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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
Kan ke pade fatt gaye hai. [My ears are ringing.]
Shubman wonders how he's ever going to listen to Diljit's songs again now that his sister's voice has likely damaged his ears beyond repair.
Her shout is still bouncing around inside his head, refusing to settle, like an unwanted echo that's impossible to ignore.
He rubs his temples, massaging the tension that seems to have set up permanent residence there, but there's no relief in sight.
If Di had her way, he'd be trending on Twitter with some ridiculous hashtag like #DisappointedBrotherGoesViral.
He shifts in his chair, letting out a long, defeated sigh. The ringing in his ears finally begins to fade, but the aftereffects of Shahneel's yelling linger like a post-match hangover, the kind that sticks around no matter how much water you drink.
Great. Bas yehi bacha tha zindagi mein. Ab Diljit ka concert bhi mute pe suna padega.[Great. This was the last thing I needed in life. Now I'll have to listen to Diljit's next concert on mute.]
"Shubman, tenu akal kado aayi gi? Ghode vangu inna lamba ho gaya, par akal teri gode aa chi baithi aa!" [Shubman, when are you going to get some sense? You've grown as tall as a horse, but your brain's still sitting in your knees!]
The words stab at him in the way only an older sister's scolding can. It's the perfect combination of irritation and love, and the worst part? She's always right—that's the part that stings the most.
Shubman pictures her pacing back and forth, probably one hand on her hip, the other clutching the phone so tightly that it's a miracle it doesn't snap in half.
Her eyebrows are likely furrowed, the same way they used to be when he'd sneak off to play gully cricket and come home with ripped jeans and scraped knees.
"Shahneel Didi, main—" [Shahneel Didi, I—]
"Didi?!" she snaps, cutting him off before he can even attempt to form a full sentence. "Ab tujhe matlab hai toh didi bol raha hai? Shubman, tujhe pata hai kya ho raha hai? Tune apna Insta khola hai?!" [Now that you need something, you're calling me Didi? Shubman, do you even know what's going on? Have you checked your Instagram?!]
He hesitates, already knowing where this is headed. Kyun kholoon apna Insta? [Why should I check my Insta?]
He's not ready to see his face plastered all over social media, especially with captions that make it sound like he's starring in some over-the-top drama.
Not to mention the flood of comments that are sure to follow—most of them, he imagines, will either be trolling or worse, people offering unsolicited advice on "how to fix his image."
