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One Raised Finger

Author: Sakshi26
last update Huling Na-update: 2025-08-04 16:16:22

The Mishra household was still asleep.

The clock read 5:58 AM.

Birds hadn’t started chirping. Chai wasn’t brewing. Even the milkman hadn’t arrived.

But one creature stirred in the shadows — her anklets muted with socks, her eyes wild with purpose, her breath steady.

Timtim Mishra, certified drama queen, full-time prankster, and now part-time vigilante of lost balcony dreams, stood near the base of the stairs… holding a Bluetooth speaker and wearing the smirk of a girl with absolutely no regrets.

Today was Phase 2 of Operation: Evict Mr. Broody.

“Let’s see how long he lasts now,” she whispered to herself as she tiptoed upstairs, avoiding the one floorboard that always creaked. She reached the door — slightly ajar, probably from his late-night walk on the balcony.

With the stealth of a burglar and the heart of a Bollywood heroine, she slipped the speaker inside the shoe rack just beside the door, aimed the sound upward, and turned it on.

She opened her phone, went to her “MORNING CHAOS” playlist, and tapped play.

Suddenly, at 6:00 AM sharp, the entire upstairs room erupted with a full-volume:

🎶 “Jai Jai Shiv Shankar! Kaanta Lage Na Kankar!” 🎶

The bass shook the windows.

She ran.

Barefoot. Laughing. Anklets jingling like rebellious bells as she disappeared downstairs into the kitchen, where her sleepy mother sipped chai and muttered, “This house is cursed.”

—

Upstairs, the calm, orderly world of Aariz Sheikh Pataudi exploded.

He bolted upright in bed, his silk blanket tangled around his legs, eyes half-wild.

What in the name of silence was this unholy noise?

His fists clenched. He stormed to the door, following the blaring sound to the shoe rack — where he found the tiny black speaker blinking innocently.

He picked it up like it was a bomb.

And then, like a man possessed, he stormed downstairs.

Timtim, of course, was waiting — dressed in her yellow kurti with daisy prints, silver anklets back in action, and her hair freshly oiled and braided, complete with a sunflower clip at the end. She sat on the swing in the verandah, sipping lassi and humming loudly.

He stopped in front of her.

Held up the speaker.

“Was this yours?” he asked, voice deadly calm.

She didn’t even blink. “I don’t know. It’s just… playing good vibes.”

He stared.

She stared back — and then stood up slowly, wiping the foam of the lassi from her upper lip with her thumb like she was about to sign a declaration of war.

“Listen here, Tenant Saab,” she began, pointing a bold, tiny index finger straight at his chest. “That balcony, that room, was supposed to be mine. I waited for it for years. And now you — you with your angry jaw and stormy eyes — have stolen it.”

He tilted his head slightly, more intrigued than offended. She was mad. Certifiably.

She stepped closer.

“You have two choices,” she said firmly, her dupatta flapping behind her in the wind like a cape. “Either vacate that room peacefully — or I will make your life so miserable, you’ll be begging to live next to railway tracks instead.”

Aariz blinked. He hadn’t expected… this.

She wasn’t just dramatic. She was delightful in the most infuriating way.

The finger was still in his face. She was 5’3. He was 6’1. The finger barely reached his collarbone.

But still, there she stood — like a warrior in pastel salwar-kameez, silver anklets chiming, baby hairs flying, nose twitching in righteous anger.

And for the first time, Aariz Sheikh Pataudi…

Smiled.

Not much. Just the ghost of one. But it was real.

“Are you always this unhinged in the mornings?” he asked quietly.

“Only with people who steal my future,” she snapped back.

He stepped slightly closer. “You think this is a game?”

She didn’t back down. “No. It’s a warning.”

And then, she did something unexpected.

She reached past him and grabbed a small plant pot sitting near the bottom of the stairs.

“My spider plant,” she declared. “It accidentally climbed the stairs last night. Probably trying to escape the oppression of this house.”

He raised a brow. “Your plant?”

She nodded solemnly. “We’re bonded. Her name’s Reshma.”

He exhaled slowly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot,” she smiled sweetly, hugging the pot like a trophy.

And with that, she turned and flounced away — anklets singing, hips swaying, sunflower clip bouncing like a battle flag.

Aariz stood there, still holding the speaker.

Who the hell was this girl?

And more importantly…

Why wasn’t he angry anymore?

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