Chapter 4 (Cracks in the Mirror)
The Tea Stall Invitation
One fine evening, Vikram caught Gunnu closing the shutters of Kaatelal & Sons. The orange Duke was parked nearby, gleaming under the flickering streetlight.
“Oi, Gunnu!” Vikram called, stuffing his hands into his pockets, feigning nonchalance. “Chai? You look like you need one.”
Gunnu raised a brow. “Me? Or you?”
“Both,” Vikram shot back too fast, then coughed to cover his eagerness. “I know a place. Quiet. No nosy chachis, no scissors flying at jugulars.”
From the side, Sattu smirked like he’d just been handed tomorrow’s gossip. But Garima—still in Gunnu’s guise—sighed and nodded. “Fine. Tea. But you’re paying.”
“Done.” Vikram’s grin flashed, quick and boyish, as he led the way.
The Near-Accident
The tea stall buzzed with clinking glasses and the hiss of boiling milk. The air was heavy with cardamom and fried snacks. Vikram and Gunnu stood at the wooden counter, closer than either intended, their shoulders brushing.
“Careful, don’t burn yourself,” Vikram muttered, sliding a steaming glass toward him.
“Relax,” Gunnu said with a half-grin. “I’m not as clumsy as—”
Before he could finish, a stray dog darted between their feet. Gunnu stumbled sideways into Vikram. Startled, Vikram caught him by the arms—only to slip on spilled tea.
Both went crashing against the counter, lips colliding in a messy, shocking smooch.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Gunnu’s breath hitched. Vikram’s grip on his arms tightened, instead of letting go. The taste of cardamom and tea lingered on both their lips, and something hot and electric surged through the stillness.
Then time snapped back.
The stall-owner gawked. Two old men sputtered mid-sip, choking. A boy carrying samosas dropped the entire plate with a clatter.
Vikram’s eyes went wide with horror. He tore himself back as if burned. “I—this—damn dog—” he stammered, brushing frantically at his shirt.
“Vikram!” Gunnu called, half-laughing, half-panicked. “Wait! It was an accident—listen—”
But Vikram didn’t listen. He stormed out, jaw tight, climbing onto his Duke. The engine roared like his fury, drowning Gunnu’s voice. Within seconds, he was gone.
Mirror, Mirror
Back home, Vikram locked his room with a snap. He splashed cold water onto his face, droplets trickling down his jaw, then looked up—straight into the mirror.
“That wasn’t real,” he whispered. “It was clumsy. A mistake. Nothing.”
But as his fingers brushed his lips, memory betrayed him—the softness, the shock, the jolt that had raced through his veins. His chest thudded too hard.
“I liked it,” he admitted, voice cracking with fury. “I… actually liked it.”
Rage surged. With a growl, he slammed his fist into the mirror. Glass shattered, blood welling across his knuckles as shards clung to the frame. In the fractured pieces, his face broke into a dozen versions—none steady, none certain.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered, touching his mouth unconsciously, the fleeting warmth still haunting him. “I’ve been around plenty of girls. Beautiful girls. So why did this—why did he feel…”
The thought refused to finish itself. His chest heaved, eyes burning.
“He’s my brother. Just my brother,” Vikram whispered fiercely. But the lie trembled as much as his bleeding knuckles. And in the splintered mirror, his reflection bled with him—broken, jagged, unrecognizable.
Back at Kaatelal House
The Duke’s roar faded into the night, leaving Garima trembling in Gunnu’s shoes. She hurried home, her heart knocking against her ribs.
But she had barely set foot in the courtyard when a familiar, sharp voice cut through the silence.
“Aha! So the ghost finally returns.”
Chanchal Chachi stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other holding up a pair of scissors.
Garima froze. “Chachi… why are you holding my—uh—the kitchen shears?”
Chachi narrowed her eyes. “Kitchen shears? Don’t lie. These are barber scissors. And this razor I found under the sofa? Don’t tell me you’re shaving vegetables now.”
Susheela appeared, biting into a mango slice, eyes wide with alarm. “Arrey, Chachi, those are mine. For… modern cooking experiments. Shaving karela makes it less bitter.”
Chachi’s mouth dropped open. “Karela… with foam and aftershave?”
Garima choked on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough. “Yes. Very modern. Delhi brand.”
Chachi wasn’t convinced. She sniffed the air dramatically. “Why does this house smell like a barbershop these days? Razors in the hall, combs in the kitchen, wigs on the balcony… is this Kaatelal House or Kaatelal Salon?”
Susheela scrambled. “Trend, Chachi. Hygiene trend. Barbershop vibes keep mosquitoes away.”
Chachi snorted. “Hygiene? Soon the truth will come out—you can hide soap, but not the smell of secrets.” She shook the scissors accusingly. “Mark my words—something fishy is happening. And I, Chanchal Chachi, will find out.”
With a dramatic swish of her dupatta, she stomped off, muttering about “girls turning homes into saloons instead of kitchens.”
As soon as Chachi stomped off, Susheela collapsed onto a stool, paratha in hand. “One day, she’ll invent her own CBI branch just to catch us,” she whispered.
Garima, still flushed from the tea stall, managed a weak smile. “Yeah… and she’ll probably start with the barbershop. Our hideout won’t even survive the first raid.”
In Garima and Susheela’s room
“Of course Chachi suspects us,” Susheela snorted, then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And my sister, the chatterbox, has been suspiciously quiet ever since stepping in. That is never a good sign. Spill.”
Garima fumbled with her dupatta. “Nothing. I’m just… tired.”
Susheela gasped dramatically. “Tired? From what? Closing shop shutters? Or—” she leaned closer, lowering her voice in mock seriousness—“from gallivanting on a Duke with a certain Vikram-ji?”
Garima’s ears turned red. “Nothing happened!” she blurted too quickly.
Susheela dropped the mango, eyes sparkling like she’d just unearthed treasure. “Ah-ha! That tone! Something did happen.” She clutched Garima’s shoulders and shook her. “Tell me. Did he…? Did you…?”
“Susheela!” Garima hissed, clapping a hand over her sister’s mouth. “Do you want the whole mohalla to wake up?”
Susheela’s muffled voice vibrated with glee. “Mhmhmhm—kiss?”
Garima groaned, pulling away. “It was a mistake, okay? A dog, some tea, a—” She flailed her arms helplessly. “A collision.”
Susheela blinked, then burst into laughter so loud even Chachi stirred in the next room. “A dog made you two bump lips? Garima, only you could turn romance into a wrestling match with livestock!”
“Shhh!” Garima pleaded, half-embarrassed, half-amused despite herself. “It wasn’t romance. He ran away like I was some man-eating tigress. He hates me now.”
Susheela’s laughter softened. She looped an arm around Garima’s shoulder. “Or maybe he’s confused. Which is worse for him… and maybe better for you.”
Garima bit her lip, doubt gnawing at her. “Confused or not, what if he suspects something? What if he—”
“Relax,” Susheela cut in with a mischievous grin. “Boys don’t suspect, they sulk. And judging by your face, Vikram is probably sulking so hard he could start a protest march.”
Despite the chaos inside her, Garima let out a reluctant chuckle. For the first time since the stall, her shoulders eased.
Still, when she lay down that night, her hand drifted to her lips, betraying her again.
Garima’s Reflection
Later that night, when Susheela had drifted off, Garima stood before her small dressing mirror. The room was silent except for the tick of the wall clock.
She touched her lips hesitantly, cheeks warming. The memory refused to vanish—the shock, the heat, the closeness.
“Why do you feel real when it was just… an accident?” she whispered to her reflection.
Her image stared back, cheeks just as pink. For a moment, she pressed her palms over the mirror, as if trying to hide from herself.
Unlike Vikram’s shattered glass—fractured, bleeding, refusing truth—hers stayed whole, quietly sheltering the secret she didn’t dare speak aloud.
With a sigh, she curled up on her bed, her hand still hovering over her mouth, her heart restless but oddly hopeful.
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To be continued.
Jhanak
20