When Shubman Gill, India's cricket sensation, meets the Radhika Sharma, their worlds collide in an unexpected twist of fate. Radhika, the protected sister of captain Rohit Sharma, has lived a life of anonymity, known only to a trusted circle. Howeve...
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Rohit Sharma was in the midst of a dream so deliciously indulgent that it bordered on sinful. He was savoring a vada pav—the golden, crispy vada tucked snugly inside the soft pav, its edges spilling out just enough to promise the perfect bite.
The chutney was tangy and spicy, dripping ever so slightly, teasing his taste buds without making a mess. In his dream, Rohit held the vada pav like a trophy, basking in the cheers of an imaginary crowd.
But this wasn't just any vada pav; it was the kind you could only get at that small stall near Dadar station, where the aunty behind the counter somehow knew the exact, magical ratio of chutney, vada, and pav.
It was a small piece of heaven that made you forget every worry, every bad ball, and even that last-minute lbw everyone couldn't stop talking about.
Rohit could almost feel the warmth of the freshly fried vada against his fingertips, hear the slight crunch as he bit into it, the flavors bursting in his mouth in a medley of spice, salt, and everything nice. It was pure joy, untainted and uninterrupted.
But just as he was about to take another bite, a faint, annoying buzz started to intrude on his dream. He tried to swat it away, tried to focus on his vada pav, but the buzz grew louder, more insistent, until it was impossible to ignore.
Suddenly, the vada pav faded away, the chutney slipping through his fingers, the pav dissolving into thin air. The crowd's cheers died out, replaced by the harsh, incessant sound of his phone ringing on the nightstand.
Suddenly, the vada pav began to fade, the chutney slipping through his fingers like sand, the pav disintegrating into nothingness. The cheers of the crowd dimmed, replaced by the harsh reality of his phone going off like it was the middle of a press conference.
His eyes snapped open, the blissful aroma of his dream replaced by the dim light of his bedroom and the relentless buzzing of his phone on the nightstand.
Rohit groaned, rolling over with the sluggishness of someone who had just been cruelly yanked from paradise, and reached out for his phone, still half-lost in the lingering haze of his dream.
Rohit squinted at the screen, trying to focus through the fog of sleep that still clouded his mind. The bright light of the phone felt like an assault on his senses, and he cursed under his breath again, this time with even more conviction.
"Kya yaar," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face as if that would somehow help him wake up faster.
"Abe saale, behenchod, subha subha koun phone karta hai," [Damn it, who calls this early in the morning?] Rohit cursed, his voice still thick with sleep, hoping that whoever was on the other end would have the decency to drop dead—or at least sort out whatever mess this was without dragging him into it.
