CHAPTER 1
Ira was never one of those girls who grew up with cricket in the background no memories of cheering with her dad during tense World Cup finals, no prized cricket ball signed by a player, not even a faint idea of what LBW stood for. She was a law student, for heaven’s sake. She could dissect a legal brief in her sleep, but cricket? Not a clue. Not an interest.
And yet, life has a funny way of sneaking in obsessions when you least expect them.
It started as most modern obsessions do with a reel. One that featured a certain Aarav Menon. RCB had just won the IPL, and the internet was on fire. Slow-motion edits, thundering music, aesthetic montages and in all same time.
Ira found herself spiraling a wordless crush born not out of stats or records, but out of energy. There was something about him. Something magnetic.
But she made herself a promise: If I ever meet him, he won’t know I know him. I won’t swoon. I won’t fangirl. I’ll act like I don’t even recognize him.
The universe, of course, was eavesdropping.
It was the beginning of July, and the car finally pulled into the hills of Chikkamagaluru. Tanya, ever the excitable one, squealed from the backseat. The resort came into view — all golden mist and dusky skies, the hills curling into the horizon like folded velvet.
Ira had chosen this place. Wooden cottages tucked between coffee estates. Lanterns lining winding stone paths. Air so crisp it felt like biting into the first apple of the season.
“You booked this, na?” Meher asked, her suitcase already halfway open.
“Yes ma’am,” Ira replied, stretching her legs and flashing a victorious smile. “You’re welcome.”
They were five girls — five threads of chaos woven tightly together. Meher, the over-packer with flair for the dramatic. Rhea, who looked like she stepped out of a lifestyle magazine. Tanya, the human version of confetti. And Ira somewhere between logic and delusion, a lawyer-in-training hoping to lose herself in a week of silence and laughter.
They unpacked. Argued over beds. Changed into hoodies and slippers. And set out to explore the resort.
And then the kind of moment writers pray for.
A crowd had formed near the front cottages. Curious whispers. Stifled giggles. Phones halfway out of pockets.
At the center: a couple. Mid-argument.
“I told you I wanted to see the hills today!” the woman snapped.
“And I told you we’ll go tomorrow morning!” the man retorted, equal parts tired and stubborn.
The girls slowed their steps.
“Oh god, I love this,” Rhea whispered around a cookie. Of course, she’d brought snacks.
“Should we step in?” Tanya asked, ever the peacekeeper.
Diya sighed. “Unless we’re billing them for legal advice, absolutely not.”
And just like that, the scene unfolded — strangers arguing like it was a soap opera, fireflies blinking in the corners of the resort, and five girls half-laughing, half-eavesdropping on a moment that had nothing to do with them.
Except it did.
Because as Ira stood there, taking it all in the golden hour, the scent of roasted beans, her friends glowing in laughter something within her shifted.
This week wasn’t just a break.
It was the beginning of something.
And no, it wasn’t the coffee or the drama of strangers.
It was something she couldn’t name just yet.
But the air had changed.
And so had she.
