Bepanha

“Shristi! Beta, get up. The tiffins won’t deliver themselves.”

It was 4:50 a.m., and the December cold had turned the city into an icebox.

Shristi  groaned, pulling the thin blanket over her head for one last rebellious second before dragging herself out of bed. Her body ached from yesterday’s deliveries and the late-night call with Abhishek.

She threw on her old black jacket over her night suit, tied her long hair into a messy bun, and stepped into the living room that doubled as their battleground kitchen every single morning.

“Mummy, it’s not even five yet,” she muttered, voice heavy with sleep and the weight of everything.

“I know, beta,” Shobha said without looking up, her hands moving mechanically as she packed steel tiffins with hot parathas and chole. Steam rose like ghosts in the cold air.

“The FC Road hostel students have 7 a.m. lectures. We can’t be late. One bad review and even this small business will die.”

Shristi rubbed her eyes and glanced at the tiny kitchen counter piled with containers.

This was their life nowreduced to early morning deliveries from a 10x10 kitchen.

“Where’s Sumit?” she asked.

“Still sleeping, of course,” her mother sighed.

Shristi marched into the room and yanked the blanket off her younger brother without mercy.

“Didi!” Sumit yelped, curling into a ball. “It’s freezing! I’m not well today.”

Before Shristi could retort, Nisha’s bright voice rang out from the other room.

“Didi, take me! I’m ready!”

Thirteen-year-old Nisha stood there in her thickest sweater, monkey cap, and spectacles, looking like an overexcited penguin. Her eyes sparkled with the kind of energy only the youngest child in a struggling family could still possess.

Shristi’s heart softened for a moment. “Nisha, it’s too cold”

“I’m covered head to toe! Please, Didi. I want to help.” Nisha folded her hands and gave her signature puppy eyes.

Sumit sat up instantly. “Wow, Didi. Hypocrite much?”

“Shut up, Sumit,” Shristi snapped, but eventually gave in. “Fine. But you stay glued to me, Nisha. One sneeze and you’re banned from deliveries forever.”

The old scooter groaned to life in the narrow lane. Cold wind whipped across their faces as they balanced the heavy thermal bags. Nisha hugged Shristi’s waist tightly from behind, giggling every time they hit a pothole.

But inside Shristi’s chest, the familiar poison simmered.

That man.

The one who had snatched their family restaurant. Now they were reduced to this  home-cooked meals delivered like servants while his empire grew.

They finished most deliveries smoothly. Students loved Shobha’s cooking. But the last stop made Shristi’s heart beat differently.

Boys’ hostel near Savitribai Phule Pune University.

Abhishek Verma’s hostel  her boyfriend of four years.

She felt her cheeks warm despite the cold as they climbed the stairs. Nisha, the little devil, noticed immediately.

“Didi, your face is red again,” she whispered loudly. “Are you going to meet Abhishek bhaiya? Your boyfriend?”

“Shhh, Nisha!” Shristi hissed, mortified, clamping a hand over her sister’s mouth. “Keep your voice down or I’m really leaving you here.”

Abhishek opened the door in his simple white t-shirt, looking effortlessly handsome even in the morning. His warm smile made Shristi’s stomach flutter the way it always did.

“Morning, Shristi,” he said softly, taking the tiffin. His fingers brushed hers deliberately. “Paratha and chole? You know the way to my heart. Thanks, babe. Hostel food sucks.”

Nisha peeked from behind Shristi and grinned mischievously. “Bhaiya, Didi woke up extra early to make sure yours had extra chutney!”

Shristi elbowed her lightly. “Ignore her. She’s been watching too many dramas.”

Abhishek chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “She’s cute. Like her sister. See you in college later? We still on for that canteen coffee after classes?”

Shristi nodded, a small genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion. “Yeah. Don’t be late this time.”

As they rode back home, the brief sweetness of seeing Abhishek faded under the weight of reality. He was kind, steady, and from a normal middle-class family. Dating him felt safe. Normal.

By evening, after college and a quick coffee with Abhishek (where he held her hand under the table and made her laugh about hostel drama), Shristi dragged herself to the big new supermarket near JM Road. Their kitchen supplies were running low, and with the cold weather, they needed extra rice, oil, and spices for tomorrow’s deliveries.

The supermarket was buzzing. Bright lights, promotional banners, and a small crowd gathered near the new product aisle. Some media people with cameras hovered around. Shristi grabbed a basket and moved through the aisles, her mood already grumpy from the long day.

She stopped at the new ready-to-cook meal section. She picked up a packet, turned it over, and muttered under her breath, not realizing how loud she had become.

“Useless… This product is complete rubbish. Leaks everywhere, tastes like cardboard soaked in cheap masala. No wonder people end up disappointed with these things.”

A few shoppers nearby turned. Then more. Someone chuckled. A lady whispered, “She’s right, I bought it last week and it spilled in my bag.”

The murmurs grew. Heads turned. A funny, awkward silence spread as people stared at the outspoken girl..

A tall man in a sharp black coat approached from behind the promotional stand. He had been overseeing the launch himself. Shristi hadn’t seen his face clearly before.

“Any problem, miss, with the product?” he asked in a calm, gentlemanly tone, maintaining a polite smile for the cameras around them.

Shristi didn’t even look at him fully, still frowning at the packet. “Yeah, big problem. This thing leaks like a broken tap. The seal is cheap, the spices are unbalanced, and it’s overpriced for what it is. Completely useless. Who even approves this junk?”

The man’s jaw tightened visibly. He was controlling his rising anger  media crews and rival brand representatives were watching closely. This launch couldn’t turn into a scene.

He leaned in slightly, voice low and measured. “Ma’am, please use it properly. Follow the instructions on the back. It’s designed for convenience. We don’t want to create any unnecessary fuss here.”

Shristi continued complaining loudly, still not glancing up at his face. “Properly? I did. It’s a waste of money and time. These big brands think they can fool everyone with shiny packaging.”

The man’s patience thinned. He stepped closer and whispered urgently near her ear, his breath brushing her skin, “I will give you whatever you want. Just please talk good about the product. Name your price.”

Shristi’s eyes widened in shock. She spun around, irritation flaring. “Oho! So you’re the manager pushing this rubbish!” she shouted, voice echoing across the supermarket. “See, people! This person here is trying to bribe me to lie! He thinks money can fix everything!”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cameras turned. Phones came out.

Before she could continue her tirade, the man’s hand shot out. He grabbed her arm firmly and pulled her into a quieter corner behind the aisle, away from the immediate crowd. His other hand instinctively fixed his tie, a habit when controlling fury. His grip was strong, his tall frame towering over her.

Shristi backed away instantly, yanking her hand free. “How dare you! Don’t you touch me!” she hissed, voice rising again. “You think you can drag me around and silence me? Typical rich bully!”

The man’s eyes blazed with icy anger, but he kept his voice dangerously low. “Lower your voice. You have no idea who you’re talking to or what you’re risking.”

“Oh, I know exactly the type!” Shristi shot back, stepping closer despite the height difference, her face flushed. “People like you destroy things for profit and then bribe others to cover it up. Your products are as fake as your gentleman act!”

They stood locked in a heated argument in the corner  voices sharp, eyes clashing like fire and ice. He tried to de-escalate for the brand’s sake, but she refused to back down, accusing him louder. Shoppers peeked, whispers turning into a spectacle.

“You’re causing a scene,” he growled, grabbing her wrist again to stop her from storming back into the crowd. “This is not the place.”

“Leave me!” Shristi snapped, twisting free, her heart pounding with rage and a strange, unwanted tension from his nearness. “I’ll say exactly what I think right here!”

She lunged for the basket she’d dropped, intending to storm out of the store, but her heavy bag of spices caught on a floor display, sending several promotional standees crashing down like dominoes. The clatter was deafening, drawing every eye in the supermarket to their corner.

The man groaned, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of pure, unadulterated frustration. "Fine!" he barked, louder than he intended. "If you’re so convinced it’s garbage, prove it. Right now. In the demo kitchen."

He pointed toward the live cooking station at the end of the aisle. A small group of nervous brand ambassadors stood there, frozen, holding spatulas like shields.

Shristi paused, her foot mid-step. She narrowed her eyes, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You want me to cook with this?"

"I want you to show me exactly where it fails," he retorted, his eyes hard. "You claim the heat distribution is off and the seal is faulty? Prove it on that stove. If you manage to make it work, I’ll donate the entire day's revenue from this aisle to the charity of your choice. If you fail well, you’ll stop slandering my company in public."

The challenge hung in the air. The crowd, sensing a spectacle better than any reality TV show, shifted closer. Shristi felt the weight of a hundred stares, but the stubbornness that had been a hallmark of her personality since childhood took root.

"Deal," she said, her voice steadying. "But don't think you can hide behind your PR team when I prove that your product is nothing more than expensive landfill."

She marched toward the demo station, grabbing the packet she had been criticizing. As she passed him, she caught the scent of his cologne expensive, crisp, and slightly woody. It caught her off guard, a stark contrast to the chaotic, sweaty environment of the supermarket.

The man followed, his presence looming behind her like a shadow. He leaned over the counter, arms crossed, watching her with a look of intense, analytical coldness.

Shristi snatched a pan, turned the burner to high, and ripped the packet open. She didn't look at the instructions. She didn't look at him. She just worked, her hands moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who spent half her life in a kitchen helping her mother's delivery business.

She dumped the contents into the pan, but instead of just adding water as the instructions indicated, she paused, sniffing the mixture. She tilted her head, then grabbed a stray bottle of vinegar from the display nearby and a pinch of chili powder.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low, his skepticism evident. "That’s not the recipe."

"The recipe is a suggestion for people who don't know how to cook," Shristi shot back, not looking up. "I'm fixing your disaster."

A few minutes later, the aroma began to change. The sharp, metallic scent of the 'cheap masala' faded into something richer, deeper. The shoppers around them began to lean in, their appetites piqued.

The man watched her, his expression shifting from annoyance to guarded curiosity. He had spent months perfecting the base, yet watching her, he realized she wasn't just cooking she was dismantling his creation and rebuilding it into something edible.

She turned off the heat and slid the pan toward him. "Taste it."

He hesitated, then picked up a small plastic spoon. He took a bite, his eyes never leaving hers. The silence in the room became absolute. He chewed slowly, his gaze unreadable. Finally, he set the spoon down.

"It's better," he admitted, his voice quiet. "But you used extra ingredients. You didn't use the product as sold."

"I used your product as a base," she corrected him, her chin held high. "The fact that it needs help proves my point. It’s mediocre, and you know it."

The man looked at the crowd, then back at Shristi. A small, unexpected smile tugged at the corner of his mouth not a polite, corporate smile, but something genuine and strangely dangerous.

Shristi stormed out of the supermarket, her cheeks burning and her shopping basket still half-empty. The cold Pune evening wind slapped her face as she clutched the thin plastic bag with whatever she had managed to grab before the chaos. Her heart was still racing from the argument with that arrogant suit.

Who did he think he was? Whispering offers like she could be bought?

She kicked a small pebble on the footpath near JM Road, muttering under her breath. “Rich idiots. All the same.”

Her phone buzzed. Abhishek.

Abhishek: Hey babe, how was grocery run? Want me to pick you up? It’s getting dark.

Shristi typed quickly, still fuming. 

Shristi: No need. I’m heading home. Some idiot at the supermarket ruined my mood.

She didn’t explain more. Abhishek was sweet, but he wouldn’t understand the depth of her irritation today. He always saw the good side of things. She liked that about him  his calm balanced her fire. But right now, she wanted to stay angry.

Back at the Sadashiv Peth flat, the small living room was warm from the cooking. Nisha jumped up the moment she entered.

“Didi! You took so long. Did you get the mango pickle I wanted?”

Shristi forced a smile and ruffled her sister’s hair. “Got something close. Go help Mummy set the table.”

Shobha noticed her daughter’s stiff shoulders immediately. “Kya hua, beta? You look ready to fight the whole world.”

“Nothing, Mumma. Just a rude man at the store,” Shristi said, avoiding details. She changed into comfortable clothes and joined them for dinner, but her mind kept replaying the tall stranger’s icy eyes and the way he had grabbed her wrist. The memory made her both furious and strangely aware of how close he had stood. Thankfully, no one at home had any idea about the small crowd or the cameras.

Two days later,

Shristi’s college placement cell announced a sudden internship opportunity with Chauhan Group’s food division  urgent requirement for marketing interns due to an upcoming campaign. Good stipend. Most students jumped at it, including her friends.

Shristi had no interest, but the placement officer personally called her.

“Shristi, you have good communication skills. They specifically asked for outspoken candidates. It’s only for three months. Think about it  the money will help your family.”

The professor’s words struck a nerve. The rent for their Sadashiv Peth apartment had hiked again, and Shobha’s medication bills were a constant, quiet burden that Shristi refused to acknowledge aloud.

Chauhan Group.

The name felt like a jagged piece of glass in her throat. She stared at the flyer on the notice board, the bold font mocking her. She had been avoiding the news, the business sections, even the local paper, just to keep the face of the man from the supermarket out of her mind. But the universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.

"I'll pass, Sir," Shristi said, her voice tighter than she intended. "I have my own freelance projects."

The professor sighed, peering over his spectacles. "Shristi, don't let pride get in the way of a career-defining opportunity. This isn't just an internship; it’s a gateway into the industry. Chauhan Group doesn't recruit from our campus often. It’s a fast-track."

He left the application form on her desk, a stark white rectangle against the dark wood.

That evening, Shristi sat on the balcony, the chaotic hum of Pune traffic below serving as a backdrop to her internal turmoil. Abhishek leaned against the doorframe, sipping tea. "You’re staring at that form like it’s a bomb," he remarked, his tone light.

"It kind of feels like one," she muttered. She finally looked up at him. "The guy at the supermarket? The one I told you about? He... he looked like he owned the place. I think he might be a Chauhan."

Abhishek’s eyebrows shot up. He walked over, setting his cup down. "The guy who grabbed your wrist? Shristi, if that’s true, why would they want you as an intern? Unless... he’s the one who asked for you?"

A cold shiver raced down her spine. The idea was chilling, yet impossible to dismiss. If he was a Chauhan, he had the power to track her down, to infiltrate her life with the same arrogance he’d used to try and "buy" her silence at the store.

"I won't go," she decided, her hands clenching into fists. "I don't need his money. We’ll find another way."

But the next morning, as she walked toward the college gates, a sleek, matte-black sedan pulled up to the curb. The tinted window rolled down just enough to reveal a sharp jawline and the unmistakable, icy gaze that had haunted her sleep for forty-eight hours.

"You forgot your wallet at the check-out counter, Miss Shristi," a smooth, baritone voice drifted from the car.

Shristi froze. She reached into her bag, her fingers brushing the empty space where her wallet should have been. She hadn't left it at the store she remembered packing it. He had taken it.

"You stole my wallet?" she hissed, stepping toward the car, oblivious to the students staring.

The man leaned forward, his face finally visible in the morning light. He looked amused, his eyes scanning her with an unsettling intensity. "I didn't steal it. I’m simply offering you a trade. The wallet for a thirty-minute interview regarding your internship."

"You're insane," she breathed.

"I'm a businessman," he corrected, his lips curling into a dangerously thin smile. "And you, Shristi, are currently the only person in this city who isn't afraid to tell me 'no.' I think we have a lot to discuss."

Shristi marched closer, her eyes blazing with pure irritation as she glared straight into his cold, piercing gaze. The December wind tugged at her dupatta, but she stood firm, fists clenched at her sides.

"Do whatever you wanna do," she snapped, voice loud and unyielding. "I would never work in that Chauhan Group. Go and tell your boss that."

She turned on her heel sharply, ready to walk away, her ponytail swinging with the motion.

"Wait," he called out, his deep voice cutting through the morning noise like velvet-wrapped steel. "Let me introduce myself, Miss Roy."

Shristi paused, then slowly turned back, her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest, eyes narrowed in suspicion. She stared at him defiantly, the morning sunlight highlighting the sharp lines of his face.

He met her gaze without blinking, a faint, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. "I am Ranveer Chauhan, the heir of the Chauhan Group."

The words hit Shristi like a slap. Her breath caught sharply. This was him the same man whose company had illegally taken her parents’ beloved restaurant, Roy’s Kitchen, five years ago. The man who had reduced her family to early-morning tiffin deliveries from a tiny kitchen. The faceless monster from her nightmares now had a name, a face, and was sitting right in front of her in his expensive car.

Her eyes widened with shock before filling with raw fury. “You…” she whispered, voice trembling with anger. “You are the one who snatched our family restaurant. Roy’s Kitchen. You destroyed everything my parents built.”

Ranveer’s expression remained cool and composed, though something dark flickered in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, studying her flushed, furious face. “So you finally connected the dots, Miss Roy. Interesting.”

Shristi stepped closer to the car window, her hands shaking with rage. “You think you can just show up here with my wallet and offer me an internship like nothing happened? After what your company did to us? After you took the one thing that kept my family together?”

Ranveer’s gaze didn’t waver. He leaned forward, his deep voice low and steady. “Business decisions aren’t personal. But I see they became very personal for you.”

“Personal?” Shristi let out a bitter, angry laugh, her chest heaving. “You ruined us. And now you want me to work for you? I’d rather starve than take anything from you, Mr. Chauhan.”

Ranveer didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached into the glove compartment, his movements slow and deliberate, before tossing a heavy, cream-colored envelope onto the pavement at her feet. It landed with a soft thud, the wax seal catching the morning light.

"That wasn't an offer for an internship, Shristi," he said, his tone shifting from arrogant to unnervingly clinical. "That is the deed to Roy’s Kitchen. It’s been sitting on my desk for three months, transferred back into your father’s name."

Shristi froze. The anger that had been fueling her for the last five minutes abruptly drained away, leaving her hollow and confused. She looked down at the envelope, then back at him, her brows furrowing. "What kind of sick game is this? You destroyed it, and now you’re what? Playing the philanthropist?"

"I’m playing the realist," Ranveer countered, finally leaning back into his leather seat. He didn't look at her; he looked past her, toward the bustling street. "The land acquisition five years ago was a strategic move by my father’s board. I wasn't in charge then. But I am now. And frankly, the property has become a headache in my portfolio."

"A headache?" Shristi spat, though the bite was gone from her voice. "That place was a legacy."

"Which is exactly why it’s failing under the current franchise management," he interrupted, his eyes snapping back to hers, sharp and clinical. "If you want to save it, if you want your parents to have their livelihoods back without the debt I’ve just cleared, you don't take the job for me. You take it for the knowledge."

He started the engine, the low hum of the car vibrating in the crisp air. "I don't need an intern, Shristi. I need someone who knows the heartbeat of that restaurant better than anyone else, because I’m planning to re-expand the Chauhan hospitality wing, and I’m eyeing your family’s recipes as the foundation."

"You want to steal our recipes too?" she challenged, though her hand hovered tentatively over the envelope on the ground.

"I want to partner with you," Ranveer said, his voice dropping to a rare, genuine note of intensity. "Take the job. Learn how the machine works. If you’re as brilliant as your design portfolio suggests, you’ll be the one to sign the merger or the one to buy me out entirely."

He shifted the car into gear. "The envelope contains the keys to your history, Shristi. Whether you use them to open the door or to burn it all down is entirely up to you."

With a smooth turn of the wheel, the car pulled away, leaving Shristi standing alone on the sidewalk. She looked down at the envelope. The wind gusted again, but this time, she didn't just stand firm she reached down, brushing the dust off the cream paper, her fingers trembling as she traced the embossed seal of the man who had been her enemy, but who had just handed her the keys to her future.