Chapter 2: Summer in Pune

The summer after my second year in college, my parents went on a pilgrimage, so I had to stay at my brother’s flat in Pune.

They left early for Shirdi, Ma clutching her prayer beads and Papa worrying about the train timings. I hugged them at the station, their faces a mixture of excitement and anxiety, both reminding me to eat properly and keep my phone charged. It was settled—Bhaiya’s flat would be my home till they came back.

My brother was at work, but I knew the door code.

I remembered it easily—his birthday reversed. Classic Bhaiya, always so predictable. I lugged my old blue suitcase into the lift, its wheels clattering over the uneven tiles. The corridor was thick with the scent of agarbatti from the neighbour’s door.

Dragging my suitcase behind me, I opened the door and immediately heard someone inside sneering:

"Why not let your unborn little brother or sister play instead."

"I mean, you could just go back and get remade."

That voice was so familiar.

A wave of déjà vu hit me; it was the exact same sharp, almost mocking tone I’d heard through my earphones so many times.

I froze. I recognised it.

My breath caught. There was a flush of heat on my cheeks, and I immediately pressed myself against the wall, clutching the suitcase handle so tightly my knuckles turned white.

It was Kabir—my brother’s close friend. They’ve been tight since school days. I always knew they were close, but I never expected him to be living in my brother’s flat.

I’d seen him come and go before, but this was different. His battered Kolhapuri chappals were sprawled by the door, a half-empty Bournvita jar next to a crumpled packet of Parle-G on the counter, and a pair of headphones on the sofa confirmed it.

Kabir went pro in esports while still in school, and now that he’s retired, he’s a game streamer.

Whenever Mummy asked, "Beta, what does Kabir do, sitting at home all day?", Bhaiya would laugh it off, calling him the only 'celebrity' in our friend circle. I'd watched his entire gaming journey unfold on Insta stories and those late-night Twitch streams, his voice as familiar as any in my own family.

That voice—he must have been streaming, scolding his teammates again.

It sounded exactly like his usual rants, the ones his fans laughed at and clipped for memes. Only today, the voice was echoing through my brother’s living room.

I understood immediately, because I watch his streams every day.

I’m his number one fan.

No one knows.

Not even my closest friends. It's my little secret—I even made a fake Insta account to send him stars during live streams, always using a silly cartoon display pic.

I quietly moved into the room my brother had prepared for me. It was still decorated in pink and white, cosy and full of soft toys.

The familiar scent of lavender sachets filled the air, my old pink teddy sat propped on the pillow, and the fairy lights on the window still twinkled faintly. Bhaiya had even left a small note on the table: "Don’t forget to eat!" with a packet of Parle-G biscuits beside it.

I didn’t plan to disturb him, but before I could finish unpacking, someone knocked on my door.

I turned and saw Kabir leaning lazily against the open doorway, his long eyes sweeping over me. "Arrey, weren’t you supposed to come at night? Trying to surprise us or what?"

His arms were folded, and his gaze lingered for a moment on my suitcase, then on the cartoon bedsheet. For a moment, I felt like a schoolgirl caught bunking class.

Apparently, my brother had told him in advance, but hadn’t told me.

Trust Bhaiya to forget the most basic details. Typical.

For some reason, I always feel a bit guilty around him.

Maybe it’s because I like him.

Every time he’s around, my words tangle up, and I get tongue-tied, like a Class 8 kid standing in front of the principal. My heart thuds so loudly I’m sure he can hear.

"All my roommates left for the summer, so I changed my ticket."

I’m a bit socially awkward, but I like being around people I know.

My voice came out soft, barely above a whisper, but I tried to keep my face normal. In truth, I twisted the edge of my dupatta, pretending to smooth it, hoping he wouldn’t notice how nervous I was.

Kabir glanced at his phone. It was three o’clock.

He raised his eyebrows. "Hungry?"

He’s always treated me like a little sister, just like my real brother—always looking out for me.

He sounded so casual, but I knew he’d never let anyone go hungry in his house. Bhaiya once said, "Kabir will feed you, but don’t expect him to pamper you!"

I nodded. "I’ll just order some food later."

He scoffed, "Your Bhai Kabir is right here, and you still want to order Swiggy?"

His tone was a mix of mock outrage and real concern, like a big brother scolding a younger sibling for eating too much outside food. I suddenly felt like I was five years old again, asking for chips before dinner.

"You can cook?" My eyes widened in surprise.

I always thought he was lazy, only interested in games and nothing else.

In my mind, Kabir was always sprawled on a beanbag, headset on, never in the kitchen. The idea of him standing at the stove was almost funny.

Kabir lifted his chin. "Wait."

He said it with a confidence that made me sit up straight. I watched him walk away, the faint scent of his aftershave lingering in the doorway, leaving me strangely nervous and excited.