Chapter 4: Stickers, Samosas, and the Badminton Revelation

The whole morning was full of general courses.

The professor droned on about statistics, but my mind kept drifting to Nani’s odd replies. The ceiling fan spun lazily, the air thick with boredom.

Bored, I decided to see if Nani was still on her phone.

The other boys were playing Candy Crush under their desks. I snuck my phone out, hoping not to get caught.

“Did you miss me?”

Sent.

“Missed you.”

I grinned. Sometimes the best things in life are simple.

“Missed accha baccha.”

My heart melted. No one else would ever call me that—not even my parents.

I remembered always promising Nani I’d take her to the hot springs for her knees, but never finding the time.

She used to sigh, “Beta, Kerala ka ayurvedic treatment karana hai kabhi.” I kept putting it off, but guilt tugged at me.

Summer break was coming up.

I started daydreaming about coconut trees and Nani in a sunhat, laughing at the spa staff’s attempts to pronounce her name.

“When summer break starts, let’s go to Kerala spa. I’ve even picked out my swimming trunks.”

I sent the Myntra link—a ridiculous cartoon print. I hoped she’d laugh.

Nani didn’t reply.

For once, the double ticks stayed grey. My smile faded. Maybe the network was bad, or she was busy with her serial.

She used to say young people should wear bright colours.

Last year, she bought me a neon orange T-shirt I only wore at night.

Ananya, sitting two rows ahead, suddenly stiffened and glanced back at me, then quickly looked away, fiddling with her dupatta. I frowned, confused.

She seemed to be biting her lip, totally out of character.

For a second, I wondered if she’d overheard my message. But that was impossible.

Seriously, senior, is this necessary?

I rolled my eyes. Just because I wore mismatched chappals, do you have to keep staring?

Or maybe she’s still upset I deleted her?

While I was stressing, Nani finally replied.

“Okay.”

“It’s a deal.”

I sighed in relief. For some reason, her short reply felt heavier than usual.

After class, Ananya’s deskmate blurted, “Why are your ears so red? Fever hai kya?”

The class turned to look. Ananya glared at her, cheeks redder. I stifled a laugh.

At noon, I went to the canteen with my roommates and sent Nani a picture of my chicken curry.

The smell of curry leaves and masala mixed with the clang of steel plates and canteen aunty shouting for her steel dabba.

“So delicious.”

I snapped a photo, making sure to get the perfect angle, like Nani taught me for her WhatsApp food album.

“A cup of cold coffee after this would be perfect.”

I said it out loud, mostly to myself. My mouth watered at the thought of icy sweetness.

Nani didn’t reply.

I waited, refreshing the app. Usually, she’d send a recipe or warn about indigestion.

Maybe she was upset about cold coffee—she’s always fussing about ‘thanda’ things causing sore throats.

We ate in silence until a cup of Café Coffee Day cold coffee appeared in front of me.

The condensation slid down, making a little puddle. The logo gleamed in the sunlight.

I followed the straw with my eyes—Ananya, in a black kurti, stood there, ears still red.

She looked at me, then quickly glanced away, pushing the cup toward me.

“For you.”

Her voice was soft, almost lost in the canteen din. She dropped the words and walked away.

We all froze.

Amit’s spoon stopped midair. “Kya hua abhi?” whispered a roommate.

Amit grinned. “Guilty lag rahi hai—lagta hai tumne delete kiya toh regret hai.”

He gave me a look. “Maybe she’s got a soft spot, Rohan.”

I stabbed the straw in and took a huge sip.

It was perfect—creamy, cold, just sweet enough. I pretended to be unimpressed, but inside, something fluttered.

I messaged Nani: “If a girl who used to talk harshly now apologises, should I forgive her?”

Added: “She’s really pretty, and I used to have a crush.”

Nani replied instantly: “Bilkul nahi! Aur agar crush hai, toh mere liye time kaise hai?”

Her reply was so sharp, I laughed out loud. Typical Nani—possessive and playful.

How are those things even related?

I scratched my head. Was she testing me, or just being funny?

Last month, she encouraged me: “Beta, pasand hai toh propose karo! Don’t waste time like your mama.”

Nani’s acting stranger and stranger.

I made a note to call her later. The mystery deepened.

Half a month later, Amit announced he was dating someone.

He swaggered in, new kurta, cologne strong enough to knock us out. The bombshell? His girlfriend was Ananya’s best friend.

The room erupted—pillows thrown, claps, disbelief.

We grilled him for gossip.

“Kaise hua, bhai?” “Who made the first move?”

He tried to play it cool, but we weren’t letting him go.

Amit lowered his voice: “Priya said Ananya seems to have a crush lately.”

We all leaned in.

Amit continued, “She chats with someone every day—saved as ‘accha baccha.’ Priya can’t get her to play badminton anymore, so we started playing, and you know the rest.”

‘Accha baccha’ hit me like getting drenched by a Holi bucket when you least expect it. My mind raced.

The others looked at me sympathetically. “Koi nahi, bro. Aur bhi ladkiyan hain.”

Amit patted my shoulder. I tried to laugh, but the sting was real.

Their words fell flat, like stale papad. I rolled onto my bed, staring at the ceiling cracks.

So Ananya isn’t just cold—she’s just cold to me.

Maybe I was never on her radar. Maybe I was just another classmate.

I buried myself in my blanket, muffling the world and my red eyes.

I ignored game invites, not in the mood.

The next afternoon, there was a department activity with Ananya.

We gathered in the hall, the air thick with jasmine garlands and cheap perfume. Seniors bustled, shouting instructions.

I avoided Ananya’s gaze, busying myself with paperwork. Even teachers noticed the tension.

But Ananya kept glancing over. Every time I looked up, she’d look away, but her cheeks betrayed her. My heart thudded.

Her eyes held something I couldn’t read—hope? Pity?

Her friend Priya chattered beside her. “Arrey, my baccha, the iron tree finally bloomed!”

“Even saved him as ‘accha baccha.’”

“If it works out, you have to tell me first!”

She talked so much, I wondered how Amit managed.

After the activity, I messaged Nani: “Your accha baccha is heartbroken, I want to cry.”

I added a crying emoji for drama. My pillow was already damp from last night.

Nani replied: “Oh? Besides me, you have another baccha?”

Her reply was teasing, but it stung. Did she really not get it, or was she pretending?

Is Nani just getting old?

I tried to brush it off, but unease grew.

“That baccha isn’t this baccha. It’s not the same.”

I typed quickly, hoping she’d get it. Maybe I should call. But I didn’t.

After that, I didn’t reply again.

I lay back, letting the silence fill the room, wishing for the comfort of Nani’s arms.