Sanskaar pressed her doorbell, taking care not to crush the flowers he held in that hand. His other hand held a box of chocolates. Both for Swara, of course. As was his 1000 watt smile.

"Come on, Swara," he muttered as he pressed the bell again. He was just about bursting with good cheer, waiting to start sharing the day with her. It was a very special day for him...it was his birthday.

The day had begun with his mother's aarti of course. Blessings from his dad, and mom dragging him to the temple so early in the morning. He protested good naturedly for form's sake, but he knew he couldn't have started any day better.

He was happy. His father was happy and proud of his progress, his mother as always was both without questions, and he had his best friend in Swara. Everything was perfect.

"Swara," he called loudly, impatient to see her. "Door kholo yaar," he tried again, knocking on the door as if the doorbell wasn't enough.

"Aa rahi hu," her voice came muffled through the door.

The door lock clicked, his smile widened as she took the safety chain off and opened the door and...his smile faded as he saw her.

"Swara?" it was concern, and accusation as well. "Ye kya haal bana rakha hai?..."

She was still in her pajamas, hair disheveled, and looked like she would drop in a faint any moment. She had a tell-tale shawl draped over her shoulders.

"Chocolates," she smiled, though it was a little weak. "Mere liye hai?" her voice was a little raspy as well.

"Nahi," he held them out of her reach, "pehle batao phone kyu nahi kiya."

"Do na Sanskaar," she made another half-hearted grab for the box, then let go. "tang mat karo na bimar hu," she pouted.

"Swara," he said again, reprimanding her. She smiled because it was a talent of his: he could express a hundred emotions with just her name. It was the way he said it each time.

Relenting, he handed the box to her. "Lo."

"Thanks." She smiled again as she took it, combing her hair into order with her free hand.

" Par kha nahi sakti tum." He cautioned. "Ab chalo," he put an arm around her and guided her to the couch, elbowing the door shut behind them. "ye bhi tumhare liye hai," he handed her the flowers.

"Thank you," she beamed up at him, despite being bone tired. "kya occasion hai?"

He shook his head no. "pehle ye batao kya hai ye sab." He sat her down on the couch, felt her brow. "bukhar hai tumhe?!"

"Haan," she conceded as she sagged back against the couch. All her spare energy was spent in opening the door and greeting him. Now that she was off her feet for a moment...she sighed.

"Doctor ko dikhana chahiye na Swara," he sat down by her, took her hand. "Gai thi kya tum?" he closed his fingers gently around her wrist. He made it look like a casual gesture, but he wanted to check her temperature- she was burning up all over. "Swara," he called again, worried. Idiot girl had her nose buried in the flowers. "Swara." he gave the hand he held a mild shake.

"Hm?" she looked up from the flowers. He was such a sweetie sometimes...she smiled at him. Most of the time, she amended silently. "Tum na gusse me bahot cute lagte ho," she said laughingly, sniffing at her bouquet again.

"Tum gai thi kya doctor ke paas," he said exasperatedly. Sometimes the normally sensible Swara behaved like this...cryptic and mysterious smiles too.

She was being evasive. But because she was unwell, he decided to cut her some slack."Doctor ke paas nahi gai na tum," he surmised.

She froze for a second, and the dreamy quality of her smile disappeared in a flash - replaced by a curiously blank expression. But before he could think to act on this observation, she was thrusting the flowers at him with a cheerful smile - he had no idea how much it cost her - "Vase me dal do na Sanksaar, bahot pretty hai. Murjha jayenge nahi tho." Hospitals... she avoided them as much as she could. She couldn't stand to be in one...Too many unpleasant reminders.

Normally he would have taken up battle, dragged her to the hospital, no matter however much he hated seeing her in one. Even when they kept vigil for Angel, he hadn't liked it one bit. Swara Was life; she didn't belong in a hospital...

But today ... he sensed something was amiss. He took the bouquet from her and went to get the vase she had pointed to, on the shelf.

As before, he decided not to press it. She was in no shape to do battle, nor did she have the energy to explain. He debated calling a doctor home while he filled the vase with water.

"Sanskaar," she rasped out, trying to hold back the cough. He didn't like to see her hurting, she knew.

He looked up from the vase and flowers, an enigmatic expression on his face. "Bolo."

He set the vase on the table there, went back to sit by her. He could see how much energy it drained from her, even trying to call him.

"Doctor ke paas nahi jana hai." She said quietly as he took her hand again.

Firmly deciding to keep it light, he shot her a grin. "Doctor ko idhar lekar aau phir?"

"Sanksaar - " she hit him on the arm. "Ow!" he complained for form's sake. It hadn't hurt even as much as swatting a fly, but it made her smile. "Kaha bimar ho yar tum, hath thod diya mera." That made her smile some more, weak as it was. She sagged back, deeper into the cushions as exhaustion took over again. "No doctors."

He nodded. "Ok. Dawai?"

She pointed to the shelf again, indicating she couldn't speak much. He nodded again, went to get the medicine box and a glass of water.

She took the water first; her throat felt raw and her lips parched. Eased a sip, and raised the pill to pop it in her mouth when he stopped her - "Khali peth nahi khate Swara. Tumne kuch khaya bhi nahi hoga na?"

She thought about it. "Soup...kal rat ko."

"Offo Swara. Tum bhi na," he took the pill back from her. "Kuch hai tumhare kitchen me khane ko?"

She shook her head tiredly.

"Do minute ruko, me abhi ata hu." He patted her hand and dashed off to get his car keys.

"Sanksaar-" she tried calling him again, but then he was beside her again in a flash. "Ghar ki chabi do. Darwaja me hi khol dunga. Tum yaha se hilna mat okay?"

She looked at him in exasperation, pointed to the key that was hanging on a peg by the door.

"Ok, yun gaya aur yun aya." He flashed her a smile as he darted out. "Hilna mat!" he called out as the door closed behind him.

She shook her head as she shifted, curled up on the couch. Hilna mat. No chance, she thought wryly. She had zero energy anyway. She looked at the vase and the flowers he had arranged in them; her lips curved up in a smile. Lovely flowers.

Then she thought, mad boy. She hoped to God he wouldn't drag in a doctor or anything, though he had asked about food before he zapped out of her home. What was he going to buy? She doubted she could stomach anything but simple fare...But he cared so much, she thought with a fond smile as she drifted off a little. They would see what it was when he came back...

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He took twenty minutes; like he had when he came earlier, he had to maneuver the bag in one hand and open the door with the other. He was armed with glucose and electrol (whichever she felt tasted better), sweet buns and brown bread and some veggies.

Buns for breakfast, soup for lunch. That was his plan.

When he stepped in and kicked the door shut, he saw her as she was, curled up on that couch. It hurt...seeing her so defenseless and weak, she who normally zapped everyone around her with bolts of energy.

Silently he set the bags on the table and went to her.

Not wanting to startle her, he knelt by the couch.

There was a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, few tendrils of damp hair curled around her face. He found the remote for the air-conditioner on the floor by the couch, switched it on and adjusted the temperature to a comfortable setting, tucked the shawl around her. She stirred a little.

He pulled out his handkerchief, mopped the damp away, gently brushed those strands away. "Swara?" he called softly.

She awoke to see his eyes above hers, disembodied to her for a moment. His eyes...then she saw his smile, and her lips curved in response.

He knew the moment sleep cleared from her eyes.

"Hi," her smile softened; her voice was husky with sleep.

And when she smiled at him like that...it made him feel- he shook himself out of it. She needed him today, not these thoughts that went haywire around her, sometimes.

"Can you sit up?" he kept the tone gentle, though he needed another moment to gather his thoughts.

She nodded, sat up with his help. "Kuch kha lo, phir dawai le lo. Buns?" he asked.

She nodded again.

He gave her a bun, water and the tablets.

"Acha ab tum so jao, me lunch me kuch banata hu. Soup?"

"Tumhe banana ata hai kya," she croaked out.

"Bana lunga," he reassured her, telling himself it wouldn't be hard.

"Okay," she lay back on the couch, closed her eyes.

------------------------------

He carried the bags into the kitchen, set them on the counter.

Then stood there, hands on his hips, taking stock. Hers was a small kitchen, and it was neat. The counter space wasn't much, but everything was tucked away or hung neatly in its place. He did expect efficiency from Swara, and it was evident here. But the question was, where would he start?

He dialed his go-to person for everything: mom.

Annapurna picked up after a few rings.

"Ha beta, kaha ho tum?"

"Batata hu ma. Ap kitchen me ho?"

She laughed. "Ha rasoi me hi hu."

"Kheer bana rahi ho na," he laughed too.

"Tumhe kaise pata?" She teased as she stirred raisins and roasted cashews into the kheer she was making for him. "Aaj kheer nahi ban raha hain, main kuch naya try karti hu."

"Mom," he laughed. "Ban gai already, muje uski khushboo yaha tak aa rahi hai."

It was one of his favorites, and of course she would make that on his birthday. That was a given.

Annapurna smiled as she reached for a dusting rag, gesturing to one of the staff to take the dish off the stove to cool it.

"Acha ye batao tum ho kaha. Pata hai na sham ko-"

"Ha mom pata hai. Mom wo meri dost haina Swara - "

"Janti hu Swara ko," she cut in, smiling. "Kaisi hai wo?"

"Mom uski tabiyat kharab hai."

"Oh," instantly concerned, she asked him what was wrong.

Sanskaar explained her condition, that he was going to be around till she was feeling better, and that he wanted to make some soup for her. Annapurna offered to make some and send it over.

"Nahi mom, muje banana hai," he said gently. "Aap batayiye na kaise banate hai."

He wanted to take care of her. She wondered why the thought was slightly worrisome, even though she was proud of him, and so touched that he would want to spend his birthday taking care of someone rather than going out and celebrating. Sighing, she gave him the simplest of recipes: tomato soup. He nodded as she gave it to him, filing it away in his mind. Instant and perfect recall was not something he was just proud of; it was a trusted weapon in his arsenal.

He thanked her, cut the call and went to find the tools. Knife, chopping board. He eyed the mixer on his way to get the knife. She had a good food processor too. Well, he had fended for himself for two years when he went for post graduation, and he could handle a corporation and a kaleidoscope of human emotions everyday in office. Of course he could handle tomato soup. Rolling up his sleeves, he went to work.

He chopped the tomatoes and onions and diced the ginger and garlic- he had found some in her fridge- and added butter to the heated pan. He made a mental note to ask for the recipe first, before he went shopping for the ingredients. Good she had stuff in the fridge.

Making the puree was tricky... he remembered that his mom said he should toss it in the mixer, ensure it was smooth. Okay, then. Smooth it was gonna be. He turned the flame down for the pan- also mom's tip- and poured the sauted tomatoes into the mixer jar carefully. He avoided the food processor studiously. Sure he knew his way around a kitchen and could nuke stuff in the oven when required, but he'd rather not touch the food processor without a look at its manual.

He'd never thought he'd feel apprehensive about a soup.

Frowning a little, he pressed the lid down on the jar, turned the knob to the first speed and turned to see to the onions in the pan, and wham- the lid flew off and puree sprayed all over the place like molten lava- thinking quickly he snapped the main switch off for the mixer. Then stood looking at the mess. Ah, her pretty kitchen looked like a war field...Then he remembered, and glanced down at his shirt. There...on his new wrinkle free rose linen shirt, were cute little splotches of tomato red.

He sighed.

Remembering the box of tissues he saw on her dining table, he went to get it. Saw her sleeping on the couch, smiled wryly as he tackled the tomato puree on his shirt carefully with tissues. "tumhare liye apni nayi shirt bhi kurban kar di maine," he whispered. "Tum bhi kya yad rakhogi." Laughing quietly, he went back in to clean the mess.

It was a challenge, and he set about tackling it the best he could. He found dishcloths, rags, dampened them in water and started out. He had to be quick though, and redo the soup before she woke up; she'd be wanting some form of sustenance.

He winced when he knocked the knife off the counter in his haste- hoping it hadn't disturbed her sleep, he lifted it off the floor and set it on the counter gingerly.

Outside, Swara woke to the clattering of metal against tile...she sat up slowly, wondering what on earth...she heard the opening and closing of cupboard doors, the twist of the tap, water running.

Curious, she sat up straighter.

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Inside, Sanskaar surveyed his rescue attempt. The soup had to go down the sink, as the puree disaster had ruined everything - in his cleaning spree he had discovered the lid of the mixer jar that had landed into the sauted onions in the pan, and cooked awhile in it. How could he botch up something simple as this? He held up the last damp dishrag and examined it. It fared better than his new shirt, anyway. It was comic in a way, he thought with a grimace.

Swara found him thus, holding a damp dishrag aloft as if he were having a philosophical discussion with it.

"Sanskaar?" she called out softly.

He started, turned to see her leaning against the doorframe, pale and frail-looking. An amused smile adorned her lips.

She saw the spots of red on the mixer that he failed to get, the tell-tale splats on the stove near the burner that he was no doubt going to attack next with that dishrag, and the remnants of tomato choppings on the chopping board.

"Kya kar rahe ho?" even raspy, her voice was ripe with amusement.

"Woh main actually Soup bana raha tha," he explained

When her smile widened, he smiled back, kid-caught-in-cookie-jar smile.

"Sanskaar tum bhi na," she straightened and tried to stand on her own, he went to her and helped her to the chair by the little island counter. "Baitho tum. Rest lo. Uthkar kyu ayi?"

She gave a weak laugh. "aise kaha rest milega muje. Kitna shor kar rahe the tum," she said with her tone partly teasing but affectionately.

He shrugged again, that boyish grin reappearing. "Koshish tho kar raha tha, lekin," he pointed to her mixer, "wo mera dushman hai."

"Sanskaar. Tum bhi na..." she shook her head in exasperation. "Me bana leti...pehle bata dete tumhe kitchen me kuch karne ki adat nahi hai..."

"aisi halat me?" he said, instantly contrite. "tum tho sedhe baith bhi nahi sakti."

She was leaning her head against the backrest, he did have a point. "Acha tum banao, me batati hu. Ok?"

He nodded, got the veggies and sat by her, started chopping again. In her raspy, tired voice, she instructed him slowly. Laughed a little at his antics- especially the way he eyed the mixer, it's jar and the offensive lid of the jar that she asked him to hold down pressed while the mixer was on and running.

Together, they managed to make soup from Annapurna's recipe.

When he finished, the look of pride on his face was priceless to her. He looked like a school kid with his first trophy as he beamed at the bowl of soup and then at her. She smiled back indulgently. Lack of energy couldn't take away her pleasure in seeing Sanskaar's innocent joy in having done this task for her.

They had the soup in her pretty little kitchen, with the bread he had bought.

She insisted on waiting him out, just as he insisted on cleaning up. He didn't want her coming in and trying to do dishes or anything.

When he was done, he went to help her up again.

Though she felt better with the food in her system, she felt lightheaded. It probably wasn't fair to him, but she did let him take some of her weight as they walked out of the kitchen. They had to stop and start several times - till he stopped by the couch and looped her arm about his neck and shoulder.

"kya kar rahe ho?" she asked tiredly.

He scooped her up in his arms in answer. "Sanskaar?!" she protested weakly.

"Chup karo Swara. Chal nahi Sakti na tum." He decided against the couch, carried her towards the bedroom.

She looked up at him, trying to sort through the profusion of feelings as he held her against him. She felt safe here...secure and warm and treasured. For one long moment, she soaked in those feelings, absorbing each one of those separately. And hoped to God he didn't see the longing on her face. She couldn't explain, and she couldn't ask...could she? She shut her eyes tight.

He laid her on the bed gently, tucked her in.

Then he went to hit the air-conditioner and set it to room temp, came back to fuss with the throw pillows around her.

She gestured to him that she wanted to sit up. He sat by her, helped her up. Much to his surprise, she leaned back and into him. "Sanskaar...will you stay? Thode der ke liye...?"

She needed him - it was staggering, to have this affirmed by her, and in such simple words...wordlessly, he shifted to allow her head to be cradled on his shoulder, held her to him gently.

She tamped down on the twinge of guilt. Sometimes she was so weak, felt so insubstantial... that it scared her. Like time would slip through her fingers like sand...and if she didn't touch the sand, how would she know how it felt, even if it was just for a moment before it slipped past her? Wasn't she entitled to a little pretense, at least on this day when she was so unwell...pretend that he would always be there when she needed him, that she would always matter to him. It was precious to her, this moment of make-believe. Wanting to keep it light for him, she asked, "shirt kitne ki thi?"

She felt his quiet laughter rock the bedframe. "Brooks Brothers tha Swara. Forget it."

"Oh," she frowned. "Par wo tho...expensive hoga na."

"Tum se zyada important nahi hai," he answered matter-of-factly.

"Par...aise kaise ghar jaoge?" she tried to think it through. "washing machine...dho lo na usme dalke," she said sleepily. She was content in his arms for now, though the state of his shirt nagged like a persistent fly.

"Acha? Aur me kya pehnunga jab wo dhulega machine me?" he countered. "Mujhe Salman Khan banane ka irada hai kya?"

He felt her sleepy giggle rock them both. "Nahi. Par tumhare usse ache hai."

"Kya?" he asked curiously.

"Biceps," she giggled again, drowsy now. This whole situation with surreal, so was the discussion.

Biceps? Flummoxed, he asked her, "tumne kab-"

"Ankhen hai meri Sanskaar." She retorted sleepily.

What?! She thought...she noticed, and then she was saying she liked what she saw...?

"Kab dekhi tumne?" What was she telling him...He checked to see if she was teasing. Her eyes were closed, and there was no amused smile. Not teasing, he deduced. Just stating facts.

"Sanskaar...bat nahi kar Sakti zyada," she mumbled. Why wouldn't he let her sleep...? It was so comfortable here...

"Swara," he said testily. She would say something like this, send him into a spin and then drift off to sleep? Only Swara, he thought ruefully.

"Picnic," she answered, half asleep. "T-shirt me aye the na..."

He could feel the warmth in his cheeks, and was glad she had her back to him and her eyes closed. He peeked at her expression again...peaceful. That was the word for it, peaceful.

Her breathing evened out slowly.

Sometimes he felt he couldn't understand the girl at all...in sleep she shifted a little so her head rested in the crook of his arm. He adjusted automatically, wanting her to be comfortable.

He had needed her to need him, in some corner of his mind, to justify his being around her so much, and to justify his own need for her. And she did need him. It was...overwhelming. And here she was, asleep in his arms, sleeping like a child.

Even knowing it, he couldn't help going under this surge of protectiveness, this swell of tenderness that rose up in inside of him.

Giving in to it, he pressed his lips to her temple gently. I'll always be here, he wanted to tell her. Always...

He eased her down on to the pillows, and got up slowly. She seemed worried about his shirt, however much she had made light of it. He decided to go wash it. That would make him Salman for her for a while, he thought laughingly as he went to hunt up her washing machine.

-----------------------------

Swara woke up alone.

She kept her eyes closed for a while longer while she took inventory. She still felt a little hollow, and tired. Slowly, she sat up. After ensuring her head held in place, she lowered her feet to the ground slowly. She didn't want to risk jerky movements. Sighing, she rubbed sleep away from her face, then froze in place. Sanskaar...

There was a dim memory of him feeding her water in slow sips, some time between now and then. She turned to check. And yes, he was still there, in the chair by the window, eyes closed.

He did stay...she had only asked because of one moment's weakness, and he had stayed...

Incredibly moved, she went to him, thinking of waking him up to thank him, to tell him she- but she couldn't. A glance at the clock told her he had been with her for over four hours. He must be tired too...she decided not to wake him. Whatever she had to tell him could wait.

It struck her that he didn't need to do this...big, important businessmen like him hired people to take care of others, they didn't need to spend their weekend caring for fever-ridden girls or doing dishes. And he had stayed before she had thought to ask even...such a sweetie he was. Her smile softened as she remembered his attempts at soup making, insisting he clean up all the mess, the dishes...and then stayed with her. She liked to believe he would have stayed without her asking even. The thought warmed her, and something other than fever coursed through her veins. Even as she was afraid to name it, she gave in to the urge and gently ran her fingers through his tousled mane of hair. She would always treasure this, and him. Always...

Sanskaar woke to the click of door latch. He looked around. Swara? She wasn't on the bed. Washroom, he thought. Tired, he ran his fingers through his hair, then froze. Had he imagined that caress...?

Maybe he had. He saw the water jug was empty, went to fill it.

He was not there when she came back. Where was he?

She saw the water jug wasn't there on the bedside table. And she could hear the tap running in the kitchen. Because she didn't think she was strong enough yet for her voice to carry through, so she went back to bed to wait for him.

When he came back, she was sitting up, leaning back against thae headboard. "Hi."

He smiled back. "Kaisa lag raha hai ab?" he asked as he poured out a glass of water.

"Better," she replied, wondering what to tell him. What words would suffice...?

Why was she looking at him like that? He thought of how he had woken up, and imagining that gentle caress of her fingers. What was she trying to say...?

The moment passed as he held the tray out to her, water glass, electrol and glucose and a spoon.

She pointed to glucose; he stirred some into the water, gave it to her. "So jao ab," he instructed quietly, moving the glass and packets away from her.

"Sanskaar," she took his hand as he made to move towards the chair.

The words choked her up, refusing to come out. But her eyes were eloquent...

He smiled, understanding. "So jao. I'll be here." He tucked her in, went back to the chair to keep his vigil.

******************************

He looked at the clock. It was nearly 8 hours...he thought he should wake her up for the next tablet, even though the fever had gone down. She should take them properly for a day at the least. He also had to ensure she had some food in her system.

He went to heat the soup, build some sandwiches. Made some black coffee as well, rather light.

Coffee makers were easy, he thought with a smile as he sat down, sipped his own. So much better than pesky mixers with bad lids on the jars.

He pushed the cup away after a minute, reflecting on the long day. Odd way to spend a birthday, maybe. But he knew he wouldn't trade it for anything. He wouldn't have been anywhere else today, given a choice.

Giving in to the exhaustion, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

He didn't realize when exhaustion took over completely, and he drifted off to sleep.

---------------------------------

Swara woke up alone, again. He was nowhere in the room...the time on the clock gave her a jolt. It was five in the evening!

She got off the bed quickly, then stopped, holding the headboard. Okay. She was okay. Head didn't reel, her feet didn't wobble. "Sanskaar?" she called out softly. Her throat was better, too. Slowly she started out. He left? Or was it all just a dream, a product of her feverish brain?

Feeling more than a little put down, she went to the front room and - there. On the table were the flowers he gave her...Sunny and cheerful, they made her smile. Maybe he could have woken her up before he left, she thought as she bent to drink in the scent of those flowers once again. When she looked up, she saw his blazer on the peg by the door, where she hung her bag...and her heart leaped. He hadn't left as yet...

She found him in the kitchen, resting in the hardwood chair, steam still rising up from the forgotten mug of coffee. There was soup on the stove, also steaming hot. As well as some sandwiches that sat near the microwave. The carafe sat next to it, no doubt filled with coffee. Was there anything he didn't think of?

Overwhelmed, she went to sit by him, waiting for him to wake up.

---------------------------------------------------------

She had damn near pushed him out of the house when his mom called for the third time. She assured him she would eat and sleep on time, take the medicine too before she slept, and that she wouldn't faint. And that she would call him if there was anything, though she told him there wouldn't be. She was much, much better, thanks to him. And he promised he'd send the shirt to the dry cleaners.

He smiled as he drove home, thinking of the shirt. It was ruined anyway, but he intended to have it dry cleaned and kept safe in his cupboard - for sentimental reasons.