In The Fourth Girl by Arefa Tehsin, a long-buried disappearance brings three former friends face-to-face with the secrets they thought they had left behind and a question that refuses to stay buried: what really happened to the fourth girl?

***

The Swimming Club

Colombo

4 March 2019

The air was peppered with sea salt and coconut. Egrets flew in formation comparing notes of the summery evening. The sun was a bindi on the forehead of the horizon, shifting shyly towards the ocean with matrimonial intent. A few ships stood still on the waves, buoyant as corks. The raucous shrieks of kids playing in the club’s saltwater swimming pool were drowned out by a rattling train. The tracks ran parallel to the club. The train thundered past on its seaside tracks against a perfectly immobile sky.

‘You know what is disarming about Sri Lanka? Even the ocean here seems to be swirling her skirts to the tune of baila.’ Qailah took a long drag off her cigar. ‘In Bombay, it slams on the Bandra rocks as if it were the police, whacking the asses of honest people.’

‘You mean Mumbai?’ Siddhesh felt duty bound to correct his countrymen (and women), even when he felt intimidated by them. Pride in one’s origins was not to be taken lightly.

Qailah let out a low chuckle. ‘Is that your next question?’ Her red lips matched the bloodthirsty dusk sky. And her eyes the biscuit brown of the butter cookies on the table. She rolled a lock of hair around her finger. The dampness of the sea breeze had made her curls frizzy.

Beauty scared Siddhesh even more than the constant fear of chewing his nails in public. He fumbled as he flipped his notebook for the questions. There was such dignity in being orthodox. Taking notes on your phone or tablet was the most vulgar thing to do.

‘I know you generally don’t do interviews, Qailah ji. Such a successful Indian author based in Sri Lanka—the largest selling romance author of the Indian subcontinent with three major Bollywood films made on her books. It’s an honour for me.’

‘It is for my own benefit, Siddhesh ji. I was alarmingly bored socializing with the usual suspects.’ She studied him with her kohl-lined eyes, tapping her painted nails on the table to a distant music. ‘I know you came from India to cover the funeral of Kehan Karunaratne, KK, who passed away early morning today. The internationally acclaimed editor-in-chief of The Punchline. You’re doing this interview as a side story.’

He felt a surge of uneasiness and let out an embarrassed cackle. ‘In-In Jaipur Literature Festival last year, you recited a poem on the increasing incidents of mob justice and lynching. And I quote . . .’

‘Yes, I spoke about that noble band who want the others to do exactly what they like. But must we continue in this depressing vein?’ A spicy cloud from her cigar twirled before eloping with the sea breeze.

‘Uh-huh . . . No, Qailah ji, not if you don’t like. Um . . . let me see. What is your favourite character in literature?’

‘You really mean to ask this question?’ She raised a perfectly arched brow.

‘No, actually . . . the favourite character you have written?’

‘Have you read my books? What is your favourite character from my novels, Siddhesh ji?’

Siddhesh almost took his gnawed nails to his teeth and stopped midair, horrified, directing his hand to scratch his chin instead. Tickle it, more likely, with the nailless fingers.

‘I have not had the honour . . . um . . . of reading . . .’

‘Gawd, the impoliteness of being polite all the time! That’s okay, you don’t look the reading type to me. Just the writing type.’ Qailah gestured at a crisp waiter with her cigar. ‘Malinga, can you be a saviour and see they don’t put more than two olives in my dry martini?’

‘Sure, Ma’am.’

‘What will be your poison tonight?’ she asked Siddhesh.

‘Er . . . just a cup of coffee. Cappuccino please. Extra milk.’ The waiter gave an efficient nod before striding away purposefully.

The bar was beyond the archways and a black and white chequered passage. The twentieth-century club with its white-washed walls stood right opposite Temple Trees, the prime minister’s official residence. Shouldering the American Embassy on one side and an ugly high rise under construction on the other, the club opened its arms to the Indian Ocean.

The scattered tables around the terrace and lawns had started filling up. The sun had sunk and the kids, wrapped in purple pool towels by their attending maids, were being marched to the changing rooms. They looked like walking banana flowers.

In Courage Under Fire, former Nestlé India Chairman Suresh Narayanan draws from four decades of experience to explore what leadership truly demands—especially when uncertainty is high and the stakes are even higher.

***

Why is leadership important? What makes someone a good leader? Is leadership a natural calling, or simply a role people learn to play? Are leaders born, or can leadership traits be developed over time?

All of these are meaningful questions. But for our purpose, we will focus on two:

What makes a good leader? And why is leadership especially important during a crisis?

At its core, leadership is simply about being human— consistently, in every situation, whether times are good or extremely difficult. When we strip away all the impressive titles and adjectives, leadership comes down to a few basics: trust, values, behaviour, credibility and outcomes.

Leadership starts with selfawareness. It is the ability to understand your own purpose, values, strengths and limitations. These inner foundations shape how you behave and how you make decisions. Over time, your actions—repeated again and again, day after day—form the basis of your leadership identity.

You can lead a team of ten or a team of ten thousand. In both cases, the impact you create can be hugely meaningful or barely noticeable. What matters is not the size of your team, but the depth of your influence—how you show up, how people experience you and how you help them navigate uncertainty.

In a crisis, this becomes even more important. People look to leaders for clarity, confidence and direction. A leader’s presence can steady a team the way a lighthouse guides a ship on a dark night.

Great leadership is not about position; it is about responsibility, authenticity and the ability to inspire trust— especially when it matters most.

When I travel, I often choose to visit colleges that are not considered ‘toptier’. Instead of A or A+ institutions, I make it a point to go to B or Crated schools. These places hold tremendous untapped potential—potential that often needs the right mentor, the right voice of encouragement, to come alive.

In my interactions with students from these institutions, I’ve noticed something important: there is very little difference between them and students from well known colleges. In fact, many from lesser known schools display more dedication, gratitude and enthusiasm. What they sometimes lack are opportunities and mentors who believe in them.

I experienced this again during a field visit from Jaipur to Kanauta in Rajasthan—a bumpy 40minute ride where I was accompanied by Soniya Ojha, a 25 yearold sales officer from Chhapra, in Bihar. Throughout the drive, she shared her story of leaving her small village and joining one of the world’s largest food and beverage companies. Her energy was infectious. At one point, she stopped and shyly asked, ‘Main kya bahut baat kar rahi hoon? Aap bilkul papa jaise ho’—’Am I talking too much? You remind me of my father.’

That simple, heartfelt moment reminded me how deeply young professionals value a guiding presence. It reinforced a powerful truth: mentorship matters. Even brief interactions can strengthen confidence, shape aspirations and help the next generation stay committed to their leadership journeys.

This is not to take away from premier institutes—they have produced many exceptional leaders. But experiences like these show that leadership is shaped far more by individual attitude and the mentors who influence that attitude, rather than the prestige of one’s institution.

An essential leadership trait is the willingness to take on difficult tasks. I am always impressed by young employees who volunteer for tough assignments. They show courage, initiative and a desire to grow. Mentors play a key role here, too—often, it is a leader’s belief in a young professional that gives them the confidence to raise their hand for the harder job.

Ultimately, whether in a classroom or a corporate field visit, I’ve learned that leadership potential exists everywhere. What unlocks it is mentorship, opportunity and the courage to take on challenges.

In Glimpses of a Golden Childhood, Osho takes us back to the untamed beginnings of his life, where innocence, rebellion and an unwavering freedom of spirit shaped the enlightened storyteller he would become.

***

The wild geese

do not intend to make their reflections.

The water has no mind to receive their images.

Ahhh, so beautiful. Wild geese not intending to make their reflections, and the water not intending to receive them either, and yet the reflection is there. That is the beauty. Nobody has intended, and yet it is there – that’s what I call communion. I have always hated communication. To me communication is ugly. You can see it happening between a wife and a husband, a boss and a servant, and so on and so forth. It never really happens. Communion is my word.

I see Buddha Hall with all my people, just for a moment like a flash: so many moments of communion. It is not just a gathering, it is not a church. People do not come to it formally. People come to me, not to it. Whenever there is a master and a disciple – it may be only the master and just one disciple, that does not matter – communion happens. It is happening right now, and there are only four of you. Perhaps with my eyes closed I can’t even count, and it is good; only then can one remain in the world of the

unaccountable – and tax free too! If you can count, then taxation comes in.

I am unaccountable; nobody has ever taxed me.

I was a professor in a university. When they wanted to raise my pay, I said, “No.”

The vice chancellor could not believe it; he said, “Why not?”

I said, “Beyond what I am getting now I would have to pay taxes, and I hate taxation. I would rather remain with the pay I am getting right now than get more and be bothered by the income tax department.” I never went beyond the limit which was allowed to remain tax free.

I have never paid any income tax; in fact there is no income. I have been giving to the world, not taking anything from the world. It is out-come, not income. I have given out of my heart and my being.

It is good that flowers are allowed to be tax free, otherwise they would stop flowering. It is good that snow is allowed to be tax free, otherwise it would not snow, believe me!

I must tell you that after the Russian revolution something happened to the Russian genius; Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Maxim Gorky – they all disappeared. Yet in Russia today, the writer, the novelist, the artist, is the most highly paid and honored person. So what happened? Why don’t they create books like Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina, Fathers and Sons, The Mother, or Notes from the Underground anymore? Why? I want to ask a thousand times, why? What happened to the Russian genius for writing novels?

I don’t think any country could compete with Russia. If you count only

ten novels of the world, just out of necessity you will have to include five Russian novels, leaving only five for the whole remaining world. What hap-pened to this great genius? It died! Because flowers cannot be ordered, there are no ten commandments for them. Flowers flower – you cannot order them to flower. Snow falls – you cannot issue a commandment, you cannot make a date with it. That is impossible. And that is so with the buddhas. They say what they want to say, when they want to say it. They will say, even to a single person, something which the whole world would like to hear.

Now you are here, perhaps only four. I say “perhaps” because my mathematics is poor, and with closed eyes – you can understand – and with tears in my eyes, not because only four are present but for this beautiful morning, for the sunrise.

Thank God. He thinks of me; although he does not exist, still he thinks of me. I deny him, and yet he thinks of me. Great God! Existence seems to take care. But you do not know the ways of existence: they are unpredictable. I have always loved the unpredictable.

My tears are for the sunrise. Existence has taken care of me. I had not asked.

Nor did it reply.

But still the care has been taken.

The wild geese

do not intend to cast their reflections.

The water has no intention to reflect their images.

That’s how I am speaking. I do not know what the next sentence is going to be or whether it is going to be at all. Suspense is beautiful.

I am reminded again of the small village where I was born. Why existence should have chosen that small village in the first place is unexplainable. It is as it should be. The village was beautiful. I have traveled far and wide but I have never come across that same beauty. One never comes again to the same. Things come and go, but it is never the same.

Some love stories end. Others simply wait for the right moment to begin again. You Were Never Meant To Read This by Shrijeet Shandilya returns to Dev and Tanishka’s story, where fifteen months after their goodbye, one unexpected message changes everything.

***

Thinking of her pulls me back to college. Specifically, the last few months.

Those last six months were a constant unsaid battle between me trying to move on and trying not to feel everything all the time. Assignments, deadlines and fake smiles acted as bandages to cover the wounds. Soon, it became difficult to tell whether I was busy living or busy hiding.

Time kept moving, tugging me along with it.

There was no contact with Tanishka. The last time I heard her name was from Avantika, someone I wish I’d never met, when she called me on my birthday.

October left Goa soon after, the way the monsoon does, slowly and softly with the promise of sun. Similarly, after that last call with Avantika, things with her didn’t end loudly, they just stopped. Only the sun never came.

College didn’t stop for me. Placements, late night parties, endless gossip, lectures—everything kept moving the way it always had. Helping me fill the days so that I wouldn’t have to sit with what was missing.

The day I got placed in ITL, my MBA degree unofficially ended. Everything felt different after. Lectures, group projects, getting a decent grade, everything became a formality.

By March, as college moved closer to actually ending, I realized how much it had changed. Most of the batch was placed, and now, there were only two categories of people left. The ones with an offer and those chasing the offers.

The ones still chasing didn’t talk much about it. They didn’t need to. You could see it on their faces. Every rejection was like a slap to the face. Every shortlisting felt like a thread of hope, only for it to be snatched away when the offer went to someone else. I could see it in their eyes, the quiet fear of being left behind.

Failure in placements is easy to measure. It’s black and white, yes or no. But when people drift apart, there is no rejection email. You just realize, slowly, that you’re no longer part of someone’s life the way you used to be. Like the smoke left behind after a candle is blown out, you get left behind without any explanation.

I wasn’t absent, I was right there with everyone, sitting in class, laughing in the canteen with people around me. On the surface I looked fine. But deep down, I was only waiting. Waiting for one thing.

Tanishka.

In Yeh Dil Maange More, Anupma Mehta and Vishal Batra bring us closer to the man behind the legend—Captain Vikram Batra, remembered not only as a Param Vir Chakra awardee and Kargil hero, but as a beloved son, brother and friend.

***

‘Hello, Brother’—these words are still ringing in my ears more than twenty-five years after they were uttered as I recollect my last physical encounter with Vikram. And even today, I can feel the warm squeeze of his bear hug as his arms encircled my shoulders, oozing the warmth and collegiality that defined our relationship from the time we emerged together from our mother’s womb. His embrace was tighter than usual, perhaps a premonition that there would never be another.

Vikram was on his way to Sopore, in the Baramulla district of Jammu and Kashmir, where he was posted immediately prior to the outbreak of the Kargil War in the summer of 1999. During his tenure at Sopore, we kept hearing intermittent and disturbing news of the escalating war with India’s perennial foe, Pakistan, at Kargil. His unit, 13 Jammu and Kashmir Rifles, was scheduled to travel to Shahjahanpur, Uttar Pradesh, where an advance party had already set up base. However, soon thereafter, the entire unit was instructed by the army authorities to prepare to move to Dras, Ladakh, in anticipation of the mounting hostilities at Kargil.

On the day of our final meeting, Vikram was still a lieutenant, not yet having been promoted to the rank of captain. As I looked at him, soaking in his warm and compelling presence, I realized that though Vikram had been commissioned in the army just fifteen months ago at the age of twenty-three, he already seemed to have matured much beyond his twenty-four years, while still holding only his first rank and occupying his first posting as a soldier.

Our meeting occurred just at the conclusion of Vikram’s commando’s course before he was slated to report at Shahjahanpur along with his unit. The course, offered at the Commando Training School at Belgaum, Karnataka, which has to be mandatorily completed by all infantry soldiers in the army, signifies one of the toughest training regimens in the world. The thirty-five-day programme, focused on honing the mental and physical endurance of soldiers, is aimed at inculcating in them advanced skills such as close-quarter battle, demolition, deep-sea diving, survival techniques and weapon handling. After completing the course, soldiers become members of their respective unit’s Ghatak Platoon, serving as elite first responders in combat situations. For visual reference, the 1991 Hindi action movie Prahaar, starring Nana Patekar and Madhuri Dixit, graphically elucidates the participants’ actual experiences during the course.

My meeting with Vikram at the railway station at New Delhi, almost a déjà vu of our teenage memories of the movie, thus acquired an even deeper significance. The completion of his commando’s course, characterized by the rigorous and back-breaking training that he had undergone, symbolized a radical transformation in his persona. My mischievous and carefree childhood mate, though still radiating guts and gall, had clearly evolved into a maturer, stronger yet calmer individual, ready to face head-on every challenge that life would lay down in his path.

The course, lasting from 27 January to 7 March 1999, had obviously had a seminal effect on Vikram’s personality. What, however, remains irrevocably etched in my memory is the emergence of a tall, thin and totally bald man from the train, like all the other commandos who were mandated to shave their heads while being enrolled in the course. The moment and the date, 9 March 1999, have a profound connotation in my life, as that was eventually the last time I saw Vikram alive, with that image remaining perpetually ingrained in my consciousness.

I was at the time posted in Delhi, working for a well known finance company, when Vikram messaged me that he would meet me while passing through the Hazrat Nizamuddin station in New Delhi on his way back to join his unit at Sopore. He deboarded at the station from the Goa Express around 7.30 a.m. I was eagerly waiting to pick him up in my cousin Sunny’s brand-new Maruti 800, having, in fact, just completed my driving lessons. The number plate of the car, carrying the number, UAW4359, is also clearly engraved in my mind. Since we used to exchange letters often, Vikram knew that I was learning to drive, and I was impatient to show off my driving skills as I reached the station. But my elation soon turned to utter bewilderment, watching more than 150 identically dressed bald commandos emerging from the train, which was then the only means of transport for the army personnel returning after concluding their course.

I was trying desperately to spot Vikram from among the maze of similar-looking men wearing similar outfits, when I felt a large hand patting me on my back. I turned around to see a chikna, ganja, thin guy, vaguely looking like my brother. ‘What happened to you, Man?’ was my befuddled question. Notwithstanding his thin visage, the glow on his face was undimmed and our constantly positive vibes ensconced us as we hugged each other, our silence exuding emotions louder than any words.

In The Trials of a Nation, Priya Jain takes us back to the turbulent years after Independence to explore how India’s Constitution was shaped, debated and ultimately adopted—and how the foundations of the Republic were built.

***

Everything in this world, whether it’s a person, a religion, or an entire country, operates according to a specific set of rules and principles. These rules explain how things work and maintain order. India, too, has an instructive document that outlines how the nation operates, governs and protects its people. This document defines the powers and duties of institutions and guarantees rights to its citizens, making India an organized and civilized state. This document is the Constitution of India.

The end of the freedom struggle in 1947 marked the start of nation-building. The challenge was to create a sovereign, democratic republic that ensured equal rights, freedoms and opportunities for all citizens under the rule of law. Not only did we have to unite a very diverse population, we had to harmonize opposing interests and set up a framework to protect justice, liberty and equality for future generations. It was against this backdrop that the Constitution of India began to be drafted to establish legal structures and lay the foundation for democratic governance and national identity.

On 9 December 1946, in preparation for Independence, representatives from across India met in Constitution Hall, now known as Parliament House, in New Delhi, representing varied linguistic, religious, cultural and ideological backgrounds, to help shape the nation’s constitutional framework. The assembly included freedom f ighters, jurists, social reformers and visionaries who had opposed colonial rule. Many of those who had played a seminal role in gaining independence were now tasked with building the nation’s institutional framework.

The Constituent Assembly commenced drafting a Constitution to unify 565 princely states, numerous provinces and a population of over 300 million, with diverse aspirations, ideas, hopes and concerns that reflected the nation’s complexity.

The Constituent Assembly held extensive debates to create a sovereign, democratic republic that guaranteed equal legal rights and freedoms to all citizens. Over the next two years, eleven months and eighteen days, the assembly held extensive debates to create a sovereign, democratic republic through which it carefully examined and refined each clause, article and principle.

On 26 November 1949, the Constitution of India was officially adopted, marking both a significant legal achievement and the official establishment of modern India. But was the creation of the Constitution this straightforward?

How did it start?

The creation of the Constituent Assembly was a key moment in India’s political development. Although the idea had been talked about for years, it only took shape in the mid-1940s. The British Government, pressured by Indian leaders and global events after World War II, sent the Cabinet Mission in 1946 to create a constitutional framework for a free India. Their plan proposed that a body elected from the provincial legislatures and nominated by the princely states would draft the constitution of a free India. This recommendation paved the way for a representative assembly responsible for drafting a constitution that would represent an ancient civilization such as India and a nation about to achieve independence. Formation of the Constituent Assembly As per the plan put forth by the Cabinet Mission, the Constituent Assembly was not established through direct elections by the people. Instead, its members were elected by the provincial legislative assemblies using a system of proportional representation through the single transferable vote, which aimed to ensure representation of different political groups and communities. The princely states, which followed their own governance systems, were to nominate their representatives.

When the assembly first met on 9 December 1946, its total strength was 389 members: 292 from British Indian provinces, 93 from princely states, and 4 from the chief commissioner’s provinces. This composition changed significantly after the Partition of India in 1947, when the seats allocated to territories that became Pakistan ceased to be part of the assembly. As a result, the membership was reduced to 299, and the reconstituted assembly continued the critical task of drafting one of the world’s most detailed and enduring constitutions.

The Assembly’s first meeting served both a serious and a symbolic purpose. Dr Sachchidananda Sinha, the oldest member, served as temporary chairman to honour his seniority and contribution to public life. Soon after, Dr Rajendra Prasad was elected as the assembly’s permanent president. He approached this role with dignity, restraint and a devotion to building consensus.

H.C. Mukherjee became the vice president, and B.N. Rau, an accomplished civil servant and legal expert, was appointed as constitutional adviser. Rau’s role was essential as he prepared the initial drafts, researched other constitutions and guided the committees on technical issues.

In Everyday Etiquette: The Art of Mindful Living, Manik Kaur challenges the idea that etiquette is about rigid rules and social status, and instead reclaims it as something far more meaningful: mindfulness in action.

***

Busting Myths and Reclaiming the Lost Art of Grace

Say the word ‘etiquette’ and most people immediately think:

‘Too old-fashioned.’

‘Too elite.’

‘Too stiff for the real world.’

It conjures up images of girls in white gloves balancing books on their heads or men learning to hold cutlery like weapons of social status. A concept tucked away in drawing rooms, wedding invites or five-star hotel lobbies.

But let me tell you a secret: the most powerful form of etiquette doesn’t need a ballroom.

It shows up in the simplest moments—when you respond to a junior’s email with kindness, when you greet your house help with eye contact or when you let someone finish speaking before jumping in with your point.

True etiquette is not a performance. It’s presence.

Real-Life Moment: When a Junior Taught Me a Lesson

Years ago, during a corporate workshop in Delhi, I met a young HR assistant from a Tier 2 city. She was quiet, observant and barely spoke during the session. But at lunch, when I couldn’t find a spoon at the buffet, she walked up, offered hers and said, ‘Ma’am, you speak so kindly about mindfulness. I just thought you shouldn’t have to go searching.’

It was such a simple gesture—yet it told me everything about her upbringing, self-awareness and emotional intelligence. No expensive course, no finishing school. Just real values, practised quietly, without an audience.

That, to me, is etiquette in its purest form.

A few months later, I witnessed another moment that said even more about human awareness—this time, at the Delhi airport.

It was a busy morning flight. The check-in queue was long, and everyone was buried in their phones or staring at their boarding passes. Ahead of me stood a young man in jeans and a plain T-shirt.

A few steps behind us, an elderly lady struggled with her luggage trolley. Most passengers noticed but conveniently looked away. Before I could move, the young man quietly stepped aside, gestured for her to come ahead and helped lift her bag onto the conveyor. No fanfare, no performative smile—just a quiet act of presence.

She thanked him softly; he nodded, almost embarrassed by the attention. The line moved on.

But in that instant, I was reminded that refinement isn’t about status or fashion—it’s about sensitivity. That one small act of awareness spoke louder than any perfectly crafted selfpresentation.

Because grace doesn’t shout. It simply notices and acts.

The Real Definition: Mindfulness in Action

Forget what you’ve been told. Etiquette isn’t about being prim and proper. It’s about being aware—of your surroundings, your words, your timing and your impact.

It reveals itself in how you speak—not in volume but in clarity and warmth. In how you listen—not waiting for your turn to reply but genuinely holding space for someone else’s words. In the energy you carry into a room—composed, considerate and present. In the simple act of looking up from your phone when someone is speaking to you.

Try this simple experiment: say, ‘Hi’ to someone. You’ll almost always get a cheerful, ‘Hi! How are you?’ in return. But before you can answer, their gaze will have drifted elsewhere. The question was never meant to invite an answer; it was just a polite reflex. We’ve reduced genuine connection to a social cue. No one seems to be interested in the real, descriptive answer. Everyone seems to just expect the short and standard, ‘I’m fine’ or ‘I’m good/great!’ Don’t you agree?

Real listening requires more than ears; it requires presence. It means holding space for someone else’s words, even if it’s for thirty seconds, without mentally preparing your next line or glancing at a screen. Because when you listen with full attention, you’re silently saying, ‘You matter.’

In the simplest of terms, etiquette is how we say, without words: ‘I see you. You matter.’

What happens when a college dare turns into a love story—and the perfect Instagram relationship starts revealing its not-so-perfect side? Days with My Red-Flag Girlfriend by Kajol Aikat dives into the messy, addictive world of modern college romance, where couple reels become relationship receipts and red flags are harder to ignore than ever.

***

The first weekend of college felt like a house party with no curfew. 

Fairy lights blinked across balconies, bass thudded through the walls and the hostel rooftop buzzed with laughter, smoke and the scent of instant noodles and cheap cologne. Freshers Week at Hansraj College was less about orientation and more about becoming someone new. 

I leaned against the water tank, nursing a warm Coke and pretending to enjoy the music. My curly hair had that stubborn post-shower puff; my black T-shirt clung to my back in patches of nervous sweat. I didn’t know half the people here, and the ones I did were already performing for someone else’s Instagram story. 

‘Vikrant bro, you’re the only one here not looking for content,’ said Karan, one of my newly adopted dorm-mates, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘Chill. Loosen up.’ 

‘I’m chill,’ I muttered, eyeing the dancing crowd. 

‘You look like you just got dumped by someone you’ve never dated.’ 

‘Thanks, Freud.’ 

The music changed to a desi-pop remix, and a louder whoop erupted from the group by the speaker. That’s when she walked in. 

Tara Neer. 

Crop top, cargo pants, hoop earrings and a messy bun that looked way too intentional to be an accident. Her smile wasn’t just charming—it had the weight of thousands of double-taps behind it. People parted for her like she was wearing a neon sign that said: Verified in Real Life. 

‘Speak of the algorithm,’ Karan whispered. ‘Queen T. Two lakh followers and climbing.’ 

I glanced at her and quickly looked away. She was beautiful—and completely out of my orbit. 

‘I dare you,’ Karan said suddenly. I raised an eyebrow. ‘To what?’ 

‘DM her. Right now, behenchod! Slide in, make her laugh. Let’s see those writer skills in action.’ 

‘Nope.’ 

‘Oh, come on. You write romantic poetry and quote Rupi Kaur when you’re drunk.’ 

‘That was once. And it was Nayyirah Waheed.’ 

Karan smirked. ‘Exactly. You have the soul of a simp. 

Time to put it to use.’ 

Another guy in the group chimed in. ‘We’ll even pitch the first line for you: “Hey, are you a filter? Because you just made my day look better.”’ 

The group cracked up. 

I rolled my eyes, pulling out my phone anyway. The screen lit up. I opened Instagram and searched: @taraneerx. 

There she was. Her profile photo was a mirror selfie in natural light, #NoFilter vibes with a caption that read: Mood: Nobody’s type but still trending. 

I hesitated. Then typed: ‘Your last reel had more personality than half the people at this party.’ 

I hovered over the send icon. My heart thumped. Karan nudged me. ‘Come on, Romeo. Slide.’ 

I hit send. 

Nothing happened. Obviously. 

By the time I returned to my room, the Coke had gone flat and so had my mood. The ceiling fan made a rhythmic thak-thak-thak noise that matched my overthinking. I opened my phone. 

Seen. 

No reply. 

I groaned and tossed the phone across the bed. ‘Well, that was fun,’ I muttered. 

Minutes passed. Then— 

Ping. 

My phone lit up. 

‘That’s because I only spoke to half the people at that party.’ 

I blinked. 

Is this . . . real? I wondered. 

Before I could overthink it, another message appeared. 

‘And I spoke only to the ones who send better pick-up lines than “Are you a filter?’ 

I sat up straight, adrenaline washing away my exhaustion. 

Think of a fucking pick-up line, genius! It was hardest to come up with those lines when you needed them the most.