Chapter 3: Pocket Money Windfalls and Canteen Cup Confessions

Nani transferred me twenty thousand rupees on the spot.

My phone vibrated so hard it nearly jumped off the table, the notification chiming like a temple bell. I checked thrice to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

I was so excited I almost did a mini bhangra on the hostel floor, phone held high like a cricket medal.

Amit’s jaw dropped. “Arrey, bhai, sambhal ke! Fan se takra jaoge toh pocket money reh jayegi!” The others burst out laughing.

I typed with trembling fingers: “Did you just give me next month’s living expenses in advance?”

“No, next month is next month. This is for buying kapde.”

Wah, Nani. Only you can separate ‘shopping expenses’ from ‘living expenses’ with such swag.

I let out a chicken-like screech: “Aaaaaah!”

The whole room echoed with my victory yell. Someone next door banged on the wall, but who cared? I was flying.

Nani, Nani, I love you! Duniya ki sabse best ho tum!

Amit and the others rolled on their beds, laughing. “Bhai, tu pagal hai!” someone said. “Yeh dialogues kahan se laata hai?”

I kissed my phone screen and waved my balance at my roommate.

“Dekho, bhaiyon, paisa hi paisa!”

I held my phone high. The boys hooted and clapped. Amit tried to snatch it, pretending to check if it was real.

That night, before sleeping, I sent Nani a good night message.

There’s a special comfort in saying good night to her, like she’s tucking me in from miles away.

Nani replied, “Good night.”

I sent her a sticker of the dramatic “Galat!” from her favourite TV drama.

These days, she binge-watches ‘Kumkum Bhagya’—sometimes I hear the theme music in the background of her voice notes.

“Shouldn’t it be ‘Accha baccha, good night’ today?”

I couldn’t resist teasing, wanting to drag out our silly game.

“Alright, accha baccha, good night.”

She added a heart emoji, as if sealing the deal.

Just as I was about to sleep, my phone buzzed again.

“Should I call you accha baccha every day now?”

I was so sleepy. “Of course.”

Nani, duniya ki sabse best ho tum.

Too bad I was too tired to type it out.

I fell asleep, clutching my phone, feeling safe and loved. In my dreams, Nani kept calling me by my pet name, tucking me under a warm blanket.

The next morning at eight, all four of us in the dorm woke up late.

The alarm had been snoozed a record seven times. The room smelled of socks and yesterday’s chips. We scrambled around like headless chickens.

I even wore mismatched chappals in my rush.

One blue, one red. It wasn’t until I reached the hostel gate that I noticed. I groaned—no time to change.

Right then, I ran straight into someone from the girls’ hostel.

My bag swung forward, nearly knocking her phone out of her hand. I stammered an apology.

I looked up—it was Ananya Verma.

She stood, perfectly poised, expression unreadable. The morning sun made her look even taller.

Ananya—great grades, looks, and family background. Rumour is, her father’s a top doctor in Delhi, her mom runs an NGO, and her cousin made Forbes 30-under-30. She always seems to have it all.

Her only flaw? She’s too cold.

If you ask her for notes, she’ll just raise an eyebrow and say, “Class mein nahi aaye the kya?” It’s legendary.

And she really seems to dislike me.

I always end up on the receiving end of her stare. Even if I smile, she looks at me like I’ve committed a crime.

We’re in the same department. I only got her WhatsApp two days ago.

The boys high-fived me like I’d won a jackpot, but it felt like a booby prize.

She started by accusing me of playing tricks again, calling me inexplicable.

I tried to be friendly, but she shot me down so fast, I barely got to reply.

My roommates all said, “She’s cold, but yeh toh hadh ho gayi.”

They’d nudge me, whispering, “Bhai, sach mein yeh bola? Savage!”

Honestly, I wanted to confess to her on the spot, but I remembered Ananya’s tone and swallowed my words.

Can’t let people look down on me.

So instead of looking desperate, I acted cool and aloof. Izzat ka sawaal tha.

I deleted her in a flash.

One swipe, gone. Friends gasped, but I acted like I didn’t care. Even if it stung a bit.

But today, Ananya’s look was different.

She paused longer than usual. Her gaze was cold, but there was something else—maybe regret or embarrassment. My brain did a hundred calculations.

My hands fidgeted, and I avoided eye contact, suddenly aware of my mismatched chappals and messy hair.

My roommate called from ahead, “Chal, Rohan, late ho jayega!”

Amit’s voice snapped me out of it. Everyone was already running to the gate.

Yeah, she’s probably just laughing at my chappals.

I shot one last glance at Ananya, trying to play it cool, then jogged off, but inside, I was burning with curiosity and a new hope.