Chapter 3: Green Tea Girls and CP Breakups

That night, as usual, Priya invited me to a five-stack in the arena.

Our pre-game ritual was sacred: change into pyjamas, grab the big steel dabba of snacks, and plug in the headphones. Even the lizard on the wall seemed to know something was up. The pressure cooker whistled in the kitchen, and the evening aarti bells chimed faintly from a neighbour’s flat.

As soon as I joined, both our CPs were there.

I nudged Priya. “What’s up? Weren’t you going to break up?”

She shrugged, “Desensitisation play—one last round.”

I nodded. Classic best friend: “Just one more, it’s not expensive, eat up, you won’t get fat, almost done, this is really the last time”—her favourite lies, be it for sweets or one more episode of any TV serial. I rolled my eyes but felt relieved. One last hurrah with Kabir couldn’t hurt, right?

But tonight was destined for drama.

Her Indian server Arjun suddenly said, “Hold on, I’ll call someone.”

There was a dramatic pause—straight out of a Karan Johar film.

Then, a girl with a cute pink avatar and the ID ‘Bai Tau Doodh’ joined. WhatsApp pinged. The first thing she said, with a giggle, was:

“Here I am, all because of Kunal. Called me to play for no reason and wasted my time.”

She said it in that nasal tone only Delhi girls can pull off, and I knew immediately—this girl was here for drama, not gaming.

Priya nearly rolled her eyes out of her head.

She muted and whispered to me, “If it’s such a waste, why is she even here?”

Me, loyal bootlicker: “Exactly, exactly, you’re so right.” I threw in a ‘Uff, kuch toh gadbad hai!’

In game, Arjun introduced her as their neighbour and childhood friend—Sneha.

The way he said ‘childhood friend’ made me want to barf. Ask any girl in India—‘childhood friend’ is the biggest red flag.

Priya and I were both confused: “Wait, you two know each other in real life?”

They both replied at once: “Yeah, we’re real-life brothers.”

Turns out, sometimes the world is just that small.

Brothers in real life, teammates in game. Kabir was the older brother, Kunal. Arjun was the younger, Rohan.

I immediately imagined their mother scolding both of them for shouting during matches, while their father watched the news in the living room. Typical desi sibling scene.

Seeing us busy sorting out relationships and ignoring her, Sneha got annoyed and started stirring the pot:

“No need to make it so complicated, just call us childhood sweethearts, isn’t that easier?”

“Oh, Rohan, this third pick is your girlfriend, right? Didi, don’t overthink, I’m just ordinary friends with him.”

“After all, if we were meant to be together, we would’ve already.”

She even laughed twice. My green tea radar was blaring—this girl was dripping more drama than a daily soap.

If her words were a drink, it would be that ultra-sweet, fake-flavoured, absolutely undrinkable bottle of soft drink from the railway station.

At the time, I was still on guard for Priya, worried this girl was after Rohan. But then, she suddenly switched targets.

Game started, she locked in support.

“I’m not very good, so I’ll play Kabir and follow Kunal. Who’s marksman? Kunal’s girlfriend?”

“Her rank’s so high, her skills must be good, she should be fine without my protection.”

So I was forced to play marksman and got sent to the bottom lane. I got ganked three times in five minutes—my screen was so dark, all I could do was sigh. The only light was from my phone’s notification bar, filled with Priya’s supportive (and angry) WhatsApp messages: ‘Arey, what is this!’ ‘Sab mile hue hain!’

Now Priya couldn’t take it.

She turned on her mic and said, “You should follow the marksman, she’s been ganked so many times.”

Sneha sneered, “She’s getting ganked because she’s bad. Even if I protected her, it wouldn’t help.”

“It’s better to follow Kunal and gank people—at least I can help with tempo.”

Who gets this? Family…

I was terrified. If she insulted Priya directly, I wouldn’t care, but scolding me in front of my best friend?

Sure enough, Priya couldn’t stand it. She paused the game, turned on public mic, and started roasting:

“This is the arena, not your king-sized bed.”

“Fifteen minutes in and you’re still support with no big items—just red gems, blue gems, green gems. What are you, a jewellery shop? Snap your fingers and the enemy team disappears, right?”

Priya’s tone was pure Delhi aunty, hands on hips, eyes narrowed, ready to unleash the next line.

“Have you considered switching to bot matches?”

Sneha tried to retort, but Priya cut her off instantly.

“Go to Flipkart and get yourself a mom before you talk to me.”

Priya’s clapbacks were always next level, especially when she dropped in a shopping site reference.

“I’m playing chess with your dad—your dad’s the elephant, and I’m his advisor.”

Me and the five enemies all shivered. After roasting her, was it our turn next?

Sure enough, the next second, Priya hit surrender on the enemy team’s side.

“Opposite team, help click surrender, I’m out of patience.”

After her tirade, she quit the game immediately. I followed suit, not daring to delay even a second.

The pressure cooker whistled again, as if to signal the end of the chaos.

The WhatsApp pinged—next chapter of drama unlocked.