The morning air feels... different today. Like the sky's been freshly washed and the breeze has been personally instructed to carry good vibes only. There's a slight chill, my dupatta is fluttering like it's in a shampoo commercial, and for once, my hair isn't fighting for independence.

Okay, Tripti Desai. Deep breaths. You've got this. You're capable. You're semi-coordinated. And your earrings match your kurti. That's a universal sign of success.

I smooth down the front of my mustard-yellow kurti—for the fifth time in ten minutes—and clutch my file of certificates like it's a box of treasure. Inside: degree copies, glowing recommendations, and exactly three toffees (just in case I need courage or sugar).

I whisper a quick prayer under my breath.
"Dear God, Ganpati Bappa, HR Devi, and Excel spreadsheet lords... please let this go well. I promise I'll stop eating bhabhi's Nutella straight from the jar. Maybe."

I reach the office of Shetty Sir—a.k.a. my father's college friend turned senior HR at a reputed media company.

He opens the door himself. Chubby, cheerful, and wearing a white shirt that's seen things. His smile is warm enough to melt away a chunk of my nervous energy.

"Tripti! Come in, come in. Sit, sit. You look exactly like your father," he says, gesturing to the chair, "except with way better hair and a lot more grace."

I attempt a graceful sit.

Miss the center of the chair.

My file nearly takes a leap of faith off my lap.

Smooth, Desai. Very corporate behavior. Very 'future CEO gets rescued by peon' vibes.

He chuckles kindly and begins flipping through my documents, while I hold onto the armrest like I'm clinging to the last shred of my dignity.

A few seconds later, he looks up.

"You're bright, well-spoken... and your father once gave me his last cigarette in college. That counts for something."

I laugh, surprised. "Well, he still gives things away. Especially my lunch."

Shetty Sir lets out a booming laugh. "That sounds like Dev Desai. Always generous—with other people's stuff!"

We chat for a few minutes—some casual questions, light banter, and exactly one awkward moment where I try to say "brand synergy" and accidentally say "brinjal synergy."

Finally, he shuts the file and leans back in his chair, arms folded, eyes twinkling.

"Tripti, we have a vacancy in our communications team. It's a junior role—some writing, internal newsletters, maybe a little running around. It's nothing glamorous, but it's a solid start. Want it?"

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

Did he just—?

Did he just say I'm hired or am I having a sugar crash hallucination?

My specs nearly slide off in sheer disbelief.

"You mean... I'm hired?"

He nods, smiling. "You're hired."

I squeal.

Like, full-on high-pitched squeal that would make a pressure cooker jealous.

"I'M HIRED!"

I leap to my feet, nearly knock the chair over, and shake his hand like I'm accepting an Academy Award. "Thank you, sir! Thank you, thank you! You've saved me from becoming a full-time unpaid Instagram poet with five followers and no sense of punctuation."

He laughs as I practically levitate out of the office.

Outside, I stop for a second in the sunlight, press a palm to my heart—which is thudding like a dhol during Ganesh visarjan—and then, because I'm me...

I spin.

Yes. A full, glorious Bollywood twirl. Dupatta flying, specs hanging on by sheer willpower.
A couple of uncles across the street stare at me like I've lost all sense.

Let them stare. Let the world stare. I have a JOB! A real one! With a desk! With deadlines! With possibly stolen stationery!

I practically skip to the vada pav stall down the lane, the clouds parting, birds probably singing above me.

"One spicy, boss-level vada pav, please," I tell the vendor with the confidence of someone who now has a potential future in employee benefits.

As I stuff the greasy goodness into my mouth, I call bhabhi.

She picks up in one ring. "Kya hua?"

"I GOT THE JOB!" I squeal, half-chewing.

There's a pause.

And then she screams so loudly I almost drop the vada pav into my dupatta.

"I TOLD you! I told you! Meri ladki! I'm making kheer tonight!"

I head to the bus stop, humming, high on carbs and happiness. Every step feels light. Every rickshaw honk sounds like a celebratory beat.

This is it.

The beginning.

A desk. A badge. A paycheck that'll probably be mostly spent on Uber and snacks—but still!

I wipe a bit of chutney from my chin, hug my file like a trophy, and whisper proudly to myself:

"Look at you, Tripti Desai. Gainfully employed. Practically a national treasure."

That's when I hear it.

A loud crash.....The shriek of twisting metal.
And then—shouts, a woman's scream, the unmistakable crunch of something horrible happening just ahead.

My heart lurches so hard it feels like it's trying to leap out of my chest.

I freeze for a split second—but just one.....Then I run.

A few meters ahead, chaos reigns. Two cars have collided at the intersection. One of them — a sleek, silver sedan — has jumped the curb and crashed against a streetlamp. Its windshield is a web of shattered glass. Steam hisses from the front, and someone is already calling for help.

People are crowding around, murmuring, taking photos. But no one moves in.

Come on, someone do something!

Without thinking, I squeeze through the crowd.

Inside the mangled car is a woman — maybe in her mid-fifties. Regal-looking, even now. Her hair, once perfectly pinned, hangs loose over her forehead, where blood is trickling slowly down one temple. Her eyes are open but glassy, her lips trembling. She's in shock.

"Ma'am, can you hear me?" I ask gently, reaching for the door handle.
She blinks once. Then again. Her mouth opens like she's trying to speak but can't.

The door won't budge. I glance around wildly.

"Bhaiya!" I yell to a nearby auto driver who's watching nervously. "Help me open this!"

The auto driver nods, hurrying over. Together we tug at the handle, and with a loud metallic creak, it finally gives way.

Okay, Tripti. Now's not the time to faint. You've watched Grey's Anatomy. You've got this.

I yank my dupatta off and gently press it to her forehead, trying to stem the bleeding.

"Ma'am, just hold on, okay? We're taking you to the hospital. You're going to be okay. Just breathe with me."

She nods faintly, tears welling in her eyes.

The auto driver and I gently help her out of the car and into his rickshaw. She stumbles a little, but I support her, holding her hand like she's my own Aai. I don't even think — I just climb into the rickshaw with her.

The driver speeds off, honking like mad.

I hold her hand the entire ride. Her grip is weak, but she's trying to stay conscious.

"You're brave," I whisper. "You're doing so well. Just a few more minutes.

At City Hospital, it's like entering a war zone.

I bolt inside, half-dragging a nurse by the arm. "There's been an accident — we need a stretcher now. Woman in her fifties. Head injury. She's bleeding!"

They move quickly. A stretcher rolls out. I help transfer her over, my clothes stained, my dupatta soaked in crimson.

I don't even like blood. Can't even handle a papercut without drama. And yet here I am. Weird.

Once she's whisked away, I suddenly realize I'm standing in the ER, completely breathless, sticky with sweat, and holding her purse like it's a bomb.

"Do you know any family contact?" the nurse asks.

I nod slowly, open her bag, and find her phone. I tap into recent calls.

The last dialed number: "Ayaan"

Okay. Sounds like a son. Or a husband. Or an angry ex. Please don't be a gangster. Please don't be a gangster.

I hit call.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then a deep, clipped male voice answers. "Hello?"

I gulp. "Hi— I'm sorry to bother you. I found this phone with a woman who was just in a car accident. She's conscious but injured. We've brought her to City Hospital. She's being treated now, but... I thought you should know."

There's silence. Cold, tight silence.

"Who are you?" he asks sharply, his voice suddenly laced with suspicion.

"I'm just someone who was nearby," I say, heart thudding. "I'm leaving now. She's in good hands. The doctors have her."

I hang up before he can ask more, adrenaline still pulsing through my veins.

The nurse reappears a few minutes later.

"She's stable," she says with a smile. "Minor concussion, some stitches. Nothing life-threatening."

I sag into the nearest bench, letting out the breath I didn't realize I was still holding.

Thank God. Thank every God.

The doctor walks over. "Are you family?"

"No," I say, shaking my head, a small smile playing on my lips. "Just someone who saw something... and stopped."

She nods, a little puzzled, but says nothing more.

I walk out of the hospital into the late afternoon sun. My kurti is wrinkled, my dupatta looks like it's been to war, and I have a dried smear of blood on my cheek I forgot to wipe.

But my heart?

It's calm. Strange, steady calm.

Today, I saved someone. Not in a grand, superhero way. Just... in a very human, panicked, slightly clumsy Tripti way.

I pause near the hospital gate and look up at the sky, which hasn't changed much. But I have.

Tomorrow, my job begins.

But today?

Today, I remembered what it feels like to matter. Even to a stranger.

Not bad for a girl who starts most days dropping her specs in her chai.

I smile and walk on, not knowing that the man whose mother I just saved...was someone I had already met.
And never wanted to meet again.

I push open the front door with the enthusiasm of a reality-show winner, still smelling faintly of hospital sanitizer and Vada pav grease. Victory has a weird scent sometimes.

"I got the job!" I shout, toeing off my sandals with a dramatic flourish, my file still clutched to my chest like a newborn.

Silence greets me.

Weird. No bhabhi squeal? No Sneha running out to ask if my boss was hot?

The house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your stomach twist because it doesn't belong.

I follow the faint smell of overcooked masoor dal into the kitchen and find bhabhi standing there—back to me, spoon in hand, absently stirring a pot that has clearly given up boiling ten minutes ago.

She doesn't turn.

"I said..." I grin, stepping closer, practically vibrating like a mobile on full volume, "I got the job! Mr. Shetty offered me a position in communications. I start next week!"

She turns slowly. Her smile is there, but it's... off. Faint. Like someone dimmed the light behind it.

"That's wonderful, Tripti," she says, her voice kind but far away. Distant, like she's floating somewhere I can't reach.

My grin wavers like a flag in a dying breeze.

"Okay... that's not the full-blown filmy celebration I was expecting," I tease. "What's wrong? Did Sneha accidentally contour her face with red chili powder again?"

Bhabhi lets out a small laugh—but it's the kind that breaks at the edges. Her hand trembles slightly as she turns off the stove and leans against the counter like her legs need help standing.

"It's your bhai," she says softly.

My heart skips a beat.

"What happened?"

She hesitates, eyes flicking to mine. Then, a sigh. "Business has been... hard lately. One of his biggest clients backed out. Completely. No warning. And now, everything's... stretched. Tense. He hasn't told Papa. Doesn't want to. Says he can handle it."

Of course he does.

My smile fades as fast as it came. The rush of excitement I walked in with drains out of me, replaced by a dull, aching worry.

"He hasn't said anything to me," I whisper, guilt forming a tight knot in my chest.

"He wouldn't," bhabhi murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You know him. Mr. Silent Strength. He'll burn to ash before he lets us see him sweat."

I drop my bag on the dining table, the joy of the job news now feeling awkward. Like I wore sequins to a funeral.

And then I do the only thing I know how to do—I walk over and wrap bhabhi in a hug. Tight. Like I can somehow squeeze the burden out of her bones.

"We'll manage," I say, voice steady. "We always do. You keep him sane. I'll keep him laughing. And if all else fails, Papa can just 'accidentally' hand him his retirement savings thinking it's Sunday tiffin money."

She laughs into my shoulder, the sound warmer this time. A little lighter.

But beneath it, I can still feel the weight.

Because I know my brother.

And when he goes quiet, storms aren't far behind.

That evening, I find him sitting on the terrace. Alone. Legs stretched out, eyes locked on the sky like he's waiting for the moon to offer investment advice.

He's still in his office shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar askew. Glasses perched high on his nose. But there's something in the way his shoulders sag. Like he's carrying the entire family in an invisible backpack and it's finally starting to tear at the seams.

I don't say anything. I just sit beside him, folding my legs beneath me.

Silence. Comfortable, almost sacred.

Then, after a few moments, I speak. Softly.

"I got the job today."

He nods without looking at me. "Reena told me. Congratulations, chotu."

I smile faintly. "You know, you're the only one who still calls me that. Everyone else has upgraded to 'Tripti madam' now."

He lets out a short laugh. It's real. But it dies too quickly.

I turn to him. "Bhai..."

Still no response.

"I know," I whisper. "About the business. About the client who pulled out."

His jaw clenches.

I gently place a hand over his. Warm, steady.

"You've been the wall for this family for so long. Papa. Me. Sneha. Even bhabhi. You carried us through everything. But Bhai, walls crack too. And that's okay."

He looks away, blinking fast. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse.

"It's my job, Tripti. I'm the eldest. I don't get to... fall apart."

"You're my brother," I say, blinking through the sting in my eyes. "Which means if I have to take three jobs, sell homemade chutney, or do stand-up comedy dressed as a chicken outside Dadar station—I'll do it. For you."

He lets out a real laugh this time. "Please don't. You'd scare away the customers."

"Exactly," I grin. "Think of it as my strategy. Shock and awe."

He finally turns to look at me. And I see it—the exhaustion, yes—but also something softer. Something vulnerable. Something human.

"You've grown up," he says quietly.

I shrug. "Didn't have a choice. Someone had to annoy you with optimism."

He squeezes my hand.

"Thanks, chotu."

We sit there for a while. Side by side. The moon shining down. And the silence? It's not heavy anymore.

Because in this house of late-night tears and shared spoons of Nutella, we may not have all the answers.

But we have each other.

And sometimes, that's enough.