Tu Meri Pehalwan ~ A VeeRat Tale - Chapter 15 on pg 7 - Page 7

Chapter 11 (Teekhi Yaadein)

Rehab Centre – Late Night

The white walls of the centre were silent as always. Outside, the trees rustled with a gentle wind, casting shifting shadows on the windowpane. Inside, Veer sat at his small desk, a dim lamp glowing beside him, pen in hand.
The note from Keerat lay open beside his journal.

“Write a song about your journey — not for the world. For yourself.
And when you’re ready, sing it for me.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“I’m not ready,” he muttered aloud.
But his hand had already started moving.

Flashbacks Between Lines

As he scribbled the first few lines, memories bled through like ink in water.
Gurleen’s tearful face, the way her voice had cracked when she begged him for forgiveness.
Angad’s hug, firm and unwavering — a silent apology and a louder love.
And Keerat…

That ridiculous box of empty syringes she had handed over. Her eyes blazing, her voice fierce:

“Now that we’re friends, these should prick your conscience...
not your skin.”

Veer’s fingers trembled over the paper. And then he wrote:

(Verse 1)
Thodi si khamoshi thi, thoda sa andhera tha,
Mere andar koi ro reha si, par main khud ton begana tha.
Honthan te muskaan si, par dil chilla ke kehnda si,
"Main theek haan" keh keh ke, har din hor vi mar reha si.

His pen paused.
His breath caught.
He wasn’t writing a song.
He was bleeding truth onto paper.

Healing with Every Verse

Words spilled next — some angry, some quiet, others bruised with guilt.
But through it all, one thread wove its way in and out, like the heartbeat of a prayer.
Keerat.
Her sarcasm, her stubborn warmth.
Her punchy pep talks. Her ability to see through the silence.
She hadn’t saved him with sympathy.
She had dared him to live.

He flipped to a fresh page and began whispering a melody as the next lines formed.

(Pre-Chorus)
Nashe di lakeer vich apna wajood kho baitha,
Rab ton vi rootha, par tere yakeen ne mainu jod ditta.

And then the chorus — tender, resolute, full of heart.

(Chorus)
Teekhi yaadein si, par tu marham ban gayi,
Tere lafzan ne mainu, ek nava sa raah dikhaya.
Jithe har teer si, tu dhaal ban ke khadi rahi,
Tere bharose ne mainu, khud te vishwas dilaya.

A tiny smile ghosted across his lips.
Not a love song. Not yet.
But it was something just as intimate.
A confession of survival.

(Verse 2)
Saari duniya ne keh ditta, “Eh taan khatam ho gaya,”
Tere ik jumle ne bas, saari duniya chupp kara ditta.
"Tu thalle gir gaya, par main tenu chhadangi nahi,"
Keh ke tu mere zakhm vi sambhal gayi.

Veer leaned back in his chair. His eyes flicked toward the drawer.
He opened it slowly — revealing the box of empty syringes.
Still unopened. Still whole.
A relic of his past — and a promise of his future.

(Bridge)
Maafi mangi na tu, par har nazar maaf kar gayi,
Meri har galti nu samajh ke, tu mere sang chal gayi.
Syringe da dabba vi tohfa ban gaya,
Jithon shuru hoyi navi zindagi da gaya.

He stared at the pages he’d just filled.

What do I call this?

His eyes fell again on the box.
Not to glorify pain.
But to remember it.
To own it.

“Teekhi Yaadein” — Pricks of the Past.

Keerat’s Side — Monga House Rooftop

That same night, Keerat sat on the rooftop, arms wrapped around her knees.
Sahiba had texted earlier:

“He reached safe. Looks okay. Quiet.”

But Keerat hadn’t replied. She couldn’t.

There was a strange silence in her heart since she'd seen Veer walk away again — this time into healing, not destruction.
The words she hadn’t let herself say...
The unspoken questions that haunted her...
And the quiet ache of missing someone who now lived behind four white walls.

She looked up at the stars and whispered into the wind:

“Hope you're writing that song, Rockstar…”

Final Lines — Veer’s Room

Somewhere not too far away, a boy with calloused fingers and a healing heart stared at a notebook filled with scars transformed into verses.
His thumb brushed over the title, and he whispered, almost to himself:

“Wait till you hear it, Miss Pehalwan.”

Two Weeks Later – Rehab Centre

It was supposed to be a quiet Saturday afternoon.
The centre was unusually calm — the air heavy with monsoon moisture and the distant smell of wet soil.

Veer was in the music room, alone, strumming the borrowed guitar with a hesitancy that didn’t quite match the words in his head.

He wasn’t writing anymore. Not today.
Today, he was trying to listen — to the things unsaid, the chords unplayed, the song he’d promised he would sing.

Outside the Music Room

Keerat adjusted the scarf over her face as she slipped past the reception area.
She had no real permission to visit.
Only Sahiba’s forged signature on a vague “Brar Foundation Volunteer Pass” and Angad’s half-smirked “You’ll get caught, Keerat” echoing in her head.

But she didn’t care. So here she was.
Sneaking through a rehab corridor.
Because that’s who she was — stubborn and soft in the worst combination.

She peered into the last room on the left. The music room.
And paused.

Inside

Veer was sitting on a low stool, unaware of her presence.
His fingers hovered over the strings. His head was down, his brow furrowed in quiet tension.

Then he inhaled deeply. Closed his eyes.
And began to play.

A soft, trembling chord. Then another.

Keerat’s breath caught.
She didn’t move.

Not even when he began to sing — not with drama or performance, but with a kind of raw, cracked simplicity that made her toes curl inside her shoes.

Veer’s Song — “Chapter One”

I tried to drown the echoes… in the silence of a high,
Built walls with glass and poison… just to learn how not to cry.
But your voice kept breaking through… where even light wouldn’t go,
Not to save me, but remind me — that I still had a soul.

This is not a love song, not a desperate plea,
It’s a whisper to myself of who I’m allowed to be.
You gave me no answers, no perfect lines to quote,
Just the courage to keep breathing… when my hands had slit my throat.

So here I stand, not healed, not whole,
But fighting for fragments I used to disown.
And if I ever learn to love this life again…
This song — this moment — will be Chapter One.

Silence.

The last chord trembled into stillness.
Veer didn’t hear the quiet sniffle near the doorway.
He was still staring at his hands, as if afraid to look up.

And Then...

A voice, soft but unmistakable:

“You absolute idiot.”

Veer startled, his eyes snapping to the door.

Keerat stood there, scarf half-tangled in her elbow, eyes rimmed with tears she hadn’t meant to shed.

“You said you’d sing it when you were ready. Not make me break into a rehab centre like some kind of psycho fan.”

Veer blinked. Then laughed — quietly, breathlessly.

“Didn’t think you'd actually come.”

A pause.

Then Keerat stepped in and shut the door behind her.

The Afterglow of Song

She walked over, slow but steady, until they were inches apart.
Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Then Keerat murmured:

“That was… horrible.”

Veer smiled.

“You cried.”

“I did not.” (She sniffled.)

“You did.”

“Fine,” she snapped, “Maybe just a little. Doesn’t mean it was good. It just meant I was emotionally blackmailed by an ex-addict with a guitar.”

Veer chuckled again, his eyes warm.

“You know what I realized while writing it?”

“That you still sing flat on high notes?”

“That… I wasn’t writing it for you.”

She tilted her head.

“It was a gift from one friend to another,” he said. “But the person I was singing to today — was me.”

That silenced her.

Then, softly:

“I’m glad he finally listened.”

Breaking the Rules to Heal the Wounds

The following Saturday, Veer was in group therapy, half-listening to a man talk about his relapses when his phone buzzed. Technically, phones were allowed only during supervised calls—but Keerat had slipped his in weeks ago with the subtlety of a thief and the audacity of a hurricane.

1 New Message
From: Pehalwan-in-Chief
"Your therapist may be good, but can he make aloo paratha like me? No? Then shut up and recover."

Veer coughed into his fist to hide his laugh, earning a glare from the facilitator.

From that day on, the rules began bending more than they were followed.

Keerat started sneaking into the rehab every weekend—sometimes even midweek. Sahiba covered for her, Angad smuggled in supplies (once even a wrestling mat), and Keerat… she brought the one thing the rehab couldn’t offer: fierce, unwavering love disguised as brutal honesty.

Secret Saturdays

She would sneak in through the back gate, dodging the CCTV blind spots Angad had mapped out for her. By now, even one of the guards had started turning a blind eye. He'd once muttered, “Eh chhori toh Veer saab di asli therapy hai,” before waving her in.

She brought Veer books, bad jokes, oddly shaped sandwiches, and sometimes—when he was drowning in the worst of withdrawals—just her presence.

"Stop looking like a kicked puppy," she’d snap. "You're not a victim, Veer. You're a warrior. Warriors stumble. But they get up. So, get up."

"You always this rude to patients?" he’d grumble.

"Only to the ones who flirt with death and expect sympathy."

They’d sit under the big banyan tree behind the centre and talk. Or sit in silence. Or argue about why his music still avoided high notes.

But every visit carved away a little more of his shame. His self-hate. His fear.

The Wall of Wins

By the second month, Veer had transformed his room. Keerat's notes—post-its scribbled with sarcastic motivation—covered his wall.

“You didn’t die, loser. That’s already a win.”
“One more day sober = one more paratha earned.”
“Don’t make me wrestle you into healing. I’ll win.”
“Your rabab misses you, idiot.”

Each note was stuck next to a date. A calendar of progress. A wall of wins.

Some days, when the world felt too loud, Veer would read her notes until the panic settled.

Once, in the middle of a particularly bad night, he called her.

“I feel like I’m slipping,” he whispered.

There was a pause. Then: “Okay. Tell me one thing you like about today.”

“Nothing.”

“Wrong answer. Try again.”

“…I didn’t scream during withdrawal.”

“There you go. You’re not slipping. You’re climbing. Slowly. Painfully. But still.”

He didn’t sleep that night. But he didn’t use either. And that was enough.

A Crack in the Armour

One day, while watching the rain through the glass panel near the staircase, Veer turned to Keerat and asked, “Why do you keep coming back?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Because I believe in you.”

He looked away, nervous. “Even after what I did? What I said?”

“You didn’t know better. You were bleeding and didn’t want anyone to see it. But now? You’re healing. So I’ll keep showing up until you remember who you are.”

There was a pause.

“I wrote another song.”

Keerat grinned. “Good. Because I brought my worst review face today.”

He sang it for her that evening—unplugged, off-key in parts, but so full of truth that Keerat had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

Final Therapy

By the third month, the therapists had started noticing.

Veer was sharper. More expressive. More open in group discussions. He’d begun helping new patients adjust. He asked for extra guitar time. He journaled even when no one told him to.

“Something’s shifted,” his primary therapist noted one morning.

Veer smiled. “Yeah. Someone broke into my soul like she broke into this centre—and refused to leave.”

His final psychological evaluation came with an unexpected remark.

Patient has not only shown progress but sustained it. Displays resilience rooted in strong interpersonal motivation. High chance of long-term recovery.

He’d tucked that report behind the first note Keerat ever gave him. The one with the syringes.

The Day of Discharge

It was a cool morning, the kind where the breeze carries the scent of new beginnings. Veer packed his few belongings into a single duffel bag.

The music room key, his journal of unsent letters, a copy of the song Chapter One, and the now-empty wooden box of syringes. He left the box behind in the centre’s therapy library—marked with a note.

“For the next person who needs a reminder of what they’re worth.” – VSB

At the gates, the Brar family was waiting. Sahiba beamed. Angad clapped him on the back. Gurleen wept into his kurta.

But his eyes searched for only one person.

And then she stepped out of Angad’s jeep, her bomber jacket flapping like a battle flag in the wind, combat boots crunching confidently against the gravel. Hair tied in a high ponytail, a faint smear of dust across her cheek from the ride — she looked more like someone walking into a fight than a celebration.

“Miss Pehalwan,” Veer greeted, smiling wide.

She tilted her head. “Mr. Egoistic Shithead.”

They stood still for a moment.

Then Keerat extended her fist. “So? You finally ready for the world?”

Veer bumped her fist with his. “Let’s go make a dent in it.”

As the gates of the rehab shut behind him, Veer didn’t look back.
He didn’t need to.
Because what lay ahead was finally brighter.

He was clean.
He was steady.
And this time… he was ready.

--------

To be continued.

Chapter 12 (The Soft After)

The Days After Rehab

The days following Veer’s discharge from rehab were surprisingly… light.

There were no grand declarations. No teary confessions. Just small moments. Moments that quietly stitched something tender between them.

Kulfi Chronicles

It started with kulfi.

Keerat insisted they stop by their favorite roadside stall — Master Kulfi Wale Bhaiya, as she called it — after a morning of light jogging. Veer, still adjusting to the sun on his skin and freedom in his steps, laughed as Keerat ordered two sticks with typical overconfidence.

They sat on the scooter’s edge, biting into the creamy kulfi under Ludhiana’s forgiving afternoon sky.

“Why do you eat so fast?” Veer asked, watching her demolish half of hers in one bite.

“Because people like you steal bites,” she said with a knowing smirk.

He laughed. But midway through that laughter, he paused.

“Wait,” he said, squinting. “Don’t move.”

Keerat blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got—” he gestured vaguely toward her mouth, then leaned in, “—a moustache.”

“What?!”

“Kulfi di,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Very royal. Maharani Pehalwan.”

Keerat huffed and tried wiping it away with the back of her hand — missing half of it.

“Let me,” Veer said before thinking twice.

And then, without warning, he reached out — his thumb gently brushing the corner of her upper lip.

The moment stilled.

His fingers lingered longer than necessary. Their eyes locked. Her breath hitched. His pulse fluttered.

Keerat cleared her throat and turned away with a muttered, “Next time I’ll just carry a mirror.”

Veer chuckled — but his smile had softened. Something unspoken had passed between them.

Two Seats, One Heartbeat

A week later, Keerat borrowed an old two-seater bicycle from the neighborhood kids.

“You riding or me?” she asked, adjusting her high ponytail and hopping onto the front seat.

“I just got out of rehab, let’s not send me back,” Veer deadpanned. “You steer.”

They began pedaling through the quiet alleys near the fields, their laughter rising like birds from the electric wires. The rhythm was chaotic, mismatched, completely uncoordinated — but exhilarating.

“Left!” Keerat shouted.

“I am going left!”

“That’s a tree, Veer!”

They swerved just in time — or almost.

The bike tilted.

And then, with a thud, both went tumbling into the grass.

Keerat landed squarely on Veer, her palms against his chest, their faces just inches apart.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

Then Veer smirked. “So… you fell for me. Literally.”

Keerat shoved him playfully and stood, her cheeks warm. “Next time, I’m putting training wheels on your ego.”

Kite Strings and Clumsy Wings

It was a windy Saturday afternoon when Veer announced he’d teach Keerat how to fly a kite.

She rolled her eyes but followed him up to the terrace anyway, pretending not to enjoy how confidently he held the spool.

“Okay, okay, I’ve got this,” she said, yanking the string too hard.

The kite jerked. Stumbled. Then rose.

Veer whooped. “That’s it! You’re flying it!”

Keerat grinned. “Oye, I’m actually— Aaaand I lost it—”

The string began slipping rapidly through her fingers.

Before it escaped completely, Veer stepped in, catching the reel in time. Their fingers brushed. His hand wrapped around hers. He stood close now — too close.

The breeze caught her hair, brushing it across his cheek. She turned to look at him.

Eyes met.

Silence.

And in that moment, the kite wasn’t the only thing suspended in the sky.

They didn’t say anything. But that shared breath — that half-second of quiet vulnerability — said it all.

Back at Monga House

That night, Keerat sat on her bed, pretending to focus on wrapping her ankle from the cycle fall. But her mind kept drifting back to the kite moment.

How close Veer had been.

How warm his fingers felt.

And how, for once, she hadn’t wanted to pull away.

She muttered into her pillow, “Stupid kite. Stupid kulfi. Stupid Egoistic Shithead.”

But she smiled anyway.

Meanwhile, at Brar Mansion

Veer sat in his room, polishing the same guitar he once used to confess truths he couldn’t say out loud.

His mind replayed Keerat’s laughter. Her scolding. The moment she landed on him, muttering empty threats. Her hand brushing his. The way she let him get close — just enough to make his heart ache.

He strummed a soft chord and whispered:

Tere naal reh ke… jeena vi assaan lagda hai.

Santhosh’s Worry

The first to notice the shift in Keerat was Santhosh.

She’d started coming home humming. Her kurta often had flecks of Veer’s guitar chalk. Most telling of all? She no longer rolled her eyes when Santhosh brought up marriage.

One afternoon, after Keerat returned from the Brar Mansion with a soft smile, Santhosh called out.

“That’s enough, Keerat! What’s so special about the Brars these days that you practically live there?”

Keerat sighed. “Mom, I’m just helping him. He’s getting better.”

“Right,” Santhosh muttered. “And you seem better too — now that you’re getting closer to him.”

Keerat opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came. Silence said enough.

Santhosh’s expression shifted. She followed her daughter into the kitchen, her voice quieter.

“Keerat... that boy used to be an addict. Have you forgotten?”

Keerat looked up sharply. “He’s clean now.”

“For now. But what if he slips again?” Santhosh’s voice cracked. “I saw the marks on his arms. That day you brought his bag back.”

Keerat froze.

Santhosh sat heavily.

“You’ve always been brave. You fight the world without blinking. But when was the last time you stood up to your own heart?”

Keerat’s eyes flickered.

“That boy… he wasn’t just addicted to drugs,” Santhosh whispered. “You were addicted to him.”

“I’m not a fool, Mom,” Keerat said softly.

“I know. But not every addiction comes from a syringe. Sometimes it’s a person — a face, a laugh, a hope. And when that addiction leaves you…” Her voice trembled, “the pain is worse.”

Outside, the rain began to fall.

Inside, Santhosh’s fears settled quietly in the corners of the room, just as the doubt crept into Keerat’s heart.

The Bookshop Incident

It was a quiet afternoon when Keerat dragged Veer to her favorite second-hand bookshop in old Ludhiana.

“I don’t get why we’re here,” Veer said, dodging a cobweb.

“Because real healing,” Keerat replied, “needs stories.”

She browsed while Veer awkwardly hovered. He wasn’t a reader. But watching her skim through pages — focused, gentle — made the dust and silence bearable.

She turned, holding up a worn copy of The Little Prince.

“You’ll like this.”

He smirked. “Does it come with subtitles?”

She rolled her eyes and handed it to him. “Just read the line I marked.”

He did.

"You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."

Their eyes met.

Something quiet passed.

She looked away first.

“Let’s go,” she said quickly.

Veer stayed still.

Because in that moment, he knew: she had tamed something wild in him.

And he wasn’t sure if he was scared… or grateful.

The Tea Stall and the Thread

One evening, while sipping chai at a roadside stall, Veer noticed the red thread on Keerat’s wrist.

“What’s that?”

“Some dadi thing. For protection.”

“From what?”

“Stupid boys.”

Veer smirked. “Looks like it’s not working.”

He reached out, as if to tug it off — half-teasing.

But the moment his fingers touched her wrist, her breath caught.

So did his.

He didn’t untie it.

But after that day, she noticed things: how he always made her walk on the inside of the road. How he carried her bag when she looked tired. How his voice gentled when she was silent.

She never asked.

But he gave it anyway.

Guitar Strings and Eye Contact

It was one of those quiet Ludhiana nights — the kind where the breeze hummed old love songs and rooftops held confessions no one dared say aloud.

Veer sat on the Brar terrace, tuning his guitar under a sky blurred with city lights. His fingers strummed idly, the notes trailing off like half-spoken apologies.

Keerat walked in with two cups of warm badam milk, plunking one beside him.

“Still stuck on your three beloved chords?” she teased.

He grinned lazily. “Don’t mock a man mid-creation.”

He patted the bench beside him. She sat. He held out the guitar. “Try.”

“I’ll break it.”

“Then break it beautifully.”

She hesitated — but he was already guiding her hand to the strings, his palm wrapping around hers gently, his voice suddenly softer, nearer.

“Feel that? The vibration under your fingers? That’s what music is. It doesn’t always sound perfect. It just has to feel… honest.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t pull away either.

Their eyes met — his, steady and unreadable; hers, wide with something that felt dangerously like curiosity. Or longing.

The note she played rang off-key. Neither of them noticed.

Something had shifted. Something small, but irreversible.

-------

To be continued.

Chapter 13 (Clouds Over Ludhiana)

A Day Later — Storm Clouds Gather

By late afternoon, clouds folded over Ludhiana like heavy wool — dark, brooding, crackling with monsoon mischief. The air had a metallic taste to it, like breath before lightning.

Keerat had just dropped off a parcel for Gurleen and was walking briskly along the canal's shortcut — sleeves rolled, damp collar flipped against the wind, hands shoved deep into her cargo pant pockets. Her shirt, once crisp, now stuck to her skin, soaked through at the shoulders.

The first raindrops came like whispers.

And then the sky cracked open.

"Perfect," she muttered, wiping water from her face with the back of her arm. Her boots were splashing through puddles, hair already plastered to her face, the wind slapping at her soaked frame.

Then came the voice — familiar, low, teasing.

"Planning to drown, or just flirting with pneumonia?"

She turned.

Veer stood a few steps behind — just as drenched, water dripping from his lashes, his navy turban soaked through, clinging slightly at the edges where it framed his forehead. Strands of his damp sideburns curled along his jaw, and yet he grinned — wide, breathless — like he'd just outrun a storm and won.

"No car?" she asked, shouting a little over the downpour.

He shrugged. "Confiscated. But hey — two legs and questionable judgment."

"Accurate," she smirked.

He jerked his chin toward the fields. "Come. There's a tree near the canal bend."

They ran — boots thudding through puddles, laughter flying with the wind, until the old banyan tree loomed ahead like a legend. Its branches curled like old fingers, roots tangled deep into the soaked earth, leaves shivering under the weight of the storm.

They ducked beneath the vast canopy, breathless.

Her shirt clung to her like second skin. His sleeves hugged his arms. Raindrops still slid off the leaves in steady rivulets, but beneath the tree, everything else — the noise, the world — seemed to hush.

Keerat leaned against the trunk, catching her breath. Rain dripped from her lashes.

"You okay?" Veer asked, eyes scanning her face.

She huffed a laugh. "Just soaked, slightly electrocuted, and mildly regretting every shortcut in Ludhiana."

Veer smiled. "Same. But totally worth it."

For a moment, neither spoke.

The silence was dense. Not awkward. Not empty.

Just... charged.

Raindrops trailed from leaf to leaf above them, some falling between them like secrets too slippery to hold.

Brar Mansion — Before the Storm Breaks

Meanwhile, back at Brar Mansion, Gurleen and Jabjyot sat by the fireplace, warm tea cupped between their palms as Sahiba entered quietly.

"I saw Keerat on my way home," she said. "She'd just delivered the medicines. Veer insisted on walking her halfway."

Gurleen's face softened, warmth rising behind her eyes. "That girl... she's Rabb da meher, Maaji. She brought Veer back to life. I'll never forget that."

Jabjyot nodded, stirring her tea. "She healed what even we couldn't touch."

Gurleen's voice dropped. "Had she become our bahu... it would've been perfect."

A long pause.

Jabjyot whispered, "Maybe it's our loss."

Gurleen didn't speak. But something flickered in her eyes — part pride, part ache.

Under the Banyan Tree — The Hug

A sudden clap of thunder shattered the air.

Keerat jumped.

Without a thought, Veer pulled her in — arms wrapping tight around her body, drawing her against him.

Their soaked forms collided — her palms pressed to his chest, his hands splayed across her spine. She gasped as her cheek met the warmth of his neck, her breath caught against the hollow of his throat.

The hug was no longer just refuge from the storm.

It was instinct. Muscle memory. Something older than either of them could name.

Her body pressed to his — wet clothes clinging where skin nearly touched. His hold was firm, not forceful. Protective. Steady. Reverent. One hand curved over the small of her back, the other slipped higher, fingers brushing damp strands away from her neck.

Keerat didn't pull away.

Didn't joke.

Didn't ruin it with a wisecrack.

She just let herself feel — his breath near her ear, the slight tremble of his chest, the rain threading through her hair. Her fingers unconsciously gripped his shirt, anchoring herself to the moment.

She tilted her face up.

He looked down.

Their cheeks were close. His nose brushed hers. The air between them pulsed.

And in the hush beneath the banyan, it was suddenly clear — the storm was no longer just outside.

Brar Mansion — Drawing Room Shift

Inside, Jasleen walked in, drying her hands with a towel, just as the silence lingered after Gurleen's quiet confession.

She overheard the last line and raised a brow. "Who says Keerat can't still be a Brar bahu?"

Everyone turned to her.

Jabjyot looked wary. "Jasleen puttar... you know Santhosh won't agree to Veer and Keerat's rishta."

Jasleen sipped her green tea. "True. So maybe... not for Veer."

She paused.

A calculated glint lit her gaze.

"...What about Garry?"

The room fell deathly still.

Even Sahiba's spoon clinked against her teacup in surprise.

Jabjyot blinked.

But it was Gurleen's face that changed.

Something in her expression collapsed — a soft crumpling, the way hope quietly folds in on itself. Her lips parted, just slightly. Her eyes, earlier warm with remembered affection, suddenly dimmed.

She said nothing.

But the disappointment sat on her face like shadow.

Somewhere in the UK — Garry Brar

Thousands of miles away, under a drizzle less wild but just as grey, Garry Brar adjusted the cuffs of his linen blazer, glancing at his watch as the city of Leeds buzzed around him.

Tall. Sharply built. A touch of effortless arrogance worn like cologne. He walked with the confidence of someone used to being noticed — the kind that doesn't need to announce itself.

His dark eyes were thoughtful, but guarded. His jaw freshly shaven. A pair of sleek wireless earbuds hung from his collar, one side still playing an old Ludhiana folk track on loop.

A café door opened behind him.

"Brar saab, your Americano?" the barista called with a smile.

Garry turned, smiled faintly, took the cup. "Thanks."

But his mind wasn't here.

It had drifted hours ahead, across oceans — to Punjab, to old banyan trees and tangled loyalties. To the family he hadn’t called in months. To his cousin Veer, who was once like a brother.

“Veer Brar, what have you gotten yourself into?”

Under the Banyan Tree — A Breath Away

The storm had gentled. Rain fell now in a soft, rhythmic hush — like the sky had finally exhaled. Beneath the sprawling banyan tree, whose gnarled roots curled into the earth like ancient verses, Veer and Keerat stood — drenched, breathless, suspended in something that had no name yet.

Keerat remained in his arms. Her soaked shirt clung to her frame; cold water trickled down her spine, but the shiver that danced across her skin wasn't from the chill — it was from the slow-blooming heat unfurling in the stillness between them.

His arms were still around her — not tightly, but wholly. One hand pressed lightly to the small of her back, the other rising now, slowly, reverently. He reached for her — not in haste, not with certainty — but as though touching something sacred.

His fingers found a stray, wet strand near her ear and tucked it back, brushing against her temple. No teasing. No smirk. Just eyes that held her like she was both miracle and memory.

Keerat's breath faltered. Veer's thumb grazed the soft curve of her cheekbone, catching a droplet and following it down the line of her jaw — like he was memorising the way rain chose to love her skin.

She didn't move. Didn't speak. Her eyes met his — wide, softened, not quite sure, but undeniably open.

In that suspended silence, she wasn't the girl who always had a comeback. She wasn't guarded or sharp. She was just... still.
And waiting.

His hand cupped her face fully now, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. A question passed through his gaze — unspoken, aching, delicate.

She answered it in the quietest way.
Her lashes fluttered closed — slow, trusting — not as surrender, but as permission.

Veer leaned in.
One inch. Two.
Their foreheads nearly touched. Their breath mingled — warm and uneven, clouding the last sliver of space left between them. His nose brushed hers.
Her lips parted.

And that changed everything.

His other hand found her waist, tentative at first, then firmer — not to hold her back, but to anchor them both to the moment they had never dared to name.
Her fingers moved, gently, from the soaked fabric of his chest to the curve of his shoulders. She rested there, like she belonged.

They hovered — lips a breath apart, hearts thundering in time with the rain falling around them.
A hush so fragile surrounded them, it could've shattered under the weight of a sigh.

So close. Too close.

The world around them blurred — the banyan, the storm, the time they'd lost — all dissolving into the quiet ache of almost.

And in that trembling hush, something passed between them that neither of them would forget.

------

To be continued.

Chapter 14 (Unseen Threads)

Brar Mansion — Drawing Room

Jasleen set her cup down with a quiet clink, as though punctuating her idea.
"We're all sitting here mourning a rishta that ended before it could even begin properly." she said, brushing imaginary lint off her kurta. "So why not look ahead?"

Sahiba frowned, her voice cautious. "But Keerat and Garry don't even really know each other."

"And that's the point," Jasleen replied, voice level. "No baggage. No unfinished past. She isn't tied to him by old memories or pain. Garry's a clean slate in her life."

"She's still in college," Gurleen said suddenly, her voice quiet but strained. "And she's focused on her wrestling career. Marriage isn't even on her radar."

Jasleen's smile didn't falter. "And that's precisely why I think she's ready. She's grounded, fearless, fiercely loyal. She's been raised with discipline. She trains harder than half the men we know and still finds time to study, help Sahiba, and take care of Santhosh. What more do you want in a daughter-in-law?"

Gurleen hadn't spoken. Her fingers gripped her cup a little tighter.

"And Garry?" Sahiba asked gently. "He's been away for years. He's... complicated."

"Exactly," Jasleen said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "He needs someone who won't be swept away by his lifestyle or resent his path. Keerat's not the kind of girl who blushes at imported jackets. She'll call him out when he's wrong, wrestle him to the ground if needed, and still have the strength to hold his hand when he stumbles."

"But Santhosh ji—" Jabjyot began.

"—Wants Keerat married into a respectable, well-off household," Jasleen interrupted calmly. "The Brars still carry that weight. Santhosh may not admit it, but she's always eyed this family for her daughters. Her only problem was Veer."

A silence passed over the room.

Jabjyot sighed, stirring her tea again. "Jasleen, Garry's only just building his career in the fashion industry. He's not settled yet."

"Which is exactly why someone like Keerat makes sense," Jasleen countered. "She's not looking for a millionaire or a ready-made NRI prince. She values ambition, honesty, discipline. Garry needs someone who keeps him real — someone who isn't impressed by fancy labels but respects hard work. And Garry doesn't come with Veer's kind of baggage, so there's no emotional wreckage here."

Gurleen pressed her lips together, but the strain in her eyes didn't go unnoticed. "She won't like Garry the way she liked Veer," she said softly, almost as if hoping it would shield someone — maybe herself — from disappointment.

Jasleen gave a faint smile. "No, she won't. But maybe... that's a good thing."

No one noticed the flicker behind Gurleen's lashes. A grief not for herself — but for something she suspected, without knowing how or why.

"But what about Keerat?" Gurleen asked, her voice tight. "You're assuming she'll agree."

Jasleen tilted her head slightly. "I'm not saying we force her. I'm saying we ask. With respect. With grace. If she says no, we let it go."

Jabjyot looked thoughtful. "Honestly... it's not the worst idea. They might balance each other."

"Garry has always run from anything real," Jasleen added. "Maybe it's time he met someone who doesn't chase him — but walks ahead, makes him want to keep up."

Sahiba hesitated. "Let's speak to Garry first. If he's open, we approach Mummy. And then, only if Keerat agrees..."

Jasleen was already pulling out her phone. "Fair enough. But I'll say this — he'll say yes. Once he sees her picture, he'd be a fool not to."

Gurleen didn't respond.
But the air around her had shifted — like something inside her had quietly fractured.

None of them knew.
None of them knew that across Ludhiana, under an ancient banyan tree soaked in monsoon whispers, Veer Brar and Keerat Monga had already begun rewriting the story these very people believed was closed.

But the Brars didn't know.
And so... they agreed.

The Ring That Broke the Hush

The hush beneath the banyan deepened.

Veer's forehead rested lightly against Keerat's, their breaths tangling in the narrow space between them. Her eyes were still closed, his gaze fixed on her parted lips — like he was memorising a moment that hadn't fully happened yet.

The rain whispered around them, gentle now, as though the world itself had paused — holding its breath.

His thumb brushed her cheek again. Her fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder.

Their lips hovered — a breath apart.

So close.

Just one tilt. One second.

Then — Rrrring. Rrrring. Rrrring.

The shrill sound of Keerat's phone shattered the quiet like a slap across glass.

They froze.

The spell cracked.

Keerat's eyes flew open. Veer stepped back a fraction — as though waking from a dream he didn't want to leave.

She fumbled for her phone in her pocket, pulse skittering.

"Mummy," she muttered, seeing the name on screen.

Veer ran a hand through his soaked hair, stepping further back, gaze dropping to the muddied earth.

Keerat turned away slightly, breath still uneven, and answered.

"Hello?"

"Keerat!" Santhosh's voice came sharp, tense, through the speaker. "Where are you?! It's pouring!"

Keerat swallowed. "I'm just heading back. I— I stopped under a tree to avoid the worst of it."

"Alone?"

Keerat hesitated.

Veer turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. She blinked once — then answered softly.

"Yes, alone."

Santhosh exhaled. "Come straight home and don't catch a cold over some foolish shortcut."

Keerat nodded to no one. "On my way."

She ended the call.

The banyan stood silent again — but something had shifted.

The moment was gone.

Veer looked at her. Really looked. Like he was trying to find the version of her from seconds ago, the one who'd leaned in. Who'd let herself feel.

But she had already stepped back — not far, but far enough.

She shoved the phone into her pocket. Cleared her throat. "I should go."

Veer gave a small nod.

Neither of them moved.

The rain had nearly stopped. But the storm hadn't passed.

Not really.

Not between them.

And as they turned to walk away — side by side, but not quite together — the banyan tree behind them held the ghost of a kiss that never came.

Across Oceans, Across Intentions
Leeds, UK — Evening

The drizzle outside Garry's flat had slowed to a quiet mist, coating the city in a grey sheen that matched his mood.

He sat by the wide glass window, city lights blinking like distant thoughts. A half-read file lay open on his lap, forgotten. The music playing from his speaker — soft Punjabi folk with a lo-fi twist — crackled low in the background.

His phone buzzed.

Incoming Call: Mom

He stared at it for a beat.
Then sighed and answered, voice dry but not unkind.
"Mom. Tussi raat de do baje phone karde ho. What's so urgent?"

Jasleen's voice came warm, composed, but with that unmistakable Brar steel beneath.
"Garry, I won't waste time. I have something... important to discuss. About your marriage."

Garry groaned, leaning back in his chair.
"Mom, again? What's the hurry suddenly? I'm just at the starting point of my career."

Jasleen was unfazed.
"Career can wait. But girls like this don't come around again."

He smirked, amused.
"Ah. So she's already one in a million?"

"A hundred percent," Jasleen said calmly. "She's Sahiba's sister — Keerat. Strong, grounded, self-made. And pretty too — not the high-maintenance kind. She stood by Veer through his worst. Imagine what a wife like that would bring to a man's life."

There was a pause.
Garry's voice dropped into something unreadable.
"Wasn't she the same girl who was supposed to get engaged to Veer?"

Jasleen didn't miss the edge in his tone.
"Yes," she said, a sigh catching at the end of her sentence. "Santhosh was on board too. They were almost at the roka stage. But it all fell apart."

Garry's brow furrowed.
"Why?"

Jasleen's voice lowered slightly.
"Because Santhosh found out Veer had been struggling with drugs. She was furious. She called off everything overnight. Said she would never let her daughter be dragged into someone else's self-destruction."

There was silence on both ends for a moment.

Jasleen continued.
"But you're different. You've never needed fixing, Garry. You've built yourself from the ground up. Santhosh will see that — and Keerat will too."

Garry gave a soft chuckle, rubbing his jaw.
"You make her sound like a yoga instructor with a sword."

"I'm serious, Garry. You don't have to say yes right away. Just... see her. Talk to her. I'm sending a picture."

He sighed, but there was no resistance in his voice anymore. Just resignation.
"Alright. But no pressure, okay?"

Jasleen's tone turned almost maternal.
"Of course not. No pressure. Just promise me — look with your heart, not just your eyes."

He softened.
"You've rehearsed that line, haven't you?"

She chuckled.
"Maybe. Now go. Sleep. Or pretend to."

"Goodnight, Mom."

"Goodnight, mere sheher da raja."

The call ended with a soft click.

A few seconds later — ping.

1 New Image Received — from Mummy

Garry opened it.

Keerat.

The photo wasn't staged. It looked like someone had captured her in a candid moment — possibly outside the Brar Mansion. Hair half-tied, a stubborn strand falling loose. Dressed in cargo pants and a faded tee, arms crossed, expression sharp but honest.

There was no smile. Just an unfiltered realness that pulled at him in an inexplicable way.

Garry stared for a long moment.

Then his lips curved.
Just slightly.
A smile — not of amusement, but of interest.

And somewhere in the quiet, beneath the foreign drizzle, something flickered.

-------

To be continued.

Chapter 15 (The Misunderstood Yes)

Santhosh’s Worry Deepens

Ludhiana — Monga House, Late Evening

The front door creaked open quietly.
Keerat stepped in, her shoes muddy, hair damp with rain, and heart still thudding to the rhythm of a moment that didn’t fully happen.

The familiar aroma of lauki sabzi wafted from the kitchen — earthy, warm, grounding. She exhaled. Tried to let the banyan tree fade behind her.

“You’re back.”

Santhosh’s voice was calm, but firm. She stood by the stove, still in her printed cotton saree, ladle in hand, her earrings swaying gently as she turned.

Keerat nodded, brushing water droplets from her sleeves.
“Didn’t want to catch a cold.”

Santhosh served the curry into a small bowl, setting it on the side table with fresh rotis.
“I made lauki.” Her tone was dry. “Still your favourite?”

Keerat smiled faintly, trying for lightness.
“Of course. Number one on the list of edible torture.”

Santhosh didn’t smile.

She simply observed her daughter — the soaked strands of hair sticking to her cheek, the quickened breath she thought she’d hidden, the way her fingers trembled just slightly as she reached for the towel.

“You’re glowing again.”

Keerat paused mid-step.
“Mummy…”

Santhosh didn’t raise her voice. But her eyes were sharp — the kind that mothers mastered. Kind, but cutting.

“I know that glow.”

She set the ladle down.

“It’s the kind that comes before heartbreak.”

Keerat turned fully to her.
“It’s nothing like that.”

Santhosh tilted her head, unconvinced.
“You said you were alone.”

Keerat’s heart stuttered.
“I was.”

The lie slipped out again. Easy. Practiced. Necessary.

Santhosh stared at her for a beat too long.
“Then why do your eyes look like they were caught mid-dream?” she asked, voice lower. “And why does your silence feel like someone else’s name is still echoing in it?”

Keerat dropped her gaze.

Words rose to her tongue — defensive, dismissive — but she swallowed them.
Because how could she explain a moment that didn’t become anything?

How could she confess to a kiss that didn’t land, to a feeling that bloomed but broke before it could breathe?

“I just... needed space today,” she said finally.
“College is intense. Training is draining. Sometimes I just want to stand still for a bit.”

Santhosh watched her for a moment longer. Then nodded.
But not with belief.
With acceptance — the kind that comes when a mother knows she’s being lied to, but isn’t ready to fight it yet.

“Finish dinner,” she said, her voice gentler now.

Brar Mansion — Dining Hall

The long dining table gleamed under the golden pendant lights. The entire Brar family sat gathered — laughter bubbling here, clinking cutlery there — as fresh rotis landed hot on steel plates.

Children passed bowls of dal, Angad teased Simran for sneaking an extra gulab jamun, and even Akaal Singh Brar looked unusually relaxed.

Jabjyot set down her spoon and cleared her throat gently.
“Before we end dinner, there’s something important we’d like to bring up.”

The room quietened instantly. All eyes turned to her.

Angad raised a brow, glancing from Jabjyot to Jasleen, who sat calmly beside her.
“Everything alright, Bebe?” he asked.

Jasleen smiled, lifting her glass of water with deliberate poise.
“Everything’s perfectly alright. In fact, it’s good. We’ve been thinking about a new rishta.”

Veer, in the middle of sipping water, paused mid-motion.

Manbeer, curious, leaned forward.
“Rishta? For whom?”

Jabjyot glanced toward Jasleen, who nodded and took the floor.
“For Garry,” Jasleen announced. “We’re considering asking for Keerat’s hand.”

A beat of stunned silence followed.

Simran blinked.
“Keerat di? Sahiba bhabhi’s sister?”

Angad sat up straighter, genuinely confused.
“Wait—Keerat and Garry? Since when?”

Garry isn’t even here, Veer thought wildly, pulse thudding in his ears. He gripped his fork tighter under the table.

Jasleen remained composed.
“We discussed it privately, and today, we’re officially sharing it with all of you. Garry’s career is taking off, and Keerat is strong, practical, rooted in her values. They complement each other.”

Veer didn’t speak — couldn’t. His ears were ringing. He stared down at his plate, the steam from the rice blurring his vision.

Manbeer gave a thoughtful nod.
“Honestly, she’s a good girl. A bit rough around the edges, but disciplined.”

Akaal Singh looked toward Sahiba.
“What do you think, puttar?”

Sahiba, torn, spoke carefully.
“I didn’t know this was being considered… but Keerat deserves happiness. If this is a decision taken with her in mind, I’ll support it.”

Angad added slowly,
“Garry doesn’t really know her well. Has he agreed?”

Jasleen shrugged.
“I sent him her photo. He’s intrigued. We’ll talk more when he’s back, but the idea has been planted.”

Simran, always one to blurt, looked at Veer.
“But weren’t you supposed to get engaged to her?”

The question hit like lightning.

Forks paused. Every head turned.

Veer froze. His jaw clenched.

Manbeer blinked.
“Simran, beta…”

Jasleen interjected quickly.
“Nothing was finalised. There was talk, sure. But it didn’t go beyond casual interest. No formal roka.”

Gurleen, quietly watching Veer, finally spoke. Her voice held both ache and resolve.
“Sometimes... the right feelings don’t arrive at the right time. Maybe this is for the best.”

Akaal Singh nodded.
“Then let’s keep this simple. If Garry agrees and Keerat is open to the proposal, we’ll proceed.”

Angad looked around the table.
“Everyone else okay with it?”

One by one, heads nodded.

Sahiba hesitated for half a second — but then nodded too.

Only Veer remained still.
His lips pressed into a line, his fingers twitching once — just once — under the table.

He cleared his throat.
“If Keerat agrees... then it’s her choice.”

His voice was calm. Steady.
Too steady.

Only Gurleen noticed the flicker in his eyes — the subtle, silent scream behind the composed exterior. But she said nothing.

Because no one — not even Gurleen or Sahiba — knew that Veer Brar had been falling, deeply and silently, for Keerat Monga.

And now, as laughter slowly returned to the table and the family moved on to dessert, Veer sat motionless — a silent storm inside him, with a question echoing louder than any dinner bell:

What if the love of your life is being served to someone else — with your family’s blessing?

Brar Mansion – Living Room – Next Morning

The family had gathered again — this time more formally, purpose sitting squarely on every shoulder. The cordless phone was placed at the center of the table, the call on speaker mode. The children had been hushed, and even Angad looked unusually serious.

Jasleen sat closest, ready to lead the conversation.

The line connected.

“Hello, Santhosh ji?” Jasleen’s voice was honeyed, confident.

“Jasleen ji? Sat Sri Akal,” Santhosh replied, her voice sharp but polite. “Is everything alright?”

Jabjyot leaned forward slightly, as if the gesture would somehow carry through the phone. “We won’t take much of your time, Santhosh ji. We just wanted to speak to you about… a rishta.”

There was a pause.

Santhosh’s tone cooled. “I thought we had moved past that topic, Brar ji. We all know what happened with Veer—”

“It’s not about Veer this time,” Jasleen cut in smoothly. “We’re calling with a different proposal. One we believe might suit Keerat even better.”

Santhosh sounded genuinely taken aback. “Another Brar boy?”

“Yes,” Jabjyot said gently. “Garry. He’s doing well in the UK, building his own name in the fashion business. He’s responsible, mature, and most importantly—untangled.”

“Untangled?” Santhosh echoed suspiciously.

“There’s no past with Keerat, no misunderstandings. It’s a fresh start, a clean slate,” Jasleen explained. “We’ve all thought about it deeply. He’s shown interest after seeing Keerat’s photo. And we believe their temperaments might actually complement each other.”

On the other end, Santhosh sat at her kitchen table, Jasleen’s words echoing in her mind.
She had noticed it — the subtle shift in Keerat lately. The softening. The distracted smiles. The way Veer’s name crept more and more into their conversations. At first, she had brushed it off, but lately, it had begun to concern her.

Veer Brar.

He was charming, no doubt. But he was also… unpredictable. Emotional. Still wrestling with his past and his place in the family.

Santhosh had heard things — rumors, whispers, that Veer had once hesitated, once walked away when Keerat had stood beside him through everything.

What kind of man realized his feelings only after letting a woman go?

What kind of future would Keerat have with a man who couldn’t even articulate his intentions?

She wouldn't let her daughter become another casualty of someone else's emotional confusion.

If Garry was truly as calm, stable, and respectful as Jasleen made him out to be — if he liked Keerat without any lingering complications — then maybe this was the safer, wiser choice.

Santhosh exhaled slowly.

“It’s unexpected,” she said after a beat. “But… I won’t lie. Garry has always struck me as well-spoken. A little flashy, but... good-hearted.”

She paused again. Her voice settled.

“And if your whole family supports this... maybe it’s worth considering.”

A wave of relief swept the Brar household.

“So we take this as a yes to proceed?” Angad asked, exchanging glances with Manbeer and Jabjyot.

“Yes,” Santhosh said, her tone firmer now. “I give my consent. We’ll speak to Keerat. If she agrees, we can fix a date to meet.”

“Sat Sri Akal, Santhosh ji,” Jasleen said brightly. “We’re all very happy. This will be good for both families.”

“Sat Sri Akal,” Santhosh replied and ended the call with a soft click.

Monga House – Drawing Room

Santhosh had barely set down the phone when the front door creaked open.

Keerat entered, hair damp from training, gym bag slung over her shoulder. She paused, noticing the quiet gleam in her mother’s eyes.

“What? Why are you smiling like that?” she asked, arching a brow.

Santhosh folded her hands in front of her, trying to look calm — but she couldn’t stop the warmth spreading across her face.

“The Brars just called,” she said. “They’ve sent a rishta. For you.”

Keerat blinked. Her breath caught. For a heartbeat, everything inside her surged.

They called again. They didn’t forget.
He didn’t forget.

She didn’t need to ask the name.

Her heart had already written the script.

A slow, stunned smile bloomed across her face. “They did? Again?”

Santhosh nodded, eyes softening with maternal pride. “They think you’ll be very good for him. It’s up to you now.”

Keerat clutched her gym bag tighter, heart thudding. Her cheeks flushed with color.

“Yes, Mummy,” she whispered, her voice steady with unexpected courage. “Tell them yes. I’ll say yes.”

Santhosh’s smile widened, hope and relief coiling together in her chest. She immediately reached for the phone and dialed Jasleen back.

Brar Mansion – Living Room

The family was still gathered when Jasleen’s phone rang. She put it on speaker.

“Jasleen ji, Keerat said yes,” Santhosh’s voice rang through.

Jasleen clapped her hands together. “Waheguru di meher!”

“Congratulations to all of us,” Jabjyot added, tears welling in her eyes.

“We should begin roka preparations soon,” Manbeer said, already turning to Angad. “Let’s pick a date and get things moving.”

“Garry will be thrilled,” Jasleen added, a little smugly.

The room buzzed with joy and relief.

Except for one man.

Veer sat at the far end of the couch, spine ramrod straight, knuckles white around his glass of water. His face didn’t change. But his eyes — his eyes said everything.

He had heard every word.

And they had broken him.

Silently. Completely.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t protest. He didn’t ask questions.

Because what could he say?

That his silence had cost him the only girl who had ever made him feel seen?

He stood up slowly, setting the glass down with care.

“I have an early shoot tomorrow,” he said, voice even, unreadable. “I’ll head up.”

Only Sahiba watched him go, concern flickering across her face.

Only Gurleen noticed the storm behind his calm.

The rest?

The rest celebrated — toasting a future stitched with good intentions and blind spots.

Monga House – That Night

Keerat sat on her bed, hugging a pillow close, believing in a love story that was never actually written for her.

The misunderstanding sat between them like fate in disguise.

------

To be continued.

Yay you updated finally

will read chapter 9 and 10 soon

Chapter 9 and 10...Finally Veer is back home and their romance starts

Will read chapter 11-15 soon

She went to see him and to tell him she did it out of care for him. Hopefully that will help him later.

All those unsent letters. She needs to see them. They will mean a lot to her.

The family is pushing Keerat into Garry's direction, totally unaware of what is cooking between her and Veer.