Chapter 4: First Night, Farce and Fire

Rohan was still fiddling with that wretched Chhota Bheem by the cabinet.

The whole scene looked so ridiculous—me, all decked up like a bride from a Karan Johar film, and him treating his toy like a family heirloom.

“Is Chhota Bheem really that much fun?” I narrowed my eyes, stepping closer.

He didn’t look up. “It’s fun.”

I closed my eyes. Deep breaths—my yoga teacher’s voice echoed from Bandra: “Shanti, shanti.” My blood pressure was probably doing garba.

I let the strap of my nightdress slip half an inch off my shoulder. “Then… want to play something even more exciting?”

He looked up, eyes clear as day. “What?”

Now’s my chance.

I spread my arms and lunged like a Bandra aunty at a sale.

But he dodged, and suddenly we were chasing each other around the room like kids playing chor-police. At one point, I nearly slipped on the marble floor, muttering, “Uff, this is worse than PT class at school.”

He ran, I chased, till exhaustion painted stars behind my eyes. The silk of my nightdress clung to my back with sweat, hair sticking to my lips as I rounded the antique almirah for the third time. “This is not what I imagined for my first night,” I huffed.

All that stamina, wasted running from me.

He made me chase him more than a dozen times—I didn’t even manage to touch his kurta sleeve.

Panting, hair plastered to my cheeks, nightdress all askew from the chase.

“You—stop running…” I clutched my waist, gasping.

He stood two meters away, clutching that infernal toy. “You stop chasing.”

We glared, two stubborn goats locking horns in a Himachali field.

I couldn’t use brute force. Fine, battle of patience then?

What a joke. Not like I actually wanted to sleep with him.

I flopped onto the bed, grabbed my phone, and started gaming.

My thumbs flew, the blue light painting my face, the only other sound the faint buzz of mosquitoes at the window.

“First blood,” the game announced.

He glanced at me, still posing Chhota Bheem for imaginary battle.

Unbelievable. Others spend their wedding night in a frenzy of passion—here we were: one playing PUBG, the other with action figures.

If our grandmothers could see us, they’d faint and blame the evil eye.

I played for two hours straight. My back ached, and I considered calling the help for a hot water bottle. The gold bangles on my wrist jingled as I tapped the screen, chasing a virtual chicken dinner.

Suddenly, a loud growl echoed—his stomach.

I looked up to see Rohan clutching his belly. Only then did I remember—he hadn’t eaten all day.

My anger faded a bit.

Looking at his face and that lean waist, my desire sparked again.

A lightbulb went off in my head. Nani always said there’s more than one way to win a man.

I dashed to the snack cabinet, pulling out a box of Amul dahi with a flourish and locking the cabinet with a click. The coolness of the dahi was sharp against the muggy night air. I thought, ‘If only my nani could see me now—using dahi as a weapon.’

“Want some?” I shook the dahi, unscrewing the lid slow and dramatic.

Rohan was hungry—his eyes latched onto the dahi. He swallowed. Of course. He’s never swallowed for me, but for dahi he does.

“So tasty~” I licked the tip of the spoon, drawing it out. “Want a taste?”

He nodded, eyes wary.

“Come here, didi will feed you.”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them, making me blush. God, did I really just say that?

“Don’t trust you,” he said, stepping back.

I took a deep breath, forced a smile. “Okay, you stand on that side of the bed, I’ll be on this side, and I’ll feed you across the bed, fine?”

He tilted his head, thinking, then finally shuffled to the other side.

I leaned over, stretching my arm, holding the spoon to his lips. “Ah—”

Rohan leaned in, bent down, and took the spoon in his mouth.

His lips closed, tongue curling, the white dahi sliding onto his rosy tongue.

So sexy.

In my ear, I could almost hear Meera’s voice: “A guy like Rohan would be a wild kisser.”

I stared at his mouth, swallowing hard myself.

I kept feeding him, spoon after spoon, like a dahi-dispensing machine.

Rohan’s guard dropped—he lowered his lashes, obediently opening his mouth, still playing with Chhota Bheem.

He didn’t notice when the spoon became my finger.

He instinctively sucked my fingertip, his tongue brushing over my skin. A tingle shot up my spine, making me nearly moan.

My gold bangles jingled as I moved; for a second, Rohan’s eyes flickered to my wrist, something like memory or longing stirring in their depths.

Perfect. My plan was working. I remembered my mother’s advice—“Win a man’s heart through his stomach, beta”—and almost laughed at the irony. Was this what she meant?

Each time I fed him, I inched closer, in a thoroughly undignified posture. The distance closed to half a meter.

His focused licking looked so innocent, but was so seductive it made my mouth go dry.

I stared at his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, mind fixed on one thing: time to undo his belt.

The dahi was nearly gone. This was the moment of truth.

My heart pounded in my throat.

I dipped my finger in the last bit and offered it. As Rohan leaned in to lick, I pulled my hand away.

He chased after it, lost balance, and toppled right onto me.

Here’s my chance.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking him in place. My fingers fumbled at his belt—what kind of useless belt is this?

Afraid he’d escape, I tightened my hold. “Don’t move.”

Rohan soothed me, voice suddenly deep and rough—not a fool’s voice at all.

Before I could react, I heard a click—

He undid the belt with one hand.

There was hope!

The next second, he slid the belt out, tossed it beside my head, and leaned down, pressing his body against mine.

That overwhelming presence—as if the real Rohan was back.

Was it happening?

I squeezed my eyes shut, nerves tingling. My heart thudded against my ribs, louder than Ganesh Chaturthi drums, as I waited for what would come next. In that moment—his breath, the soft thud of the belt, the faint scent of talcum powder—everything hung in the air, time stretching and trembling.

As his belt fell to the floor, I wondered—was it Rohan or Chhota Bheem looking back at me now?