Operation Romance
Druv had a plan. Which, in the family's collective memory, had never ended well.
This was the same Dhruv, after all, who once tried sneaking laddoos out of the kitchen at midnight and ended up dropping the entire steel dabba on his father's foot. The same Dhruv who planned a "surprise" birthday party for Aditi and minor detail, forgot to actually invite her.
But you couldn't blame him for trying. Dhruv was one of those people who lived on charm the way others lived on oxygen. He was all smiles and dimples, with a laugh that could make even his strict chacha give up scolding halfway. At weddings, kids ran to him, aunties fussed over him, and uncles rolled their eyes because he always managed to wriggle out of chores with a grin.
And now, he was married.
Not just married, married to Aditi. His childhood constant, his next door frenemy turned fate, the girl who once stole his favorite cricket bat and still claimed it was a "fair exchange" for her skipping rope. She was beautiful, sure, but Dhruv would tell you that wasn't the point. She was also maddeningly practical, annoyingly level headed, and absolutely criminally oblivious to every romantic gesture he had ever attempted.
Which was, perhaps, why he tried so hard.
He wasn't tall enough to look brooding, wasn't serious enough to look mysterious. Instead, Dhruv had the sort of boyish face that made him look forever younger than he was, sharp brown eyes full of trouble, hair that was always falling into them, and that ridiculous grin he could never quite keep off. Even in his brand new role as a husband, he carried himself with the swagger of a hero in a film... the kind who slipped on a banana peel in the next scene.
But this time, this time, he was determined.
Because this wasn't laddoos or birthdays. This was romance.
He was a husband now. A man of responsibilities. A man who must, at all costs, recreate those slow motion, filmy hero moments with his new wife.
And what better way to do that than to trick destiny? well, his cousins, into locking her his room with him?
"Are you sure she won't suspect anything?" Dhruv whispered down the corridor, crouching like a burglar. His palms were pressed to the wall, his hair falling into his eyes, as if he were leading a heist rather than...well, plotting romance.
His youngest cousin, all of eight years old, smirked at him. The kind of smirk that came far too naturally to someone with pigtails and missing front teeth. She dangled the bribe, a full packet of imported chocolates, in her tiny hands like it was a bar of solid gold.
"Trust me, bhaiya. Bhabhi never says no when I ask for help."
Dhruv's heart swelled so quickly he almost lost his balance. Of course she wouldn't. His wife was kind. Sweet. Oblivious. Perfect.
He straightened his kurta, adopting the tone of a general addressing his troops. "Good, remember, this mission is classified. No leaks, no betrayals. If anyone asks, you didn't see me. I was never here."
The little girl giggled. "You sound like those CID uncles."
"This is serious business," Dhruv said, narrowing his eyes dramatically. "Operation Romance begins now. Code name: Candlelight."
The cousins, because now three more had crept into the corridor, clearly unable to resist the promise of imported chocolate, saluted him like he was the commander in chief of a chaotic army.
"Now listen carefully," Dhruv said, crouching again. "Your job is to lure Aditi, sorry, Bhabhi into my room. Make it natural. Casual. She must not suspect a thing."
One of the older cousins, twelve and already too cool for this nonsense, raised a skeptical brow. "And what will you be doing, Bhaiya?"
Dhruv puffed up his chest. "I will be preparing the ambience. Lights, music, mood... everything. By the time she walks in, she will feel like she entered a Bollywood set."
There was a pause. Then all the cousins burst out laughing.
Dhriv waved a dismissive hand, though the tips of his ears burned. "Laugh all you want. Today, your Bhaiya will prove that true love conquers all, including bad lighting and nosy relatives."
The littles one leaned forward, whispering with wide eyed curiosity, "And if it doesn't work?"
Dhruv tapped her nose with mock gravity. "Then we regroup. A good general never gives up. But don't worry, it will work. It has to."
And with that, he pressed the chocolate packet into their eager hands like it was sacred currency.
"Go," he whispered, as though the corridor were crawling with spies. "Bring me my wife."
“Aditi Bhabhi!” the cousin sang, scampering into the kitchen where Aditi was carefully stacking papads into a tin.
“Yes, beta?” Aditi smiled, brushing flour from her cheek. She always stopped whatever she was doing when the kids called, like they were her weakness, the soft button nobody could resist pressing.
“I lost my hairband!” the little one wailed, clutching her head as though she were bald instead of decorated with at least three more hairbands.
Aditi chuckled. “Lost your hairband? You have fifty. Check the drawer.”
“No, no, this one is special!” the cousin insisted, widening her eyes until they glistened like an over-acted TV serial. “Maa will scold me if I don’t find it. Please, Bhabhi? You’re the only one who can help.”
That did it. Aditi’s soft heart folded like wet paper. “Okay, okay. Let me just—”
“No! Abhi chahiye!” the girl tugged her by the hand, already dragging her out of the kitchen.
Aditi let herself be pulled upstairs, muttering good-naturedly, “Bas, tum logon ke drama se toh bhagwan bhi haar maan jaaye.”
By the time they reached Dhruv’s room, Aditi was already bending down to check under the bed. “Hairbands don’t vanish into thin air, you know. Tell me what color it is—”
The door shut. Click.
Aditi straightened instantly. “Arre? Yeh kya—” She tried the knob, but it didn’t budge. “Kids!” she groaned, hearing their muffled giggles outside. “Always nautanki. How do you people breathe in this house?”
She turned, ready to scold whoever was in on this prank and stopped.
Dhruv was leaning against the wall. Arms folded. Half-smile on his lips. His kurta a little crumpled from fidgeting too much, but his hair pushed back neatly as though he’d practiced this look.
“Maybe,” he said softly, voice warmer than he meant it to be, “it’s not a prank. Maybe… it’s fate.”
And then the electricity went out. The room plunged into darkness.
Aditi gasped. “Light chali gayi?!”
Dhruv almost laughed. He couldn’t have asked for better timing. “Haan,” he murmured, stepping toward her carefully. “Bas tum, main… aur yeh andhera.”
She gave him a flat look he couldn’t even see, but he could feel it in the silence. “Aur woh mosquitoes jo abhi khidki se andar aayenge,” she replied dryly.
Dhruv tripped over his own foot in the dark and cursed under his breath. Smooth. Very smooth.
But he tried again. Because that’s what Dhruv did, he tried. “Aditi…” he said softly, searching for her in the dark. “Do you ever stop to think—”
“Aachhoo!”
The sneeze was so violent it echoed in the dark. Aditi sniffled and pulled out her handkerchief, blowing into it like a trumpet. “Ugh, dust. Every time, without fail.”
Dhruv froze mid-dialogue. His perfectly rehearsed moment lay in ruins. But instead of groaning, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his own kerchief, and held it out. “Here. Yours looks like it’s about to declare war.”
Aditi blinked at him, caught off guard. “I… it’s fine—”
“Take it.” His voice softened, not husky-hero this time, just earnest. “Please.”
She hesitated, then slowly took it. Their fingers brushed. Her cheeks warmed, and she looked away quickly.
“Sit,” Dhruv said, patting the edge of his bed.
“I can stand,” Aditi protested, sniffling.
“You can sneeze standing, sitting, even dancing, I’m sure,” he teased, “but sit anyway.”
She huffed but sat, clutching her handkerchief.
“Good girl,” he muttered.
Her head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”
“I meant… patient,” he corrected quickly, holding up his hands. “You’re the patient. I’m the doctor.”
Aditi rolled her eyes. “Terrible doctor. No medicines. No tea.”
Dhruv tapped his temple. “Creative doctor.” He rummaged through his drawer and came back with a bottle of water. Unscrewed it, held it out. “Hydration. Step one.”
She accepted it reluctantly. “You’re acting like—”
“Like what?” he leaned closer.
Her voice softened. “Like someone who actually cares.”
He paused. Then, gently: “Maybe I do.”
Silence. She sipped the water to cover the way her cheeks warmed.
Dhruv grabbed his notebook from the table and began fanning her. “Cool breeze. Step two.”
She burst out laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously thoughtful,” he corrected. “Say thank you.”
“Never.” She sneezed again, muffling into her handkerchief.
“Bless you,” he said softly this time, taking the cloth from her hands, folding it neatly, and handing it back.
She stared at him. “Why are you doing all this?”
“Because no one’s doing it for you,” he said simply. “And you deserve it.”
Her throat tightened. “You’ll catch my cold.”
“Good,” he said, smiling. “Then we’ll sneeze in chorus. Harmony.”
She laughed, the sound breaking on another sneeze. “Idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he murmured, almost too quiet for her to hear.
Aditi sniffled again. “My nose is red. I look like a clown.”
Dhruv tilted his head, studying her. “A very cute clown.”
She swatted his arm. “Shut up.”
Instead of moving away, he sat down beside her. “You know what doctors also prescribe? Rest. Which means” he tapped his own shoulder, “pillow.”
Her eyes widened. “No way.”
“Way,” he said firmly. “Come on, I won’t charge consultation fees.”
“I don’t need—”
“Aditi,” he cut in, voice softer now. “Just… for a minute. You’re clearly tired.”
She hesitated. Then, almost against her own will, she leaned the tiniest bit against him. His kurta smelled faintly of sandalwood and detergent.
“See? Not so bad,” he murmured.
Her voice was muffled. “You’ll regret this when I sneeze on your shoulder.”
“Worth it,” he said instantly.
She laughed, but didn’t move away.
After a pause, Dhruv added, “You don’t let people take care of you often, do you?”
Her throat tightened. “I don’t need it.”
“Maybe not,” he agreed, “but you deserve it anyway.”
She went quiet, fighting the stupid smile tugging at her lips.
Aditi sniffled, leaning back. “This is officially the worst. Stuck in here, can’t breathe, no tea, no tissues…”
Dhruv leaned forward like a man on a mission. “Correction, there is a tissue. Your handkerchief. Highly underrated. Multi-use. Very fashionable.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fashionable? I just blew my nose in it.”
“Exactly,” he said gravely. “Limited edition now.”
She burst out laughing despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grinned. “Ridiculously handsome, maybe.”
Aditi groaned. “You walked right into that one, didn’t you?”
“Practice,” he said proudly. Then, after a beat, he tugged the blanket draped on the bed and wrapped it loosely around her shoulders. “Warmth therapy. Works better than ginger tea.”
She blinked at him. “You’re actually trying.”
“I’m a husband now,” Dhruv said with mock dignity. “This is in the syllabus.”
She giggled, pulling the blanket tighter. “And what else is in the syllabus?”
“Number one: keep wife cozy. Number two: keep wife smiling. Number three…” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “…keep wife from sneezing herself into oblivion.”
She shook her head, still laughing, still sniffling. “And what if the wife doesn’t want pampering?”
“Then the husband files a formal complaint,” Dhruv replied solemnly. “Because it’s unfair labor conditions. You think Shah Rukh Khan had to romance while his heroine sneezed on him?”
Aditi snorted. “Probably. Just cut before it showed.”
“Exactly. Which means I’m doing overtime here.”
She nudged him playfully. “Poor you.”
He grinned. “Best job I ever signed up for.”
Her breath caught for a second. She tried to hide it by tucking herself deeper into the blanket, muttering, “You’re so filmy.”
Dhruv’s eyes softened. “Good. Filmy husbands are the best kind.”
Aditi sniffled again, curling deeper into the blanket. “Don’t look at me like that. I must look awful.”
Dhruv tilted his head. “Awful? No. More like… tragic heroine of a 90s film. Slightly dramatic, very sneezy, but still the main character.”
She laughed, muffled by the blanket. “Stop exaggerating.”
“I don’t exaggerate. I enhance,” he corrected. “Like a background score. Imagine violins right now.”
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”
He shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers. “Impossible, yes. But also warm. Which is why you should lean here.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
“No, I’m not.”
He poked her arm lightly. “Liar. Temperature doesn’t lie.”
She rolled her eyes but gave in, leaning against him with a little sigh. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” he whispered, ridiculously pleased.
For a while, they sat in the dim light, her head on his shoulder, his hand resting lightly over the blanket near hers. He kept talking in that low, steady voice, nonsense, really.
“Do you think if we shout loud enough, someone will hear?”
“Mhmm.”
“We could order ginger tea through the window. Express delivery.”
A soft hum from her.
“Or maybe bribe the guard. Tell him we’ll name our first child after him.”
That made her chuckle, but it was faint. Her eyes were already fluttering shut.
For a moment, there was silence. Just the sound of rain outside, the occasional thunder rumble, and her soft sips of water.
Then she looked up at him, a little sleepy but smiling, small, unguarded, the kind that made his chest feel funny.
“You know,” she murmured, “sometimes you’re more trouble than the cold itself.”
Dhruv frowned. “Arre, excuse me—”
“But,” she cut in, her eyes twinkling, “if this is your idea of romance… I think I don’t mind.”
Dhruv’s entire system short-circuited.
“What?!” he squeaked. Not asked. Not demanded. Squeaked.
She just shrugged, wiping her nose with zero shame. “I said I don’t mind. Bas. Don’t act like I just proposed or something.”
His jaw dropped. Proposed?! He hadn’t even gotten past “Aditi, tum meri—” before she’d sneezed him into oblivion. And now she was throwing around lines like this?
“Tum… tum seriously…” His voice cracked halfway through like he was thirteen again.
She leaned back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. “Mm-hmm. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Too late. His head was already a full-blown Bollywood set, flowers, violins, slow motion. He could practically hear “Tum Hi Ho” playing somewhere in the rain.
Dhruv clutched his face, groaning quietly. His ears were burning so hot, he was convinced if the power didn’t come back soon, his blush alone could light the room.
He risked one glance at her, already curling under the blanket, peaceful, as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him.
Dhruv whispered to himself, “Romance… approved?”
Then immediately smacked his own forehead. “Idiot! Say something cool. Something hero-type. Don’t just sit like a statue.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Aditi, main—”
A soft snore.
She was out. Asleep.
Dhruv sat there, hands in his hair, grinning like a total fool in the dark. “Bhagwan… yehi thi meri filmy moment?!”
He smiled to himself, whispering, “Mission successful. Operation Romance: paused. Operation Wife Comfort: achieved.”
The storm outside had quieted, leaving only the patter of rain. Aditi was curled up on the bed, breathing softly, fast asleep under the shawl.
Dhruv, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the floor, still grinning like a madman, whispering to himself.
“Romance… approved,” he muttered, then covered his face. “Arre, Dhruv, tu pagal hai kya? Hero ban, hero! ‘Aditi, main tumse—’”
Click.
The latch turned.
The door creaked open.
“Yeh… darwaza bahar se band kyon tha?” his papa’s voice came, confused.
Dhruv froze mid-gesture, his hands half-raised like he’d been caught in the middle of a dance move. His father stepped in, eyebrows furrowed. Then his eyes flicked from the peacefully sleeping Aditi… to Dhruv’s beet-red face.
“Dhruv?”
Dhruv leapt to his feet so fast he nearly tripped over his own legs. “P-Papa! Main… main bas—uh—light chali gayi thi toh… woh—”
His father raised one brow. “Light chali gayi toh tum… khud se baat kar rahe the?”
Dhruv’s ears turned a deeper shade of crimson. He rubbed the back of his neck, stammering. “Nahi… haan… matlab—revision kar raha tha! Haan, bas revision. Apne… apne dialogues. Presentation ke liye!”
Papa folded his arms. “Presentation? Raat ke dus baje? Aur tumhare gaal laal mirchi ke jaise kyon ho gaye?”
“Bas… garmi lag rahi hai,” Dhruv squeaked, tugging at his collar even though the room was cold.
Behind them, Aditi shifted in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again. Papa glanced at her, then back at his son, whose entire expression screamed caught in the act.
For a long moment, Papa just looked at him. Then, with a faint smirk, he said, “Theek hai, hero. Apna ‘presentation’ practice karte raho. Main chalata hoon.”
And before Dhruv could even think of a recovery, Papa turned and left, shutting the door behind him.
Dhruv dropped back to the floor, face buried in his hands. “Presentation?! Dhruv, tu zameen mein doob ja.”
