Demon's Physco obsession

Operation Midnight Mayhem: The Survival Log

Adhiraaj thought the midnight mango expedition would be the peak of second-trimester absurdity.

He was wrong.

Very, gloriously wrong.

The cravings didn't just continue—they evolved.

They grew bolder, more theatrical, and—most alarmingly—more specific. Ankita, who once declared she could live happily on dal-chawal and occasional gulab jamun, now issued demands that sounded like they belonged in a surrealist dream sequence.

One humid Tuesday at 3:42 a.m., Adhiraaj woke to find her sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring at him with unnerving intensity.

"Ji," she said solemnly, "I need ice cream."

He rubbed his eyes. "We have three tubs in the freezer. Chocolate, mango, pista—"

"Not those." She shook her head as he had profoundly misunderstood the laws of the universe. "I need black ice cream."

He blinked slowly. "Black... ice cream."

"Yes. The kind that tastes like midnight and regret."

Adhiraaj opened his mouth. Closed it.

Considered waking the entire kitchen staff to Google "black ice cream" at four in the morning.

Then he remembered the mango tree incident and the look on her face when he'd hesitated.

He exhaled.

"I'll call Mumbai," he said, already reaching for his phone. "There's that artisanal place in Bandra that does charcoal-infused—"

"No." She grabbed his wrist. "Not charcoal. It has to be naturally black. Like... squid ink black. But sweet. And cold. And now."

He stared at her for a long beat.

Then—because arguing with a pregnant woman at 3:47 a.m. about the existential blackness of dessert was a battle he had already lost—he simply nodded.

"Give me twenty minutes."

Twenty-three minutes later, he returned to the bedroom carrying a small silver bowl. Inside: a scoop of homemade black sesame ice cream (the closest the night chef could manage on short notice), sprinkled with edible silver dust so it shimmered faintly under the bedside lamp.

Ankita took one bite.

Her eyes fluttered closed in bliss.

Then she burst into tears.

"It's perfect," she sobbed around the spoon. "Why is it so perfect? I hate how perfect it is."

Adhiraaj sat beside her, already accustomed to the emotional whiplash. He rubbed slow circles on her back.

"You're welcome, Dove."

Two nights later came the Great Paratha Crisis.

She woke him at 2:19 a.m. by poking his cheek repeatedly.

"Ji. I want aloo paratha."

He sat up groggily. "Jahnvi made fresh ones for dinner. There are three left in the—"

"No. Not those." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I want aloo paratha... but sweet."

He waited for the punchline.

It didn't come.

"Sweet," he repeated flatly.

"Yes. Like... jaggery inside. And maybe a little cardamom. And ghee. Lots of ghee. But still aloo paratha."