15. Prem Mandir

VIHAAN SINGH RAJPUT

"Why can't you, Tripti?" I said, totally frustrated about what had happened a few minutes ago.

"What the hell, Vihaan? I told you, I dammit told you not to do that, yet you still fucking did it!"

Tripti yelled, her hands on her hips.

"Damn it, it's not my fault-it burst!"

"Holy hell, don't tell me you didn't check if it was baking powder, not baking soda?! You're unbelievable! Pata nahi kis jaahil se paala pada hai." She shook her head in disbelief, her gaze traveling from my gorgeous face to the kitchen, which was now painted with choco lava splatters across the counter and walls.

"You chicken shit! I told you, mujhe cooking ka 'k' bhi nahi aata hai, but what did you say? 'Vihaan you should be the man of your words, you should learn to cook' Fucking shit, the only thing I'm good at is lying and arguing-not to mention, it's my profession," I muttered as I walked over to the couch and placed an order on Zomato.

I can't believe my parents arranged my marriage with this woman, and here she is, arguing with me over a damn mix-up with baking soda.

"Jaahil" Tripti muttered as she sat besides me at a distance.

"Sunai diya mujhe" I said.

"Tumhe sunane ke liye hi bola" She snickered and added "Next time, tumhe Zomato se nahi, cooking classes se order dena chahiye," she said with a smirk, leaning back on the couch as if she'd won the war.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She was smug. Too smug. And it was getting under my skin. "Cooking classes? Tripti, tumhe kya lagta hai, main Ranbeer Brar ban jaunga ek din mein?"

"Woh toh kabhi nahi banoge. Tumhe dekha hai? Egg boil karte waqt poora andaa phod doge tum," she shot back, her laughter ringing in the air.

I crossed my arms and leaned forward. "You're acting like tum MasterChef Australia jeet aayi ho. Khaana toh tumse bhi properly banta nahi. Last week ka kya, huh? Woh aloo ke parathe yaad hain? Rubber ke parathe banaye the, aur mujhe bol rahi ho, thank god mujhe court pahochna tha warna meri asthia jaati Banaras wapas"

Tripti's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?! Tumne bola tha woh 'crunchy' the!"

"Crunchy?!" I scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "Maine bola tha 'edible nahi hain'!"

She grabbed a cushion and whacked me with it. "Tum kabhi kuch acha nahi bol sakte ho, na?"

"Acha bolta hoon, but sachai ke saath," I said, laughing, shielding myself from the relentless cushion attack.

By now, she was laughing too, her frustration dissolving into giggles. Her hair was falling messily over her face as she tried to regain her composure.

I stared at her for a moment, the laughter between us settling. She was infuriating, chaotic, and exhausting. But she was also everything I didn't know I needed.

Her eyes met mine, and for a fleeting second, I could see something softer beneath all her teasing and yelling. But before I could dwell on it, she smirked again.

"Order mein dessert bhi daalna," she said, flicking her hair back and getting up. "Aur next time, Vihaan, if you step into my kitchen, I'll murder you. Samjhe?"

"Samjha," I replied, watching her walk away, but the grin on my face didn't fade.

I love her dadi for sending us on a goddamn trip.

AADVIK MALHOTRA

The door rattled under his fist as Aadvik knocked again, harder this time. "Veda, darwaza kholo! Tumhe samajh nahi aa raha hai kya? Open the damn door yaar!" His voice cracked, laced with frustration and a hint of pleading.

Silence.

He pressed his forehead against the door, his other hand resting on the frame as if steadying himself. "Veda, please. Bas ek baar baat kar lo. Tumhare bina... kuch theek nahi lag raha hai. I am sorry yaar" His voice softened momentarily, but when there was no response, his frustration flared again.

"Yeh kya bachpana hai, huh?" He took a step back, shouting now. "Mujhe samajh nahi aata tum kya chahti ho! Har baar tum mujhe push kar deti ho, door kar deti ho! Par yeh toh bolo-main kya galat kar raha hoon? Main bas yeh jaanna chahta hoon!"

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing in front of the closed door like a caged animal. "Veda, mujhe tumhari zarurat hai. Aur tum ho ki mujhe ignore kar rahi ho jaise main matter hi nahi karta!"

He stopped, his chest heaving. His voice broke, vulnerable now, no longer masked by anger. "Kya main itna bura hoon? Kya main tumhare layak nahi hoon? Bata do, Veda. Please."

Still no response.

"Kya tumhe lagta hai main yeh sab mazaa lene ke liye kar raha hoon?" he shouted, his voice echoing in the corridor. "Main pagal ho raha hoon, Veda! Har ek pal, bas tumhare baare mein sochta hoon! Tumhe laga tha main yeh sab ignore karke chal deta? Nahi! Mujhse nahi hoga!"

His knuckles hit the door one last time, this time softer, his strength fading. "Main thak gaya hoon, Veda. Main yeh sab apne dil mein aur nahi rakh sakta. Tum sun rahi ho na? Please sun lo."

Leaning against the door, he whispered, "Main sirf tumse pyaar karta hoon, Veda. Tum samjho na... main sirf tumhara hoon."

SWASTIKA CHAUDHARY

The bus jolted to a stop, stirring me from the haze of the morning drive. Vrindavan greeted us with its gentle chaos-the blend of temple bells, the hum of distant bhajans, and the faint fragrance of incense weaving through the air.

It wasn't my first time here, but seeing this town with him-Darsh-it somehow felt different.

"Everyone, gather up!" his baritone voice carried over the chatter of students as we spilled out of the bus. Professor Darsh Agnihotri, ever composed, with his leather satchel slung over his shoulder, looked every bit the man who commanded a classroom-and hearts, though I'd never admit that aloud.

The group trudged along toward Prem Mandir, the infamous temple that seemed to glow with an ethereal light even in the afternoon sun. Darsh, of course, led the way, his steps measured, his expression calm. The students around him buzzed with questions, playful banter, and the occasional teasing remark. But as we entered the temple grounds, something shifted.

He stopped in the middle of the marble courtyard, his gaze fixed on the towering facade of the temple. "Look at it," he said softly, his voice a shade quieter but brimming with awe. The chatter hushed almost instinctively. "Prem Mandir. The Temple of Love."

I hung back, letting the others crowd around him as he began explaining the history of the temple. His voice was steady, deliberate. "Built by Jagadguru Kripalu Maharaj, this temple stands not just as an architectural marvel but as a tribute to divine love-Radha and Krishna's eternal bond. Every carving, every detail is a story in itself."

He gestured toward the intricate sculptures etched into the marble walls, his eyes gleaming as he spoke. "This," he continued, pointing toward the tableau of Krishna lifting the Govardhan Hill, "isn't just mythology. It's symbolism. shows how love and devotion can shoulder the heaviest burdens. Even gods need faith."

The students, entranced, followed his every word. So did I, though I wasn't looking at the temple. I watched him instead-the way his fingers skimmed over the pages of his notebook as he recited poetry he'd scribbled down, the way his lips curved when he spoke of Radha's devotion, the softness in his tone that slipped through when he mentioned Krishna's mischief.

"And what about this one, sir?" a student asked, pointing toward another mural.

Darsh stepped closer, his fingers brushing over the marble. He was silent for a moment, his eyes tracing the details of Radha and Krishna's intertwined figures. "This one," he murmured, "is a reminder. Love isn't perfect, nor is it painless. It's an act of surrender. It demands courage, patience, and faith. But above all, it's about devotion-giving yourself completely. Love is devotion, you can not force it and expect anything in return"

I swallowed hard, my gaze dropping to the ground. He had a way with words, but it wasn't just the words. It was the way he believed in them. The way he spoke as if every syllable were stitched with truth, as if he carried the weight of love's lessons on his own shoulders.

When the students dispersed to explore, I found myself lingering near the fountain, watching the reflection of the temple ripple in the water. The sound of footsteps made me glance up.

"Not taking notes, Miss Swastika?" he asked, his tone teasing yet warm.

I rolled my eyes, though my heart was suddenly racing. "I don't need notes. Some things are better remembered here," I said, tapping my temple.

His smile was faint, almost unreadable. "True. But sometimes, they're better kept here," he replied, placing his hand over his heart.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us felt heavier, thicker. And as he turned back toward the temple, I couldn't help but wonder-did he carry a story of his own, one hidden in the shadows of his words, in the pauses of his poetry? Or was I just desperate to find myself in his narrative? Or it was just the magic of this English Professor of how had his way with the words?

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