The vivid reds in wedding symbols of celebration , Happiness and Joy . But what will happen if the same red colour change into the colour of blood betrayal and the symphony of despair.
Meera sweet little innocent girl end up being the pawn in the d...
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“Sanvi, yeh file de na jaldi!” I yelled, my hands buried in a bunch of charts and color-coded sticky notes.
“Meera, mere haath mein teen cheezein hain! Kya mein octopus hoon?” Sanvi yelled back from across the room, holding a laptop under one arm, a folder in the other, and somehow balancing a coffee mug with her chin.
“No no, you’re an evolved species—stressopus,” Ayaansh commented, without looking up from his screen.
Sanvi groaned and threw a balled-up tissue at him. “Tu chup kar!”
We were all camped in Riya’s guest room-turned-war room, planning for the biggest inter-state business idea competition to be held in Hyderabad next week. And obviously, we were determined to win.
“Ayaansh, did you fix the presentation bugs?” I asked, flipping through our content layout.
“Nope, main toh bugs ko chhod ke unse dosti kar li,” he replied with a cheeky grin.
“Bugs se dosti?” Sanvi raised an eyebrow. “Kya tumhara naam Bill Gates hai?”
“Tum dono chup karo,” I cut in, laughing despite myself. “Agar kal tak yeh report final nahi hui na, toh Hyderabad nahi, hum sab mental hospital jaayenge.”
“Meera,” Ayaansh said in mock seriousness, “mental hospital mein bhi WiFi ho toh kaam chalayenge. Presentation from padded cells.”
“Aur main toh straight jacket mein bhi stylish lagungi,” Sanvi added with a fake hair flip.
I burst out laughing. “Tum log pagal ho! Sach mein!”
Despite the stress, this—this was our rhythm. Sanvi with her meticulous notes and hidden sass, Ayaansh with his sarcasm and code genius, and me, somewhere in the middle trying to keep them sane while losing my own mind.
“Meeraaa,” Sanvi called out in her sing-song voice, “your handwriting is like doctor’s prescription. How is this ‘marketing flow’? It looks like ‘man-eating flower’!”
“Thanks for the insult wrapped in feedback,” I said, grabbing the chart from her. “Next time, I’ll draw with a typewriter.”
Ayaansh smirked. “No worries. We’ll just tell the judges our team’s creativity starts from cryptic language.”
We worked late into the night, half of our table buried in papers, the other half in snacks and coffee cups. But even in the chaos, something about it felt right. We were exhausted but driven, annoyed but laughing, tired but ridiculously excited.
This was more than just a competition—it was just not me proving that powder girl it is also about our madness, our mission, our inside jokes and friendship coming alive in action. And honestly?
