Aparna Sawant, a woman who prioritizes her independence and fulfilling career, has never subscribed to the idea of happily ever after. Marriage, for her, is a practical decision.
Varad Oberoi, a successful businessman hardened by past experiences...
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The familiar opening notes of 3 Idiots filled the living room, signaling the commencement of Antara's weekly torture session. There, sprawled on the couch like a starfish, was Aparna, a pint of ice cream in one hand and the remote in the other, a blissful smile plastered across her face.
"Seriously, Apu? Firse?" Antara drawled, the exasperation evident in her voice.
Aparna, ever the movie martyr, offered a dramatic pause, mirroring Rancho's internal turmoil on screen. "What can I say? It's a ritual, Antara. Every weekend, 3 Idiots and a tub of ice-cream. Now hush, the confession scene is coming up!"
Antara sighed dramatically. Convincing Aparna to deviate from her movie marathons was like trying to herd cats. Still, she couldn't help but mutter, "Three months, Apu. Three months till you're a married woman. You act more like a teenager than I do."
Ignoring her friend's not-so-subtle jibe, Aparna countered with, "Poor Raju!" effectively derailing the wedding talk.
Weekends were sacred to Aparna. They were her designated 'me-time' zones, and what better way to unwind than with a classic Bollywood tearjerker and a sugary escape?
Aparna, a whirlwind of activity during the week, juggled her demanding role as an automotive graphic designer at Aditya Automobiles with her passion project - teaching art and crafts to the bubbly kids at the nearby orphanage. They were her source of immense joy, a chance to unleash her own inner child.
Just as Pia's sister braced herself for Rancho's heartfelt confession, the insistent trill of Aparna's phone pierced the movie's magic.
Clicking her tongue in annoyance, she snatched the phone, muttering a string of complaints under her breath. "Hello? Is this Aparna Sawant?" A woman's voice, laced with concern, crackled through the receiver.
Aparna scooped a spoonful of ice-cream into her mouth, her reply muffled, "Uh-huh. That's me. Who's speaking?"
"This is Oakland Hospital. Do you know a Mohit Shah?"
Aparna froze. The ice-cream tasted like ash in her mouth. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she choked out a shaky response, "Y-yes. I know him. Is he alright?"
A weighty silence followed, punctuated only by the faint hum of the TV. Then, the voice delivered a blow that shattered Aparna's world.
"I'm afraid Mr. Shah was involved in an accident. His condition is critical. He..." The woman hesitated, her voice barely a whisper, "...may not have long."
.
The piercing ring of the phone jolted Varad awake. He fumbled for the receiver, his blurry vision struggling to focus on the clock - nearly midnight.
"Hello? Who is this?" he rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
"Mr. Varad Oberoi?" The voice, official and clipped, sent a jolt of adrenaline through him.
"Yes, speaking. What is it?" He rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the remnants of sleep and sharpen his focus.
"This is Oakland Hospital. We're calling regarding..." The voice paused, then continued gravely, "Shriparna Oberoi."
Varad's breath caught in his throat. His wife's name, a foreign sound in the dead of night. Panic clawed at him, but he forced his voice to remain steady. "What's happened? Is she alright?"
"I'm afraid there's been an accident, sir. We're deeply sorry to inform you that Mrs. Oberoi..." The woman's voice trailed off, her words heavy with dread.
"Mrs. Oberoi...?" Varad repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
"She may not have much time left, sir."
A strangled sound escaped Varad's lips. He fought back the rising tide of panic. "A-and my son?" he stammered, the question tumbling out before he could stop it.
"The baby boy is unharmed, sir," the voice replied, offering a sliver of relief in the suffocating darkness.
