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This chap is affectionately dedicated to -
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"

I'm not the type to cycle in and out of relationships. I experience true connection rarely and would never dare settle for less. I'd rather wait a lifetime in isolation for something that genuinely captivates me, than rush into something shallow or ordinary just to feel needed............................"

Late morning sunlight seeped into a modest 1 BHK apartment, casting gentle rays that danced across the cream coloured tiled floor.

Vatsal yawned and stretched as he emerged from his slumber. The clock on his bedside table read 10:39 AM, confirming it was indeed a lazy Sunday.

After a brief moment of lethargy, he dragged himself out of his floor bed mattress, feeling the need to shake off the last vestiges of sleep. He trudged into the bathroom, where a quick, cold shower helped him regain some semblance of alertness. It was a habitual Sunday ritual - the tardy awakening, the shock of cold water, all part of the routine he'd come to accept in last two years of his 27 years of existence.

With newfound energy, Vatsal was hunched over in the cramped kitchen, dressed in a faded casual t-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans. With tousled hair and a five o'clock shadow that seemed to arrive sooner each day, he was the picture of a man living on the edge of routine.

The kitchen was a chaotic jumble of mismatched utensils and scattered crumbs. It lacked even the most basic essentials, a testament to his minimalistic lifestyle. He fumbled through a cluttered drawer, searching for a packet of ready to make noodles that seemed to have vanished into the abyss.

Opening the fridge, he was greeted by the desolate sight of emptiness. Save for two lonely slices of bread, one at the start and the other at the end of a single loaf, there was nothing to sustain him. Vatsal sighed, the sound echoing in the quiet apartment.

With a resigned shrug, he tossed the slices into the toaster. As they browned, filling the place with a familiar scent, he thought of the hearty breakfast that awaited him at his friend, Ojas's place.

Ojas and his wife, Leher, were best friends to him in that alienated city. He knew Ojas from grade 1. Later, their respective works brought them to a new common city together.

Vatsal knew Leher from college days. Later, their friendship grew more stronger when Ojas and Leher decided to end their courtship and get hitched. It had been almost two years of their marriage now.

With the toast in hand, he decided to indulge himself momentarily in his phone.

His workplace's group chat had sprung to life with messages from early birds, discussing the day's tasks.

His mother had also reached out, her messages a mix of concern and motherly affection. She asked if he was up and why he hadn't returned her call from last night.

But then, amidst the familiar messages, there was one that made his eyebrows furrow. A single text from a certain someone, someone he had unresolved or can say no feelings for. He didn't know what he wanted from this person, or what this person wanted from him but he couldn't ignore the strange sensation it stirred within him.

A piece of toast halfway to his lips, Vatsal stared at the screen, fingers poised over the virtual keyboard. The cursor blinked, waiting for his response.

He hesitated, unsure of how to respond. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, but every message from this person seemed to hold a peculiar power over him. He hesitated every damn time.

His fingers danced across the screen, eventually, he typed out a noncommittal reply, 'Anything is fine with me', and hastily closed the chat and the phone, as if trying to distance himself from the complex emotions it had stirred.

In the quiet kitchen, Vatsal's toast grew cold, and he found himself lost in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, trapped between the mundane demands of life and the aspirations he held from himself.

-----|-----

Under the warm wintry Sunday afternoon sun, Shubhita stood on her terrace, her long hair cascading down her back, glistening in the sunlight. It was evident that she had taken the time to shampoo her hair that day, a small self-care indulgence amid her busy life. Surrounding her were rows of freshly washed clothes, hanging on the clothesline, dancing gently in the breeze. A testament to her diligence in completing the chores she had postponed all week.

Yet, there was no rest for her.

In her hands, she held a stack of test papers, each one representing the efforts of her students. As she meticulously reviewed them, her expression darkened. The clear skies and the distant hum of city life provided a stark contrast to the disappointment that welled up within her.

Nearly half of her students had not passed the test, and even those who had, had performed only averagely. She couldn't help but feel a sense of disappointment and frustration. The effort she had put into teaching and guiding them had not yielded the results she had hoped for. The weight of responsibility as an educator bore down on her, and the peaceful afternoon was tainted by her concern for her students' progress.

As the afternoon sun continued its descent, her mood grew increasingly sour. She couldn't help but feel a weight on her shoulders, knowing that her students' performance reflected her effectiveness as a teacher.

With a sigh, she continued to flip through the papers, determined to find a way to help her students improve.

She descended the stairs, leaving behind the sun-soaked terrace. Her hair, while not entirely dry, still carried a faint scent of shampoo. She gathered them quickly, pulling them into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

As she tied them up, she reached for her sweater, pulling it snugly over her shoulders.

Later in the bustling Parihar kitchen, Shubhita and her mother, Mrs. Parihar, were collaborating on a project that involved making homemade Indian pickles. This was a cherished family tradition, and they were determined to get it just right.

After a while, Shubhita, carefully slicing fresh-raw mangoes, looked over at her mother with a grin.

"Mumma, do you remember the first time I tried your mango pickle? I thought I'd just had a bite of the sun."

Mrs. Parihar chuckled, her fingers expertly mixing spices.

"Ah, yes! You made such a funny face with that mix of sweet and spicy."

Shubhita nodded, her knife skills improving over the years.

"I never understood why you called it 'sunshine in a jar' until that moment."

"Well, it's all about the balance of flavours, dear. That's the secret."

Mrs. Parihar added mustard seeds to the mix. Shubhita poured the spice mixture into a jar of sliced raw mangoes, her eyes twinkling.

"And what's your secret ingredient, Mumma?"

"A sprinkle of nostalgia and a lot of love."

Her mother leaned in and whispered in her ear. They both shared a knowing smile, a bond between them that transcended generations. As they sealed the pickle jar, they knew that it held not just the tangy delight of homemade pickles but also the warmth of shared memories and family traditions along with culinary heritage.

The fragrant aroma of spices and simmering curries enveloped the cozy kitchen of the Parihar residence in the evening.

Shubhita, was bustling around, her nimble fingers expertly working their culinary magic. Her mother, Mrs. Parihar, was a constant presence in the kitchen. Like every other Sunday, today too, Mrs. Parihar had surrendered her post to daughter and was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of steaming tea in her hands, supervising and offering occasional words of advice.

Shubhita wiped her hands on her apron, a hint of perspiration forming on her brow as she checked the simmering pot of dal. Her mother sat nearby, sipping her tea and sharing tales of her own youth of how she learnt the mathematics of kitchen to estimate the amounts of essentialities used in there.

As Shubhita stirred the bubbling pot of curry, the chime of her father's voice floated in from the adjoining drawing room. She paused, her ears perking up, recognizing the tone of the conversation instantly.

Her father, Mr. Parihar, was on a phone call, and the person on the other end was unmistakable.

"Call from there."

Shubhita whispered, more to herself than her mother, as she wiped her hands again, her curiosity piqued. She turned down the heat on the stove and tiptoed to the doorway that separated the kitchen from the drawing room.

In the drawing room, Mr. Parihar was ensconced in his favourite chair, a phone pressed to his ear. His voice, usually stern and business-like, had taken on an unexpectedly pleasant tone as he spoke to the other person.

"Yes, yes, Kashyap Saahab."

He said, a warm smile touching his lips.

"I really appreciate this, and I assure you, we're taking this matter very seriously."

Shubhita's heart raced as she recognized the name on the other end of the line. Her father continued,

"Rest assured, we will make a decision that's in the best interest of both our families."

As the conversation between those two progressed, Shubhita's mind raced. She had yet to meet him properly, talk to him properly, but their families had been in talks for weeks now. This phone call was a critical juncture in their budding relationship, and she was eager to hear her father's stance.

Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Parihar watched her daughter with a knowing smile. She understood the gravity of the situation as well as the anticipation etched on her daughter's face. The decisions being made today or in a few days would shape the course of her daughter's life.

Shubhita leaned against the wall, straining to hear every word of the conversation. Her father's voice, once again the epitome of diplomacy, hid his inner thoughts well.

But she very well knew that beneath the pleasant facade, important choices were being made-choices that would determine her future and the life that awaited her beyond the fragrant walls of her beloved kitchen.

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This is it for now. Hope you liked it. I am sorry for the mistakes.

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