Shaame malang si

Raate surang si

Baaghi udaan pe hi

Na jaane kyun

Ilahi mera jee aaye aaye

Ilahi mera jee aaye aaye

well HELL-O to my patakas hope you like this chapter . Do comment about what you feel went wrong or what you liked . Vote bhi kardo yaar Chalo Itna hi abhi ke liye .

*********************************************

The city liked to pretend it slept at night.
It didn't.

Mumbai only changed costumes—
white coats replaced party dresses,
stadiums screamed louder than streets,
and ambition stayed wide awake.

*****

The operating theatre was too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet.

The kind where even breathing felt like an interruption — like the room itself demanded discipline, every inhale measured, every exhale cautious. Even the air seemed sterilized into submission.Monitors beeped in disciplined rhythm. Steel instruments reflected the surgical lights in sharp white glints, each tool lined with mathematical precision. Eight people stood ready — tense, focused, hyper-aware of every motion unfolding at the center of the room.

Only one person looked mildly entertained.

Dr. Anika Mehta stood over the patient like the chaos belonged to her — shoulders relaxed, gaze steady, movements economical. No wasted energy. No theatrical urgency. Just a surgeon who had long ago decided panic was inefficient.

“Clamp,” Anika said.

Not rushed. Not loud.

Just certain.

The word cut through the tension cleanly, a command disguised as a suggestion. The senior surgeon passed it half a second late — a microscopic delay most people would miss.

Her eyebrow lifted slightly.

A silent note filed away — not irritation, just adjustment. Timing mattered. It always did.

She didn’t comment.

She didn’t need to.

Precision had its own language.

“BP?” she asked. Her tone stayed level, the way one asks about the weather — detached, observational, already calculating outcomes.

“Dropping a little,” the anesthetist replied, fingers dancing over the controls.

“Good,” Anika said calmly. “That means it’s still listening. Stabilize.”

The reassurance wasn’t comfort — it was direction. A reminder that the situation was shifting, not spiraling.

The junior assistant hesitated, voice catching. “Ma’am, pressure’s slipping—”

“I can see it,” she cut in, voice smooth and controlled, eyes never leaving the surgical field. “What I can’t see is suction. Let’s fix that.”

A few nervous chuckles flickered and died instantly as the room accelerated. Hands responded with renewed clarity. Equipment adjusted. Focus sharpened.

Because when Dr. Anika Mehta spoke, panic quietly packed its bags.

High-pressure moments didn’t rattle her. They assembled themselves like problems waiting to be solved. While everyone else reacted, she calculated — mapping possibilities, predicting consequences, already three moves ahead, already adjusting. There was a quiet satisfaction in that rhythm, the clean logic of things falling where they should.

Her hands moved with quiet confidence — steady, exact, unhurried. The kind of control that comes from thousands of hours where mistakes weren’t theoretical, and learning had sharp edges.

“Time?”

“Two hours, twenty-three.”

“Nice,” she murmured. “Let’s finish clean. I’d like my coffee before it becomes tomorrow’s problem.”

A ripple of restrained amusement passed through the room. Someone actually smiled — tension cracking just enough to breathe.

And just like that, pressure transformed into rhythm.

Thirty minutes later—

“Vitals stabilizing.”

The anesthetist’s voice carried relief.

“See?” Anika said lightly, not looking up. “We’re friends again.”

The surgical field answered her corrections. Every movement resolved into the next, like a calculation balancing line by line. Momentum replaced urgency.

Ten minutes after that—

“It’s controlled.”

“Obviously.”

Confidence without arrogance — just acknowledgment of work done correctly.

Five minutes later—

“Close.”

Chaos folded into order. Instruments moved in practiced harmony. The theatre shifted from urgency to completion, the energy settling like a knot finally loosening.

The patient stabilized.

The room exhaled — a collective release nobody admitted holding.

Anika peeled off her gloves like she’d just solved a mildly annoying crossword — efficient, clean, satisfied but unimpressed. Another problem addressed. Another system corrected. The neat finish carried its own quiet reward.

The senior surgeon gave her a measured look — admiration mixed with professional pride. “Well done.”

She nodded once. “We didn’t lose him. That’s the only headline that matters.”

No celebration. No lingering ego. Just outcome.

Outside the OT, fluorescent corridor lights hummed softly. A nurse leaned in, voice hushed as if the intensity might still be contagious. “Ma’am… that was intense.”

Anika adjusted her mask, eyes amused, posture unchanged.

“Medicine isn’t intense,” she said. “People just panic loudly.”

Her footsteps echoed lightly against polished floors as she walked, the adrenaline of the room already dissolving into routine. For her, life-and-death moments weren’t cinematic — they were systems to be managed.

Her phone buzzed.

Vedant: You alive, or did you emotionally damage another surgeon today?

Divya: Coffee. Immediately. You need sunlight.

A corner of her mouth lifted.

Anika typed back: Saved a life. Will consider human interaction.

She slid the phone into her pocket without breaking stride.

And kept walking — calm, steady, faintly entertained by the world’s dramatics, already mentally organizing the next task before anyone else realized it was coming.

Because for Anika Mehta, control wasn’t effort.

It was habit.

***************

The stadium was not quiet.

It was chaos.

Floodlights blazing. Crowd roaring. Commentary exploding.

“Rathore on 142 from 81 balls — this has been unreal!”

Ayaan adjusted his gloves, tapping the bat twice against the crease.

He didn’t look nervous.

He looked entertained.

The bowler ran in.

Fast. Aggressive. Short ball.

Ayaan leaned back slightly —

Cracked it.

Six.

The stadium detonated.

He didn’t celebrate wildly. He just lifted the bat — slow, deliberate, controlled.

Cocky.

The captain at the non-striker’s end laughed. “Show-off.”

“Scoreboard likes me,” Ayaan replied casually.

Next ball.

Yorker attempt.

He flicked it effortlessly past mid-wicket.

Four.

The crowd began chanting his name.

He hated how much he loved that.

The bowler glared. “Try that again.”

Ayaan tilted his head. “Please do.”

Next delivery.

Full. Outside off.

He stepped forward —

Whack.

Six.

152 in 87 balls.

The stadium lost its mind.

He removed his helmet, hair messy, smirk intact.

Not gratitude.

Ownership.

Back in the dugout, his teammate Arjun punched his shoulder. “You’re insufferable when you’re in form.”

Ayaan shrugged. “I’m insufferable always. Form just highlights it.”

The coach approached, arms crossed. “Don’t get arrogant.”

Ayaan raised an eyebrow. “Too late.”

They won by 28 runs.

Post-match interview lights flashed.

“How does it feel to carry the team again?” the reporter asked.

He leaned toward the mic slightly.

“I don’t carry,” he said smoothly. “I contribute.”

The smirk betrayed him.

Back in the dressing room — noise, laughter, music.

He sat alone for a moment, watching the scoreboard replay on screen.

He wasn’t just playing.

He was building something.

Legacy wasn’t loud.

It was consistent.

He stood and grabbed his kit bag.

Someone shouted, “Party?”

He rolled his shoulders.

“Always.”

The dressing room was loud. Ayaan wasn’t.

He sat on the bench, slowly removing his gloves while his six replayed again on the screen.

“150 in 87,” Arjun said, shaking his head. “You’re not normal.”

Ayaan didn’t look up. “Normal doesn’t sell tickets.”

The team laughed.

The coach stepped in.

The room quieted.

“Good innings,” the coach said.

Ayaan nodded once. “Thank you, sir.”

“You almost threw it away at 132.”

There it was.

Ayaan’s jaw tightened slightly.

“It was calculated,” he replied.

“It was emotional.”

That word lingered.

He didn’t like that word.

“I don’t play emotionally,” Ayaan said calmly.

The coach held his stare. “You play like you’re trying to silence something.”

That landed deeper than intended.

Ayaan stood. “We won.”

“Yes,” the coach replied quietly. “But you’re not playing to win. You’re playing to prove.”

And that was worse.

Later — outside the stadium.

The crowd had thinned, but fans still waited.

He signed bats. Took pictures. Smiled.

He knew how to look untouchable.

But when he finally sat inside his car and shut the door —

Silence.

His phone buzzed.

Kavya (Elder Sister): Arav just screamed “Mama six!” and threw his toy bat at the TV.

Ayaan’s expression softened.

Ayaan: Tell him to improve his technique first.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Kavya: He says you still hold the bat wrong.

Ayaan laughed — quiet and genuine.

Another message arrived.

Dev : Proud of you. Ignore the noise.

That one stayed on his screen longer.

Because there was noise.

There had always been noise.

Home — Rathore House.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

His father sat in the living room watching business news.

Not match highlights.

Not commentary.

Business.

As always.

His grandfather read the newspaper. His grandmother folded clothes. His mother moved between the kitchen and hallway.

No one mentioned the match.

Ayaan dropped his kit bag near the stairs.

His father spoke without looking up. “Finished?”

“Yes.”

“Won?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Good.”

That was it.

His grandfather lowered the paper slightly. “Cricket is uncertain.”

Ayaan didn’t respond.

His grandmother added gently, “You’re educated. You could do an MBA. Join the business.”

His mother stepped out, wiping her hands. “You still have time to think practically. Sports don’t last.”

There it was.

Not anger.

Not confrontation.

Just doubt disguised as concern.

“I’m not confused,” Ayaan replied evenly.

His father finally looked at him.

“You’re 28. You think talent is permanent?”

“I work,” Ayaan said.

His father’s voice hardened. “Work builds companies. Sport builds ego.”

Ayaan held his gaze.

“Then I’ll build both.”

Silence filled the room.

Not anger.

Disbelief.

Then—

Footsteps from the hallway.

Kavya entered holding little Aarav. “Mamuuuuu!”

The tension cracked instantly.

Ayaan took him, posture softening.

“How many sixes today?” Aarav asked proudly.

“Not enough,” Ayaan smirked.

Aarav gasped. “You must practice more.”

Kavya smiled faintly. “He watched the whole match.”

Dev walked in behind them. “And yelled at the screen every time you didn’t hit.”

Ayaan looked at him. “You watched?”

“Obviously.”

No doubt.

Just belief.

And somehow, that made everything heavier.

Later — Ayaan’s room.

Trophies lined the shelf.

Medals. Headlines.

And—

A rejected contract letter.

An old newspaper clipping:

“Overhyped Youngster Dropped After Poor Series.” He kept it.

Reminder.

Fuel.

He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

His father’s words replayed.

Sport builds ego.

His jaw tightened.

He wasn’t playing for ego.

He was playing because it was the only place he felt—

Certain.

In control.

Valued.

But reality pressed in.

• The selection committee still wasn’t fully convinced about making him vice-captain

• A senior player thought he was “too flashy”

• Sponsors liked his personality more than his performance

• His family wanted him out of cricket entirely

And beneath all of it—

Fear.

One bad season.

One injury.

One wrong shot.

And the “I told you so” would begin.

He stood, picked up his bat, and ran his fingers over the grip.

“Calculated aggression,” he murmured.

Then quieter—

“I’m not done.”

Outside his room, he could hear his father talking about business expansion.

Inside, Ayaan Rathore stood in front of the mirror.

Confident face.

Controlled smirk.

Captain presence.

But in his eyes—

A man who wasn’t just chasing runs.

He was chasing legitimacy.

And that is always more dangerous.

*********************

The hospital corridors never intimidated Anika.

They were too predictable for that.

Silence didn’t scare her.

It was simply information — the absence of chaos, the moment before movement.

Blood didn’t shake her either.

It was clinical. Mechanical. A problem with variables.

Helplessness, though…

That she disliked with professional intensity.

Helplessness meant delay. Failure of systems. Human hesitation. A gap where competence should have been.

And she did not tolerate gaps.

The surgery was successful.

Again.

Hospitals didn’t applaud victories. They archived them. Signed them. Filed them into systems that moved on without sentiment.

“Excellent control under pressure,” Dr. Rao said as they stepped away from the table, gloves snapping into the bin.

Anika peeled hers off with precise efficiency. “Control is just preparation arriving on time,” she replied.

He smiled, impressed by the line.

He didn’t hear what sat underneath it.

Most people didn’t.

For Anika, pressure wasn’t dramatic.

It was procedural.

Chaos wasn’t frightening.

It was inefficient.

And inefficiency was something she corrected.

Later — cafeteria.

The hospital cafeteria hummed with tired voices and stainless-steel echoes. Coffee machines hissed like they were tired of saving people too.

Vedant dropped into the chair opposite her with theatrical exhaustion.

“You look like you bullied mortality again,” he said.

“I negotiated,” Anika corrected, stirring her coffee slowly.

Divya leaned forward. “Fellowship form?”

“Draft three,” Anika replied. “I refuse to submit mediocrity in paperwork. It sets a bad precedent.”

Vedant snorted. “Second-rank trauma still motivating you?”

Her spoon paused mid-rotation.

Her eyes lifted.

Calm.

Measured.

Mildly entertained.

“It’s not about rank,” she said.

It never had been.

But she didn’t elaborate.

They didn’t need the origin story.

They got the refined outcome — the version of her that ran on precision and sarcasm.

Divya watched her for a second. “You’re terrifyingly functional.”

“Efficiency is kindness,” Anika replied. “To patients. Not to coworkers.”

Vedant raised his cup. “Cheers to professional intimidation.”

She clinked her cup lightly. “Earned, not given.”

They laughed.

And the moment passed.

But somewhere underneath the humor sat a memory she didn’t dwell on — not because it hurt, but because it was already categorized.

Resolved.

Filed.

Useful.

Mehta House — evening.

The house reflected success the way hospitals reflected sterility — polished, deliberate, expensive without shouting about it.

Dinner conversation was predictable.

Supply chains. Investment expansions. Market shifts.

Her father adjusted his glasses. “You could have joined the business.”

“I could have,” Anika said calmly.

“It’s stable.”

“Stability,” she replied, “is often just stagnation with good marketing.”

Her mother glanced up from her tablet. “Hospitals don’t guarantee outcomes.”

“Neither do balance sheets,” Anika said evenly.

Her grandfather observed her over his spectacles. “Ambition is admirable. Obsession is dangerous.”

She smiled politely. “Good thing I prefer discipline.”

There was no rebellion in her tone.

No defensiveness.

Just certainty.

People often mistook that for stubbornness.

It wasn’t stubbornness.

It was calibration.

Her grandmother cleared her throat gently. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Anika obeyed without argument.

She wasn’t here to fight.

She was here to exist — fully aligned with her choices.

In her room later —

The desk was organized to the point of intimidation.

Research papers stacked with surgical precision. Notes structured. Tabs labeled. No wasted motion even in stillness.

Above her study board hung one photograph.

Her and her elder brother.

Rishabh.

Both laughing at something outside the frame.

A moment preserved before variables changed.

Before the accident.

Before the search.

Before the quiet meetings and official words like closure and acceptance.

The world concluded he was gone.

No body.

No certainty.

Just exhaustion masquerading as finality.

That year hadn’t broken Anika.

It had educated her.

Systems fail.

Delays cost time.

Time costs outcomes.

She remembered standing outside an ICU once — small, furious, powerless.

She did not enjoy the sensation.

So she removed it from her future.

Medicine wasn’t a calling.

It was a solution.

Competence was leverage.

Control was mercy.

And she preferred mercy delivered efficiently.

Her fingers brushed the corner of the photo.

Not lingering.

Not fragile.

Just acknowledgment.

A variable that shaped her operating system.

Her phone buzzed.

Divya: You’re working too much.

Anika: Efficiency reduces future workload.

Pause.

Vedant: That’s not how rest works.

Anika: I’ll schedule it.

A faint smile tugged at her mouth.

She closed her laptop and stood before the mirror.

Calm.

Precise.

A woman who looked like she’d already solved tomorrow’s problems and was mildly bored waiting for them to arrive.

There was one question she never voiced.

Not because it hurt.

But because it remained… unverified.

What if he wasn’t gone?

Her mind didn’t spiral.

Didn’t ache.

Didn’t dramatize.

She simply filed it:

Unresolved variable. Pending evidence.

To be revisited when actionable.

Because surgeons don’t operate on hope.

They operate on certainty.

And if certainty doesn’t exist—

They build it.

Then they proceed.

Lights off.

Thought archived.

System stable.

Across the city—

Certainty looked very different.

Ayaan Rathore stood on his balcony, still in his match jersey, sweat dried into the fabric like proof of impact. The city stretched below him in restless light — blinking towers, passing headlights, windows glowing with lives he didn’t know.

For a moment, it felt like the skyline was performing for him.

Or maybe he was performing for it.

His phone buzzed relentlessly on the glass table beside him.

Interviews.

Sponsors.

Teammates sending voice notes full of laughter and exaggeration.

Congratulations stacked faster than he could read them.

He ignored most of it.

Noise had volume, not weight.

Instead, he unlocked his screen and opened social media.

The feed refreshed instantly.

Trending:

#RathoreStorm

#FutureCaptain

#Unstoppable

His smirk came easy.

Of course it was trending.

The innings had been clean. Aggressive. Memorable in the way highlights demanded replay.

He scrolled slowly, letting the praise pass like background music.

Edits of his six. Freeze frames. Dramatic captions.

Hero narratives forming in real time.

He’d learned not to trust applause.

It was loud.

Temporary.

And always hungry for the next spectacle.

Then he scrolled further.

One comment stopped him.

Buried between fan edits and fire emojis:

Flashy players fade fast.

His thumb hovered.

The smirk vanished.

Not anger.

Not outrage.

Just a tightening — a quiet shift in posture.

The kind that meant something had landed.

He read it again.

Fade.

Like fireworks.

Bright. Brief. Replaceable.

He tossed the phone onto the table with more force than necessary.

It slid, vibrating against the glass, still buzzing with notifications that suddenly sounded distant.

“Fade?” he muttered.

The word tasted wrong.

He stepped back inside, the city glow following him across the floor.

His bat leaned against the couch — still taped, still warm with memory.

He picked it up automatically.

Familiar weight.

Centered balance.

This wasn’t wood and grip.

This was argument.

Proof.

Promise.

He balanced it on his palm, eyes narrowing slightly as he felt the equilibrium settle.

Control.

He liked that feeling.

The world could debate.

Comment.

Predict.

But the crease?

The crease answered only to execution.

His reflection caught in the dark balcony glass — jersey wrinkled, hair still messy, expression sharpening into something quieter.

More deliberate.

“Watch me,” he said.

Not to the city.

Not to the comment.

To himself.

A statement filed.

A challenge accepted.

Outside, the skyline kept blinking.

Inside, Ayaan Rathore stood still for a beat longer than necessary — grounding in the certainty he trusted most:

Performance over opinion.

Then his phone buzzed again.

This time, he didn’t look.

Some noise didn’t deserve the satisfaction.

He set the bat down gently, already thinking ahead —

Next match.

Next innings.

Next proof.

Because applause was temporary.

But reputation?

That had to be built swing by swing.

And he wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

On the other side of the city—

Certainty wore a quieter face.

Anika sat at her desk, reviewing post-op notes one final time. The desk lamp cast a clean circle of light across neatly arranged files, margins marked with tidy annotations only she would ever reread.

No trending hashtags.

No crowd chants.

Just silence — structured, deliberate, productive.

Her pen moved steadily.

Correction. Observation. Confirmation.

Systems working as intended.

Her phone buzzed softly against the desk.

She glanced at the screen.

Medical Journal: Fellowship shortlist to be announced next week.

Her expression didn’t change.

But her pen paused mid-word.

Shortlist.

Not guaranteed.

Variables still in play.

She leaned back slightly, fingers resting loosely around the pen as her eyes unfocused for half a second — a rare moment of stillness inside an otherwise moving mind.

“You don’t get nervous,” she whispered to herself.

Not as reassurance.

As policy.

Nerves were messy.

They distorted judgment, slowed reaction time, created unnecessary noise.

And Anika did not entertain noise.

She inhaled once — measured, controlled — then leaned forward again.

File reopened.

Notes resumed.

Precision restored.

Her earrings came off next, placed carefully beside the lamp. No clatter. No careless motion.

Even routine deserved intention.

Her day didn’t end in celebration or collapse.

It ended in closure.

Tasks completed.

Systems aligned.

Tomorrow already scheduled in her head.

She rose, casting one final glance over the desk — everything exactly where it should be.

Order, maintained.

Lights off.

Door closed.

Mind steady.

Across the city — Rathore House. Midnight.

Ayaan lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, the faint glow of streetlights stretching across the room in restless patterns.

The house was asleep.

But his mind wasn’t.

Silence sat differently here.

Not structured.

Not calm.

Just full.

His father’s words replayed with irritating clarity.

Sport builds ego.

He scoffed quietly into the dark.

“If ego builds centuries,” he muttered, “I’ll take it.”

The bravado sounded convincing.

Almost.

Yet something underneath refused to settle.

Victory should have felt complete.

Definitive.

Instead, it lingered like a statement still waiting for punctuation.

Why did every win feel like evidence… instead of arrival?

He turned onto his side, pillow shifting under his head.

Tomorrow was practice.

Tomorrow was repetition.

Tomorrow was another chance to sharpen, refine, dominate — to push the doubt a little further back where it belonged.

Because undeniability wasn’t built in highlights.

It was built in routine.

In showing up when applause faded.

His breathing slowed.

The ceiling blurred.

Sleep approached reluctantly, like a negotiation.

And somewhere between thought and rest, Ayaan made the same quiet promise he always did:

Tomorrow — better.

Always better.

Two houses.

Two families.

Two ambitions being questioned quietly at dinner tables.

One building legacy under stadium lights.

One building certainty under surgical lights.

Neither aware—

That the city was too small
for two people who refused to lose.

And destiny?

It wasn't moving yet.

It was waiting.

***********************************************

Hope you liked it meko toh pasand aaya did you all like it patakas. and i forgot to mention in authors note ki the starting chapter will be short and i MIGHT add one more couple but the main ones will always be #ayanika . The first 6-7 chapters MAY BE BORING TO YOU ALL  as it revolves around their life . 

See this is my first book idk how it is from your perspective kuch bol do thoda bi pretty please (ok i know bohot cringe ho gaya )

Next Update 26 feb ko abhi ekdum busy hu soorryyy  

To Be Continued ........