04.

𝐘𝐮𝐯𝐫𝐚𝐣 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐡𝐚𝐧

"Maaa!! Nahiiin na please, koi toh bacha lo mujhe! Sab haath dho ke peeche kyu pad gaye ho? Mummy, jhaadu mat uthao, main tumhara laal hoon!" I cried out, like any self-respecting hero facing his kismet.

But who listens to the bechaara dulha on his big day?

Cut to: Maa storming behind me like Gabbar with a jhaadu instead of a gun. Her eyes? Rage. Her target? Me.

And the rest of my so-called family? They’ve turned into full CID team—trying to corner me like I’ve hidden diamonds under my sherwani.

And there, at the gate, my wife? Laughing. Like full-on Kareena-in-Jab-We-Met style giggling.

My own wife. Not on Team Me.

Zindagi se disappointment level: SRK in Devdas.

I dart behind the oversized, Rich-Aunty-style velvet sofa. But oh no—my best friend, my jaan, my yaar? He blocks one side like a villain with a backstory.

And my brothers? Traitors. One left, one right. I was the dulha, not a football.

Out of options, I do the only thing any Bollywood hero would do—I jump. On the sofa. With my shoes on.

Maa: GASPS IN PURE SANSKAAR ATTACK

"Joota leke sofe pe?!"

Meanwhile, I'm doing parkour in sherwani.

Picture this—sherwani-clad dulha running like a fugitive, Maa chasing him with a jhaadu, relatives playing kabaddi, and the dulhan—laughing, hands folded, probably regretting all life choices. Funny right? But not for me.

I run and hide behind Aliya, clinging to her pallu like it’s a raksha kawach. "Bachao mujhe!" I whisper like a broken soul.

She turns. Slow motion. "Yuvraj," she says—voice flat, expression irritated, soul gone.

"Pati ko bacha lo, kaisi biwi ho yaar?" I flash my most innocent smile.

Then comes that voice.

Vivaan: "Inke peeche kyu chhup raha hai? Beta, bachega nahi tu aaj."

"Inke kya hota hai? Bhabhi hai teri!" I snapped, stepping forward like a shield, my hands dramatically landing on either side of my waist like a local Rajkumar.

But then—Vivaan lunges.

My eyes widen.

I do a full 180, spin around, and hide behind her again.

Heroic background music CUT. Comedy music PLAYS.

And just when the scene looked like it would turn into a full-blown desi WWE match, a voice cuts through the madness.

“Ho gaya sabka?”

That voice. That calm yet powerful voice. The voice of legend.

Camera pans. Everyone stops. Even the jhaadu halts mid-air.

It’s him.

Dadu.

Wearing a crisp kurta, standing like he’s stepped out of a Sooraj Barjatya film. Grace. Wisdom. Sass. All in one.

I almost cry out of relief.

“OMG YES! MY SAVIOUR! I LOVE YOU DADU!”

I scream in my head but let out a very grown-up, “Love you dadu, you’re my favourite!”

Pitch: high.

Tone: desperate but loving.

Mood: rescued soldier in a war zone.

He walks closer, his eyes scanning the chaos like a king returning to his kingdom.

“Ab bahu ka swagat kar lo. Bichari darr gayi hogi itni jangli family dekh ke,” he says, half-teasing, half-warning.

I freeze.

Mental rewind begins.

Crap. He’s right.

My wife—who, by the way, laughed at my misery like a villain—is probably overwhelmed.

First day in the house.

New people.

Jhaadu fights.

Husband parkouring over sofas.

And now, she's standing there like an outsider.

Guilt slaps me harder than mummy ever did.

I quickly go stand beside her, ready to make amends, to be her hero... when—

TWIST!

My ears are yanked. HARD.

“Mummy yaar! Kaan chhod do! Sorry na! Please, kaan nahi!”

I cry like a school kid caught cheating.

But does she care? Nope.

Maa pulls me like I’m some criminal and makes me sit at the dining table like it’s andolan ka punishment.

She walks back to Aliya, my wife, with a soft voice I’ve never heard before.

“Aajao beta, andar aa jao. Thak gayi hogi na? Aram kar lo abhi, subah baatein karenge.”

Record scratch.

WHAT?

That tone?

That pyaar?

Where is that treatment when I come home?

I sit there, sulking like an ignored extra in my own movie, watching everyone talk to her, offering juice, asking her to rest, tucking her in with their words like she's a baby princess.

AND I?

Ignored.

Alone.

Misunderstood.

Just when I’m about to burst into an emotional breakdown, someone sits beside me.

Camera tilts. Drum rolls.

Dadu.

He looks at me with that classic Indian grandfather expression—half judgment, half tum abhi bhi chhote ho mere liye.

“Aise hoti hai shaadi?” he asks, raising a single eyebrow.

I gulp.

But then he softens. “Chhod, pehle bahut sun liya hai tune, isliye kuch nahi bol raha. Subah dono 9 baje tak tayaar ho jana. Mandir jaana hai. Parampara hai apne yahan. Bahu se puch lena, use koi dikkat toh nahi hai na?”

I nod, all sincerity now, heart suddenly heavier with respect.

He pats my back, “Chal ja, nikal.”

I stand up, like a soldier reborn.

This time, I walk toward her—not running, not hiding. I ask the elders if we can go rest, my tone gentle.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

As I push the bedroom door open, expecting some blushes or stolen glances, I freeze at the sight before me.

My brand new wife—Mrs. Aliya Yuvraj Chauhan—lay sprawled across the bed like an unfinished art project. Half of her body dangling off the edge, one leg twisted awkwardly like she tried doing yoga in her sleep. Hair looking like it went to war. I stare for a good five seconds.

“Uff, kya karun main is ladki ka?” I mutter like a defeated TV serial husband.

Dragging my tired legs forward, I lean down and gently touch her hand. She stirs like a zombie coming back to life. With half-lidded eyes and zero awareness, she looks at me like I just woke her up from a hundred-year slumber.

"Kapde badal lo pehle. Aur nahi, main koi bahane nahi sunne wala," I say like an army general before she can start her Oscar-winning excuses.

Without even opening both eyes, she throws back, “Zyada bakwas mat karo, muh tod dungi.”

Excuse me!? My jaw drops.

"Pati ko maarogi? Haw, very bad biwi ji," I say in the most drama king tone possible, hand on chest like I just got betrayed in a Mughal-e-Azam scene.

Before things could escalate into a sass-fest, I decide to use the guest room’s bathroom and save what’s left of my izzat. I open the door—AND BAM.

There she is. The little devil herself.

Ananya. Six-year-old mini hurricane. Vivaan’s daughter. My so-called princess who also calls me her boyfriend (don’t ask, long story). She’s standing at the door with her arms crossed and that intense Amitabh Bachchan from Mohabbatein look on her face, ready to roast me alive in front of my own wife.

"Hieee princess," I say with my pyaar bhari smile, trying to charm my way out of this—little pathaka.

She walks straight to Aliya and sits beside her, feet swinging like a judge about to announce my punishment.

“Hello didi,” she says politely.

Aliya smiles back—sunshine personified—“Hi sweetheart, nice to meet you.”

And then came the roast of the decade.

“Aap toh itne sundar ho, aapko Yuvi bhaiya hi mile shaadi ke liye? Itni buri choice hai aapki.”

WHAAAT?! Betrayal stabbed me like a hundred knives. My girlfriend just destroyed my izat in front of my wife. I can’t even be mad—she’s right.

Ananya giggles, Aliya laughs like she’s in a romantic film, and me? I’m just standing there rethinking my life choices.

But amidst the chaos, I find myself staring. Her smile—man, her smile could make time stop. Ghazal playing in background? Check.

"Ho gaya apka? Ya aur bhi bolna hai?" I try to regain control, arms crossed. She just raises a brow—literal death glare.

Sensing my life in danger, I bolt out and go to take a quick shower in the guest room.

I walk into our room again, towel around my neck, expecting peace.

Wrong.

I see Ananya sitting on the bed like she owns the place. Aliya? Missing. I hear the water running in the bathroom—she’s inside. Okay, fine.

I was still standing at the door, leaning on the frame, arms crossed, watching Ananya play on her phone—probably torturing Talking Angela again. Her tiny fingers zooming around the screen like she was born to conquer games and hearts.

And then—

BAM. A sudden push. A ruthless entry.

Someone barges into the room, almost half-shoving me like I’m some decorative vase in his path. I blink, mildly offended. It’s Vivaan. Walking past me like I’m air. He heads straight to Ananya like a hero in a dramatic climax scene, lifts her into his arms mid-game (yep, she’s still playing), and starts chatting with her like I never existed.

Excuse me?

Before he could make his grand exit, I stretch my arm out like a filmy villain, blocking the doorway.

“Ignore kyun kar rahe ho mujhe?” I ask dramatically, betrayal dripping from my voice. My favourite people—my literal top two—were ignoring me. The audacity.

Ananya, my little drama queen, looks at me with those twinkly eyes and goes,

“Bhaiya, aap toh bade log ho… hume toh shaadi karne se pehle batate bhi nahi ho… hum aapko kya ignore karenge?”

I’m flabbergasted.

Ananya? My cutu princess? This sass? She’s baap pe gayi hai—no doubt.

I try the classic puppy eyes attack, the signature move I usually reserve for serious damage control. But these two devils smirk, flip their imaginary sunglasses, and strut away, ignoring me with full-on slow motion effect.

I stood there… abandoned. Betrayed.

With a sigh worthy of an award-winning scene, I close the door and turn back—only to hear the soft click of the bathroom lock. And then...

She walks out.

My wife.

My beautiful, chaotic, sharp-tongued priye patni —wrapped in my oversized white t-shirt that reaches just above her knees, paired with my black shorts hanging slightly loose on her petite frame. The kind of look that could make anyone fall in love. And I do. Again. Just like SRK in Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham when he first sees Kajol—dekha tenu pehli-pehli baar ve, hone laga dil bekraar ve wala moment.

Her damp hair clings to her back, cascading like a waterfall, reaching her waist. Her skin glowing, tired eyes soft, and that natural, effortless beauty that doesn’t even try—and still slaps.

Before I could open my mouth and say something charming—

“Aapke paas moisturizer nahi hai?” she asks, dragging me back from my La La Land.

I stroll over to the dressing table, scanning my chaotic collection of random creams, deodorants and colognes. “Andhi ho gayi ho kya? Dikh nahi raha?” I sass back, pointing at the moisturizer lying there like a proud king.

She turns, hands on her waist, giving me that glare that could silence wars. Now we’re standing dangerously close, and while she doesn’t notice, my heart has straight-up booked a Dhoom bike and taken a speed ride.

“Yeh acha wala nahi hai. Main dusra use karti hoon.”

Of course. This girl and her nakhre.

Without another word, I open the lid and gently apply the moisturizer on her face. She doesn’t protest—too tired, I guess. Otherwise, she would’ve karate-chopped me for daring to touch her perfect face. Her eyes flutter half closed as I rub the cream slowly, carefully, like she’s made of moonlight and glass.

She loosely braids her hair, then silently picks up a pillow and the duvet and walks—not to the bed—but to the couch in our room.

“Sofe pe kyun sona hai? Bed pe so jao na. Main thodi na kha jaunga tumhe?” I ask, part pleading, part confused.

She pauses. Looks at me like I just insulted her bloodline.

“Main nahi. Ji, aap soyenge sofe pe.”

What the hell?

“Kyun bhai? Main nahi so raha sofe pe.” I argue, arms crossed.

She just shrugs, flopping on the bed like she owns it.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Toh zameen pe so jao. Par mere paas bed pe sone ka sochna bhi mat. Sachi mein muh tod dungi.”

And with that irritated tone, my fate is sealed. I know that tone. Jhadu-ready-mode tone. One wrong word and she’ll do what mummy couldn't.

Retrieve solder. Accept your defeat for today.

Grumbling dramatically like any self-respecting Bollywood hero, I drag myself to the couch, throw myself on it like a sad prince, and glance at her one last time.

She’s already asleep, lips slightly parted, looking like an art that somehow ended up in my room.

Despite the sass, the drama, the chaos—my heart feels full.

Sleep sneaks in silently as I watch her, the sound of her soft breathing pulling me into the same dream where we fight like enemies and love like fools.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

A strange uneasiness coils in my chest like a warning siren. My eyes fly open, and for a second, I forget where I am. There’s no dream, no nightmare… just an unshakable sense of something being wrong.

I sit up, slowly at first, then fully alert. My eyes scan the dimly lit room, the soft glow of the hallway light seeping under the door. The bed—empty. The duvet tossed carelessly, twisted like someone was sleeping there but got up in a hurry.

I glance at the clock.

2:56 a.m.

Wait.

Where’s Aliya?

My stomach drops. The silence suddenly feels louder. Heavier.

I throw off the blanket, my feet hitting the cold floor as I call her name, once, then again, louder each time.

Nothing.

I check the balcony. Nothing.

Bathroom—empty.

Panic starts to rise—cold and sharp like icy water filling my lungs.

I fling the door open and rush into the hallway, yelling her name again.

Vivaan’s door creaks open, his sleepy face turning to instant concern when he sees the panic on mine. “What happened?”

“I-I can’t find Aliya. She’s not in the room. She’s not—anywhere.” I manage to say, breathless.

Vivaan doesn’t waste time on useless questions—he knows me too well. My voice already says it all.

Within minutes, the house becomes a quiet storm.

Prem bhai, Shivansh bhai, Kritika bhabhi… everyone’s up. Everyone’s searching—each room, balcony, even the backyard. We avoid waking the elders. Why cause them more panic?

But the silence becomes unbearable. Aliya’s name echoes in the dark halls. Still no sign.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears, wild and reckless. I try to stay calm, but flashes from the past slam into my mind.

And then—

CRASH.

The sharp sound of shattering of glass pierces through the night. Everyone freezes.

“That came from the terrace.” Kritika bhabhi’s voice trembles slightly.

Terrace.

We didn’t check the terrace.

I don’t wait. I bolt up the stairs, my bare feet thudding against the marble. The others follow behind me, their voices faint under the sound of my own racing breath.

I push the terrace door open with a slam—and the sight before me makes the air leave my lungs.

Aliya.

Standing in the middle of the terrace, under the cold silver light of the moon. Her white T-shirt—my white T-shirt—now streaked with blood.

Her hand—bleeding from the shoulder.

Her fingers—clutching a sharp, jagged piece of glass like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this world.

Drops of blood fall from her fingertips.

Drip.

Drip.

Each one sounds louder than the last, echoing in the eerie silence.

She turns slowly, her eyes meeting mine.

Lifeless. Hollow.

Like all the stars in her eyes had vanished.

My breath catches. I take a step forward, heart in my throat.

“Aliya…” I whisper.

But she takes a step back, her hand lifting the glass slightly—warning me.

The girl who once danced in the rain, who argued over movie endings, who called me annoying and then held my hand five minutes later—was now standing in front of me like a ghost of herself.

I raise my hands slowly, like one does with someone scared of their own shadow. “I’m not here to hurt you. Please…”

But before I can say more—her legs wobble.

Her body sways.

And in the blink of an eye—she starts to fall.

I run.

Faster than I ever have. My arms reach her just before she hits the ground, catching her like she’s glass too, about to shatter.

“Aliya!” I whisper desperately, holding her tight, feeling the warmth of her blood seep into my skin.

She’s unconscious. Her breathing is shallow. The glass piece slips from her hand and rolls away, forgotten.

The others arrive behind me, but I can’t even hear them.

All I can hear is the sound of her heart.

And mine.

And the terrifying silence between the two.

────୨ৎ────

Hey sweethearts,

I was all set to drop an update

yesterday, but destiny had other plans! So to make it up to you, I poured a little extra masala into this chapter—it's longer and (hopefully) juicier than the previous ones.

Hope you felt the filmy feels and had a blast reading it!

P.S. If you’re craving spoilers, follow me on Instagram! (@/scribbledchaoss)

With love,

Moni – your full-time filmy writer, part-time drama queenᥫ᭡