They were an unbreakable couple since school. Still, he cheated on her.
She loved him with all of her. Still, he broke her into millions of pieces.
She has no one except him. He has someone other than her.
She was tolerating bad behavior of his fami...
itna toh kisine chaha bhi na hoga, jitna maine sirf socha hai tujhe
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The hall was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock, which seemed to grow louder with each passing second. Mishti clutched her dupatta tightly in her hands, twisting the fabric nervously as she paced back and forth. Her bare feet moved in restless circles on the cold marble floor, her eyes darting to the door every few minutes.
"What if he's angry?" she muttered under her breath. "Of course, he's angry! Why else would he be late?"
Her gaze shifted to the clock again—7:30 p.m. "He must be hungry too..." she whispered, her voice tinged with guilt. Her fingers unconsciously smoothed the creases of her dupatta as she debated with herself. "Should I... should I make something for him? But what if..."
Her words trailed off as memories of past disasters in the kitchen surfaced. Back at Raj's place, the servants always handled everything. And now, Ansh... He had always been the one to cook, even when she had offered to help. Her heart sank a little. She had never really cooked anything on her own before.
"But it can't be that hard, right?" she said aloud, as if convincing herself. "I mean, it's just food. People do it every day." She paused, her eyes narrowing with determination. "I can do this. I will do this."
She whipped out her phone, her fingers scrolling furiously through search results. Instead of looking up recipes, her search narrowed to pictures of dishes that looked beautiful and appetizing. "This one!" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as she stared at a vibrant photo of khichdi. "It looks simple enough. Rice, some yellow color, a little garnish on top—easy!"
Bolstered by her decision, she marched into the kitchen like a soldier stepping onto the battlefield for the first time. The pristine counters and shiny utensils stared back at her, almost mocking her lack of experience. She hesitated for a moment, then squared her shoulders. "Alright, kitchen, let's do this!"
She grabbed the rice box and stared at it. "Step one... rinse the rice, right?" she murmured, dumping a generous amount into a bowl and running it under the tap. Her hands fumbled as she tried to drain the water without losing half the grains.
"Step two... make it yellow. Easy-peasy." Her eyes scanned the spice rack until they landed on a jar of turmeric powder. She unscrewed the lid and tipped it over the rice, shaking it vigorously. A small cloud of yellow dust puffed up, making her cough. "Oops... maybe a little less next time."
With the rice ready, she grabbed the pressure cooker. Her hands trembled slightly as she measured out water and poured it in. "And now... salt. How much, though?" She squinted at the grains spilling from the container. "A pinch? A handful? Ugh, why didn't I check the recipe?" She threw in a bit of salt, praying it wasn't too much or too little.
Feeling a surge of pride, she closed the lid on the cooker and set it on the stove. "See? Easy," she said, dusting her hands off. She glanced at the clock again—7:45 p.m.
