The Fifth Season

By Rayna Dee

Daman Rathore and Muskaan Goel are not, what one would call, a match made in heaven. They are two dissimilar people fated together! One, a romantic, is in search of her Prince. The other, afraid to love, tries his best to resist being that Prince and fails.
Accepting defeat, he chooses to become her Prince and protect his Princess always but he fails again. When the Princess is in dire need of protection, the Prince, blinded by his fear to love, deserts her. When he realizes his folly it is too late, and the Princess is far out of his reach.
To get her back and reclaim his love, the Prince has several intimidating challenges to face. From her determination to never go back to him, to his ego, his temper, and his utter cluelessness of what true love is. On this road to redemption, he has to fight Suvedh, the man completely smitten by the Princess. He has to keep himself away from the dusky socialite Amaira, who with her mysterious aura, captivating eyes, and a body that is every mans sinful fantasy is willing to do anything to own the Prince.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481713016

Rayna Dee

Rayna Dee works in financial services, is a mother of two wonderful kids, and wife to the most amazing man. And these days, between all this if she finds a moment to spare, she writes. The first time she had thought of becoming an author someday, was when she was eight years old, by nine, she had forgotten about it, only to remember when she turned…well, let’s not go there. Besides writing, she loves to go hiking to get away from the city din. And after a long hike, she makes up for the lost calories by indulging in a scrumptious gourmet meal; San Francisco chefs have spoilt her rotten.

Book preview

Chapter 1

He did not want to be her prince, but Fate had other plans.

After wrapping up another successful meeting, Daman was driving through Delhi’s heavy traffic. He had just acquired a ten million dollar contract, the first big order for BR Group’s new product line. The Group had recently ventured out of its comfort zone—fashion—and added to its portfolio the production and export of organic cotton, much sought after in the western world.

Winning this order would have been a big deal for BR’s Managing Director at one time, back when he wanted to become immensely rich. A lack of money had taken his parents away; his mom had succumbed to leukemia and soon after her death his dad had killed himself. Unable to afford the treatment, he could not live with the guilt and helplessness.

Daman lost his parents when he was only twelve. He was old enough to understand loss and the pain that comes with it but too young to live alone. His kako, his dad’s brother, Viraaj Rathore and his wife, Sunaina, adopted him and loved him like their own.

To fulfill his ambition of never being short of money and with a hunger to succeed, he started working at Viraaj’s BR Cloth Piece store soon after graduating from college. He was responsible for delivering orders and acquiring new ones. He would spend most days interacting with folks at renowned fashion houses and it was from them that he learned the ropes of the trade. Soon, BR hired its own designers and the rest, as they say, is history.

Along with Viraaj kako, he established a remarkably enviable empire: the BR Group. They developed Viraaj’s small shop, which once sold only cotton and polyester, into a huge conglomerate with a diversified portfolio. Now there were not only clothes but also jewelry, perfumes and all kinds of fashion accessories for men and women. Soon, their products had become a fashion statement, a status symbol.

All that success at the young age of twenty-five had gone to Daman’s head. It had added to his arrogance, boosted his already humungous ego and turned him into an even bigger control freak. He lived up to his name, Daman: the one always in control. He controlled those around him and had the false notion that he was in control of his destiny, too. And with anger always at the tip of his nose, he managed to keep almost everyone at a distance.

Despite his less pleasant character traits, because of his ravishingly handsome six-foot-tall frame and a sexy, crooked smile, Daman was always desired by the opposite sex. With his combination of intelligence, ego, shrewd business acumen and sex appeal, he was one of Delhi’s most eligible bachelors.

All that, however, was long ago. Now success seemed pointless. The woman he wanted to share his success with had walked away. He had forced her to, turned her life into a living hell, and regretted it every waking minute.

Caught in Delhi’s infamous, cacophonous traffic—an entourage of cars, apparently part of some baraat, a wedding procession crossing the Ring Road—Daman’s mind wandered to the day he had first met her. Thinking about her now, he smiled faintly.

It was about five years earlier. They were caught in a similar traffic jam. That day, too, there was a politician’s son’s baraat. Stuck in that terrible jam near Safdurjung Enclave, while he was fretting in his Benz, she was smiling away on her bike, a Honda Activa. This went on for about five minutes. Then he noticed her looking around, bored. It was obvious she was hoping to find someone to chat with; it was definitely not going to be him. Her searching eyes bored into his. Since he did not look away, she smiled at him hopefully. Still uninterested and annoyed, he gave her a condescending look and turned away.

She seemed undeterred. Determined for some entertainment, she moved her gaze to his driver, who returned her smile. It seemed he wanted to vent out and rolled down the window. "Heard it’s some big neta’s son’s baraat, kya kahen shaadi na hui tamasha. What a waste of time!"

She smiled, shaking her head gently in disagreement. "Uncleji, I think you’ve become as bitter as your boss. It’s a wedding, not a spectacle! Relax! Then she added, dreamily, I hope someday, when my Prince comes to take me away, he holds up the traffic like this."

The driver gave her an indulgent smile. "Good luck, beta¹. I hope you find your prince soon!"

Daman had not missed the snide remark about him and that annoyed him even more. Yeah, right . . . prince . . . dream on, he thought.

He had half a mind to get back at her but just in time, the baraat moved to another street and opened up the traffic. They were free to move. She kick started her bike and exclaimed, Thank you Uncleji, and yes, please tell your boss he should smile at times. It’s great exercise and it costs nothing! Yet another jibe at him. Laughing merrily, she sped away.

A knock at the window brought Daman back to Ring Road. It was a little girl, a street vendor, selling roses. He did not have the heart to refuse her and neither did he want to. How could he refuse a token so closely linked to the woman he loved?

He could never forget how the rose added to her beauty. Every day she would adorn her hair: if not with a rose then an aster or a carnation.

The first time he saw her, he hated the audacity of the down-market girl wearing a big red rose. But that headstrong girl, with her sensuous yet angelic grace and her honest amber eyes, had soon given his life a new meaning.

Much against his will and wishes he had fallen for that spunky girl with a loud fashion sense. He remembered vividly, on her silver Activa, she was in a Pied Piper-like bright red and yellow salwar kameez.² That vibrant memory widened his slight smile.

The traffic was still held up at Ring Road. This time, however, he did not care or fret. He was in no hurry to get anywhere and there was no one waiting for him. So he went back in time. It was only memories of her that kept him going these days.

They left, she on her Activa and he in his Benz hoping never to see that annoyance again. But see her he did, on that very day, within a few minutes and in his own enormous mansion. Only a minute or two after he entered his mansion, he saw the one that had made him livid entering through his door. He lost his cool, rushed to the door and howled, What the hell! Are you following me?

Surprised, she seemed not to understand what he was getting at. Excuse me? She and her eyes demanded an explanation.

But of course, what else can be expected from girls like you? Guess what, I’m not that prince who’s going to stop the traffic for you. Go fool someone else, trap some other rich guy. Just stay away from me!

His vicious outburst almost brought her to tears but he could not care less. He saw her mouth open, perhaps to retort, but seeing an old man approaching she closed it right away, without a word.

The old man was his grandfather, Birendra Rathore, who, on hearing the doorbell, had come down to meet his new employee.

Is it Muskaan? asked the grandfather, wearing a warm, welcoming smile.

Her need for the job seemed more than her need to get back at Daman’s nasty behaviour. She ignored him, pulled herself together, put on a brilliant smile, took the old man’s hand and said emphatically, Yes, it is! Muskaan Goel.

Muskaan Goel was not at all like Daman Rathore. While he did not believe in destiny, she did. She accepted the truth that the one up above defined it and so she happily followed the path He carved exclusively for her. She lived her life through her heart, she felt and she cared. And, once upon a time, she lived up to her name Muskaan: smile. Hers was contagious, too.

And while Daman kept love at bay, Muskaan had the opinion that it was love that made life worth living, beautiful. She had imbibed such lessons from reading many English classics. A born romantic, she had been waiting to meet her Mr. Darcy. She had yet to learn that, however well written, fiction is but fiction. She had yet to meet Daman.

Even without those books, love had always been an integral part of her life, so she never feared it. Although she had lost her mother, her maa, to pneumonia when she was only nine, her paa’s and her elder sister Purvi’s love more than filled the void. With Paa—both their father and mother—and Purvi around, Muskaan rarely missed her maa. The two together had encouraged her free spirit. She was their comic relief. But not anymore. Her smile had been stolen from her.

Ravi Goel, an honest, stout and of late balding man, had raised Muskaan and her Purvi didi with a lot of love. Once Ravi used to make a modest income running a pay phone booth and a small convenience store. With the little money he made, he had given the two girls proper schooling and a grounded upbringing. In their humble life, the three had always been abundantly satisfied.

Things changed, however, when his little shop was gutted by firecrackers several Diwalis ago. The Goels had faced financial distress: the shop was quite unsalvageable and Ravi did not have the finances to open a new one. Neither was he qualified for a decent desk job. Their paa doing any old menial work was not acceptable to either of the sisters. After much coaxing by his daughters, Ravi finally agreed to allow Muskaan to leave home to get a job, but on the condition that she did not drop out of her last year at college. Muskaan had found the perfect job that met her paa’s condition. That is how and why, five years ago, instead of Mr. Darcy she met Mr. Rathore, who changed her definition of love.

While Daman was stuck in traffic somewhere near Ring Road, New Delhi, somewhere in Meerut, standing by the window of her humble home, Muskaan was enjoying watching the unseasonal rainfall. The pitter-patter on the tin roof and the fragrance of the geeli mitti³ took her back to the days of her simple and fun-filled childhood, when Purvi and she were little. The rain took her back to those paper boats in splashing puddles, to getting wet and dancing the peacock dance. The ringing of her phone brought her back to her complicated twenty-six-year old life.

Hi Muskaan, how are you? It was Purvi calling from London.

Di, it’s been so long! How are you and how is my little Varun?

"Varun is missing his maassi⁴ and so am I, Muskaan. Don’t refuse again, dear."

I miss him too, Di, but it won’t be possible for me to come to London. I have my classes here and Paa to take care of.

Come down, just for a couple of months. You need a break. Paa will be fine. I’ve already talked with him and he agrees. He’ll…

But Di…

Come now dear, it’s been so long. Everybody’s moved on. Now it’s your turn. Don’t hold yourself back, babes. Please!

"I’m not holding back. You know I’ve made a good life here, Di. My classes keep me busy and my students are quite entertaining. And guess what, I don’t miss any blockbusters. I watched Don 2 the other day. It was thik thak, quite all right actually. Have you seen it, Didi?"

Nice try, Muskaan! Now, can we get back to you?

Seriously, Di. I’m perfectly fine. The past doesn’t exist here…

"There’s no past here either, baby. It’s just us: your Jiju,⁵ Varun and me. Vinai’s usually busy so it’ll be just you, our naughty Varun and me. You and me again, Muskaan, like old times. Please don’t refuse again… Please! I need you."

Okay Di, I’ll think about it. Maybe this summer.

Promise me.

Yes, I will, promise.

The rain had made a neat puddle outside. The kids in the neighbourhood were out with their paper boats. They were soaking and so were their boats, bringing a much-needed smile to Muskaan’s face, in spite of herself. Her enjoyment of the rain faded soon, however; the call brought back memories she was trying hard to wash away. But memories, they come back to haunt you, unannounced, like an uninvited guest.

One stuck in traffic, holding on to his dear memories, the other wishing the rain would wash the pain away, were both reminiscing… back to that day when their life, against their wishes, took a new turn.

Birendra Rathore, with his Rajasthani poise and dignity and the curled-at-the-ends moustache that goes with it, was always a man of principles. He kept the Rathore family grounded and was the only person who could get Daman off his high horse.

With age, while his poise was intact, his eyesight had become terribly weak. He could barely see. The voracious reader was thoroughly bored and needed a solution. His daughter-in-law, Sunaina, and granddaughter, Tanvi, were not the ones. A friend had suggested he hire someone.

Muskaan had seen the advert in the newspaper. It was exactly what she needed so she had called right away. Even down the phone, Birendra had sensed her positive energy. He had liked her warmth and her reading list.

After greeting Muskaan, the grandfather, who had sensed Daman’s arrogance radiating from him, asked just to be sure, Is that you, Daman?

To hide that he was a little taken aback, Daman scowled. Yes, Dado.

Daman beta, this is Muskaan, my new companion. She’ll be here every day to read to me and take me for my walks. She’s going to be my eyes and my new walking stick. Right, Muskaan?

Affected by the old man’s infectious warmth, she smiled as she mumbled a reply. Right, Sir, and then extended that smile to the grandson.

The grandson did not smile back and neither did he apologize. He just walked away. He heard his dado’s request, Muskaan beta, please call me Dado.

He heard her ask, Can I call you Dadaji instead? Then his dado’s usual hearty laugh and, Sure, beta. Anything but Sir.

After that brief introduction to Mr. Arrogance, she got busy with Dadaji. At teatime, she was introduced to the rest of the family and was much pleased to learn that they were not as supercilious as Dadaji’s grandson. She met the not so very tall and pleasantly plump Sunaina ma’am. She was introduced to the tall, dignified Viraaj Rathore, whose face was covered with the bushy, typical Rajasthani moustache. And she met their daughter Tanvi, with whom she hit it off instantly. With gorgeous brown hair, brown eyes and a cute pinched nose, Tanvi was a beauty in her own right. She was a sophisticated yet grounded, sweet-natured, no-airs rich girl—very unlike her cousin.

On her first day, Muskaan had been so busy with Dadaji and Tanvi that she had quite forgotten the arrogant man’s insults and jeers.

The next day, however, was a different story. She had decided to get back at him. She had plotted all night. She had come up with many tricks and was sure she’d be able to use at least one at an opportune moment.

It was afternoon teatime and he, quite unusually—it was not his lucky day—had returned home early. Kamal, Rathore House’s trusted maid, had set the table and poured a cup for everyone: Dadaji, Tanvi, Sunaina ma’am, Muskaan and one for Daman. He was about to join them but on seeing her, he decided against it. He took his cup and walked away. After a few steps, he took a sip and almost choked. He quickly spat out the tea—his tongue was on fire.

She had obviously found that opportune moment. When no one was looking, she sneaked out the salt and red chili powder mix she was carrying in her bag and added it to his tea. While Tanvi and her mom ran to help the man on fire, quite nonchalantly and with an impish smile, she stayed put.

At the end of her working day, she walked out and was lost thinking about the excitement, the victory she would soon be sharing with Purvi di. She started her Activa and was about to disappear when she heard him. So, is this the best you could come up with? Of course, what more can I expect from your cheap, bourgeoisie mind. Wonder what…

She was not in the mood to listen to his prattle. She cut him off. Enough, Mr. Rathore! I’ve heard enough of your nonsense. I don’t have time for this. I pity you, honestly. You may be a rich man but your upper class mind is pathetic and penniless.

He was not used to being derided. He was the boss, the controller. How dare you!

She cut him again. Look here, your dado needs me and I need your dado. I have no business with you. My request: stay out of my way and I promise I’ll stay out of yours.

Without waiting for his answer or reaction, she sped away, leaving him behind, fuming and red.

The next day they met again; she was leaving and he was returning. Both looked away from the other. They evaded each other for many days, until the day they could not. Not by choice but by chance, their separate worlds collided again.

Tanvi had invited her to watch a play: Twelfth Night. She was playing Viola so had insisted, and Dadaji chimed in too. Muskaan had no good excuse to decline the invitation. Unaware that the arrogant brother was invited too, after wrapping up her day’s work with Dadaji, she went to change for the show.

Just when he walked in to take his kaki to the play, she walked into the living room, looking sensual in a soft pink, thin, silver-bordered crepe silk sari, embellished with tiny, embroidered, elegant silver flowers.

Seeing her looking extremely stunning in that sari, he froze and for the first time in his adult life, he lost control. For many days, although he had avoided her, he had not failed to notice her. He had noticed her exuberance, her sense of humour, her candour, her intellect, her childlike sense of wonder and her so many endearing peculiarities. Each day, as he was silently learning more about her, he was drawn towards her. Much against his wishes, he had started liking her. Seeing her in that sari, looking sensuous, he realized that day that she was all that and extremely sexy. He could not take his eyes off her.

Clueless about her effect on him, avoiding him, she walked right past him to Sunaina and was about to ask, I’m ready Ma’am, shall we leave? but impatient and afraid she would be late for the show Sunaina did not let her. Rolling her eyes at the beauty, Sunaina said, "Finally! Daman beta, let’s go."

Oh, so Ma’am, you’re going with him… okay, I’ll see you at the theatre. Afraid of the consequences, Muskaan couldn’t hide that she was taken aback.

Dadaji suggested exactly what she did not want to hear. Muskaan beta, why don’t you go with Daman, too?

Realizing Muskaan was going to the same play as him, Daman felt elated, although he did not know why. Suddenly, a strange feeling came over him. He could see her sitting beside him. He could see himself driving her in his car, protecting her from all eyes.

Muskaan, who had no such feelings, politely refused. I’m fine, Dadaji. The theatre’s close to my place. I’ll be able to go home directly afterwards. With that she started walking away.

Determined, Daman quickly rushed forward. Muskaan, wait, come with me, he ordered her.

It was just the two of them, so being polite was not necessary. No, Mr. Rathore. I don’t want to pollute your car with my—what did you say the other day, ah yes—my bourgeoisie mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. Once again, without waiting for his response, she walked away, started her Activa and was on her way.

She did not hear him say, Damn you, Muskaan!

The two reached the theatre separately, she on her bike, he in his Benz. Beating him, she was already seated by the time he reached the venue. As soon as he parked his car, he looked around for her Activa. Satisfied on spotting her prized possession, he and his kaki entered the theatre to be seated.

It just so happened that he ended up sitting beside her. Ignoring him, she gave a welcoming smile to Sunaina ma’am. The smile did not work on Sunaina, for her mind was preoccupied worrying about Viraaj kako’s late arrival and the chances of his missing the opening act. Kaki’s Viraaj entered just in time, about three minutes before the show began.

The curtains were raised and both, seated beside each other, started watching the play. While she, still clueless about the feelings she was sparking within him, was watching the show, he was busy watching her.

It seemed the guy sitting on Muskaan’s other side had been taken up with her beauty, too. Boldly, he tried to act fresh with her and was about to touch her hand. Since Daman was barely watching the show, he noticed the guy misbehaving and her moving uncomfortably, trying to avoid the jerk’s touch.

Since he did not want to ruin Tanvi’s day, he reined in his anger and muttered yet another order: Get up, Muskaan.

This order she obeyed instantly. Grateful to him for ending her misery, she wanted to thank him but could not make herself.

Once the play ended, she congratulated Tanvi, who had portrayed Viola with just the right Shakespearean charm and precision, said her goodbyes and, avoiding him, walked to speed away on her bike.

Quickly catching up with her, he ordered her again. Wait, Muskaan. I’ll drop you off.

She refused again, but politely. No, thank you. I’ll manage. I can’t leave my bike here, anyway. Thank you, though.

Viraaj kako’s driver will drop off your bike. You’re coming with me, and that’s final!

Since she was still a little shaken by the jerk in the theatre, she agreed without much fuss. And so, that evening, she made his wish come true. She sat beside him and let him protect her from all eyes. It was then, in that moment, he decided she would be his and only his to protect.

They did not talk much in the car, only her giving him directions. When, finally, he stopped the car outside her house, she did not invite him in. She was not sure if His Arrogance would even want to enter her humble little home. She thanked him, however. Thank you, Mr. Rathore, she said softly, smiling her sweet smile.

He did not smile back, not then. It’s Daman, he corrected her and then drove away. Alone in the car, he returned her smile. Her infectious smile had finally worked its charm on him.

The next day they met again but once again they avoided each other, this time for different reasons. The previous evening she had seen a different him, one who had been concerned for the middle class girl, one she could possibly fall in love with. And he avoided her, for he was afraid he was falling for her. He did not want to. The two people he had loved most had left him, in pain. He was not ready to go through that misery again.

Against their wishes, however, they continued to meet almost every day. Some days at the tea table, they would end up taking their afternoon tea together. Some days as she would be leaving for the day, he would be returning. Some days she would be around him longer: for Dadaji’s rummy parties, his retiree reunions and occasionally for celebrating festivals.

They kept meeting practically every day. And every day his feelings for her were strengthening.

One such day, while she was climbing down the stairs to leave, he was climbing up. In order to keep the chance encounter brief, she quickened her steps on seeing him. In her hurry, however, she tripped. He caught hold of her just in time. Although she was safe, he did not let go of her: he was afraid to. And she could not fathom what had come over her; she did not want him to let go of her. Embarrassed by the indescribable sensation, to get away from him, she said softly, Thank you, Damanji.

It’s Daman, he corrected her again.

She barely managed a whisper. Thank you, Daman.

That was the first time she had called him Daman and he loved it. He wanted to hear her repeat his name over and over. He did not want to let her go but knew he would have to, and so he did. Without acknowledging her thank you, he simply walked away. He did not want her to know that he was falling for her. He could not yet accept it himself. Afraid of the unbearable pain of losing her, he decided to do something about it.

For a few weeks after that sweet encounter, he worked longer hours and returned home extremely late, only after he was sure she had left for the day. They had not seen each other for many days but then, one fateful day, their paths crossed again.

On her way back home, her trusted Activa broke down. She tried to kick-start it for several minutes but to no avail. Giving up, she started walking her bike in search of a mechanic to get the problem fixed.

He was on his way back home. Yet again, somewhere near Safdarjung Enclave, he spotted her walking her bike. He quickly ordered his driver to stop the car. He had to help her; she was, after all, his to protect.

Go sit in the car. I’ll drop you home. My driver will get this fixed and drop it off at your place.

If his springing by and orders surprised her, she did not let it show. Since the social butterfly knew everyone’s schedule, including his driver’s, she was well aware that soon it would be time for the driver, her Uncleji, to go home. Thank you, Daman, but I’ll manage. I don’t want you or Uncleji to be bothered unnecessarily. I’m used to my Dhanno…

Bemused, he asked, Dhanno?

Grinning and patting her bike endearingly, she enlightened him. "Oh, that’s what I call my bike, after Basanti’s mare in Sholay."

Surprised at his still lost expression, she continued, "Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about Sholay? Oh my God! It’s one of the best movies of all time. It belongs in movie heaven. It’s a must see. Anyway, I’ll be fine. Please carry on… It’ll soon be Uncleji’s time to go home."

He made a quick call to order Uncleji to take the Benz home. Then, without asking her, he took charge of Dhanno. The two walked about a kilometer to get Dhanno fixed and, meanwhile, they sipped coffee at a nearby café. While she continued narrating almost the entire script of Sholay, with dialogues and some action, he fell in love with her a bit more—with her vivacity and her kajal lined eyes. Not to mention the rose in her hair that was driving him crazy.

And she concluded that the indescribable sensation she got deep in her belly when around him was perhaps love. She was falling in love with the man who was there to protect her, help her and be there for her.

The bike was ready to roll. Come, I’ll take you home, Muskaan offered Daman, innocently.

He laughed out loud, one could say heartily. It was her turn to be bemused. It was the first time he had laughed in front of her. Are you serious, Muskaan? You’ll drop me off? No way!

Genuinely concerned, she asked, Then how are you going to get home, Daman?

He could have easily hailed a cab or a rickshaw but he did not. Instead, he said, "You can drop me off but only on two conditions: I ride the bike and no more Sholay." He wanted a few more minutes with her.

She agreed. All she wanted was to enjoy that ride. Sitting behind him, she controlled her impulse to hold him. Holding her bike instead, she let him ride her prized possession to Rathore House.

Taking her Dhanno back from him, she thanked him and added with questioning eyes, See you tomorrow? She had missed him the past few days.

He said nothing. She had completely overtaken his speaking capacity. Standing still, he watched her speed away.

From that day, he gradually started losing his will to not love her. Everywhere he went, he took her with him and it was driving him insane. Determined to keep her away, he decided to do something even more drastic: he started dating Anoushka Gill, the daughter of Delhi’s biggest realtor and a jewelry designer herself.

Unlike Muskaan, the down-market girl much below his social echelon, Anoushka, who had been trying to get together with Daman Rathore for some time, was his equal; in stature, in taste, and in many other ways. Anoushka and Daman had instantly become the hot celebrity couple. Their pictures were splashed across all the gossip pages. This drastic move had not worked either; when alone with Anoushka it was not she but Muskaan who was with him. He missed Muskaan terribly, even more than before, and it infuriated him.

Muskaan’s indifference towards him, especially after this new development, added to his fury. A conversation he overheard made matters worse.

Dado was concerned with Daman’s dating news. I don’t know this Anoushka girl. I don’t think she’s right for Daman. What do you think?

Dadaji, how can you? You haven’t even met her. I think you should get to know her first. You must ask Daman to bring her home. Meet her. You never know, you might like her too. Since you’re asking for my opinion, well, I think she’s beautiful; not as tall as Daman but tall enough to look gorgeous beside him. Her doe eyes are arresting and her smile is to die for, Dadaji. They look great together.

Dadaji was quiet for some time. After much thinking, he said, You’re right, dear girl. I’m being obtuse. I should meet her. If Daman likes her, and it sounds like you like her too, then who knows. I might like her, too.

Hearing this exchange, unsettled, he had walked away to shut himself in his room. He wanted to be alone. So she doesn’t care at all. How can she want me to settle down with another woman? She thinks I’m in love with Anoushka and she’s fine with it. She thinks we make a fantastic couple and me, a fool . . .

What he did not know was that she missed him too, terribly. Ever since the evening they had watched Twelfth Night together and he had protected her, she had liked him more with every meeting. The news of Daman Rathore dating Anoushka Gill had left her disconcerted. She had fallen for him but was afraid to act on it. She was sure he would think she was only after his money—he had already hinted at that once. She concluded that Daman Rathore dating Anoushka Gill was best for everyone.

To get back at Muskaan, Daman did introduce Anoushka to his family, but it backfired. Muskaan bonded well with Anoushka. Soon, the trio—Tanvi, Muskaan and Anoushka—formed a lifelong friendship.

When not busy with Dadaji, Muskaan would hang out with Tanvi. Soon, Anoushka found every excuse to join the two. Together, the three would have a blast and talk about many things, ranging from literature to fashion to politics. One topic Muskaan steered away from was Daman Rathore. She always had an excuse to walk away when Tanvi and Anoushka started discussing him.

And so days went by and Daman and Muskaan, both in love but afraid, kept away from each other. One, fearing the pain of losing her, was afraid to love. The other, once unafraid to love, feared her love would be misunderstood.

Love, however, was blossoming elsewhere: between Vinai Rathore and Purvi Goel.

When Vinai, Daman’s cousin, had returned from a successful business trip, his mom had quickly arranged a little get together to celebrate his success. Dadaji had invited all of Muskaan’s family and had commanded them to attend. It was during this particular gathering that Vinai met Purvi. In a red and black cotton-silk sari, with her light brown, expressive eyes and naturally curled hair accentuating her beautiful face, Purvi stole Vinai’s heart. And Vinai, at 5’8", clean-cut and athletically built, with a soft smile, looking remarkably handsome in his off-white churidar-kurta,⁶ stole Purvi’s heart in return. It was what people call love at first sight. Before the party ended he asked her out and she was unable to resist a yes.

After a few months of courtship, Vinai had convinced his parents that Purvi was the one for him. It had taken some working on Vinai’s dad, who was hoping for a match from the likes of the Tatas and Birlas. But he soon came around; after a couple of meetings with Purvi, he too had agreed that she was