doesn’t understand, but maybe you would. She’s literally working side-by-side with the man, sometimes until late in the night, alone. She has access that no one else in your company, or any other rival, could ever dream of. She’s a trusted… confidante.” Rina embroidered the truth, making Priya sound more deeply entwined with Aarav’s secrets than she truly was. “And he’s clearly hiding his true identity from her. He’s vulnerable there, Mr. Shekhawat. A weakness. A very exploitable weakness.”
Vikram steepled his fingers again, his gaze piercing. “A weakness. Interesting. And what is your motivation, Ms. Sharma? Why are you sharing this with me? Patriotism for your company? A moral compass pointing towards justice?” His tone was laced with sarcasm.
Rina met his gaze head-on. She knew better than to lie about her motives to a man like this. “My motivation is simple, Mr. Shekhawat. My cousin is getting ahead, yes, but she’s also naive. She’s mixing with people way out of her league, getting involved in things she doesn’t understand. I don’t want her to get hurt, or even worse, for her to get all the glory while I’m left behind.” She injected a touch of resentment into her voice, a subtle hint of her deep-seated jealousy towards Priya’s successes. “I want a fair share. I want opportunities. And I believe you are the person who can provide them.”
She continued, making her pitch clear and blunt. “I can provide you with information about what goes on in that workshop. What Aarav Rathore is truly up to, beyond his public facade. I can tell you about his habits, his vulnerabilities, anything my cousin sees or hears, or even *finds*. She brings home little anecdotes, Mr. Shekhawat. Little details that seem insignificant to her, but might be crucial to someone like you.”
“And what do you expect in return, Ms. Sharma?” Vikram’s voice was dangerously smooth.
“Money, of course. Enough to make a comfortable life for myself,” Rina said, not flinching. “And connections. I want to build a future, Mr. Shekhawat. I’m ambitious. I’m resourceful. Just like my cousin, but… smarter about it. I know how to use opportunities. And I know how to keep a secret.” She tried to project an image of cold pragmatism, a mirror to his own ruthlessness.
Vikram leaned back, a slight, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It wasn't a warm smile, but a calculating one. “Resourceful, you say. And ambitious. I like ambition, Ms. Sharma. And a family dynamic like yours… often creates excellent opportunities for leverage. Tell me, how loyal is your cousin to this ‘Avi’? And how loyal are you to your cousin?”
Rina gave a dismissive little laugh. “Priya is loyal to a fault, Mr. Shekhawat. She believes in him, pities him, even. She wouldn’t betray him for all the money in the world. She’s too… *principled*.” The last word was uttered with a sneer. “But I… I’m loyal to *myself*. And to the path that gets me what I deserve. My loyalty can be bought. And managed.”
“A mercenary, then,” Vikram mused, his eyes unblinking. “A practical woman. Good. I prefer honesty in these matters. Very well, Ms. Sharma. Here’s my offer. I will pay you a retainer. A small sum to begin with. You will gather information. Anything you hear, see, or suspect regarding Aarav Rathore, his activities, his projects, anything that passes through your cousin’s lips. You will report directly to my aide, Rahul, here. He will be your point of contact. No one else. If the information is valuable, if it yields results, the payments will increase. And the connections you seek, they will materialize. Do you understand? No direct contact with me, only with Rahul. And absolute discretion. If this comes back to me, if a single whisper reaches the Rathore family, you will find yourself in a far worse position than you are now. Do we have a deal?”
Rina’s eyes gleamed. A triumphant smile, wide and unrestrained, spread across her face. This was everything she had wanted, everything she felt she deserved. “Deal, Mr. Shekhawat. You won’t regret this. Priya is a very open book when she trusts someone. And she trusts me completely. She won’t see it coming.”
Vikram merely nodded, his expression returning to its usual coldness. “Good. Rahul will be in touch with the details of your first payment. Welcome to the game, Ms. Sharma. Just remember, in this game, loyalty is to results, and discretion is paramount. Failure to adhere to either will have… severe consequences.” His words were a soft warning, a chilling promise.
Rina barely heard him. She was already mentally spending her first retainer, envisioning the opportunities that lay ahead. She stood up, feeling a giddy lightness. This was her rise. And if it meant stepping over Priya, so be it. Priya had always been lucky; it was time Rina made her own luck.
As Rina walked out, Rahul closed the door behind her. Vikram picked up his phone, dialing an internal number. “Rahul,” he said into the receiver, his voice like ice. “Arrange for an initial payment for Ms. Sharma. And instruct her carefully on the reporting protocol. Monitor her contact with her cousin. This ‘Avi’ charade… it could be a significant vulnerability for Aarav Rathore. A naive girl with insider access… a perfect pawn.” He paused, looking out at the city skyline, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Begin to probe her for details about this ‘workshop’ and any projects Aarav Rathore might be working on there. Especially anything from his father’s time. If it’s as secret as she suggests, it could be the key.” The pieces were falling into place for Vikram. The game, for him, had just gotten much more interesting.
