Falling in love was completely out of the syllabus for Adah Goel. She had always been laser-focused on one thing: her goal of attaining a medical degree and starting her practice. With countless hours spent studying and a relentless pursuit of excel...
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SAMARTH
"SAM! Open the door," my sister yelled from the kitchen, her voice cutting through the loud cricket commentary blaring from the TV. I hummed in acknowledgment, still glued to the screen. India was winning! My heart was racing; my atrium and ventricles were definitely going to burst!
"SAM! DID YOU NOT HEAR ME?" she hollered again, and this time I shouted back, "I opened it, Di! Jiju's inside already!" My eyes were wide as I clutched the remote like a lifeline. India had to win—no distractions.
Suddenly, a sharp tug on my ear yanked me out of the cricket-induced trance. "Ow, ow, ow!" I cried, wincing as my sister twisted my ear with a practised hand.
"You don't lie to your sister, kid!" she gritted through clenched teeth before stomping off to open the door herself. I rubbed my poor ear furiously, glaring at her retreating back. The infamous Hitler was at it again. Why do I even live here? Oh right—welcome to my glorious life of being scolded daily by my overbearing sister, who acts like she's raising a toddler instead of an 18-year-old.
Jiju, aka Dr. Abhir Mishra, breezed in with a grin, completely unfazed by the chaos. I pointed dramatically at his wife, who was still glaring at me like she could set me on fire with her eyes. "See? Your Hitler wife is at it again," I muttered under my breath, though loudly enough for her to hear. Samriddhi, or Hitler, as I so lovingly called her, was eight years older than me but acted like she had an entire century's worth of wisdom.
Jiju plopped down next to me on the sofa, his eyes flicking to the TV. "Who's winning?" he asked casually, as if my life wasn't in imminent danger from her wrath.
Before I could answer, Di swooped in like a hawk, snatching the remote and switching off the television with a decisive click. The screen went black. My soul screamed in despair.
"Why did you switch it off?! I was watching the match!" I bellowed, genuinely aggrieved. The audacity!
"You're addicted, Samarth," she snapped, twisting my ear again, just for good measure. "You spend all day glued to that thing. No more TV!"
"Jiju, see what your wife's doing to me!" I pleaded, but he just chuckled—chuckled—and immediately put a finger to his lips when Di threw him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
"You, Dr. Abhir Mishra, stop encouraging him," she ordered, wagging a finger at him before marching back into the kitchen. Jiju gave a sheepish smile and a slight shrug. Shoe licker, I thought, crossing my arms.
"How did you even marry her?" I muttered, shaking my head in disbelief. He laughed quietly, but there was a flicker of genuine affection in his eyes.
"You should listen to your sister, Sam," he said softly, leaning back on the sofa, acting all wise and mature. Typical Jiju.
I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they'd get stuck in the back of my head. "She acts like I'm some criminal for watching a cricket match. Seriously, who hates cricket?"
