The sun had just begun to set over the snow-kissed peaks of Uttarakhand, brushing the clouds in strokes of molten gold. The streets near Himalayan Civil Academy were alive — strings of fairy lights blinked across shopfronts, marigolds hung in bright orange garlands, and the air buzzed with laughter, bargaining voices, and the sweet aroma of ghee lamps.
Families strolled together — fathers carrying sleepy children, mothers adjusting dupattas as they compared diyas, and couples holding hands with smiles that glowed brighter than the lights around them.
Sameer's black SUV pulled up quietly in the market's small parking area. He stepped out, adjusting the sleeves of his olive-green shirt, its fabric soft against his skin, the top button left open in effortless style. His black pants and polished watch reflected the mild golden light. His presence, calm yet commanding, turned a few heads — he looked every bit the composed IPS officer, though tonight he wasn't here for duty, but for her.
Roshni climbed out next, her white cotton kurti brushing gently against her light blue jeans, a brown dupatta loosely wrapped around her neck. A small silver bracelet bangle jingled on her wrist. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, with a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her eyes — curious and full of mischief — sparkled as they caught the colorful lights.
The moment she saw the crowd, her expression shifted into that of a child entering a fair.
"Waaahh..." she whispered, her eyes scanning from one stall to another — diyas, lanterns, bangles, sweets — until her gaze stopped at the pav bhaji and golgappa stall.
Before Sameer could even lock the SUV, she was gone — darting across the market like a spark of joy.
"Mrs. Pandey!" Sameer called, turning in every direction. "This woman... unbelievable," he muttered, shaking his head. "Main yahaan pati kam, babysitter zyada lag raha hoon."
Then his eyes found her — standing at the golgappa stall, cheeks puffed, eating like a little kid on a holiday. Her hands moved fast, her eyes sparkled even faster. The vendor was laughing, clearly charmed by her innocence.
"Uncle thoda aur teekha banaiye," Roshni said eagerly, "aur haan... paani ki jagah thodi hari mirch kaat ke daal dijiye... upar se mithi chutney bhi!"
Sameer watched her, half shocked, half smiling, his stern IPS demeanor melting away.
Roshni took a bite, her eyes shut in bliss. "Aaaah! Ab laga asli golgappa khaya hai!" she said dramatically.
The vendor laughed. "Beta, tum toh kamaal ho! Main to tumhare hisaab se hi paani banata hoon ab."
Sameer walked closer, his tone deep and calm. "Mrs. Pandey... what is this? You're eating unhygienic street food again?"
Roshni didn't even look at him. "Uncle, ek aur dijiye, aur haan... piche jo lecture dene khada hai na, use keh dijiye yeh academy nahi hai jahan hygiene ka test ho raha ho."
Sameer raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
Still chewing, she said, "Haan haan, pata hai aapko kya lagta hai... har jagah order dena hai. Thoda chill kijiye na, Sir."
The shopkeeper chuckled. "Aap dono pati-patni lagte ho."
Without thinking, Roshni replied, "Haan, hai hum! Par inhe dekhiye na,bilkin mera papa jaisi aadatein hain—"
Then she froze, realizing what she said. Her cheeks flamed pink.
Sameer smirked. "Papa, hmm?"
Before she could respond, he snatched one golgappa from the plate, inspecting it. "You really think this won't burn my tongue?"
Roshni smiled slyly. "Try karke dekh lijiye, Mr. SP ."
He popped it in his mouth — and instantly his lips turned red, his eyes glistened, but he didn't react. Just stared straight ahead, perfectly calm.
Roshni blinked. How is he not even coughing?
"Uncle, aur teekha dijiye," she whispered mischievously.
Sameer noticed the naughty curve on her lips, but before he could protest, she picked one and held it out.
"Come on, Sir," she said teasingly, "Mrs. Pandey ke haath ka kha lijiye."
He hesitated. His mind warned no, but his heart... couldn't refuse her. The way she smiled — open, playful, real — something inside him softened. He leaned forward and ate the golgappa straight from her hand.
This time it was deadly spicy — his throat burned, eyes watered, but he didn't stop her. Only when she gave him the third one, loaded with red chili and tangy water, did he cough hard.
"Sir! Sameer Sir!" she panicked, running to get water.
She made him sit on a nearby bench, helped him drink, her hand trembling slightly. She even pulled out a chocolate from her purse and pressed it into his hand.
A few minutes later, the coughing stopped. Sameer looked up — and saw tears glittering in her eyes.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said softly. "Mazaak mazaak mein maine aapko itna teekha khila diya... aap kyun nahi mana kiya? Main bhi pagal Thii,or aap bhi pagal tha kay ! Ab kay aapka ... dimag ne holiday liya tha kya?"
Sameer smiled faintly. "Chup," he said, taking a piece of chocolate and gently placing it in her mouth.
Her eyes widened.
He leaned closer, voice low and warm. "Mrs. Pandey... aapna itni pyaar se, itni masti bhari nazar se khilaya... hum mana kaise kar sakte the? Pehli baar aap bina jhijhak, bina sharam... khul ke muskura rahi thi. Kaun mana kare aise smile ko?"
Her heart skipped. The chocolate melted on her tongue — and so did her defenses. She looked at him quietly, her chest tight with emotions she couldn't name.
She reached out instinctively and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then gently dabbed the corner of his lips with her dupatta. Sameer closed his eyes. The soft lavender scent of her dupatta mixed with the faint sweetness of chocolate in the air.
Her hand lingered, almost touching his throat — her fingertips brushed lightly against his Adam's apple, and he opened his eyes sharply. Their gazes locked.
For a moment, the crowd vanished — just them, the golden market light, and the sound of their breathing.
Roshni quickly pulled back, embarrassed, and muttered, "Main... tissue le aati hoon."
But before she could turn, Sameer caught her wrist gently.
"No need." His voice dropped, deep and teasing. He lifted his thumb and wiped teh choclet from corner of her lips and — the same thumb that had brushed her lip — he slowly bring nera his lips licked off the chocolate.
"Done," he said with a half-smile. "Ab chalein, Mrs. Pandey? Pura market abhi baaki hai."
Her face flushed crimson. She stood quickly, avoiding his gaze, and reached into her bag for money. "Main pay karti hoon—"
Sameer handed the vendor cash before she could finish.
"Sir, main de rahi thi—"
"De diya maine."
"Par paisa aapka tha!"
Sameer looked at her, eyes warm yet mischievous. "Toh kya hua? Mera paisa tumhara hi toh hai."
Her heart thudded. She couldn't say a word. Just smiled — a small, shy curve of her lips.
And then, without asking, Sameer held her hand — firm, protective — and led her into the crowded market lane.
Above them, the lights glowed brighter. Somewhere a song of Diwali played softly.
And for the first time, Roshni Pandey realized that even among thousands of lights — her world had found its own glow.
The afternoon sun had mellowed into a soft golden haze, painting the gates of Himalayan Civil Academy in a warm glow. The sound of rustling leaves and the distant chatter of cadets created a calm rhythm in the air.
Sidharth stood outside his black Scorpio, dressed in a gazri-colored shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the confidence of an officer. His grey jeans hugged his tall frame neatly, and the gentle breeze teased a few strands of his hair as he adjusted his watch — a small sign of his impatience.
He kept glancing at the academy door, pretending not to wait... but his eyes betrayed him.
And then — she appeared.
Ishita walked down the steps, dressed in grey palazzo jeans and a white short kurti, her hair open, swaying freely with the wind. The simplicity of her look had its own quiet charm. For a moment, Sidharth forgot to breathe.
His gaze softened. The officer in him vanished — replaced by a man quietly, unknowingly captivated.
Her dupatta fluttered slightly, brushing her face, and he thought, damn, even the wind is luckier than me.
"Sir... chalein ham?" Ishita's voice broke his trance, a playful curve forming at the edge of her lips as she caught him staring.
Sidharth blinked, embarrassed but smiling faintly. "Haan... chaliye," he said, opening the car door.
They reached the local bazaar, the place where Sameer and Roshni had also arrived earlier. Ishita's eyes immediately caught sight of their SUV parked across the street. Her heart skipped — she didn't want Sidharth to notice.
"Sir, maybe we can go somewhere else?" she suggested quickly, forcing a casual smile.
Sidharth raised a brow. "Why? Scared of shopping?"
"Nahi, bas... Yee jagha pasand nahi ayi."
"Let's check the market first,"then we will go somewhere else, he said simply, already heading towards a small antique shop.
The shop was lined with wooden shelves, filled with old clocks, carved figurines, and brass vessels that glimmered under the hanging bulbs. The faint smell of sandalwood and polish filled the air.
Sidharth's eyes landed on a hand-painted coffee mug, its faded design telling stories of old artistry. He picked it up, turning it in his hand. "Beautiful piece, right?" he said, looking at Ishita.
She smiled softly. "It's lovely.
Do you like it , said sidhart , Ishits nodeed . ok then lets buy it for you said sidharth
But I was just admiring the art, sir, not planning to buy."
Before she could finish, Sidharth called the shopkeeper, "Bhaiya, pack kar dijiye."
"Sir! Arre, maine kaha na—" she began, but he interrupted, his tone teasing.
"Pehli baat, aap mujhe sir kehna band kijiye. Dusri baat, yeh main apni marzi se le raha hoon. Aapke liye or aap mana nahi kara gii samji aap ."
He leaned slightly closer and added in a low, mischievous tone, "Aur teesri baat... aap akhir mai too coffee peeya gii nahi isma mera sath , he said in hint way which ishita didnt undersatand ... ."
She blinked, half confused, half blushing. "Kuch kaha aapne?"
He straightened with a grin. "Haan, kaha ki sir kehna band kijiye."
Ishita crossed her arms with mock irritation. "Toh kya bolu? Aap mujhse bade hain, academy ke senior bhi..."
Sidharth shrugged lightly. "Bade hoon, lekin academy ke bahar 'sir' ki posting cancel ho jaati hai."
Her nose scrunched adorably in frustration. "Uff! Aap impossible hain!" tab kay unlee ya bhaiya bolu
He laughed, itna formal hona kii bhii zarurat nahi a genuine, warm sound that made her smile despite herself. He handed her the shopping bag. "Chaliye, abb," he teased.
...?" she , narrowing her eyes. Then suddenly, a spark lit in her gaze — mischief.
As he walked ahead toward the next shop, she called out loudly, "Dr. Sahab!"
He froze. Slowly, he turned, surprise melting into amusement. Her laughter danced in the air as she jogged toward him.
"Kya kaha aapne?" he asked, a half-smile playing on his lips.
She tilted her head innocently, "Dr. Sahab... sahi toh hai na? Sir nahi keh sakti, toh yehi thik hai."
Sidharth's eyes softened. "Bilkul sahi. Aur itna pyar se toh mujhe kisi ne kabhi nahi bulaya."
For a moment, her laughter faded into shy silence. Her heart fluttered, warmth spreading across her cheeks. "Toh chaliye, Dr. Sahab," she said softly, walking ahead to hide her blush.
He followed her quietly, smiling to himself — a rare, unguarded smile.
For Ishita, the world around blurred — the people, the noise, even the presence of Sameer and Roshni somewhere nearby. All she could feel was the quiet pull between her and Sidharth, two people walking side by side, pretending to browse antiques... yet secretly discovering something far more precious — each other.
The market street shimmered under the golden-orange hue of dusk. Strings of fairy lights blinked above the shops, and the aroma of roasted peanuts, incense, and sweet jalebis floated in the air. The mild breeze carried with it the chatter of shoppers, children's laughter, and the rhythmic sound of temple bells from a nearby shrine.
Arpita walked ahead, her cream cargo pants brushing softly against her white shirt. A simple silver purse swung by her side as she checked one shop after another. Each time she stopped, her eyes sparkled with quiet excitement — like a child picking the perfect gift for her favorite people.
Vihaan followed silently, arms full of shopping bags. His hands were nearly full, but he didn't complain once. In fact, a faint smile lingered on his face as he watched her move — graceful, decisive, and full of warmth.
Every time she chose something, she thought of someone. A for Ishita, for Roshni, for Sameer...and for sidharth she remembered everyone's little likes and dislikes. Vihaan couldn't help but admire how thoughtful she was.
He finally asked, gently, "Arpita ji... aap sabke baare mein itna kaise soch leti hain?"
She looked up, smiling faintly, still checking the display. "Aisa kyun poochh rahe ho tum?"
Vihaan hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "Nahi... matlab... aap itni acchi kaise ho?"
Her lips curved in a soft, almost wistful smile — the kind that hides stories behind it. She didn't answer. Instead, she picked up a silver pen, its shine catching the warm light.
"Yeh Sameer ko pasand aayega na?" she asked casually.
Vihaan looked at the pen, then at her face. Something heavy settled in his chest. "Achha hai... le lijiye. Pasand aayega unhe." His tone was low, almost careful.
She nodded and asked the shopkeeper to pack it.
As the man wrapped the pen, Vihaan's thoughts churned. He wanted to ask something — something he knew might hurt, but he couldn't stop himself.
"Arpita ji... kuch poochun?"
"Bolo na," she said lightly, eyes still scanning the next shelf. "Main kyun bura maanungi?"
He swallowed hard. "Aap... kya abhi bhi Sameer sir ko pasand karti hain?"
Her hand froze mid-air. For a few seconds, the market noise faded around them — just the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the crinkle of paper wrapping the pen. Slowly, she turned toward him. Her eyes held no anger, only surprise.
Vihaan instantly regretted it. "It's okay, Arpita ji... agar aap nahi batana chahti to—"
But she interrupted softly, voice trembling just a little. "Nahi, Vihaan. Pasand karti thi. Training days se. Par ab zindagi ne mujhe aur cheezein sikha di hain."
She took a small breath — and then, almost as if the floodgates opened, her words spilled quietly but heavily.
"When I was thirteen... I lost my parents. My father was a police officer, my mother a house wife .
—Years ago, Jabalpur— ( Flash Back )
The air smelled of incense, roasted peanuts, and sweet sugar candy. It was the evening of Ganesh Visarjan Mela, and the fairground glowed with a thousand lights — paper lanterns swaying in the wind, children running with colored balloons, the rhythmic beats of drums echoing across the sky.
Thirteen-year-old Arpita Singh was laughing as her father, Inspector Dharam Singh, lifted her onto the Ferris wheel.
"Papa, upar se pura mela chhota lag raha hai!" she giggled, clutching his arm as the wheel rose higher.
Her mother stood below, her saree fluttering in the soft breeze, smiling nervously.
"Bas dhyaan se Dharam ji, zyada mat hilaiyega seat!" she called, half worried, half amused.
Her father laughed, his police uniform exchanged for a simple white shirt that day. "Aree Payal , tum dono maa-beti ekdam alag hoo — ek daregi, ek hassi udai gi!"
The wheel turned, and from the top, little Arpita waved at her mother. The lights below sparkled like stars scattered across the earth. For a moment, everything was perfect — laughter, color, warmth.
But sometimes, destiny doesn't give warnings before it breaks that peace.
Down below, through the moving crowd, her father's trained eyes caught a glimpse of something wrong — a group of men standing too still, too tense. One of them reached under his jacket, the metallic glint of a knife flashing for a split second under the fair lights.
His smile faded. "Arpita, hold tight," he said, voice suddenly firm.
"Papa?"
He didn't answer. The Ferris wheel stopped briefly for passengers below, and he leapt down from half its height, carrying Arpita in his arms. She gasped but didn't cry — his face told her something was wrong.
They landed near the stall area. From there, Arpita saw — her mother, standing by the sweet shop, unaware, smiling, waiting for them.
And behind her... one of the men moving closer, hand gripping the knife.
"Payal!" Dharam shouted, running forward.
Everything after that felt like the world was slowing down. Her mother turned, confused — and then, in the blink of an eye, a scream cut through the music. The knife went through her stomach.
Arpita's small hands trembled as her father set her down. "Papa... Maa!"
Her father charged forward, fury exploding through him. He tackled one of the men, punched another — but there were too many. Ten, twelve men with weapons, surrounding him.
"Inspector Dharam Singh!" one of them shouted. "Tu MLA ke raaste mein aaya hai! Ab tujhe bhi tujhe teri family ke saath jaane ka waqt aa gaya!"
The name MLA echoed in Arpita's ears — she didn't understand what it meant, only that they wanted her father dead.
She tried to run to him, screaming, but someone shoved her back. She fell near her mother's body, blood soaking into her hands. Her father fought till his last breath, until a blow from behind struck him down.
When the chaos ended, there was silence — only the sound of the Ferris wheel creaking in the wind and her own breath trembling through tears.
The men looked around, searching.
"Beti kahan gayi uski?"
"Maaro saboot mitao!"
She crawled under the broken wooden stall, biting her hand to keep from sobbing. Through the slits, she saw their feet moving, searching for her.
That night, Arpita ran — barefoot, through the mud and dark alleys of Jabalpur, blood on her clothes, fear in her eyes.
She reached a small temple outside the town and hid behind the idol of Lord Ganesha. When she woke up at dawn, an old man in saffron robes was sitting nearby, watching her with kind eyes.
"Beti... tujhe main Dharam Singh ke saath dekha karta tha," he said softly. "Main jaanta hoon kya hua hai. Tu yahan safe nahi hai."
He hid her for days, fed her, gave her new clothes. Then one night, under the cover of darkness, he took her to the railway station.
"Yeh ticket le. Mumbai jaa. Wahan ek anath ashram hai. Wahan tera naya jeevan shuru hoga," he said, his voice heavy.
"But... aap?" she asked, clutching his hand.
He smiled faintly. "Main sambhal loonga. Par kabhi apni asli pehchaan kisi ko mat batana. Arpita Singh ko bhool ja, beta."
She nodded tearfully, the train whistle piercing the night. As the train moved, she saw him standing there — the only person left from her old life.
Weeks later, she heard the news.
That old man... was found dead.
Cut into pieces.
Thrown into different corners of the city.
And that's when Arpita stopped being a child.
She stopped believing in safety, in gods, in happy endings. She lived in silence — grew up studying, fighting, learning. She became an officer... not to serve power, but to fight it.
She kept her name buried — her identity locked away with the ashes of her past.
And since that day, she had never gone near a Ferris wheel again.
Their was few minutes silence , no one is speaking , then Vihaan gain courage and said
"Arpita ji..." he said softly.
She turned. "Hmm?"
He hesitated — words tangled on his tongue. "Main... bas itna kehna chahta hoon... Aapko dekh kar lagta hai, kuch log kitni himmat se zinda rehte hain."
She smiled faintly, eyes lowering. "Himmat nahi hoti, Vihaan. Kabhi kabhi sirf... zindagi chalti rehti hai, aur hum bas saath chalte hain."
He stopped walking. "Nahi, aap chal nahi rahi... aapne toh poori zindagi se lad liya."
Arpita looked up at him — his eyes steady, gentle, full of something unspoken. For a second, the world seemed to pause again.
Vihaan said aapna yee itna bara past aapka . "Mujhe... kyu bataya?"
She looked at him — a small, soft smile breaking through her sadness. "Pata nahi... bas mann kiya."
Her honesty hit him hard. His throat felt tight, eyes glistening. He wanted to say something — anything — but words refused to come.
Then, to break the heaviness, he glanced around and spotted a nearby ice-cream cart. "Arpita ji... chaliye, ice cream khaate hain. Thoda mood halka ho jaayega."
Before she could protest, he gently took her wrist and pulled her along.
They stopped by a small stall with fairy lights and colorful tubs. Vihaan grinned at the vendor. "Bhaiya, do ice creams dena!"
Then he turned to her. "Arpita ji, kaunsa flavour?"
She hesitated, embarrassed. "Umm... pata nahi. Jab main 13 saal ki thi tabhi ice cream khaayi thi last time."
Vihaan froze. "Kya?! Arpita ji, yeh toh crime hai!"
She laughed softly for the first time that evening — a sound that made the air feel lighter.
"Bhaiya," Vihaan said dramatically, "ek chocolate aur ek paan flavour dena!"
He handed her the chocolate cone. "Yeh aapka punishment hai... ab taste karna hi padega."
Arpita took a tentative bite — and as the cold sweetness touched her tongue, her eyes widened in delight. "Yeh toh... amazing hai!"
Vihaan smiled, his chest loosening with relief. "Dekha? Zindagi thodi si meethi bhi hoti hai."
She chuckled, taking another bite, some of the chocolate melting on her lip. He laughed and gently pointed. "Yeh... yahaan lag gaya."
She wiped it quickly, flustered. "Oh! Sorry."
"Arre, sorry kyun? Ab toh revenge lena padega," he said playfully, dipping his ice cream and dotting a little on her cheek.
"Vihaan!" she gasped, half laughing.
"Equal rights, Arpita ji!" he teased.
Without thinking, she scooped a bit of her own and smeared it on his nose. They both burst out laughing — loud, carefree, and childlike.
The world around them blurred — the crowd, the lights, the sound of traffic. In that moment, there were just two people rediscovering joy.
Arpita's laughter faded slowly into a smile as she looked at him — eyes soft, filled with gratitude. "Thanks, Vihaan."
He smiled back, voice low. "Kis liye?"
"For reminding me... ki zindagi sirf dard nahi hoti."
The fairy lights above flickered gently, reflecting in their eyes. For once, both of them felt lighter — like the weight they carried for years had melted... just like the ice cream in their hands.
The scent of polished metal and sandalwood mingled in the air as Sameer and Roshni rounded the corner, their steps echoing softly on the cobblestones. They stopped before a glittering jewelry store, its glass windows gleaming with Diwali light — rows of earrings catching the sun, necklaces glimmering like liquid fire, and bangles that sang softly every time the door opened.
Roshni's gaze lingered, mesmerized. Her fingers hovered near the glass, tracing the delicate curve of a pair of pearl earrings. The soft white shimmer seemed to pull at something deep within her — a part of her she had never allowed to exist. Growing up, her father had gifted her guns, not jewelry. Strength, not softness. Power, not beauty.
But today... as festive colors danced through the marketplace, a strange yearning bloomed inside her — to adorn herself, to feel like a woman, not just a uniform.
Sameer, watching quietly from her side, noticed the faraway look in her eyes. The corners of his lips curved gently. "Mrs. Pandey... do you like what you see?"
She blinked, startled. "Um... I've never really bought jewelry before," she admitted softly. "I never cared for it. I don't even know what I would like." bec i am not intrested in jwelery , i just like wepeons from childhood
Sameer's brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face. For a moment, he was silent — then, his eyes grew distant.
Flashback
Little Sameer, no older than six, stood beside his mother's dressing table. The room smelled of rosewater and sandalwood. His mother, draped in a soft maroon saree, opened her carved wooden jewelry box. Inside lay a treasure trove — necklaces of gold, earrings studded with emeralds, glass bangles of every color.
Sameer's eyes widened in awe. "Maa... why do you have so many?"
His mother chuckled softly, adjusting her bindi. "Beta, a woman's adornment is her other self. Have you ever seen Maa Parvati without her ornaments?"
Little Sameer frowned in thought, then smiled shyly. "No Maa... but I have seen you. For me, you are everything Maa Parvati could be."
His mother chuckled softly, taking out a delicate pair of earrings shaped like blooming lotus flowers. They shimmered faintly as the afternoon light streamed through the window, casting golden flecks on the marble floor.
"These," she said, holding them up, "your father gave me on our first Diwali together. He said gold loses its shine if it stays locked away. So I wear them every year — not for the gold, but for the memory."
Little Sameer tilted his head. "Memory?"
She smiled, brushing a stray curl from her face. "Yes, beta. Jewelry doesn't just decorate us; it holds stories — laughter, tears, promises. Every piece a memory we carry close to our skin."
Sameer nodded slowly, still trying to understand. His mother leaned closer, fastening one of the earrings and whispering as though sharing a secret,
"Someday, when you love someone truly, don't just give her jewelry, Sameer. Give her something that tells her — she's cherished."
The boy grinned, reaching out to touch the glittering bangle on her wrist. "Like Papa did for you?"
Her eyes softened. "Exactly like that."
She placed a kiss on his forehead, the soft jingle of her bangles filling the quiet room — a sound that would stay with him long after she was gone.
The scent of jasmine from her hair mingled with the faint fragrance of sandalwood. In that small, sunlit corner, a boy unknowingly made a silent promise — one he'd remember years later, standing beside Roshni.
The flash of gold from a display necklace snapped him back to the present. Roshni was still gazing at the earrings, her reflection shimmering faintly in the glass.
Sameer watched her quietly. The soft Diwali light danced across her face — the same warm glow he remembered from his mother's room all those years ago.
He smiled faintly to himself. "Maybe," he thought, "it's time someone gifted her ,her first story."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Would you like to buy something, Mrs. Pandey?"
Roshni hesitated. "Sir... actually, I've never done this before. I wouldn't even know what to choose."
"Then let me help," he said simply, opening the glass door. The soft chime above the entrance greeted them as they stepped inside.
The jeweler, a middle-aged man with a kind smile, greeted them warmly. "Namaste, sir, ma'am. Looking for something special?"
Sameer nodded. "Show us your latest earrings."
At once, the jeweler began placing trays upon trays on the velvet counter — gold filigree hoops, silver chandbalis, platinum drops studded with sapphires. Roshni's eyes shimmered under the soft yellow light, each piece reflecting in her irises like captured stars.
"This one," the jeweler said proudly, holding up a delicate gold jhumka with pearls, "handcrafted from Jaipur. Price — forty-five thousand."
"And this platinum drop with blue stones — seventy-five."
Sameer inspected each piece carefully, his expression calm but decisive. Finally, he pointed at three pairs — two for Roshni and one simple, elegant gold stud for his mother.
Roshni's eyes widened. "Sir, please don't. We can get something from a local shop. I don't need—"
Sameer looked at her, voice firm but not unkind. "Quiet, Mrs. Pandey."
His tone left no room for argument.
Turning to the jeweler, he said, "Now show me anklets."
The man's eyes lit up. "Of course, sir!"
He brought out another velvet box, this one lined with silver anklets — antique patterns, lotus designs, ghungroo-bells that chimed faintly. "This one, sir, ninety thousand. Pure silver, handcrafted in Gujarat."
Sameer's gaze lingered on one pair — simple yet exquisitely detailed, the bells tiny and soft, almost whispering music. "This one," he said quietly.
"As you wish, sir," the jeweler replied, smiling as he carefully wrapped each piece in golden paper.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Sir, we have a Diwali collection of traditional sarees and lehengas next door — perfect match for the jewelry. Would you like to have a look for madam?"
Sameer nodded without hesitation. "Of course. Show us."
Roshni stared at him, utterly dazed. "Sir, please... yeh sab main nahi le sakti. Itna sab—"
Sameer turned to her, his voice calm but his eyes sharp. "Mrs. Pandey, this is my choice. My responsibility. I want you to have it."
The finality in his tone silenced her.
She looked down, her fingers nervously brushing the golden wrapping paper. A soft, unfamiliar warmth spread through her chest — confusion, gratitude, and something she dared not name.
Sameer, meanwhile, only shook his head slightly — half amused, half entranced — as he watched her eyes still shimmering with disbelief.
The faint jingle of glass bangles and the rustle of silk filled the air as they entered the adjoining saree boutique. Rows of colorful fabrics cascaded from ceiling to floor — Banarasi reds, Jaipuri prints, pastel chiffons, and heavy embroidered silks meant for festivals.
The faint fragrance of mogra and freshly ironed cloth floated in the warm air.
A young saleswoman greeted them eagerly. "Namaste sir, ma'am! For Diwali, we have a new festive collection — Banarasi, Kanjivaram, Jaipuri, all latest designs."
Sameer nodded, pulling out a chair for Roshni before sitting beside her. "Show us something traditional... but elegant."
At once, half a dozen sarees appeared on the counter — each unfolded with a practiced flourish. Gold borders, zari threads, sequined pallus shimmered under the soft light.
But Sameer's expression remained unchanged. His brows drew together slightly as he examined each one.
"Too loud."
"Too shiny."
"This one looks like it's wearing me, not the other way around."
"Next."
The poor saleswoman blinked, then tried again — pulling out a deep green Kanjivaram, then a royal blue Banarasi with peacock motifs.
Roshni bit her lip, struggling not to laugh. She had seen Sameer command officers, face criminals, and even stare down dangerous men without flinching — but this, this version of him... rejecting sarees like a fashion critic... was entirely new.
The saleswoman exchanged helpless glances with her colleague. "Sir, yeh Banarasi Diwali ke liye perfect hai," she tried once more.
Sameer tilted his head. "Perfect for Diwali, maybe. But not for my wife."
His tone was calm, matter-of-fact — yet it sent a soft flutter through Roshni's chest. My wife.
He said it like it was the most natural truth in the world.
She turned away quickly, pretending to look at another rack of sarees just to hide her smile.
The shopkeeper, slightly flustered now, murmured under his breath, "Usually madam log choosy hote hain, par yahan toh sir hi expert nikle..."
Roshni couldn't hold it anymore — a soft giggle escaped her lips.
Sameer turned sharply, feigning sternness. "Kya hua, Mrs. Pandey? Kya itna funny hai?"
She tried to compose herself but failed miserably. "Sir, bas... mujhe laga main yahan saree dekhne aayi hoon, par dekh toh aap rahe hain."
He leaned back slightly, lips curving into a faint smirk. "Of course. You'll wear it, but I have to see it every day. So the final choice... mine."
Her smile faltered into a shy laugh. How could someone be so bossy and yet so sweet at the same time?
Finally, after rejecting nearly a dozen sarees, the saleswoman opened one last box — a soft ivory silk saree with a golden border, light as moonlight, elegant as poetry.
The moment Sameer saw it, his searching gaze stilled. He reached out, letting the fabric slip through his fingers. "This one," he said quietly. "Simple. Graceful. Perfect."
Roshni looked at the saree — then at him. His eyes were calm, steady, and somehow softer than usual.
She smiled faintly. "Aapke choice toh har baar perfect hi hoti hai, sir."
Sameer didn't reply. But the small, satisfied smile that tugged at his lips said enough.
As the saleswoman folded the saree and placed it in a golden bag, Roshni glanced at him again — her heart strangely full.
He wasn't just choosing a saree. He was, unknowingly, choosing a piece of her happiness.
The marketplace which was shimmering in hues of gold and orange as the late afternoon sun poured its light over rows of colorful stalls. The fragrance of incense sticks mixed with roasted peanuts and marigold garlands; vendors called out their festive discounts while laughter echoed all around.
Sidharth and Ishita walked side by side — not too close, yet not too far. Their silence wasn't awkward; it was quietly comforting.
Ishita's eyes wandered from stall to stall, tracing colors, shapes, and the hum of festive life. "Dr. Sahab," she said after a moment, her tone light and curious, "aapko kuch lena tha na? Tabhi toh aaye the?"
Sidharth, hands in his pockets, nodded slowly. "Lena toh hai... par kya lu, samajh nahi aa raha."
Ishita smiled faintly. "Aap toh deakh kaa lagta hai Diwali shopping ke mood mein nahi ho."
He shrugged. "Mood hai... par bas, dil keh raha hai kuch meaningful ho. Aise hi cheez leke kya karna?"
As they spoke, Ishita's eyes caught a stall shimmering with soft fabrics — dupattas of every color imaginable swayed gently in the breeze. Some were light chiffon, some heavy Banarasi, others embroidered with delicate mirrorwork. She slowed her pace, almost drawn by instinct, and walked toward it.
Her fingers brushed against a pale lavender dupatta, then a crimson one that shimmered when light touched it. Her face softened — calm, curious, childlike.
Sidharth's POV:
For a moment, he forgot the crowd, the noise, even himself.
He just... watched her.
The way the sunlight fell on her hair, how a few loose strands caught the golden glow and danced in the breeze. The way her eyes lit up when she touched the fabric — not because of its price or brand, but because she appreciated its artistry.
She's different, he thought. Not loud, not trying to impress... just quietly graceful.
There was something rare about the peace she carried. Even her silence said more than most people's words.
"Yeh dekhiye, madam," the shopkeeper's voice interrupted his thought. "New collection aaya hai — Kota silk, pure chiffon, aur designer embroidery wale bhi hain."
Ishita smiled politely and reached for a soft rose-pink dupatta, her fingers testing the weave. "Kitna hai iska?"
"Sirf eleven hundred, madam. Pure handwork hai."
Before she could respond, Sidharth stepped forward. "Pack kar dijiye."
Ishita turned quickly, eyes wide. "Arre, Dr. Sahab, nahi! Mai bas dekh rahi thi. Mujhe nahi chahiye."
He glanced at her, calm as ever. "Main jaanta hoon. Phir bhi pack kar dijiye," he said to the vendor, his tone firm but polite.
Ishita frowned. "Par aap kyun—"
Sidharth finally met her gaze, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. "Kyunki jab aap isse haath mein liya na... aisa laga jaise yeh dupatta aapke liye hi bana ho."
Her breath caught for a moment. The words weren't flirtatious; they were simple, honest — the kind that sink deep before you realize their weight.
"Sir, sach mein zarurat nahi thi..." she murmured softly, eyes lowering, her voice almost swallowed by the crowd.
Sidharth shook his head. "Kuch cheezein zarurat ke liye nahi li jaati, Ishita ji. Dil ke liye li jaati hain."
He paid the shopkeeper, who smiled knowingly and wrapped the dupatta carefully in brown paper.
As they walked away, Ishita clutched the packet awkwardly against her chest. Her heart felt strangely full — confused, warm, alive.
She glanced sideways at him. "Aap hamesha aise hi sabke liye soch lete hain?"
Sidharth gave a quiet laugh. "Nahi. Bas unke liye jinke saath Diwali thodi roshan lagti hai."
Her eyes widened a little, caught between surprise and something softer — something that made her forget the noise of the market for a heartbeat.
The wind picked up suddenly, and a corner of the dupatta wrapping slipped open — a soft shimmer of rose-pink fluttered between them, brushing lightly against Ishita's cheek before Sidharth caught it with his hand.
For that fleeting second, their eyes met — hers wide and uncertain, his calm and steady.
He carefully tucked the fabric back and said quietly, "Sambhal ke rakhiyega. Bahut nazuk hai."
Ishita nodded, unable to find words. But in her heart, she knew — he wasn't talking about the dupatta.
The marketplace gleamed beneath strings of golden fairy lights, their glow reflecting off stalls brimming with bangles, diyas, and colorful dupattas. The air smelled of roasted peanuts and marigolds, laughter floating from every direction.
Vihaan's POV
He walked beside Arpita, his hands shoved into his pockets, trying not to glance at her every two seconds — and failing miserably.
Arpita was radiant today — simple cotton saree, no heavy ornaments, yet somehow she outshone every light around. Her calm presence drew his eyes like a magnet.
Then he saw them — bangles. A whole stall bursting with color and shine.
Gold, glass, silver, stone-studded — each set more vibrant than the last.
But one particular set caught his eye — crystal bangles with a subtle gold edge, delicate and elegant, just like her.
"These would look perfect on her hands..." he thought, his heartbeat quickening.
Before he could second-guess himself, he paid the shopkeeper quietly and slipped the wrapped box into his Diwali shopping bag.
Arpita's POV
She turned to comment on a garland of jasmine — but Vihaan wasn't beside her.
Her brows furrowed. "Yeh ladka gaya kahan?"
A moment later, her eyes found him at the bangle stall.
He was carefully examining a set, his expression uncharacteristically soft — almost tender.
Arpita's lips curved slightly; she couldn't help it. She walked toward him, arms crossed.
"Vihaan!" she called, her tone firm.
He startled slightly, turning as if caught red-handed.
"Ji... boliye, ma'am?" he said, straightening his posture instantly.
Arpita raised an eyebrow. "Kis ke liye dekh rahe ho bangles?"
He fumbled. "K–kuch nahi, ma'am. Bas yu hi..."
His voice trailed off, betraying him completely.
Before she could say more, two familiar figures approached — Sidharth and Ishita — deep in conversation.
Ishita's POV
Her eyes landed on the glittering rows of bangles.
"Ooh... ye pink ones match my kurti perfectly," she murmured, reaching out to touch them.
The shopkeeper smiled. "Bohot khubsurat choice hai, madam. Sirf ₹1200 ka set."
Before she could respond, Sidharth's voice came from behind, smooth and quiet.
"Too plain. Take that silver set — the one with cream border and stonework. It'll suit you better."
Ishita turned, half-smiling. "Aapko toh badi knowledge hai jewelry ki, Dr. Sahab?"
Sidharth rubbed the back of his neck, looking adorably caught. "Uh... bas... observation hai."
He was about to explain when a teasing voice interrupted.
Vihaan: "Arre arre, Ishita! Tu yahaan?"
Arpita: "Aur Sidharth! Tum bhii , tum dono yahaan kya kar rahe ho?"
All four froze, realization dawning at once.
Then — chaos.
"Tu bata, mere bina shopping karne aa gayi? Mujhe toh bola busy ho!" said vihaan
"Haan toh tu bhi toh busy tha na , Arpita ma'am ke saath! kasa aa gay Ab tujhe akal aa gayi? kay " said ishita
Both started bickering — loud enough for nearby vendors to laugh.
Their words overlapped like a comic symphony.
"Main toh help kar raha tha!" mam kii
"Haan haan, help! Tum toh sabse bade 'fashion expert' ho!" yaa samaj seveveak hoo
"Aur tu — tandoori mirchi — hamesha chilati rehti hai!"
or tuu "Chipku banda!"
Sidharth and Arpita exchanged looks — trying not to laugh but failing.
Their laughter was soft, genuine — a moment of calm amid all the festive noise.
Arpita's POV
As Ishita huffed and turned away, Arpita's gaze fell on the bangle set in Sidharth's hand.
She smirked knowingly. "Nice choice, Dr. Sidharth."
He coughed lightly. "Woh... bas yu hi. Ishita dekh rahi thi, toh help kar di."
"Hmm," Arpita said, a teasing glint in her eye. "Tum kuch chhupa too nahi rahe ho mujhse. I know you have feelings for her... but be careful, Sidharth. It's not just about you anymore. Her career has just begun. Ek galti sab kuch khatam kar sakti hai."
Sidharth's expression turned thoughtful. "Don't worry, arpita . I know what I'm doing — and what I have to do, and what i have to protect."
Then, with a slight shift of tone, he added, "Waise... tum mujhe yeh batao tum Vihaan ke saath kya kar rahi ho ?"
Arpita, caught off guard, straightened her saree pleats. "Woh... I just asked for his help. His choices are... good," she said, too casually.
Sidharth followed her gaze to where Vihaan was now making Ishita laugh, still bickering but smiling nonetheless.
"Hmm," Sidharth murmured quietly. "But I think... he feels a bit more than 'help', ma'am."
Arpita looked sharply. "Kya kaha tumne?"
Sidharth smiled faintly, eyes on Vihaan. "Nothing."
Just then, another familiar voice called out from behind — warm, deep, and commanding — Sameer's.
And in that instant, the laughter, teasing, and undercurrents froze like a tableau under the Diwali lights.
The evening air carried a soft hum of laughter and the scent of roasted peanuts. Fairy lights twinkled over the carnival stalls like scattered stars, and Roshni's eyes gleamed under their glow.
Sameer's tone was measured as ever. "Bas ho gaya? Let's head back before it gets too crowded."
Roshni adjusted her dupatta, glancing at him with a teasing smile. "Sir, aapko har cheez mein discipline chahiye. Even shopping?"
He arched a brow. "Habit, Mrs. Pandey. Some of us have to keep law and order — even in shopping malls."
She laughed softly. "And some of us have to choose between fifty shades of SARRE ."
Sameer almost smiled — almost — but stopped himself. ".
They were walking toward the parking lot when Roshni suddenly stopped.
"Sir... aap jayiye, I'll be back in five minutes."
He turned halfway, suspicious. "Kahan ja rahi ho, Mrs. Pandey?"
"Bus washroom, sir." Her tone was casual, her eyes bright with that innocent mischief that always made him wary. "Aap wait kijiye, main aa rahi hoon."
He sighed, shaking his head slightly. "Five minutes means five, not fifteen."
She gave a playful salute. "Aye aye, officer."
And with that, she disappeared into the crowd, her laughter trailing behind her like a soft echo.
Sameer leaned against a lamp post, arms crossed, scanning the crowd out of habit. Somewhere, a child was crying, balloons floated away, and the vendor behind him yelled, "Paanipuri do rupaye ka plate!"
He frowned. Something about this place feels off...
Just then, a loud, familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Arey, Ishita! Tera hamasha kaa hai yarrr!"
Sameer's head turned — and there they were. Vihaan, Ishita, Sidharth, and Arpita — standing together, looking exactly like a group that had somehow turned chaos into routine.
Vihaan was mid-argument, Ishita's hands were flying in every direction, and Sidharth and Arpita, meanwhile, watched them both like she was silently regretting joining them at all.
Sameer's voice sliced through the din — cool and firm. "What's going on here?"
The group spun around, startled.
Sidharth blinked. "Sameer! What a coincidence—you here too?"
Vihaan's grin spread instantly. "Wait, wait... Sameer sir yahaan matlab Roshni bhi yahaan hogi, hai na?"
sameer reply in normal tone : yes she isbut whe went for washroom now ,
Ishita smacked his arm. "Tujhe kya problem hai, Vihaan? Let the poor people live in peace!"
Arpita folded her arms, smirking. "Wait a minute... Ishita, you knew Sameer was here?"
"Of course," Ishita said dramatically. "Isliye toh maine Sidharth sir ko bola ki kahin aur chalein. But nooo, Mr. dr wanted to come here. And now—look—destiny's sense of humour!"
Sidharth rolled his eyes. "You could've said the real reason ."
Vihaan laughed. "Toh chalo, jab sab mil hi gaye hain, let's go have dinner together! I'm starving!"
Arpita tilted her head thoughtfully. "Actually... not a bad idea."
Sameer looked at her sharply. "You're supporting him now?"
She shrugged. "Not supporting, sir. Just... acknowledging that food solves most problems."
Vihaan pumped his fist. "Exactly! See? At least someone gets me."
Sameer exhaled — part sigh, part surrender. His gaze softened as he glanced at his watch. It had been over ten minutes now.
Roshni still hadn't returned.
The laughter around him blurred. His instincts — always quiet, always right — stirred uneasily. He looked toward the direction she had gone.
And then—
A faint ripple of sound.
A light flickered.
And the night exploded into chaos.
A thunderous explosion ripped through the carnival.
The sound wasn't just a blast — it was a roar that tore through the air, swallowing every other noise in its path. The ground trembled, a violent shudder that sent shockwaves up through Sameer's boots. Within seconds, fire erupted from the far end — near the washroom area — a bright, monstrous flare that painted the night sky crimson.
Screams followed. Dozens of them. Then hundreds.
The joyous chaos of the carnival twisted into pure horror. Balloons burst in the heat, stalls collapsed like paper, the ferris wheel screeched to a halt mid-spin, lights flickering and dying one by one.
Sameer froze.
For a heartbeat — he didn't breathe. Didn't move. Didn't think.
The direction of the blast — it was exactly where Roshni had gone.
His chest tightened, his pulse stopped. It felt as if the explosion hadn't just shattered the carnival — it had detonated inside him.
"Roshni..."
The name slipped from his lips like a broken prayer.
His training screamed at him to move — assess, act, rescue — but his body rebelled, rooted by disbelief. For the first time in years, IPS officer Sameer Pandey couldn't command his own heartbeat.
Ishita, standing closest to the blast's direction, gasped as the heatwave hit her face. Her ears rang, the world spinning around her. She stumbled back into Sidharth, her hands trembling, eyes wide with shock. "Oh my God... —Roshni..."
She couldn't finish. Her throat tightened, tears instantly welling. The image of Roshni's bright smile, just , flashed before her eyes — and it broke something deep inside.
Sidharth, usually the calmest among them, instinctively shielded Ishita with his arm. His voice cracked as he looked at the inferno spreading in the distance. "That's the west wing of the fairground... that's where the washrooms were." He swallowed hard, forcing his panic down.
Sameer didn't respond. He was already moving — sprinting.
Arpita stood frozen, her shopping bags slipping from her hands. Her lips trembled as she whispered, "This can't be happening..." The warmth of the blast brushed her skin, but she barely felt it — her mind replayed the laughter, the teasing, the laughter of roshni .
Beside her, Vihaan was in complete shock. The smile that had just curved his face seconds ago was gone — erased, replaced by raw confusion and fear. "No, no... this isn't—she just went to the washroom!" he stammered, voice breaking. "Roshni "
Sameer didn't hear any of them.
His blood roared in his ears as he ran through smoke and debris. Flames danced around him, bits of fabric and wood rained from above, people were crying, screaming, searching for loved ones. The air was thick with the metallic tang of smoke and burnt plastic.
He shoved past the crowd, calling out — voice rough, desperate, commanding —
"ROSHNI!"
No answer.
Only chaos.
He could feel his heartbeat slamming against his ribs — too loud, too painful — as if the world had narrowed down to a single thought, a single image: her face, her voice, her laughter.
For the first time, the officer and the man inside him collided — both helpless before the one truth neither wanted to accept:
She was there.
In the blast zone.
And no one could survive that explosion.
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