**Winner 2024 Amby Awards**
Fiza has everything planned-medical school, a respectable future, and an engagement she never wanted. Determined to escape a loveless match, she creates a checklist to find the perfect husband her father will approve of.
...
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"Spandan!" It was finally time for the inter college fest.
I had proactively gathered notes and requested lecture slides from every professor. My backpack was stuffed with study material I planned to review on the bus journey to Pondicherry.
But then came the fashion intervention. Priya, our Delhi-style icon, had descended upon my wardrobe. I tried not to take it personally as she discarded one item after another. She brought her own collection of dresses and tops, laying them out on my bed.
I was raised with certain restrictions—no short skirts, nothing sleeveless—which always limited my options. But then I saw it: a simple black dress. It fell just an inch above my knee, with a scooped neck that revealed the barest hint of cleavage. It was a little outside my comfort zone, but as I looked in the mirror, I smiled excitedly. I looked... fabulous.
"You have to take it," Priya insisted, seeing my expression.
"I think I will," I said, still turning to see the back. "Thank you!" I hugged her.
"Your pants need to be higher, and your tops need to be shorter," she declared, as if stating a universal law. "You can borrow my stuff for now, but when we get back, we have to go shopping."
I didn't think I dressed poorly, but my style was casual and safe. Nothing that would ever turn heads.
"And please," she continued, her nose crinkling, "use an eyeliner and mascara. Stop using kajal under your eyes. It's so... gavaar. And use a lipstick instead of gloss."
I rolled my eyes dramatically, but a part of me was already filing it in my brain for future use.
After saying a quick goodbye to the others at the hostel, I boarded the bus. I slid into a window seat next to Neha from the Indian Music team.
"Fiza, sorry, but Anjana is going to sit here," Neha said apologetically almost immediately.
"No problem," I said, gathering my bag and moving to an empty row a few seats back. I stared out the window, watching everyone else board, a feeling of solitude settling over me.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.
It was Abhishek. A wave of immediate discomfort washed over me. How many times did I have to say it? I'd told him clearly, outside Mahajan's Tea Stall, that I wasn't interested in dating anyone. Yet here he was, smiling shamelessly at me.
"Is this seat taken?" he asked, already starting to put his bag down.
I hated confrontation. My mind raced, searching for a polite but firm way to say no, to make him leave without causing a scene. And then I saw him.
Alan was just stepping onto the bus, his guitar case slung over his shoulder, looking vaguely bored.
I caught his eye and didn't even think. I waved him over, my voice a little too high. "Hey! Over here. I saved you a seat."
