I BURN FOR YOU~ a desi dark romance

SHANAYA

Sometimes I wonder if I should have listened to Mom and Dad and gotten my dramatic ass out of this dingy apartment- what’s the worst that could have happened?

I wouldn’t have had the relationships I chose? Not bad. I haven’t even talked to a men properly in ages without getting disappointed.

I wouldn’t have gotten to work? Anyways half of my pay goes in grocery and rent.

But then I look at my Mom- kind eyes and soft smile, still in her late 40s, already wrinkled, spending her spare hours in TV serials because her reality and avoidant husband were far more dramatic. And I know my reason.

“Well done Baby” I re-assured myself as the paddle brush untangled my frizzy hair while I checked my reflection. Black pencil skirt, navy blue shirt. Formal, modest yet a little unconventional.

My first ever press meet at a film release after joining The Times Network.

Not that Bollywood stars fascinate me. I had grown up going to delegates’ parties, star studded evenings (all thanks to Dad). But this was..different. This felt earned because tonight I wasn’t invited to an event because of the Chief Secretary’s daughter, I was arriving through the media’s gate.

I have worked my asses off for years in small gigs, freelancing editorials and today I marked my first month in TOI. And so I got the freedom.

The freedom to fly out of my father’s nest (aka penthouse) in Alibaug, rent my own apartment and do whatever the fuck I wanted without owing anyone an answer.

“Its gonna be a long walk, Shanaya” I affirmed as I applied one last stroke of corrector to hide my eyebags.

Perfect. You look like a badass journalist about to kick some asses.

With a heavy sigh, I booked a cab for myself and collected my sling bag as an accessory.

I squeeze my eyes shut and mutter it on loop

“Independence. Manifestation. Dream Life”

The cab halted abruptly. The driver muttered an apology. I barely register.

I look out of the window and there it is—the hotel.

A five-star monstrosity of glass and steel, standing tall and indifferent. I’ve been here before. Too many times, actually. Birthday lunches that felt like press conferences. Political dinners where my presence was ornamental, a prop in my father’s narrative of the perfect family.

I wasn’t supposed to be nervous yet my palms were clammy, my breathing troubled. But I breath a sigh of relief when I spot my colleague cum new bestie Anika who looked gorgeous in a black ruffled sleeve top and denim

“Blue shirt?” She pouted. “Really?”

I chuckled. “I didn’t want to be cliche”

“Wo to aap ho” She swung her arm around me. “Aapko bhi pata hai ki aapko cliche cheeze bohot pasand hai” (even you don’t know but you love cliché stuff)

I made a face. “Bilkul nahi. I just wanted to make a solid impression”

Her brow shot up. “But fangirl to main hoon na. (I am the fangirl) For someone who thinks Chiraag is overrated, you are putting too much effort in yourself”

I wanted to roll my eyes. Of course I thought Chiraag was overrated. Yes he had a good voice and was a decent actor but did it mean girls from all the ages would literally throw themselves over to him?

“He is a...” I looked around and dropped my voice. “He is a marketing genius. Pretending to be invisible. No surname. No origin story. Not even an instagram handle? He knows mystery sells well”

Anika looked disappointed but nonetheless we kept walking through the hallway. “Wahi toh. He is a mystery. Yet everyone loves him.”

We shove our cards in the machine as the sliding glass doors open.

The room was already buzzing when we entered the hall. Cameras, cords, whispered gossip, journalists pretending they’re not excited. Posters of the upcoming film “Teri Aashiqui” flank the stage—his face everywhere. Romantic. Soft-lit. Eyes promising things I don’t believe men ever actually mean.

“Did you see his podcast interview with his co-star Tulika Chopra?” Anika leaned in and whispered as we took our seats. “She was being so touchey but he was not even looking at her while answering”

I huffed. “Please. I don’t buy that crap. Maradjaat loves to act all saint in front of camera but-

Our words were interrupted when the team of Teri Aashiqui walked in- the director who was one of my favourite, the producer, Tulika Chopra and then came him.

Chiraag.

The air in the room thickened.

Anika gripped my arm, eyes wide. “Oh my God, Shanaya. Do you see him? How is he so hot in real life?”

I tell myself this is just another assignment. But watching him in person made me realise. Anika wasn’t wrong. Yet I shrugged nonchalantly. “He has been in the industry for 9 years. Has a strict diet, and a team of makeup professionals so chill..”

I knew I was right but the fact was that his charm wasn’t just his tall height or his face touched up professionals. It came from the kind of rawness that only the ones who had gotten drunk in the poison of anguish knew.

“He’s here. That’s enough.”

She’s vibrating with excitement, adjusting her hair for the third time in under a minute. Around us, women and men alike are preparing their questions, their voices, their expressions. I open my notebook, though my palms are faintly damp.

He looked... contained.

Untouchable.

He nodded politely at the room, a faint curve of acknowledgement on his lips, and took his seat. Tulika Chopra was laughing at a joke god knows who cracked. He smiled too but there’s distance there.

And then the questions started. Anika was the first one to raise her hand.

Ofcourse.

“Hello sir and mam. Anika Singh from Times of India” She nodded, but fumbling. “Chiraag sir, Tulika mam. We have seen your electrifying chemistry in the trailer especially the passion with which he looks at you. Is there anything you would like to say about what we can expect?”

Lame.

Tulika chuckled softly. “Well we just clicked well and..” Her eyes deviate to Chiraag. “Chiraag has a magnetic eyes that I am sure any woman would play along when he looked at you that way”

His eyes.

Ever since his debut he acted with his eyes, making you feel everything and all at once. But still why fangirl over him so much?

Chiraag smirked at her words. “Madam..thats why we are actors”.

His attention focussed solely on Anika and not his co-star. “When the camera rolls on, We become the characters, not Chiraag or Tulika so we just play along with the script”

Clever.

But the actress seemed to have taken offense.

And maybe I too would have.

That’s a separate thing. I never praise any men so openly.

Anika nodded and took her seat. Questions followed in rounds, for the director and the actress but mostly for Chiraag.

Then I raised my hand.

His eyebrow shot up. The director said. “Yes you”

“I am Shanaya..” I omitted my surname. “From Times of India. I have a question for Chiraag sir..” Pursing my lips together. “Like many other media houses we too have been wanting to get an exclusive interview with you but your manager said you do not give interviews unless its related to your movie promotion”

He nodded, rasping in the mic. “Thats right”

I continued “And you do not even have an instagram handle. Nor do you post much on Twitter. Is it because you like to stay low-key or just its another...PR strategy to intrigue the audience”

The room fell into a hush of silence as if I had just dropped the bomb now, Anika nudged me with her elbow, her expression screaming “You are out of your minds” in obvious degrees.

Tulika Chopra shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The director and his crew fell into a buzz of words, probably wondering where did this petty journalist got her balls from.

But Chiraag smiled.

Smugly.

“That’s a brilliant question Miss Chaudhary” He rasped. “I am sure many of you have this question but I am glad she voiced it out”

I stiffened. He knew my surname?

But I didn’t remember saying it here. Did I?

“You see..” He breathed in. “I believe I do not need to show my personal life to others. I owe my craft- my music, my acting to the audience. I want audience to love me for my craft and only my craft”

I nodded. Thanks a lot..”

I didn’t trust my voice to be not fumbling. Anika leaned in and whispered. “Idiot. What did you do?”

“I just asked him what you wanted to..” I replied keeping my voice neutral, smile stifled. Almost all the major media houses took turn, the team answered politely for the next one hour.

The formalities dissolved slowly, like sugar in lukewarm tea.

Cameras were packed away. Lights dimmed. Jackets loosened. The room exhaled into something more social, less scripted. A makeshift bar had been set up near the balcony doors..crystal glasses, polite smiles, the soft clink of ambition being poured neat.

Anika was already there, a glass of white wine in hand, vibrating with vindication.

“Did you open your Tinder account?” She said

I huffed. “Not yet. I feel..lazy”

“Not a reason strong enough” She twirled the sparkling drink in her hand. “No seriously, when was the last time you were in a relationship?”

Last time..

I didn’t remember. Maybe in college. I had not wanted to but unknowingly landed into talking stages with many boys in different stages of my life but something felt amiss. I didn’t remember being in love but I know that feeling..the burning-gnawing sensation of being so passionately in love.

I couldn’t when or with whom..but I feel I knew love..

Journalists trickle around like moths now—some hovering close to the director, others orbiting Chiraag at a respectful distance, pretending they aren’t calculating proximity. I pick up a glass of water instead of alcohol. Old habit. Control.

“Always the buzzkill,” Anika teased, already tipsy. She was mid-sentence when her voice dipped suddenly. “Oh.”

I felt him before I saw him.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just... presence. The air shifting subtly, like something dense had entered the room.

“Good evening,” a voice said beside me. Low. Even. Familiar in a way I didn’t yet have language for.

I turned.

Chiraag stood there, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, blazer discarded, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest ease without effort. Up close, he looked less polished than on stage. Less contained. There were faint shadows under his eyes. Human ones.

That voice.

That goddamn voice that fangirls could get drunk on. (Not me)

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, gaze flicking briefly to Anika before returning to me. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For?” I asked, already wary.

“For asking something that wasn’t rehearsed.”

Anika made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a giggle and excused herself with an urgency that wasn’t subtle.

Traitor.

I took a measured sip of water. “It’s literally my job.”

He smiled. Not smug this time. Curious.

“I’ve read your work,” he said.

I almost laughed. Almost.

“That’s generous of you,” I replied. “But unnecessary.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” I said flatly. “I started serious journalism a month ago. Before that it was fluff pieces in online agencies”

He tilted his head. “But your Medium and substack account is quite old. I love those essays. Especially on the one where you mocked Celebrities’ loud romantic life”

My stomach flipped.

I opened accounts on medium and substack in my college maybe, publishing essays on non-serious topics.

“‘Silenced Twice: When Rescue Isn’t Rehabilitation’,” he said quietly.

My fingers tightened around the glass.

“You published it three weeks ago. On your Substack. Not the Times.”

A pause.

“You wrote about how minors rescued from bars are celebrated in headlines but abandoned in policy. You quoted NCRB data but spent more time on lived memory than numbers. That wasn’t accidental.”

I stared at him now.

“That piece was..controversial..” My mouth was dry. “Someone reported it”

He took a one sip from his glass, his eyes still on me. “Not surprised. People donot like raw truths”

“And you?” I asked. “Do you like it, sir?”

“Just Chirag” He clicked his tongue. “And yes, I live for raw truths”

I noticed that he wasn’t looking at my face the way men usually do.

His gaze wasn’t flickering..to my lips or jaw or my neckline. That was strange for a men who was trying to flirt. Because I have met my fair share of creepy celebrities who despite being married would get any woman to their bed.

No. His gaze was different. He was staring right into my eyes.

I noticed then-

A faint scar.

It began just behind his left ear and disappeared into his hairline, thin and pale, like an old seam the skin had tried hard to forget.

Strangely. It never appeared on screen. He had done countless ads where he had to take his shirt off but nowhere was this visible.

My chest tightened sharply, sudden and irrational, like someone had reached inside and squeezed once—hard.

A flash of something—heat, noise, red light—passed through me and was gone.

I swallowed.

“Have we met before?” I asked.

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

His expression changed.

Not shock.

Not denial.

Recognition.

But of confusion, not memory.

“I don’t think so,” he said slowly.

Then, after a beat—quiet, careful—

“But have we?”

The room felt smaller suddenly.

“No I am sorry-” I said, too quick.

“Its okay, sweetheart” His voice dropped. “See you soon”

And saying so, he left. The question of familiarity still hanging mid-air.

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