Chapter 2: Kurti Ruined, Pride Shaken

2

Arjun Malhotra is a campus legend.

Even the canteen aunty and chaiwala outside the north gate knew his name—"Arjun beta, kitna handsome ho gaya hai, haan!" Half-joking, half-serious, with a glint in their eye.

Tall, sharp-jawed, from a well-off Delhi family. He’s dated plenty of girls, but none for more than a month.

His voice had that unmistakable South Delhi drawl—casual, thoda lazy, overflowing with confidence. Shoes always spotless, shirts pressed, hair set like he just walked out of a Bandra salon.

He’s generous, too, so every breakup is friendly. But girls still chase after him, hoping to be the one to finally tame the bad boy.

Campus gossip spreads faster than WhatsApp forwards—corridor whispers, water cooler murmurs, and snide comments in the girls’ hostel common room. "He’s single again? Chalo, ab toh mere number aayega!"

Not me. I never had such filmy hopes.

I chased after him for only one reason: I’m a total sucker for a good-looking face, and he’s exactly my type.

Being with Arjun is genuinely fun. He’s charming, thoughtful, romantic—and just looking at that face puts me in a good mood.

So, even though the comments say he’ll fall for someone else, I’m not going to blame him for things he hasn’t done yet.

But if it really comes to that, if he does fall for someone else, I’ll let go. Bas. No drama.

No one is irreplaceable in a relationship.

Besides, Amma always says, "Beta, apna value samjho. Kisi ke liye mat ruko." Learned it early—people come and go. You have to carry your own sunshine.

3

That afternoon, I went to the café near campus. The comments popped up the moment I placed my order:

The café buzzed with students, thick with the smell of strong filter coffee and fresh puffs. Bollywood songs drifted from the speakers, barely audible over the laughter from the next table. Priya’s payal chimed as she hurried over, the ceiling fan above barely stirring the thick, sweet air.

[Supporting girl is about to make things difficult for the heroine at her part-time job.]

[Yaar, yeh supporting girl kab jayegi? Protect our heroine!]

So, this is where Priya Sharma works part-time.

A gentle female voice at my side: "Here’s your strawberry pastry. Let me refill your water."

I turned. Priya Sharma.

Simple blue salwar, neat braid, kurti name tag reading 'Priya', nervous energy clinging to her like monsoon mist.

Oval face, bright watery eyes, fair skin, silky black hair. Delicate and lovely—like the kind of girl who never gets scolded by her teachers.

When she saw me, she froze. Eyes wide, hands trembling. The steel jug tipped, pouring cold water all over me.

I gasped as the chill hit me, biting my lip to keep from yelping. Curious glances from the next table prickled my skin.

Priya snapped out of it, hastily putting down the jug. Her bangles jingled, voice shaky with panic. "I’m so sorry!"

In her hurry, she reached for napkins but knocked the strawberry pastry onto me instead. Sticky cream smeared down my kurti.

I sucked in a breath.

A few people stared. Someone snickered. My cheeks burned, embarrassment and frustration mixing. I’d have to go home and change—so much for meeting my friend.

Great. This kurti—real silk chiffon. You can’t just wash it. Cream stains mean it’s gone.

I frowned, frustration rising.

This was Amma’s gift, picked up from FabIndia’s sale. I could already hear her voice—"Beta, dhyaan se! Ek din toh kuch sambhal ke nahi kar sakti?"—and remembered us bickering over which print suited me best. My heart squeezed, anger mingling with guilt.

Seeing my expression, Priya’s eyes turned red, like a scared bacha:

"I’m really sorry. How much was your kurti? I’ll pay you back."

She bit her lip, tears threatening. She looked just like my little cousin after breaking Maasi’s favourite vase—waiting for a scolding, but ready to stand her ground.

I looked up at her.

She was terrified, hands trembling, but a stubborn glint shone in her gaze. There was quiet defiance too, as if she’d be damned if anyone walked over her, even now.

I said, "Thirty thousand for the kurti."

The absurdity almost made me laugh. Who pays thirty grand for a kurti? But the crowd, the drama—it brought out my mischief. Maybe I wanted the comments to have something juicy to chew on.

Priya’s eyes widened in disbelief. She stumbled back, tears spilling, hands clutching her dupatta.

"What?"

Her voice broke. She seemed to be counting in her head, lips moving silently, praying for a miracle.

I sighed, about to clarify I was joking, but the comments cut in:

[Heroine ne kuch galat nahi kiya! Supporting girl demanding so much paisa, shame!]

[Who wears such expensive clothes to eat? Khud ki galti hai, na?]

[Koi police ko bulao, arrest karo is supporting girl ko!]

[Heroine, don’t cry! You did nothing wrong!]

The words caught in my throat. A surge of irritation rose.

Seriously? Why does it look like I’m the villain?

It was like every aunty in my colony had decided to pass judgment, whispering, 'Beta, she thinks she’s too much.'