Chapter 2: Jaggery Water and Jealousy

I had finally managed to lure the childhood friend I’d been longing for into bed.

It was the weekend, at his place in Pune.

Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, painting stripes across the faded bedsheet. The aroma of last night’s biryani still clung to the air. Downstairs, Rohan’s mother argued with the milkman in rapid-fire Marathi.

His kisses were eager, burning hot against my lips, sending tingles through my body. My heart galloped with anticipation.

There was that nervous excitement—the same as sneaking a second helping of mango pickle from Amma’s kitchen shelf. My hands trembled, not just from desire but from the thrill of finally being alone together.

But then, Rohan’s face turned ashen. He clutched his stomach and rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a dull thud—the kind that makes you wince and wonder if the neighbors heard. For a moment, I thought he was joking, but the pain etched in his eyes was real.

I was stunned. Instinctively, I touched my foot, then sniffed my hand under my nose. No strange smell—just a faint hint of body wash.

I remembered Amma checking for the smell of ghee after frying pooris, and almost laughed at my own reflex. But this wasn’t the time.

I hurried to Rohan’s side. “Arre, Meera, kya ho gaya? Why does my stomach feel like a mixer-grinder?”

My voice shook, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. My mind raced—was it food poisoning from that roadside vada pav?

Rohan was kneeling, voice trembling. “I don’t know, it feels like a power drill is spinning in my stomach. It hurts so much.”

Sweat beaded on his forehead; he looked like he might vomit. I remembered my own board exam cramps, and a chill ran through me, like someone had left the fridge door open in May.

I grabbed my phone. “Is it appendicitis? I’ll call an ambulance.”

My fingers hovered over the emergency dial. The thought of explaining this to Rohan’s mother—or worse, my own—made my stomach twist tighter.

Just as I was about to dial 108, the barrage floated into view:

[LOL, the male lead finally gets to experience period pain!]

[Serves him right—who told the male lead to get so worked up with his childhood friend? The moment the hormones kicked in, he triggered the female lead’s period!]

[Late periods hurt like hell. And the male lead dares touch girls other than the female lead? He deserves this punishment!]

[This empathy setting is gold. I can’t wait for the female and male leads to… Double out-of-focus eyes, it’s going to be wild!]

The words buzzed in my head like static from a broken radio. I rubbed my temple, trying to focus on Rohan, but the barrage refused to fade.

I froze for a second, then quietly slipped to the kitchen. I hovered by the stove, stirring jaggery into the water, my thumb absently tracing the chipped edge of the steel tumbler—just like Dadi used to do. The gas flame hissed, the kitchen warm and familiar. I poured the golden liquid into a steel tumbler that clinked comfortingly in my hand.

Rohan sat on the floor, gulped down the jaggery water, and his color slowly returned.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, too embarrassed to ask for a napkin. The lines of pain on his face faded, replaced by confusion.

“Meera, what did you give me? Why is it sweet? It actually doesn’t hurt as much now.”

His voice was hoarse but relieved. For a moment, I almost smiled, but my heart felt like it had been plunged into an icebox.

The barrage appeared again:

[Whoa, the supporting girl is actually pretty sharp. She figured out the male lead’s feeling the female lead’s period pain.]

[She must’ve seen the female lead’s Instagram story when she picked up her phone just now.]

[The supporting girl is feeding the male lead jaggery water—does she still want to do something? So desperate… Is the male lead going to lose his purity?]

[So what if he does? The British left ages ago. After some practice, the male lead will only serve the female lead better.]

The comments stung like a slap—so quick to judge, so quick to dismiss. The invisible audience was always watching, always ready with their popcorn and masala.

I’m the class prefect, so I have everyone’s WhatsApp in class.

I scrolled through my phone, the familiar blue ticks and profile pictures flashing by. My fingers trembled as I searched for any clue.

I opened my phone, and sure enough, that transfer student Priya had just posted a story:

[My period came early. Hurts so much I almost fainted QAQ:]

Underneath, she’d commented herself:

[Suddenly a warm current~ My tummy doesn’t hurt anymore~ Looks like someone who never drinks hot water broke his rule for me. So stubborn but so sweet~]

Priya’s words sparkled with emojis and that cutesy tone she always used. My chest tightened as I realised the connection. The universe, it seemed, was playing matchmaker in the most bizarre way.

In that instant, I realised: the jaggery water I’d given Rohan had also worked on Priya.

A chill ran through me. My hands went cold, and I stared at the phone as if it had betrayed me. The barrage was right. The two of them really did have physical empathy.

“Meera, stop looking at your phone. Aren’t I better looking than your phone?”

Rohan’s voice broke my trance. He had recovered, came over, and tried to pick up where we left off.

He grinned, trying to lighten the mood, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He reached for my hand, but I dodged him.

Just thinking about how, moments ago, another girl was sharing the same heartbeat with Rohan made me feel sick.

The thought gnawed at me. My stomach twisted, and I looked away, pretending to straighten the bedsheet. How was this any different from a wedding buffet gulab jamun everyone wanted to taste?

I said coldly, “Rohan, let’s just forget about us.”

My words hung in the air, heavy and final. Rohan’s face fell, his eyes wide with disbelief. The distant call of a street hawker selling nimbu pani drifted in through the window, but inside, everything was silent.