Chaos Mode
Aravalli International University was in “chaos mode.” The annual function hummed with a frantic energy—awards for the elite, sweat for the athletes, and a sea of spectators filling the margins.
Advait sat in the center of the roar, his irritation mounting as he waited for a coffee that felt like it was never coming. To steady his pulse, he traced the blue veins on the back of his hand. To him, these weren’t just vessels; they were the lost trade routes of antiquity, paths that had connected India to the world long before the Silk Road was a whisper.
He was a man who lived for the ancient, yet he was trapped in a mundane present. Now in the third year of his PhD, the silence of his research was deafening. He had used his parents’ wealth to batter down the doors of the nation’s top archives, but money was a blunt instrument. It could buy rare books, but it couldn’t buy the missing truth he needed to rewrite history.
His skin was reddening from the frantic tracing when the chaos suddenly shifted pitch.
The weight on his chest evaporated. It wasn’t the caffeine; it was a girl at the edge of the canteen. She was waving tentatively at an overwhelmed attendant, her voice swallowed by the crowd as she asked for a bottle of water. She looked frail, almost delicate, like a fresh breeze cutting through the heavy Delhi heat.
Advait stood up before he realized he’d moved. He bypassed the line with the practiced confidence of a man who owned the grounds. Reaching behind the counter, he snatched a bottle and held it out to her.
She looked at the water, then at him, her eyes wide with a shock so profound it was as if he’d handed her a weapon.
For the first time in a month, Advait smiled. The failed research and the crushing expectations of his family faded.
“Can you tell me your name?” he asked over the din.
She blinked, dazed. “What?”
His patience flickered. “Do you have a name? I’m just asking what it is.”
The sarcasm snapped her back. She straightened her posture. “Lana. Lana Mitra,” she said, her voice finding its footing. She took a quick, trembling sip. “I’m the event coordinator. Thank you... I was dizzy.”
Advait’s analytical mind whirred. “The coordinator? Then you’re responsible for this ‘Great Aravalli Chaos.’ Does the person in charge usually pass out, or am I just witnessing a breakdown?”
“I’m sorry,” Lana said quickly, eyes dropping to the floor. “We’re doing our best. It’s the highest participation we’ve ever had. I know it’s inconvenient. I’m really sorry.”
Advait was mesmerized. She apologized as if she were personally responsible for the world’s flaws. Her guilt felt like a gift to him—it validated his own frustration.
“You apologize too much, Lana Mitra,” he said, his voice softening. “Quantity rarely equals quality. You’re running yourself ragged for a ceremony that won’t remember your name tomorrow.”
Lana looked up, a small frown creasing her forehead. “Maybe,” she said softly. “But someone has to make sure the stage is ready for the people who actually have something important to say.”
She reached into her blazer, pulled out a crumpled twenty-rupee note, and pressed it into his hand. Her fingers were startlingly cool against his skin.
“For the water,” she said with a tired, genuine smile. “I have to go. The Vice-Chancellor is starting.”
Before he could speak, she vanished into the crowd. Advait stood paralyzed, staring at the note as if it were an indecipherable artifact. People didn’t pay him back for small gestures. They just took what he gave.
A sharp, unfamiliar anxiety rose in his chest. The thought of her becoming just another face in the crowd felt like losing a vital lead on a map. But this wasn’t academic curiosity. It was a pull he couldn’t control.
He crumpled the note in his fist. He was going to find her.
Maybe, he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs, this is what they mean by love at first sight.
