# ✦ A LITTLE MESSAGE FROM YOUR AUTHOR ✦ 💌
Okay, besties. Stop scrolling for a second. 😭☝🏻
**YES, YOU. THE ONE READING THIS.** 👀
First of all, thank you for giving my little story a chance. 💗 Whether you've read one chapter, read all the chapters, or somehow landed here by accident (bestie, destiny brought you here, don't argue 😭), I'm genuinely glad you're here.
Now, I have a *tiny* favour to ask.
And by tiny, I mean I'm about to become the most annoying author you've ever encountered. 💀
**PLEASE VOTE FOR THE CHAPTERS IF YOU ENJOY THEM!** 🗳️💗
It takes only a moment, but it genuinely encourages me to keep writing and putting my heart into this story. Every little bit of support means more than you might think. 🥹
And while you're at it…
♡ **FOLLOW ME** if you'd like to stay updated when new chapters drop.
♡ **COMMENT** your theories, favourite moments, predictions, or even your unfiltered reactions. I WANT TO KNOW EVERYTHING. 👀
♡ **VOTE** for the chapters you enjoy, because your girl needs motivation to keep feeding you this chaos. 😭
♡ **ADD THE STORY TO YOUR READING LIST** so you don't lose Advika and her questionable life decisions in the endless Wattpad universe. 💋
And please, don't be a silent reader forever. 😔
I mean, you can be a silent reader, of course. I still appreciate you being here. But imagine the joy of seeing a comment like:
*“GIRL, WHAT WAS THAT ENDING?!?!”*
Or—
*“ADVIKA, PLEASE USE YOUR BRAIN FOR ONCE.”* 😭😭
Or even—
*“AUTHOR, UPDATE WHEN?! I'M BEGGING.”*
BESTIE. THAT IS THE ENERGY I LIVE FOR. 💗👽
I want to laugh with you, panic with you, read your theories, and watch you fall deeper into this story with every chapter.
And who knows? Maybe your predictions will be right.
Maybe they'll be completely wrong.
Maybe you'll end up suspecting every character in existence. 👀
**I'm not confirming or denying anything.** 🤭
One more thing: please remember that there's a real person behind these chapters, trying to create something you'll enjoy. Writing takes time, effort, and a little bit of emotional damage (courtesy of my own fictional characters 💀), so your kindness and support genuinely matter.
You don't have to write a whole paragraph. Even a little vote or a simple comment can make my day. 🫶🏻
So, if you've enjoyed reading so far…
**VOTE. COMMENT. FOLLOW. ADD TO YOUR READING LIST.** 💗
And if you've already done all four?
COME HERE, YOU ABSOLUTE ANGEL. 🥹💋
You deserve a virtual hug, unlimited fictional tea, and front-row seats to the chaos that's coming.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. And thank you for giving Advika's story a little space in your world. 💫
Now go on—
**PRESS THAT VOTE BUTTON. I'M WATCHING.** 👁️👁️
*Just kidding.*
*Mostly.* 😭💗
### ♡ With love, chaos, and questionable fictional men,
**Your Author** 💌✨
If there was one thing I had learned from today's events, it was that life had a rather peculiar sense of humour.
And, unfortunately, I appeared to be its favourite target.
First, I had nearly lost a battle against a sock. Then my cab had decided to retire in the middle of the road without submitting a formal resignation. After that, I'd accepted a lift from a man who possessed approximately three words in his vocabulary and the emotional warmth of a refrigerator.
And just when I thought the universe might finally grant me a few moments of peace, I'd managed to collide with a stranger inside the very building where I was supposed to establish myself as a responsible, competent adult.
A stranger who turned out to be the CEO.
The CEO.
Abhir Rajput.
The man whose office I'd been desperately trying to locate while simultaneously insulting his appearance, intelligence, and, indirectly, his entire existence.
Honestly, if embarrassment were a profession, I would have been the most qualified candidate in the country.
With that comforting thought in mind, I pushed open the cafeteria doors of Etire Enterprises.
The room was considerably larger than I'd expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, allowing sunlight to spill across the neatly arranged tables. The muted clatter of cutlery mingled with conversations, the occasional ringing phone, and the familiar hiss of a coffee machine working tirelessly behind the counter.
Employees sat in small groups, discussing meetings, deadlines, and things that sounded unnecessarily complicated for a Tuesday morning.
A few people worked on their laptops while eating. Others appeared to have mastered the art of looking busy even when they were doing absolutely nothing.
I respected that talent.
Perhaps I could learn it someday.
For now, however, my immediate concern was considerably less ambitious.
Tea.
A proper cup of tea.
Because nothing in this world could be trusted to make sense until I'd had at least one.
I approached the counter and studied the menu.
Coffee.
Cold coffee.
Green tea.
Black tea.
Masala chai.
My eyes settled on the last option.
There she was.
My one faithful companion in a world full of disappointments.
“Bhaiya, ek chai dena, please.”
The cafeteria worker nodded and began preparing my order.
I moved aside and took out my phone.
There were two missed calls from Maa.
Two.
I stared at the screen.
Oh, I'm dead.
I had completely forgotten to call her after reaching Etire.
She had specifically told me to call when I arrived, and I had confidently promised that I would.
In my defence, I'd been rather occupied trying not to become unemployed before officially being interviewed.
Still, promises were promises.
I quickly typed a message.
Me: Reached safely, Maa. Interview ho gaya. I'll talk to you once I get home. 💗
I stared at the message for a moment before sending it.
Then I hesitated.
Should I tell her about the interview?
No.
Not yet.
What if she became too excited and started imagining wedding-level celebrations over a job offer I hadn't even received?
My mother was perfectly capable of planning an entire family feast based on a single encouraging sentence.
I loved her for it.
I also feared it.
The cafeteria worker placed the cup on the counter.
“Madam, chai.”
“Thank you!”
I picked it up carefully and searched for an empty table.
I found one beside the window, far enough from the louder groups to enjoy a little privacy.
Sitting down, I wrapped both hands around the warm cup.
For a moment, I simply watched the steam curl into the air.
It was strange.
All morning, I'd been moving so quickly that I hadn't had the opportunity to process anything.
I'd rushed out of the house.
Panicked over the cab.
Argued with a stranger.
Almost accused the same stranger of kidnapping me.
Raced into the building.
Insulted the CEO.
And then—
I'd actually completed the interview.
I leaned back in my chair and let out a long breath.
“Okay, Advika,” I murmured. “Now what?”
The cup, unsurprisingly, offered no advice.
I took a sip.
The tea was hot enough to remind me that I possessed a tongue and a questionable ability to judge temperatures.
I winced.
“Ah! Bhaiya, thodi thandi chai bana dete.”
A woman at the next table glanced at me.
I gave her a polite smile.
She returned to her conversation.
Excellent.
Another successful social interaction.
At this rate, I would be famous by evening.
I looked through the window again.
From this height, the city seemed almost organised. The roads stretched between buildings, vehicles moved along their designated lanes, and people appeared to know exactly where they were going.
It was a comforting illusion.
Because if today's events had taught me anything, it was that most people were probably improvising.
Including me.
Especially me.
I took another sip, this time more cautiously.
My thoughts returned to the interview.
Abhir had been surprisingly reasonable.
I had expected him to be offended by my behaviour. Perhaps he would have dismissed me immediately, or made a sarcastic remark about my professionalism before sending me out of his office.
Instead, he'd laughed.
He'd listened to my answers.
He'd challenged me when necessary.
And he'd told me I had potential. such a kind and generous CEO, right?
That last part kept returning to my mind.
You have potential.
It wasn't an offer.
It wasn't a promise.
It wasn't even a guarantee that I'd make it to the next round.
But it was something.
A small, reassuring something.
I'd spent so much time worrying about whether I was good enough that hearing it from someone who had no obligation to encourage me felt unexpectedly meaningful.
I wanted this job.
Not merely because I wanted to earn money or add another achievement to my resume.
I wanted the independence.
The responsibility.
The opportunity to build something that belonged to me.
I loved my family. I loved our home, our noisy mornings, Maa's endless instructions, Papa's quiet jokes, and the way ordinary evenings somehow became memorable simply because we spent them together.
But loving my family didn't mean I wanted to remain dependent on them forever.
I wanted to become someone they could be proud of.
Someone who could stand on her own feet.
Someone who could look at her parents one day and say, You don't have to worry about me anymore. I've got this.
I smiled faintly.
Then another thought arrived.
Unless I don't get selected.
My smile vanished.
“Oh, shut up.”
I took another sip.
What if I didn't get the job?
What if my answers hadn't been as good as I thought?
What if Abhir had only been polite?
What if—
I stopped myself.
There it was.
My favourite hobby.
Inventing disasters before they happened.
I placed the cup on the table and rubbed my forehead.
“Bas, Advika. Please. Thoda toh normal reh le.”
Enough, Advika. Please. Try being normal for once.
I glanced at the clock.
I had been sitting there for nearly fifteen minutes.
Perhaps I should go home.
Perhaps I should stay a little longer.
Perhaps I should order another cup of tea and establish permanent residency.
I was still contemplating this extremely important decision when a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Oh, Miss Chaiwali!”
I froze.
Slowly, very slowly, I turned my head.
And there he was.
Abhir Rajput.
Standing beside my table with a cup of coffee in one hand and an expression that suggested he had discovered a particularly entertaining form of entertainment.
Me.
I was the entertainment.
Wonderful.
Just wonderful.
He glanced at my tea.
Then at me.
“Planning to sell chai here as well?”
I nearly choked on absolutely nothing.
“Oh, sir, I—please!”
He laughed. as if he had already decided my profession as a chaiwali– ugh I hate how I always manage to mess up things more.
Actually laughed.
Not the restrained, professional smile from his office.
A genuine chuckle escaped him, and for a moment, he looked considerably less intimidating than the man who had interviewed me earlier.
“Oh, don't worry. I'm joking.”
He shook his head, still amused.
I stared at him with the exhausted expression of a woman who had suffered enough for one lifetime.
“Sir, please. I have already apologised.”
“And I've already forgiven you.”
“Then why are you still calling me that?”
“Because it's memorable.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“That's not fair.”
He lifted his coffee.
“Life isn't fair, Miss Chaiwali.”
I gave him a look.
“Very inspirational, sir. Should I write that down?”
He laughed again.
“Please do. It might help you during your next interview.”
“I'm hoping there won't be a next interview.”
“Fair point.”
He glanced at the folder resting beside me.
“So, how are you feeling now?”
The unexpected question softened my expression.
“Honestly?”
“Preferably.”
“Terrified.”
He nodded as though this were a perfectly reasonable answer.
“Good.”
I frowned.
“Good?”
“It means you care about the outcome.”
I considered that.
“Or it means I have anxiety.”
“Could be both.”
I laughed despite myself.
He took a sip of coffee.
“Don't spend the next two days analysing every sentence you said in that room.”
I looked at him.
“How did you know I was going to do that?”
“Because you've been staring at the same cup of tea for five minutes as though it's going to reveal your interview results.”
I looked down at my cup.
Then back at him.
“Maybe it will.”
“Let me know if it does.”
He turned to leave.
I blinked.
“That's it?”
He looked over his shoulder.
“What?”
“You came here, called me chaiwali, gave me unsolicited life advice, and now you're leaving?”
He considered it.
“Yes.”
“Unbelievable.”
“That's what you said earlier, too.”
I stared at him.
He grinned.
“Have a good day, Advika.”
And just like that, he walked away.
No grand speech.
No additional teasing.
No dramatic farewell.
He simply disappeared into the cafeteria crowd, leaving me with my tea, my thoughts, and the growing suspicion that my professional life was going to be considerably more embarrassing than I'd anticipated.
I watched him go.
Then looked at my cup.
“Chaiwali,” I muttered.
I shook my head.
“I'm never drinking tea again.”
I took another sip.
A pause.
“Okay, that's a lie.”
Because no matter what happened, tea was innocent.
And I refused to punish an innocent beverage for the crimes of a particularly irritating CEO.
I finished my tea, collected my belongings, and made my way out of the cafeteria.
Before leaving the building, I glanced toward the reception desk.
For some reason, I thought about the man from the black car again.
His quiet demeanour.
His abrupt answers.
The way he had seemed to recognise the name Etire Enterprises.
I frowned slightly.
There had been something unusual about him.
Something I couldn't quite place.
But the thought lasted only a few seconds before I dismissed it.
I had enough mysteries to solve already.
Like whether I would receive a job offer.
Or whether Maa would interrogate me the moment I stepped through the front door.
Knowing her, the second possibility was considerably more certain.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and headed outside.
The afternoon sun greeted me with an almost offensive amount of brightness.
I squinted.
“Wonderful. Even the weather is judging me.”
Then I called for another cab.
And this time, I prayed it would survive the journey.
At rawat's household
5:42 PM
If there was one thing Arohi Rawat had learned during her twenty-six years of motherhood, it was that a household could never truly be called peaceful when Advika Rawat lived in it.
Even when Advika wasn't physically present, her existence somehow managed to create work.
Arohi stood in the kitchen, washing a stack of dishes that seemed to have multiplied mysteriously over the course of the afternoon.
A plate.
Two bowls.
Three spoons.
A frying pan.
Another plate.
She stared at the growing pile in the sink.
Then at the kitchen counter.
Then at the living room, where her husband sat with several sheets of paper spread across the table.
Daksh was preparing a set of charts for work, carefully arranging the papers and making notes in the margins.
Arohi narrowed her eyes.
He was working.
She was working.
And their daughter?
Their daughter was probably enjoying herself somewhere, completely unaware that domestic responsibilities existed.
Arohi rinsed a plate with unnecessary force.
“Ek toh kisi ko yeh nahi lagta ki meri bhi help karwa de!”
Not a single person in this house ever thinks of helping me!
She placed the plate on the rack.
“Bas, us ting-ting si cheez ko chalaate rehte hain!”
All they do is keep playing with that ting-ting thing!
She gestured toward the phone lying on the counter.
The phone, naturally, remained silent.
It had committed no crime.
But Arohi was not in a forgiving mood.
“Poora din phone mein ghuse raho. Ghar ka kaam toh jaise apne aap ho jaata hai!”
Spend the entire day buried in that phone. As though the household chores magically take care of themselves!
From the living room, Daksh lifted his head.
He had heard every word.
Of course he had.
Their house wasn't large enough to conceal Arohi's displeasure, especially when she was delivering a speech with the conviction of a courtroom prosecutor.
“Arey, par main toh chartsheet bana raha hoon!”
But I'm preparing the charts!
Arohi turned toward him.
“Achha? Aur main yahan vacation mana rahi hoon?”
Really? And am I on vacation over here?
Daksh looked down at his papers.
He was a sensible man.
A loving husband.
A patient father.
And, most importantly, a man who had been married long enough to recognise when a conversation required an intelligent response and when it required strategic silence.
He chose silence.
Arohi turned back to the sink.
“Haan, bas main hi hoon is ghar mein jo kaam karti hai.”
Yes, apparently I'm the only person in this house who does any work.
Daksh pressed his lips together.
He was fighting a smile.
It was not that he found his wife's frustration amusing.
He simply knew that she had a tendency to become dramatically eloquent when she felt unappreciated.
And, if he was honest, he also knew that she had a point.
He placed his pen down.
“Achha, batao. Kya help karun?”
All right, tell me. What should I help with?
Arohi glanced at him.
“Ab rehne do.”
Forget it now.
“Arre, batao toh.”
At least tell me.
“Jab khud se kuch karna hi nahi hai, toh poochhne ka kya faayda?”
If you aren't going to do anything on your own, what's the point of asking?
Daksh looked at the ceiling.
Marriage, he reflected, was an institution that required extraordinary patience.
And possibly a degree in diplomacy.
Before he could formulate a response, the front door opened.
“Maa, I'm home!”
Arohi closed her eyes.
There it was.
The source of half her daily complaints.
The reason she had developed the patience of a saint and the vocabulary of an irritated schoolteacher.
“Kitchen mein hoon!” she called.
I'm in the kitchen!
A moment later, Advika appeared in the doorway.
Her bag hung from one shoulder, and she looked tired but considerably less frantic than she had that morning.
She surveyed the scene.
Maa at the sink.
Papa at the table.
Papers everywhere.
A suspicious amount of domestic tension in the air.
Advika tilted her head.
“What's happening here?”
“Nothing,” Arohi replied.
Which, in the language of mothers, generally meant that something was happening.
Advika set her bag down.
“Lao, main help karaun?”
Give it to me. I'll help.
Arohi looked at her.
Then looked at the dishes.
Then looked at her daughter again.
“Chal, tu rehne de.”
Oh, leave it.
Advika's mouth fell open.
“Hawww!”
She placed a hand over her heart.
“So mean!”
Arohi continued rinsing a bowl.
“Tu ek kaam karegi nahi, das aur bigaad degi.”
You won't finish one task; you'll manage to mess up ten more.
Daksh made a suspicious sound from the living room.
It sounded remarkably like a cough.
Arohi turned toward him.
“Has kyun rahe ho?"
Why are you laughing?
“Main? Main toh khans raha hoon.”
Me? I'm just coughing.
Advika burst out laughing.
“Papa, that was the worst lie I've ever heard.”
Daksh looked at her solemnly.
“Beta, experience ke saath improve ho jaayega.”
Daughter, I'll improve with experience.
“Papa!”
Arohi shook her head.
“Baap-beti dono ek jaise ho.”
Father and daughter, both exactly alike.
Advika stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.
“Maa, waise aaj pata hai kya hua?”
Maa, by the way, do you know what happened today?
Arohi did not answer immediately.
She was busy scrubbing a particularly stubborn patch on a pan.
Then she slowly turned her head.
Her eyes narrowed.
It was not an ordinary glare.
It was a mother's glare.
A glare capable of extracting confessions from people who hadn't committed any crimes.
Advika's confidence evaporated.
“N-nahi…”
She swallowed.
“Thodi der mein bata dungi.”
I'll tell you in a little while.
Arohi held her gaze for another second before turning back to the sink.
“Hm.”
That was all.
One syllable.
Yet Advika understood the message perfectly.
The interrogation had been postponed, not cancelled.
She quickly retreated toward the living room.
Daksh watched her approach.
“Bach gayi?”
Did you escape?
Advika whispered, “Temporary.”
He nodded gravely.
“God bless you.”
She sat beside him.
“Papa, Maa ko aaj kuch zyada hi gussa aa raha hai.”
Papa, Maa seems especially angry today.
Daksh glanced toward the kitchen.
“Gussa nahi hai. Thaki hui hai.”
She's not angry. She's tired.
His voice was gentle.
“Subah se kaam kar rahi hai. Aur jab sab log apne-apne kaam mein lage rehte hain, toh kabhi-kabhi use lagta hai ki uski mehnat kisi ko dikhti hi nahi.”
She's been working since morning. And when everyone is occupied with their own things, sometimes she feels as though nobody notices how much effort she puts in.
Advika's expression softened.
She looked toward the kitchen.
Maa was still washing dishes, her shoulders slightly hunched as she reached for another plate.
For all her complaints, Arohi rarely asked anyone to do anything for her twice. She managed the house with a kind of effortless dedication that had become so familiar to the family that they sometimes forgot it required effort at all.
Advika felt a small pinch of guilt.
She could have helped more.
She could have asked before Maa had to complain.
She could have done plenty of things.
Instead, she had spent the last few hours thinking about herself.
Her interview.
Her nerves.
Her uncertain future.
She stood up.
Daksh looked at her.
“Kidhar?”
Where are you going?
“To help Maa.”
He smiled.
“Achha decision hai.”
Good decision.
Advika pointed at him.
“Don't tell her I said that. I'll lose my reputation.”
Daksh chuckled.
“Tumhari reputation toh subah se hi khatre mein hai.”
Your reputation has been in danger since this morning.
“Papa!”
She hurried back into the kitchen before he could say anything else.
Arohi was wiping the counter when Advika appeared beside her.
“Okay.”
Arohi glanced at her.
“Okay, kya?”
Okay, what?
“Give me something to do.”
“Advika—”
“No, seriously, Maa.”
Her voice was softer now.
“I know I'm not the most helpful person in the world, but I can at least try.”
Arohi paused.
For a moment, the only sound between them was the gentle trickle of water from the tap.
Then she sighed.
“Achha, woh plates sukha de.”
Fine, dry those plates.
Advika immediately reached for a plate.
“Done.”
“Dhyaan se.”
Carefully.
“Maa.”
“Haath se gir mat dena.”
Don't drop it.
“Maa!”
“Main toh bas keh rahi hoon.”
I'm only saying.
Advika looked at the plate in her hand.
Then at her mother.
Then back at the plate.
“Do you have so little faith in me?”
Arohi considered the question.
“Yes.”
Advika gasped.
“HAWW!”
From the living room, Daksh burst into laughter.
Arohi tried to maintain a straight face.
She failed.
And just like that, the tension in the kitchen eased.
Advika began drying the dishes while Arohi arranged them in the cupboard.
For a few minutes, neither spoke.
It was a familiar sort of silence.
Comfortable.
Ordinary.
The kind of silence that didn't need to be filled.
Then Advika glanced at her mother.
“Maa?”
“Hm?”
“Are you still angry?”
Arohi looked at her.
“Main kab gussa thi?”
When was I angry?
Advika stared at her.
“Maa, you were practically threatening the dishes.”
“Woh meri baat sun nahi rahe the.”
They weren't listening to me.
Advika laughed.
“Of course. The dishes are the problem.”
“Bilkul.”
Exactly.
Their laughter mingled with the soft clatter of plates.
And for a brief moment, Advika forgot about the interview.
Forgot about the email she was waiting for.
Forgot about the man who had driven her to Etire and the CEO who had called her chaiwali.
She was simply home.
With her mother.
In their kitchen.
Doing something as ordinary as drying dishes.
And somehow, that felt like enough.
For now.
---
THE STORY OF A VERY UNFORTUNATE INTERVIEW
It was nearly six-thirty when Arohi finally remembered that her daughter had been suspiciously eager to tell her something earlier.
She placed the last plate in the cupboard and turned toward Advika.
“Haan, ab bata. Kya keh rahi thi tu?”
All right, now tell me. What were you saying earlier?
Advika, who had been carefully arranging the dish towel, froze.
She had hoped her mother would forget.
Apparently, hope was not a reliable strategy in the Rawat household.
“Woh…”
She looked at the ceiling.
“Actually…”
Arohi crossed her arms.
“Advika.”
“Ji?”
Yes?
“Kya hua aaj?”
What happened today?
Advika inhaled.
Then exhaled.
Then decided that the truth was the only available option.
“Achha, suno.”
She pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Main aaj na, wahan gayi thi jahan se interview ka letter aaya tha.”
I went to the place that had sent me the interview letter today.
Arohi's expression changed instantly.
Her eyes widened.
“The company?”
Advika nodded.
“Etire Enterprises?”
“Haan.”
Yes.
Arohi placed a hand against her chest.
“Achha, toh?”
She paused.
Then, unable to contain herself, she asked the question that had been occupying her mind since morning.
“Lag gayi job?!”
Did you get the job?!
Advika blinked.
“Maa—”
“Hayee, Bhagwan ka lakh-lakh shukar hai!”
Arohi raised her hands briefly in gratitude.
“Mujhe pata tha! Mujhe pata tha meri beti kuch karke dikhayegi!”
I knew it! I knew my daughter would achieve something!
Advika stared at her.
“Maa, maine abhi—”
“Ruk, main tere papa ko batati hoon!”
Wait, I'll tell your father!
“Maa!”
Arohi was already turning toward the living room.
“Daksh! Sunte ho? Hamari beti ki naukri lag gayi!”
Daksh! Are you listening? Our daughter got the job!
From the living room came Daksh's immediate response.
“Arey, wah! Sach mein?”
Wonderful! Really?
Advika stood up so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor.
“MAA! Puri baat toh sunogi?!”
Maa! Will you at least hear the whole story?!
Arohi stopped.
Slowly turned around.
Her smile faded into cautious curiosity.
“Matlab?”
What do you mean?
Advika gave her a strained smile.
“Matlab… abhi job nahi lagi.”
I mean… I haven't got the job yet.
Silence.
Arohi stared at her.
Daksh's head appeared around the doorway.
Advika looked between them.
Then offered a weak smile.
“Interview achha gaya tha.”
The interview went well.
Arohi closed her eyes.
For a second, Advika genuinely feared she might be asked to return the imaginary sweets that had apparently already been distributed throughout the neighbourhood.
Then Arohi opened her eyes.
“Achha.”
A pause.
“Toh pehle hi kyun nahi bataya?”
Then why didn't you say that first?
Advika threw her hands up.
“Maa, aapne mujhe bolne hi kab diya?”
When did you even let me speak?
Daksh disappeared behind the doorway.
His shoulders were shaking.
He was laughing.
The traitor.
Arohi gave her daughter a look.
“Achha, chal. Ab poori baat bata.”
Fine. Now tell me the whole story.
Advika settled back into her chair.
She folded her hands on the table, preparing to narrate what had undoubtedly been the most chaotic day of her life.
“Okay. Toh sabse pehle…”
She took a breath.
“Aaj subah meri cab kharab ho gayi.”
First of all, my cab broke down this morning.
Arohi frowned.
“Kya?”
What?
“Haan! Cab ka engine band ho gaya tha, aur driver bol raha tha ki time lagega.”
Yes! The engine stopped, and the driver said it would take time.
Advika gestured dramatically.
“Main already late thi. Mere paas doosra option hi nahi tha. Phir mujhe ek aadmi dikha, uski gaadi thi, toh maine usse lift maang li.”
I was already late. I had no other option. Then I saw a man with a car, so I asked him for a lift.
Arohi's expression changed.
“KYA?!”
Advika flinched.
“Maa, dheere!”
Speak softly!
“Tu kisi anjaan aadmi ki gaadi mein baith gayi?!”
You got into a stranger's car?!
Advika winced.
“Jab aap aise bolti ho na, toh baat aur bhi buri lagti hai.”
When you say it like that, it sounds even worse.
“Advika!”
“Achha, suno toh!”
Arohi looked genuinely concerned now.
“Pehle yeh bata, tu theek hai na?”
The question caught Advika off guard.
The teasing had disappeared from her mother's voice.
There was only concern.
Advika's expression softened.
“Haan, Maa. Main bilkul theek hoon.”
Yes, Maa. I'm completely fine.
Arohi studied her face.
“Usne kuch kaha toh nahi? Tujhe pareshaan toh nahi kiya?”
He didn't say anything inappropriate, did he? He didn't trouble you?
“Nahi.”
Advika shook her head.
“Nahi, Maa. Woh bas… thoda ajeeb tha.”
No, Maa. He was just… a little strange.
“Kaise ajeeb?”
What do you mean, strange?
Advika thought about it.
How was she supposed to explain a man who had barely spoken to her, refused her request for a lift, then abruptly changed his mind when she'd mentioned the company?
A man who had driven like he knew exactly where he was going, despite her complaints.
A man who had seemed almost indifferent to her existence.
“Bas, ajeeb tha.”
Just strange.
Arohi narrowed her eyes.
“Advika, seedhe se bata.”
Advika, explain properly.
Advika sighed.
“Achha! Toh pehle usne lift dene se mana kar diya. Phir jab maine Etire ka naam bataya, toh achanak bolta hai, ‘Get in.’”
First he refused to give me a lift. Then, when I mentioned Etire, he suddenly said, ‘Get in.’
She imitated his flat expression.
“Bilkul aise! Jaise koi ehsaan nahi kar raha, bas mujhe car mein baithne ka order de raha ho.”
Exactly like that! As though he wasn't doing me a favour, but simply ordering me into his car.
Daksh appeared at the kitchen doorway again.
“Phir?”
Then?
Advika pointed at him.
“Papa, aap sun rahe ho na? Toh beech mein interrupt mat karna.”
Papa, you're listening, right? Then don't interrupt me.
Daksh raised both hands.
“Ji, madam. Aap jaari rakhiye.”
Yes, madam. Please continue.
Advika nodded approvingly.
“Thank you.”
She turned back to her mother.
“Khair, woh mujhe company ke saamne utaar gaya. Main andar gayi, aur jaldi-jaldi office dhoondh rahi thi…”
Anyway, he dropped me outside the company. I went inside and was rushing around trying to find the office…
Arohi waited.
Advika's eyes narrowed at the memory.
“Tabhi main ek ladke se takra gayi.”
That's when I collided with a man.
Arohi's face went blank.
For one long second, she simply stared at her daughter.
Then—
“TU JOB KE LIYE GAYI THI YA GIRNE-GIRANE?!”
DID YOU GO THERE FOR A JOB OR TO BUMP INTO PEOPLE?!
Daksh burst out laughing.
Advika turned toward him in betrayal.
“PAPAAA!”
He tried to compose himself.
“Sorry, beta. Continue.”
“No! Aap has kyun rahe ho?”
No! Why are you laughing?
“Tumhari storytelling achhi hai.”
Your storytelling is excellent.
Advika narrowed her eyes.
“Main aap dono ko kuch nahi bataungi.”
I'm not telling either of you anything.
Arohi immediately pointed at her.
“Achha, chup. Aage bata.”
All right, enough. Continue.
Advika muttered something under her breath.
Then continued.
“Toh main usse takra gayi. Aur obviously, meri galti nahi thi.”
So I bumped into him. And obviously, it wasn't my fault.
Daksh raised an eyebrow.
“Obviously?”
Advika nodded firmly.
“Bilkul.”
Absolutely.
Arohi folded her arms.
“Phir?”
Then?
“Phir hamari ladai ho gayi.”
Then we got into an argument.
Arohi went very still.
Her lips parted.
Then a slow, delighted smile spread across her face.
“Oho!”
Advika immediately regretted every decision that had led to this conversation.
Arohi clasped her hands together.
“Damaad mil gaya kya?”
Have you found me a son-in-law?
“Maa!”
Advika's voice echoed through the kitchen.
Daksh turned away, laughing into his hand.
Arohi continued as though she hadn't heard her daughter.
“Hayee, Bhagwan! Meri beti office gayi thi aur damaad dhoondh ke aa gayi!”
Oh, God! My daughter went to the office and came back having found a son-in-law!
Advika stared at her mother in disbelief.
“Maa, woh damaad nahi, ‘the mad’ hota hai!”
Maa, he's not a son-in-law. He's ‘the mad’!
She paused.
Then added, with the full conviction of a woman defending her dignity:
“Waise bhi, uska dimaag theek nahi lagta mujhe.”
Besides, I don't think his brain is functioning properly.
Daksh laughed so hard that he had to put his papers down.
Arohi shook her head.
“Achha? Toh phir kya hua?”
Really? Then what happened?
Advika took a breath.
“Phir…”
She hesitated.
For the first time since beginning her story, she looked genuinely uncomfortable.
Arohi noticed.
“Kya hua?”
What happened?
Advika looked at the table.
Then at her mother.
Then away again.
“Woh…”
She cleared her throat.
“Jis ladke se meri ladai hui thi na…”
The man I argued with…
Arohi leaned forward.
“Haan?”
Yes?
Advika swallowed.
“Wohi company ka CEO tha.”
He was the company's CEO.
Silence.
Complete, unadulterated silence.
Even Daksh stopped laughing.
Arohi blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then she stared at her daughter as though Advika had just announced that she had personally dismantled the entire company before breakfast.
“KYA?!”
Advika flinched.
“Maa, please! Itni zor se mat chillaao!”
Please don't shout so loudly!
“TU CEO SE LAD KE AAYI HAI?!”
YOU WENT AND ARGUED WITH THE CEO?!
Advika winced.
“Technically, haan.”
Technically, yes.
Arohi pressed a hand to her forehead.
“Hey Bhagwan.”
She looked toward the ceiling.
“Yeh ladki mujhe ek din heart attack deke hi maanegi.”
This girl will give me a heart attack one day.
“Maa, exaggerate mat karo.”
Don't exaggerate, Maa.
“Main exaggerate kar rahi hoon?!”
I'm exaggerating?!
Arohi pointed at her.
“Subah ek sock nahi mil raha tha. Phir cab kharab ho gayi. Phir tu anjaan aadmi ki gaadi mein baith gayi. Phir company mein kisi se takra gayi. Phir usse lad li. Aur woh nikla company ka CEO!”
In the morning, you couldn't find one sock. Then your cab broke down. Then you got into a stranger's car. Then you collided with someone at the company. Then you argued with him. And he turned out to be the CEO!
She paused to take a breath.
“Advika, teri zindagi chal rahi hai ya koi comedy serial?”
Advika, are you living your life or starring in a comedy show?
Daksh lost the battle against his laughter.
Advika turned toward him with narrowed eyes.
“Papa, aapko bohot maza aa raha hai na?”
Papa, you're enjoying this a lot, aren't you?
Daksh cleared his throat.
“Nahi, beta.”
No, daughter.
He paused.
“Thoda.”
A little.
“PAPAAA!”
He laughed again.
Arohi, however, was still staring at Advika.
“Achha, ek baat bata.”
All right, tell me one thing.
Advika sighed.
“Ab kya?”
What now?
“CEO ne tujhe interview se nikaal toh nahi diya?”
The CEO didn't throw you out of the interview, did he?
Advika shook her head.
“Nahi, Maa.”
No, Maa.
“Daanta toh nahi?”
He didn't scold you?
“Nahi.”
“Interview liya?”
Did he conduct the interview?
“Haan.”
Yes.
“Achhe se?”
Properly?
“Haan, Maa!”
Yes, Maa!
Arohi's expression shifted from horror to confusion.
“Phir?”
Then?
Advika smiled reluctantly.
“Phir unhone bola ki mera interview achha gaya. Do din mein email aa jayega.”
Then he said my interview had gone well. I'd receive an email within two days.
Arohi's shoulders relaxed.
“Oh.”
She looked at her daughter for a moment.
Then a smile appeared on her face.
“Dekha? Sab theek ho gaya.”
See? Everything worked out.
Advika smiled.
“Haan.”
Yes.
For a brief moment, the kitchen fell quiet.
Arohi reached out and gently touched her daughter's cheek.
“Achha kiya tune.”
You did well.
Advika looked at her.
“Sach mein?”
Really?
“Haan.”
Arohi's voice softened.
“Tu ghabraayi hogi, lekin phir bhi interview diya. Galtiyan ho jaati hain, beta. Zaroori yeh hai ki hum unse seekhein.”
You must have been nervous, but you still completed the interview. Everyone makes mistakes, sweetheart. What matters is that we learn from them.
Advika's smile became more genuine.
She hadn't realised how badly she needed to hear that.
All afternoon, she'd been replaying every little moment in her mind, wondering whether she had ruined her chances.
She'd forgotten to appreciate the one thing that mattered most.
She had tried.
She had shown up.
And she had done the best she could with the circumstances she'd been given.
“Thank you, Maa.”
Arohi kissed her forehead.
“Bas, ab agle interview mein kisi se ladna mat.”
Just don't argue with anyone in your next interview.
Advika immediately pulled away.
“Maa!”
Daksh started laughing again.
Arohi grinned.
“Kya? Main toh bas keh rahi hoon.”
What? I'm only saying.
Advika shook her head.
“Main jaa rahi hoon.”
I'm leaving.
“Kidhar?”
Where?
“Apne kamre mein. Yahan meri koi izzat hi nahi hai.”
To my room. I have no dignity in this house.
Daksh called after her.
“Beta, izzat toh subah se hi daav pe lagi hui hai!”
Daughter, our dignity has been at risk since this morning!
Advika stopped in the doorway.
Slowly turned around.
Looked at her father.
Looked at her mother.
Then lifted her chin.
“Fine.”
She nodded.
“Laugh all you want.”
A pause.
“Kal se main kisi se baat hi nahi karungi.”
Starting tomorrow, I won't speak to anyone.
Arohi waved her away.
“Achha, achha. Ja.”
All right, all right. Go.
Advika gasped.
“Wow. Nobody even tried to stop me.”
Daksh smiled.
“Beta, tu paanch minute mein wapas aa jaayegi.”
Daughter, you'll be back in five minutes.
Advika stared at him.
Then walked out with as much dignity as a woman could manage after being thoroughly roasted by both her parents.
Behind her, Daksh and Arohi burst into laughter.
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
Later,
By the time Advika reached her bedroom, the day's exhaustion had finally begun to settle over her.
She dropped her bag beside the desk and sat on the edge of the bed.
For a few moments, she simply stared at the floor.
Then she fell backward onto the mattress.
“I'm exhausted.”
The ceiling offered no sympathy.
She reached for her phone.
No email, obviously.
It had barely been a few hours.
Still, she opened her inbox.
Refreshed it.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing.
She groaned.
“Two days.”
She held up two fingers.
“Forty-eight hours.”
Then lowered her hand.
“Why does forty-eight hours sound like forty-eight years?”
A soft knock interrupted her dramatic lament.
Before she could answer, Arohi opened the door.
“May I come in?”
Advika sat up.
“Of course, Maa.”
Arohi entered carrying a glass of water.
She placed it on the bedside table and sat beside her daughter.
“Thak gayi?”
Tired?
Advika nodded.
“Bohot.”
A lot.
Arohi smiled sympathetically.
“Pata hai. Subah se pareshan ho rahi thi.”
I know. You've been stressed since morning.
Advika took the glass and drank some water.
“Maa?”
“Hm?”
“What if I don't get selected?”
The question emerged quietly.
Without the usual jokes.
Without the exaggerated expressions.
Without any attempt to make light of her anxiety.
Arohi turned toward her.
“Phir doosri jagah apply karenge.”
Then we'll apply somewhere else.
Advika looked down.
“Bas?”
That's it?
“Bas.”
Arohi gently tucked a strand of hair behind her daughter's ear.
“Ek job se teri poori zindagi decide nahi hoti, Advika.”
Your entire life isn't decided by one job, Advika.
She paused.
“Tu mehnat karegi, seekhegi, aur aage badhegi. Kabhi yahan mauka milega, kabhi kahin aur. Lekin ek rejection ka matlab yeh nahi ki tu kaabil nahi hai.”
You'll work hard, learn, and keep moving forward. Sometimes you'll get an opportunity here, sometimes somewhere else. But one rejection doesn't mean you aren't capable.
Advika listened silently.
There was something reassuring about her mother's certainty.
Not the blind certainty that everything would always go perfectly.
Something more practical.
The certainty that even if things went wrong, they would find a way through them.
Together.
Arohi squeezed her hand.
“Hum sab tere saath hain. Lekin tujhe bhi khud par bharosa rakhna hoga.”
We're all with you. But you have to believe in yourself, too.
Advika swallowed.
Then smiled.
“Okay.”
Arohi tilted her head.
“Okay?”
Advika nodded.
“Okay.”
She leaned sideways and rested her head against her mother's shoulder.
Arohi wrapped an arm around her.
For a while, neither said anything.
The evening light filtered through the curtains, turning the room a soft shade of gold.
Downstairs, Daksh moved papers across the table.
A vehicle passed outside.
Somewhere in the neighbourhood, a child laughed.
Ordinary sounds.
An ordinary evening.
And yet, for Advika, it felt as though something had shifted.
She wasn't certain what would happen next.
She wasn't certain whether she'd get the job.
She wasn't even certain whether she would ever see the mysterious man from the black car again.
But she knew one thing.
Whatever came next, she wouldn't have to face it alone.
“Maa?”
“Hm?”
“Love you.”
Arohi kissed the top of her head.
“Love you more.”
Advika smiled against her shoulder.
“Impossible.”
“Bilkul possible.”
Entirely possible.
“Competition karni hai?”
Want to compete?
Advika lifted her head.
“Always.”
Arohi laughed.
And just like that, the serious moment dissolved into the familiar warmth of their relationship.
Because in the Rawat household, emotions rarely stayed solemn for long.
Someone always had to make a joke.
Usually, it was Advika.
Sometimes, it was Daksh.
And occasionally, it was Arohi herself.
That evening, however, Arohi stood up and pointed toward the bed.
“Ab tu aaram kar. Raat ko theek se soyi bhi nahi thi.”
Now get some rest. You didn't sleep properly last night either.
Advika saluted.
“Yes, ma'am.”
Arohi shook her head.
“Pagal ladki.”
Crazy girl.
“Your crazy girl.”
Arohi smiled.
“My crazy girl.”
She left the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Advika settled against her pillows.
For once, she didn't pick up her phone immediately.
She simply closed her eyes.
And within minutes, the girl who had spent the entire day running from one disaster to another finally fell asleep.
Completely unaware of how much her ordinary life was about to change.
---
DOWNSTAIRS — THE HUSBAND WHO HEARD EVERYTHING 👀
Daksh had returned to his chartsheet.
Or, at least, he was pretending to.
His pen moved across the page, but his attention kept drifting toward the staircase.
He had heard most of the conversation.
The cab.
The mysterious stranger.
The collision.
The argument.
And, of course, the CEO.
He shook his head with a quiet smile.
His daughter had always possessed an extraordinary talent for finding herself in situations that other people would spend years avoiding.
And yet, beneath the chaos, there was a quality he admired.
Advika never stopped trying.
She could panic.
She could complain.
She could turn a minor inconvenience into a full-length dramatic production.
But when it mattered, she showed up.
Daksh looked toward the kitchen.
Arohi was arranging the last few dishes.
He smiled.
“Sun rahi ho?”
Are you listening?
Arohi glanced at him.
“Kya?”
What?
“Tumhari beti ne ek hi din mein cab driver, ek anjaan aadmi aur apne interview lene wale se panga le liya.”
Your daughter managed to get into trouble with a cab driver, a stranger, and her interviewer all in one day.
Arohi sighed.
“Pata nahi kis par gayi hai.”
I don't know whom she takes after.
Daksh raised an eyebrow.
“Tum par.”
Arohi stared at him.
“Main?!”
Me?!
He nodded with complete seriousness.
“Bilkul.”
Absolutely.
Arohi placed her hands on her hips.
“Daksh Rawat, zyada smart mat bano.”
Daksh Rawat, don't get too clever.
He lowered his gaze to his papers, smiling.
“Ji, madam.”
Yes, madam.
Arohi tried to look annoyed.
She failed.
A small smile appeared at the corner of her lips.
Then she turned back to the counter.
Daksh watched her for a moment before speaking again.
“Waise, interview achha gaya na uska?”
By the way, her interview went well, didn't it?
Arohi nodded.
“Haan. Ab dekhte hain kya hota hai.”
Yes. Now we'll see what happens.
Daksh set his pen down.
“Ho jayega.”
It'll work out.
Arohi glanced at him.
“Tumhe itna yakeen hai?”
You're that confident?
He smiled.
“Meri beti hai.”
She's my daughter.
Arohi's expression softened.
For a moment, they simply looked at one another.
Twenty-six years of marriage had taught them that love wasn't always expressed through grand declarations.
Sometimes it was a cup of tea left on the table.
Sometimes it was silently sharing a household chore.
Sometimes it was listening to your daughter recount a disastrous day and laughing only after confirming that she was safe.
And sometimes, it was simply trusting that the people you loved would find their way.
Daksh picked up his pen again.
Arohi switched off the kitchen light.
The house gradually settled into its evening quiet.
Upstairs, Advika slept.
Downstairs, her parents continued with their work.
And somewhere across the city, the events of that morning remained what they appeared to be on the surface:
An ordinary interview.
A chance encounter.
A stranger's unexpected kindness.
Nothing more.
Not yet.
Because life rarely announces the moments that matter.
It allows them to pass quietly.
It lets people laugh, complain, fall asleep, and wake up believing that tomorrow will resemble yesterday.
Until, one day, they look back and realise that the beginning was there all along.
Hidden inside an ordinary afternoon.
Waiting to be understood.
And Advika Rawat had absolutely no idea what was waiting for her maybe another disaster or a whole life turning plot.
********
✦ END OF CHAPTER 3 ✦
One broken cab. One unforgettable interview. One family that refuses to let Advika live anything down.
And somehow, she still thinks she's the normal one. 😭💗
Author's Note: Be honest, readers—would you have survived the Rawat household interrogation, or would you have packed your bags and moved to another country? 👽
See you in the next chapter. Until then, keep your eyes open…
Because sometimes, the smallest moments are the ones worth remembering. 👀💫
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