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@bohotbadajalebi
FURSAT MEIN: MASTERLIST !
in shamli, power doesn't announce itself with speeches or scandal; it lives in files stamped too many times, in old buildings that refuse to collapse out of spite, in decisions made quietly and defended stubbornly. and here's an introduction to parallel authorities and shared jurisdictions, about inherited rajasi ease colliding with earned sarkari command, about two very capable adults circling each other with professional suspicion and inconvenient curiosity.
RAJA UDAY SINGH, MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT, SHAMLI.
inherited confidence, elected pragmatism. post-royal survival instincts? a mahal that chips at sides with bones that refuse to give way out of pride. golf used as diplomacy. smiles deployed like sainiks on the enemy's door. dimples that should be illegal in governance. knowing everyone, known by everyone. politely said no's that do not need repetition. realism dressed in the coat of charm. numbers over nostalgia (most days). enjoying the process, and the irritation he causes. waiting to be underestimated. constituency math, coalition arithmetic. power lunches, corridor conversation. nehru jacket over kurtas paired with jeans. whisper networks, legacy goodwill. crisis management with chai. worlds that move because he asks nicely. knowing which rules can wait, which ones cannot. ragebaiting as a love language. realism sharpened by electoral politics. public smiles, private exhaustion. staying electable, and maybe, just maybe, trying to stay sane while he's at it.
DURDHARA BHARDWAJ, DISTRICT MAGISTRATE, SHAMLI.
sharp eyes, sharper files. authority with footnotes. crisp cottons and zero patience for nonsense. deadpan humour, controlled chaos. rules learned, then bent intelligently. not impressed by titles, actively allergic to entitlement. competence as foreplay. winning quietly, enjoying the process (reluctantly). refusal to be flustered. refusal to be small. timing everything. letting others talk, beating them anyway. rulebook fluency. circulars cited from memory. deadlines respected, notices issued, inspections scheduled. power that does not ask for permission. files that move because they must. clean handwriting. margins filled with quiet corrections. zero interest in optics. allergic to populism. calm under pressure, comfort with being disliked. authority without applause. letting her work speak for itself.
UNOFFICIAL, UNFILED, FURSAT MEIN !
constituency versus jurisdiction. votes versus sections. optics versus compliance. "let it slide" versus "put that shit on record." public alignment, private sparring. meetings that run long. arguments that turn personal by accident. mutual respect pretending to be irritation. attraction disguised as administrative concern. power negotiated in half-smiles. desire postponed for after office hours. romance pending approval from? why, absolutely no one!
CHAPTER LIST !
BEIMAAN KHEL
INSPECTION & IRRITATION
GANGA KINARE
FURSAT MEIN IV.
PREV CHAP
synopsis: a line painstakingly crossed and then painstakingly redrawn. durdhara and uday allow themselves one indulgence — and then spend the aftermath pretending it neatly fits into their lives.
author's note: last chapter before I put the fic on a week-long break! enjoy lolololol.
"andar nahi aayenge, raja sahab?"
for a fraction of a second, something in his face gives way. calculation evaporates. charm drops its coat at the door and doesn't bother picking it up.
then uday moves.
it's a blur — decisive, unhesitating. the distance between them collapses like a bad argument. his hands come up to her face, firm and warm, cradling her jaw as though it is the only place they were ever meant to be. he pulls her into him and his mouth finds hers with the force of a full stop slammed down at the end of a very long sentence.
no more commas. no more pauses.
the kiss is impatient. stripped of manners. all the restraint he's been performing for days finally clocked out. it tastes like pent-up intention, like something postponed too long and now demanding interest. he kissed her as though he's been holding his breath since the bazaar, since the river, since the corridor outside her room.
and durdhara — traitor to herself, to logic, and to every careful rule she'd sworn she would live by — kisses him back.
there's no hesitation. no moment of reconsideration. she meets him halfway, arms winding around his shoulders, fingers curling into fabric like anchors finding ground. her weight leans against his, and the world narrows to mouths and breaths and the unmistakable knowledge that this is happening now.
urgency answers urgency.
his hands slide, steadying her as he guides her back, the wall cool against her spine through the layer of her kurta, the contrast sharp enough to draw a breath from her. the door swings shut behind them, kicked closed with careless efficiency. and somewhere in the background the lock clicks — a small, decisive sound filed away for later consequences.
he pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead dropping to hers with the dull thud of restraint snapping taut. like a hand stretched too far, vibrating with what it's holding back.
for a second, neither of them moves.
their breaths tangle. the air between them charged, overheated, like a room that's forgotten how to ventilate. her eyes flutter open to find his already there — dark, focused, mouth parted, expression stripped of its usual ease.
this close, he almost looks undone.
she swallows.
"uday."
it doesn't sound like a command. not even a request.
it sounds like something whispered in a temple. quiet, earnest, dangerous.
his thumb shifts against her jaw, just enough to remind her he's there, that this is real. or it is himself he reminds that. either way, it does not matter.
not when he says it so softly, again: "mera naam uday hai."
the words are not a correction. they're an offering.
"uday," she murmurs.
it's barely a sound. more breath than word. she kisses him — chaste, almost ceremonial, gone in a fraction of a second. "uday," another kiss, just as brief. "uday," again — this one less patient, less careful, as though repetition itself has begun to fray restraint.
he doesn't let her pull away.
leans in again, slower this time, like he's memorising instead of claiming. the kiss deepens but does not wander, impatience reshaping itself into something deliberate, controlled by will rather than the lack of it. he kisses her like he knows exactly what he's risking — and that he has decided, with alarming clarity, that it's worth it.
her hands tighten at his shoulders, grounding herself to the solid fact of him. the room hums quietly around them, unaware, uninterested, whole something irrevocable settles into place.
uday dips down in one smooth, instinctive motion, catching her with an arm at her waist, the other finding her hip with a strength that surprises them both. there's no violence in it, just certainty. the kind that leaves fingerprints in places memory won't forget.
his hand slides lower, anchoring her, guiding her leg up and around his waist as if it's always belonged there. in a single, exact movement, her feet leave the floor. the world obliges by rearranging itself.
"ek aur baar," he murmurs against her skin, voice low, threaded with heat. "call me by my name again."
she tries.
she really does.
but the syllable barely forms before he steals it from her mouth again, kissing her like time has suddenly become scarce. it's urgent now — everything is. hands, breath, intention. the room feels too small for the speed at which they're moving, like it's struggling to keep up.
they collide rather than move. laughter almost breaks through but does not. fabric gives way to hands; her kurta falls at his first, tossed to the floor like a receipt of something unimportant — like protocol. her fingers struggle with the buttons of his linen shirt next, so restless she'd later find the buttons somewhere on the floor; hands give way to skin; thought gives way to the simple, undeniable knowledge of each other. the world narrows to the closeness and warmth and the sound of breathing that refuses to steady.
uday carries her without asking. somehow knows the room. somehow knows exactly where he's going. when he sets her down at the edge of the bed, it's gentle — careful in a way that feels almost reverent.
they pause.
just for a second.
hands still on shoulders. foreheads almost touching. the moment stretches, fragile and suspended, as if time itself has stepped back to give them the privacy. this — right here — feels like an edge. of the world. of themselves. of the people they pretend to be in daylight.
no one speaks.
it starts again quietly. with her hands. unhurried now. reaching with intention rather than haste — peels away the half opened shirt from his frame. studies his face with the back of her knuckles, like she's committing it to memory; the sharp, beak-like line of his nose, the familiar dimples at his chin, the place just beneath his eye where she presses a kiss that feels oddly tender.
he exhaled, something soft and unravelled passing through him.
uday lowers himself in front of her, slow this time, like a man choosing reverence over conquest. his hands move with new patience, carrful where moments ago were anything but. when he reaches for her ankle, the silver bells at her payal ring softly, betraying the lift.
he kisses there — light, unhurried. then higher. each touch unspools her just a little more.
with every brush of lips against her skin, durdhara shifts back an inch in the mattress, breath catching, pulse loud in her ears.
uday tugs at the tassel of her skirt around the waist, lowers the cloth down and flips it aside.
he kisses her thigh next. then higher. the intention is unmistakable, unhurried, almost devotional.
this is where she stops him.
she meets him halfway, sitting upright, one hand coming to his face — gentle, steady, final.
"no?"
the question is almost tentative. his brows drawn together, uncertainty flickerig across his features so briefly it nearly escapes her notice. for half a heartbeat, he looks disarmingly young. open. vulnerable in a way that makes her chest tighten.
she almost caves.
almost.
but doubt was a patient thing. vulnerability, a wound she'd learned to keep bandaged and hidden. she shakes her head instead.
before he can respond, she tugs him by the arm, guiding him back onto the mattress with her; in one smooth motion, she flips the balance, settles above him, reclaiming herself as the axis.
"abhi nahi," she whispers. the words barely carry, but they land.
even in the low light, she catches the grin that breaks across his face as she straddles him — unrepentant, amused, deeply intrigued.
"toh phir kab?" he asks.
if she hadn't seen the smile, she'd have heard it anyway. it lives in his voice.
the answer hovers between them — fursat mein. a promise she is suddenly far less confident about having made.
she chooses silence instead.
her hands lower down his abdomen, moving with intention, confident — she stills him with a single word.
"chup."
and a single brush of her fingers against the line of him against fabric, hard and ready, for her — she thinks. the thought isn't loud, it doesn't need to be.
his response isn't verbal. it's physical — a sharp exhale, a telltale pause, the subtle way his body betrays him despite himself. the change settles into her bones, felt beneath his fingers, the tremour of his thighs beneath her own: it is unfamiliar, it is exhilarating. it steadies her, pleases her far more than she expects.
"bohot zyada bolte hain aap," she says softly, a smile tugging at her mouth. "raja sahab."
that seems to change something.
uday rises just enough to close the distance, one hand sliding up her back, tracing her spine slowly, deliberately, until his fingers curl at the nape of her neck. the gesture sends a sudden, unmistakable flutter through her — sharp, destabilising, real.
their eyes meet.
"kya kaha tha main?" he murmurs, brushing a kiss against her chin.
the name hangs there — intimate, chosen.
then he guided her gently by the thigh, drawing her closer, grounding the moment, reclaiming his share; the breath that leaves her this time has no guards, no sound.
he smile, knowing, his breath warm against her skin.
"uday."
and this was it. the promise — the awareness that whatever line they were circling now, once crossed, won't let either of them pretend this was anything less than intentional.
the next roll of his hips into her draws a sharp, involuntary shiver; he enters her without rush, easing within, slow and steady — and durdhara leans into him, fingers tightening at his shoulders, anchoring herself anyway. his arm finds her waist, sure and practiced, the other one gathering the spill of her hair at the nape — firm enough to steady, gentle enough to not hurt.
"uday —"
it leaves her like a sigh she didn't mean to give.
"that's right," he murmurs, voice low, and the closeness deepens.
they move; yes, they, together. and find themselves a rhythm that feels less like movement and more like agreement — she meeting him halfway, breath for breath, her nails scratching down his back. his breath hitches; he hides it against her skin, mouth wandering, lingering where it shouldn't, teeth grazing at her breast, leaving quiet proof of intent.
then the world turns.
he guides her forward, the urgency thinning into slowness, like they were finally where they'd wanted to be. their eyes meet — just a beat, just enough — and he slows, his lips tracing a map up her spine, a whispered confession tucked against her ear as he takes her again, this time from her back.
"tumhari fursat ka intezar main kab se kar raha hoon," the words are warm, patient, almost dangerous.
his hand settles at her hip, steady, claiming without haste as he moves into her again — the bed gives a soft protest to his thrust; she grips the sheets, tilts her head, grants him the curve of her throat. she knows these marks will speak in the morning — not of error, but if allowance.
a glitch in the system.
temporary — but chosen.
"yeh fursat ka waada bhi thoda beimaan hota hai," she murmurs — gasping as he hums, pushes into her again — smiles despite herself, reaching back to catch his face, and steal his mouth with her own.
she breathes into it, then, the joke half a shield — half a dare; "sarkari kaam, you know?"
he laughs — quiet, real — and the sound vibrates between them, intimate as a secret passed hand to hand.
"mujhe sabr karna aata hai."
the words stay, long after the night loosens its grip. hours blur. titles fall away. here, it is only durdhara and uday — not opposing forces, not two ends of a spectrum — but two lines, parallel, finally crossing, and choosing not to pull apart.
sleep comes eventually, only once the night has begun to thin, crickets dissolving into silence outside. uday lies facedown, back bare, cheek lost to her pillows, breath even and unguarded. there is something almost indecent about how peaceful he looks like this.
durdhara wakes early — an anomaly, really. she sits up against the headboard and watches him for a while, memorising the sight against her better judgment. her fingers trace the smooth plane of his back, following the rise and fall of muscle, the three faint lines where they converge — his spine at the center, order imposed on flesh At his lower waist, she pauses. he stirs at the touch, shifts closer, unaware. she presses her lips together, something unreadable flickering across her face.
by noon, she is gone.
uday wakes to a quiet room and a single message glowing on his phone.
market. had some things to buy for mom. please feel free to skip the meeting, I'll see you at the wedding.
efficient. courteous. devastating in its normalcy.
the wedding arrives as weddings always do — overprepared for, overdiscussed, somehow still disorienting in its scale. it is not underwhelming; if anything, it's excessive. light, colour, laughter, rituals unfolding on cue. time moves forward with an almost bureaucratic indifference.
yet nothing quite lands the same when the hand at the small of your back — introducing you to relatives, colleagues, acquaintances whose bames all blur together — has already mapped you entirely. when the eyes that meet yours across the room, polite, composed, dark and intense, have known you without titles, without witnesses, and without clothes.
the questions are banal. work. traffic. dessert. preferences.
the glances are not.
they slip between sentences, land and retreat, charged with a secrecy that doesn't technically exist — and yet feels illicit all the same. because everyone here sees only what is permissible.
no one sees the glitch.
none of this is a secret, either.
yet it feels like one.
"bhardwaj?!"
the woman who barrels into her is aakansha shrivastav — same batch, same probationary years, same shared trauma dressed up as carmaderie. she throws her arms around durdhara with the enthusiasm of someone who has decided nostalgia will be affectionate, not awkward. durdhara returns the embrace, smooth as a muscle memory, pulling back with the easy smile already in place.
"gosh, yaar! tum kitni acchi lag rahi ho!" aakansha says, eyes raking her over with professional curiosity disguised as praise. "mujhe toh laga tha shamali jaisa remote posting tumhara tel hi nikal degi. but turns out — no, eh? you're positively glowing!"
glowing. of all words.
durdhara’s gaze betrays her, flickering past aakansha’s shoulder to where uday stands a few steps away, mid-conversation with the groom. animated, laughing, perfectly and infuriatingly unaffected. it makes her feel ridiculous for carrying last night like a live wire beneath her skin.
"aisa kuch nahi hai," she says lightly, turning back. "waiste tum yahan kaise? I didn't expect you at all!"
"arrey, my posting is in the groom's constituency! unhone humein invite kara," aakansha replies, gesturing beside her, summoning someone close.
durdhara barely has time to register the plural before she sees him.
the new addition: shashwat chahal. same batch again, Indian police service. the sort of man who treats familiarity like a birthright. by the time recognition lands, he has already opened his arms and pulled her into a hug that is one degree too enthusiastic to be polite.
"yeh toh proper reunion ho gaya, bhai!" shashwat declares, grinning as he nudges aakansha. "agar madam yahan ne flight last minute na book ki hoti, toh pehle milna ho jaata."
aakansha swats his arm away without missing a beat. they laugh, they reminisce, the years compress themselves into anecdotes and shorthand. conversation loops easily — postings, officers, mutual acquaintance rendered into punchlines.
at some point, uday joins them.
he arrives with the bride in tow, as though summoned by the simple fact of her presence. priyadarshi singh is exactly how princesses are described by people who believe in such thing — regal by face, sweet by voice, and wearing enough jewellery to rival the venue's valuation. she smiles, gracious and unthreatening, while uday introduces everyone with the learned ease of a man fluent in rooms like this.
durdhara feels it then — the subtle recalibration. the way the air shifts when roles return to their original places. here, he is raja sahab once again. and she is collector bhardwaj. colleagues watch, smiles are measured, hands stay where they should.
and yet.
his eyes find hers between exchanges. brief and knowing. nothing improper. nothing that could be called out. but enough to remind her that beneath the small talk, something unnamed is very much alive — and waiting.
at some point, the rituals begin.
the sacred fire is lit, flames coaxed into life as though persuaded. the bride and groom sit before it, palms open, voices steady as they recite mantras older than memory — traded vows not just with each other, but the gods who are being invoked.
uday stands beside her.
durdhara does not speak until he does.
"aap mujhe chhod kar chali gayi thi, aaj subah," he says. the words are mild, but the tone carries accusation dulled just enough to pass for concern.
"mujhe kaam tha, raja sahab," she replies, eyes fixed on the fire.
he almost says it. uday. she can feel the correction rise, press against his teeth. he swallows it.
"apne batchmates se milne?" he asks, instead.
she still doesn't look at him.
"mujhe bhi abhi pata chala ke woh yahan hain," she says evenly.
for a moment, there's only the crackle of yagyagni. offerings are made — rice, ghee, petals surrendered to flame. uday's silence stretches, tightens. when he speaks again, the pettiness has sharpened into something closer to injury — if she were inclined to be charitable.
"aisi kaunsi urgent zaroorat aan padi thi, exactly?" he says. "kuch samay ruk nahi sakti thi?"
she turns to him then.
not because she's wounded — but because he's pissed.
not hurt. not confused. angry.
it is the familiar expression of men unused to being the ones left behind, the ones not consulted. the look of a table flipped without warning.
"koi kaam nahi tha," she confesses simply.
and the confession lands without drama, or apology.
"I was trying to spare you the embarrassment," she continues, voice calm to the point of cruelty. "aur apne aap ko bhi."
the fire flares. the priest chants on, oblivious.
"izzat bakshne waalon ko itna interrogate nahi karna chahiye," she adds, finally meeting his eyes. "agar consideration mil rahi ho, toh chup-chaap accept kar leni chahiye."
for a second, uday is flabbergasted.
it shows — in the way his expression falters, the way anger slowly looses its footing before scrambling back into place.
the bride and groom are tied into the sacret knot of gathbandhan.
flowers are passed among the guests, handfuls moving from palm to palm like sanctioned offerings. uday passes some to her as well — marigolds, bruised yellow and burnt orange, warm from other hands.
"embarassment," he says, with a scoff. "right. pehle toh embarassed nahi lag rahi thi, mujhe.
"I was referring to the awkwardness of waking up in someone else's room. yadi aapko aadat hai, toh sorry," durdhara replies, deadpan.
uday snaps his head to look at her, irritated.
"then you regret it."
"nahi."
the answer comes too quickly. it barely even pauses to consider itself.
the pheras begin before them, the couple rises, circling the fire. durdhara realises she's still holding the petals, unthrown, and uday is looking at her. she looks back.
"phir kya?" he asks.
there's something almost earnest in it — dangerously so. enough to tempt softness.
she does not cave in, knows better than to.
"regret galtiyon ke liye hota hai," she says, "hum dono adults hai. adults ki tarah handle kar sakte hai."
uday frowns, she doesn't stop.
"galti nahi thi, inconvenience tha." her fingers tighten around the flowers. "ek bar indulgence theek hoti hai, tab hum par koi obligations bhi nahi thi."
the crease on his forehead smooths — only to settle into something heavier.
"lekin indulgence roz-marra ke liye na hi ho, toh behtar hai," she finishes. "raja sahab."
the disappointment lands openly now. he doesn't even bother to hide it.
"then it was a one-time thing."
durdhara presses her lips together, thinly. she turns back to the couple, finally scattering the petals — half-hearted, imprecise.
"yahi samajh lijiye."
"very well," uday says.
there's no anger in it now, no accusation. just acceptance sharpened by restraint.
"hum aapke liye inconvenience hi sahi."
the fire crackles on, the pheras come to an end. the gods, impartial as ever, look the other way.
FURSAT MEIN III.
PREV CHAP
synopsis: a sunday meant for lemon water and silence is interrupted by complication disguised as invitation. between airports at noon, velvet cards, bazaars that delay prayer, and a river that listens but never answers, durdhara and uday circle each other in the language of almosts. glances lasting a second too long, silences that say more than confessions, hospitality mistaken for intimacy. and intimacy? she is too busy hiding under the veil of courtesy.
author's note: shit's about to get MESSY, ladies and gentlemen. strap your seatbelts, this chapter is gonna be long.
and for the song playing during the drive:
"madam?"
the peon hovered outside her door like a comma that didn't know where to land. bhawani bhaiyya had perfected this particular posture over the years — half deferential, half confused, fully aware that whatever message he was carrying was going to detour this peaceful sunday straight into drama territory.
sunday afternoons at the sarkari quarters were designed for gentle decay. time slowed down, bureaucracy took a nap, and the universe agreed not to throw files at you. durdhara had a glass of lemon water sweating politely on the side table, basil seeds floating like they were attending a pool party they hadn't planned for.
the newspaper was open on her lap, folded and refolded into a shape that suggested both use and affection. her feet — payals included — were propped up on the sofa chair beside with the confidence of a woman who had earned the right to mildly scandalise her own living room.
"ji bhawani bhaiyya?" she said, not looking up yet. instead she finished the article first. a habit, not a hobby.
"woh... koi aaya hai aapse milne."
that got her attention. she folded the paper neatly, smoothing the frayed edges the way one might calm a slightly unruly child. then she looked at him, really looked. durdhara didn't repeat questions. she believed in eye contact, silence, and the slow terror those dark, slightly hooded eyes inspired.
who, her face asked politely. and why are they ruining my nimbu paani mood?
bhawani bhaiyya cleared his throat. the poor man looked like he was about to confess to tax evasion.
"raja sahab."
something shifted in the room. not dramatically. just enough to be noticed. durdhara frowned, then glanced around like she'd misplaced something important — her patience, maybe. she slid her feet off the table; the payals announced the movement with a loud, unapologetic ching! like tiny silver whistle-blowers.
she stood up, tugged at the cushions, fixed one that was already straight, and said, "le aaiye andar. aur shobhana ko bol dijiye chai bana kar le aaye."
"ji, madam."
by the time she fluffed the last cushion — an entirely unnecessary but emotionally grounding exercise — he walked in.
uday singh. sansad of shamali. raja sahab. man with the audacity of someone who assumed every room came pre-approved for his presence.
he stood there like the house owed him rent; jeans, casual shirt, that familiar insufferable ease hanging off his shoulders like a tailored jacket. the kind of man who didn't enter rooms so much as arrive.
"itni taqleef mere liye?" he said, grinning, dimples flashing on either sides of his face like bad decisions. "I'm touched."
"awadhi hoon main," durdhara shot back, tossing the pillow onto the sofa with more force than necessary. "tehzeeb pehli cheez sikhayi gayi thi mujhe."
she extended a hand with exaggerated courtesy, then, full azeem-o-shaan shehenshah-esque nautanki. "padhariye, raja sahab."
uday raised both eyebrows, amused, mildly impressed, and fully entertained. he sat.
"toh," she said, reclaiming her seat, posture now immaculate. sunday was over. "farmaiye, aaj kaise aana hua?"
"sansad ke taur pe nahi aaya hoon," he said, leaning forward and placing something on the coffee table that definitely hadn't been there before. an envelope. dark red velvet. matte gold detailing. expensive enough to insult most wallets.
her eyes flicked down. then back up. then down again.
"bhai ki haisiyat se," he continued. "shaadi hai, meri cousin ki — mamaji ki beti to be precise. haridwar mein barah tareeq ko."
she picked up the envelope, fingers automatically appreciating the craftsmanship. hand-done. careful. wedding cards like these weren't invitations; they were declarations.
"former chief minister raut sahab ke bete se ho rahi hai," he added, casually. "socha... aapse behtar plus one kahan milega mujhe."
inside, the card was a small work of art. bhojpatra inscribed with rajkumari mrinalini singh of rewa weds sudhanshu raut.
ah, that sudhanshu raut. lok sabha darling of uttarakhand. she remembered the headlines from her training days; remembered thinking that he looked like a man who'd been raised on khaandani ambition and protein shakes.
durdhara looked up at uday slowly. timing was everything.
"aur aap sir itne ke liye mujhe invite kar rahe hain?" she asked. "political networking?"
shobhana arrived right then, placing the tea cups down like puncuation marks. uday smiled at her, thanked her, and his smile lingered just long enough to be noted as shobhana walked away.
"akele nahi jaana chahta," he said, leaning back, stretching like he owned the furniture now too. "hazaar sawal poochenge. families, aap jaanti hi hain. aur waise bhi — administration aur purani power ka crossover," he tilted his head. "aap aur main toh almost mandatory guests hain aise crowd ke liye, nahin?"
he said it like a fact. like gravity. like the sun rising in the east.
durdhara considered denying him purely on principle. considered the satisfaction of watching him recalibrate. but the date was suspiciously convenent, the location was awfully lovely, and somewhere deep in her cupboard lived a lehenga shs had bought for ‘special occasions,’ a phrase that was beginning to sound theoretical.
"fine," she said finally, lips pursed. "aap mujhe haridwar mein hi miliyega, das tareekh ko."
"arrey?" he said, lowering his cup. "haridwar kyun? main bhi wahin jaa raha hoon. saath chalenge."
"no," she began, already preparing her speech about boundaries and jets —
but uday lifted a finger. stopped her mid-breath.
"nahin sununga," he said lightly. "collector madam, aap meri mehmaan hain." his eyes narrowed, playful. dangerous. "aur haan — bhediyon ne nahi paala hai mujhe, I promise."
she laughed despite herself. curse him.
"accha?" durdhara said. "mujhe toh laga mowgli aapka bhai hai."
"isiliye toh demonstration ka mauka maang raha hoon. mujhe bhi toh chance dijiye, apni tehzeeb dikhaane," he replied, smoothly. "das tareekh. barah baje, airport."
the gavel fell. case closed.
"theek hai," she said, nodding, the taste of her own defeat surprisingly sweet on her tongue. it had to be the chai, durdhara reasoned, and filed away the reminder to tell shobhana to not add so much sugar in her brews. "barah baje."
he stood up, then. and so did she. synchronicity was annoying like that.
"ijaazat leta hoon, fir."
"aur nahi di toh?" the challenge slipped before she could stop it; sundays were indisciplined like that.
uday grinned, hand in his pockets. "fir aapke swagat ki tayyari kaise karunga?"
durdhara rolled her eyes, "bye, raja sahab."
and that smile — simple, earnest, terrifying — followed him out. “bye, dhara.” he said on his way out. the lemon water had gone warm.
durdhara stared at the door for a second longer than necessary, and sighed — only then noticing shobhana who had joined him just a second ago.
"shobhana?" she turned to the girl, who was still standing exactly where uday had exited, eyes fixed on the door like it might swing open again for an encore. "closet khol kar dekhna padega," she comtinued briskly, already slipping back into monday mode. "try karke dekh lenge, lehenge ko. fitting ke liye agar darzi —"
no response.
shobhana remained frozen. not statue-still, but the way people get when their mind has wandered off without leaving a forwarding address.
durdhara paused. frowned. then snapped her fingers sharply in front of the girl's face. "arrey, madam?" she said dryly. "kahan chali gayi thi?"
shobhana blinked. once, twice. like someone rebooting from a very pleasant daydream. then — traitorously — she giggled.
actually giggled.
imagine.
"na, didi," she said, covering her mouth far too late. "kitne handsome the yeh, haina? ekdum vinod khanna wala smile."
there it was. the gall. the youth. the unsolicited filmy reference.
durdhara stared at her. long, flat. unimpressed in the way only elder sisters, district collectors, and women who have survived men like that can be.
"hutt!" she clipped, final as a stamp hitting paper. "jaakar closet khol, gadhi. lehenga fitting zyada important hai tumhare flipkart wale vinod khanna smile."
the air briefly acquired the temperature of a government warning notice.
and shobhana, superpowered and entirely untouched, burst out laughing. the kind of laugh that said ‘I regret nothing and will absolutely repeat the offence when given the chance.’ she scurried towards the bedroom, calling over her shoulder, "abhi karti hoon! aap bhi aajao!"
durdhara followed at a more dignified pace, muttering something about standards, danger of easy impressions, and the decline of civilisation — while very carefully not thinking of smiles, the fact that vinod khanna did not have dimples, or airports at noon.
some closets, after all, once opened, refused to stay shut. the following week passed with the kind of speed that didn't feel natural. not brisk, not efficient — just gone. the sort of vanishing act that made you suspicious, like time had ducked out for a smoke break and forgotten to come back.
there were darzi fittings, which were less about tailoring and more about negotiation. a little nip here, a little let-out there, the darzi nodding gravely like he was adjusting state policy instead of a blouse hook. durdhara stood on the stool, arms out, thinking about how strange it was that so much authority in her life did not extend to clothing sizes.
then came the jewellery. her mother's collection — quietly magnificent, heavy with memory and unsolicited advice. bangles that clinked with history. earrings that demanded occasions worthy of them. necklaces that had a reputation.
"yeh wala bhi rakh lo," her mother said for the fifth time that morning.
"mummy, main teen din ke liye jaa rahi hoon."
"toh kya hua?"
"itna kaun pack karta hai?"
"mummy —"
"yadi zarurat padi toh?"
"....."
"gadhi kahin ki."
durdhara packed the necklace without a word.
by the time the week finished sprinting past her, she was standing at the airport with a suitcase that felt heavier than it should've been — physically, yes, but also philosophically. the terminal hummed. announcements floated. people rushed with the urgency of places they did not wish to be late to.
uday was already there.
waiting.
that alone should have been unsettling.
he stepped forward easily, reaching for the suitcase despite his driver being just beside him, like it was a foregone conclusion. durdhara, out of pure instinct and a lifetime of carrying her own weight, tightened her grip.
"main kar lungi," she said.
he didn't argue. didn't debate. didn't even smile.
he just lifted one finger and placed it gently against her mouth.
not pressing. not even lingering. barely present.
no touch, technically. but her lips tingled anyway, like the moment right after a bell stopped ringing and your ears hadn't caught on yet. silence pooled between them. not awkward. not loud. just... present.
she let go of the suitcase.
that annoyed her later.
the rest of the journey blurred. fatigue arrived like an old acquaintance who didn't knock. by the time their plane landed, she'd been asleep for a while — deep enough to dream, which she usually didn't like.
the dream was unsettling as it was vivid. close. a man's fingers brushing hair away from her forehead, careful, almost reverent. the face was indistinct at first, then clearer. that grin. unmistakable, vinod khanna by way of modern inconvenience. dimples included, the devious little apostrophes that suggested charm with a criminal record.
she blamed turbulence.
durdhara woke up with the familiar resistance of childhood — like being shaken awake for school, begging her mother for letting her skip school for that day. just this once — a promise she definitely didn't intend to keep.
"aap itni gehri neend mein so rahi thi," uday said, as they disembarked, handling her suitcase to the valet with practiced ease. "mujhe toh uthaane mein bhi bura laga." he glanced sideways at her, "yun hi ghode bech kar soti hain aap usually?"
she looked at him.
still half-asleep. fully irritable. armed with the kind of exhaustion that made murder feel like a reasonable career pivot. especially of this man. particularly this man, in fact.
"mazaak kar raha hoon," he added quickly, hands lifting in surrender. "baap re. aap toh aise dekh rahi hain jaise khaa jaengi mujhe."
he retreated with admirable speed.
good.
some victories were small, but they counted.
when they arrived at the venue, the day was dissolved into preparations for the wedding with the efficiency of a well-oiled circus. people moved with purpose, instructions flew, flowers appeared where flowers had no business being, and by the time anyone noticed the sun tilting westward, it was already too late to pretend the day had been restful.
durdhara — running purely on muscle memory and survival instinct — made a beeline for her room the moment her feet crossed the threshold. no conversation. no politeness. no mercy. she collapses onto the bed like a woman who had fought the world and lost on a technicality.
she woke up an hour later disoriented, mildly betrayed, and burning with a very specific hatred for the mortal constraints of the human body. sleep had abandoned her mid-dream, leaving her stranded between groggy and feral.
this, clearly, was an emergency.
she shuffled into the bathroom and got into the shower. again. second time this morning. she stood under the water like she was being cleansed of sins she hadn't committed yet, letting it beat some sense back into her bones.
she was towelling off when the knocking began.
persistent. rude. unconcerned with social norms or personal etiquette.
she didn't even sigh. she already knew.
still wrapped in her robe, hair piled halfway on her head in a towel wrap that suggested chaos rather than elegance, durdhara yanked the door open.
"kya hai?!"
uday, mid-knock, was caught off guard enough that both his eyebrows shot north in surprise.
"kya baat hai," he said, recovering quickly. "aaj awadhi tehzeeb ne chhutti le li?"
her eyes narrowed. "yadi kuch kaam nahi hai toh main jaa rahi hoon."
she turned and began to shut the door on his face all too calmly, with no care if it hit his nose. possibly even preferring if it did, in fact.
"areyrererere —" he lunged forward, planting himself neatly between the door and the frame. "rukiye! kitna soengi! yahan kya neend puri karne aayi hain aap?"
she glared at him. hard.
"shamali mein aap chain se sone kahan dete hain."
the words left her mouth and immediately formed a formal complaint against her brain.
uday's face transformed. smugness bloomed like a rash.
"aisa toh kuch nahi kiya maine," he said mildly. "abhi tak, anyway."
by every god she acknowledged during festivals and emergencies, she wanted to slam the door in his face twice as hard as before.
unfortunately, the man was built like a problem. the door didn't budge.
"accha suno," he said quickly, sensing the imminent violence. "itni khoobsurat jagah hai haridwar, kuch toh ghoom lo. mandir hi sahi!" he folded his hands theatrically. "bhagwan ko bura lag jaayega. kahenge collector madam ko mere liye time hi nahin hai."
she stared at him.
this was dirty play.
weaponising god was low. effective. but low.
she exhaled sharply. "hindustan aap hi jaise politicians ke kaaran barbaad hai, raja sahab."
"yeh toh main pehle se jaanta hoon," he said cheerfully.
she let go of the door.
"baitho," she said, already turning away. "main change karke aati hoon."
and with that, she vanished into the room, leaving uday standing in the corridor with a victorious grin and the unsettling certainty that he'd just won something small, temporary, and deeply consequential.
uday was, exactly as predicted, not a man built for sustained focus once duty loosened its grip. give him a task without a deadline and he treated it like a philosophical suggestion. instead of the mandir, which had been the entire stated purpose of this expedition, he steered them straight into the bazaar, where intentions went to die slow, colorful deaths.
they wandered.
not with purpose. with curiosity. with detours. with the unhurried arrogance of two people who believed the world would wait for them — or he did, durdhara did it with constant reminders.
"mandir kab chalenge?" durdhara reminded him for the third time, eyeing a stall selling garlands that were aggressively orange.
"collector madam," he said breezily, snapping off the sunglasses from his eyes and hooking them on the already low button-up of his loose linen shirt. "bhagwan ke sheher ki tafri karna bhi ek bhakti hi hai."
she stared at him. this was what she had given up her bed for. warm sheets. a nap that could have been historic.
somewhere along the way, she found herself lifting a jhumka from a shop, holding it up beside her ear, squinting at her reflection in the smudged mirror. oxidised silver, maximalist, and with absolutely no intentions to be subtle.
uday appeared behind her.
of course he did.
he always did, never announced, just... there. watching her in the reflection instead of the face, like that made it less obvious.
he caught her eye in the mirror, raised a hand, made a small, decisive gesture of approval with his index finger and thumb joined together, and smiled.
before she could open her mouth, he'd already turned to the shopkeeper, wallet out, transaction halfway done.
"bohot accha lag raha hai didi par," the shopkeeper said enthusiastically, sensing a profitable alliance.
"uday —" durdhara began, reaching out, half a warning.
"shh," he cut in smoothly, not even looking at her. "kya kaha tha maine? mehmaan nawazi ka mauka. now stay quiet."
she protested. argued. and she lost. again.
what bothered her wasn't the loss itself. she could lose gracefully; she wasn't that petty, and had lost battles far more consequential than just earrings. what unsettled her was how little the defeat stung. how easily she let it slide. and most of all, how quickly she found herself adjusting the jhumka once it was handed to her, checking the clasp like it belonged there.
that bothered her. deeply. by the time they reached the temple, the crowd had thinned. evening had begun folding itself gently around the city. bells rang — not loudly, but insistently — announcing that the god inside was preparing for rest. even divinity, it seemed, had office hours.
they bowed their heads together. two sides of the same administrative coin, polished differently but minted from similar metal. they stepped forward, received tilak, felt the familiar cool pressure on their foreheads.
"aaj akele nahin, raja sahab?" pandit ji asked, grinning up at uday.
he was an older man, round and genial, the kind of person whose smile arrived before his words. he smelled faintly of incense and laddus, both of which he offered generously.
"aap dm madam hai, shamali ki," uday introduced them, gesturing toward durdhara. "isi saal posting hui hai. durdhara," he smiled at the pandit, "yeh humari bade khaas pandit ji hain."
"accha?" pandit ji said, pleased. he placed his hand on top of durdhara's head, warm and steady. "toh fir bohot accha. khoob tarakki karo, bete." he paused, then laughed, "aur apne hi naam ki tarah adamya raho."
durdhara smiled. not the careful, official sort she wore to meetings. not even the sharp one she used as both a warning and a shield. but something quieter. something that looked like relief.
"dhanyawad, baba," she said.
they stepped out together, bells fading behind them as the gates of the mandir closed.
moments passed without either of them noticing. at some point, motion turned to stillness, and stillness decided to stay. they found themselves sitting on the bank of ganga, the river stretched out before them like an old truth that did not need explaining.
the water moved just how time did — indifferent, relentless, fickle like she was known to be.
"waise," uday said eventually, breaking the silence the way one tests thin ice. durdhara turned to look at him; kajal had smudged around the corners of her eyes, the day having taken liberties it hadn't earned. "aapke naam ka matlab kya hai?"
the question looped back neatly to pandit ji's blessing, and the coincidence made her smile. not wide, nor defensive, just soft. like something briefly unguarded.
"difficult to restrain or control," she said. "dur maane mushkil, dhar means to keep — context pe depend karta hai." she paused. "meri masi ne rakha tha."
he nodded, surprised and impressed in equal measure. then the grin arrived — lopsided, crooked, unmistakably his.
"unhe pata tha," he said. "lagta hai."
she laughed quietly and turned back to the river, watching the light fracture itself onto the water's surface. "maybe. woh history padh rahi thi uss samay. chandragupta ki rani ka naam tha. fancy laga, toh suggest kar diya."
"aur aapne usse life motto bana liya?" he nudged her shoulder with his own, playful. probing.
she let herself sway more than necessary, just enough to make it ambiguous. "aapko main unrestrainable lagti hoon?"
he didn't answer right away.
uday looked at her. really looked. his eyes lingered on her face the way people's did when they were doing math they hadn't prepared for. the silence stretched, grew a spine.
she glanced back at him, impatient now.
"kya?"
he smiled then, but it wasn't the grin she was used to. it was smaller. boyish. almost shy, if such a thing could be said about him. he looked down, shook his head.
"kuch nahi."
the river kept moving. the evening leaned closer.
the drive back passed in silence. neither of them spoke. the radio played a song they both knew — not well enough to sing along, but enough to recognise. the acknowledgement passed between them in a glance and a shared look that didn't need translation.
he walked her to her room, gentleman that he was, the corridor lights casting long, patient shadows. she unlocked the door, hand already on the handle, body angled toward escape.
and then he said it.
"jo aapne pehle poocha tha —"
she looked up at him over her shoulder. big dark eyes, curious now.
"acchi lagti ho," he said, hands buried in the pockets of his slacks like they were anchoring him there. his shoulders carried an unfamiliar nervousness. "dhara."
the way he said her name — unrushed, careful — did something quiet and irreversible.
she turned away, focused on the lock, the click loud in the hush. the door opened, she stepped inside.
then paused.
held it open.
turned to face him.
uday was still there. not complacent. not teasing. just... expectant.
"andar nahi aayenge?" she asked lightly. "raja sahab?"
the river, somewhere far away, kept its counsel.
drafting the new chapter and the way even halfway through it's already 1.5k words — do I post it in multiple parts? do I pull an aditya dhar? or do I just let it be posted in 2k+ words like a freak and expect y'all to read? would y'all even read a long ass chapter like that? won't it be annoyi — (I am promptly dragged out of the witness box)
FURSAT MEIN II.
PREV CHAP I.
synopsis: two authority figures, a town that refuses to behave and lets the chaos do the talking. amid temple bells, stalled inspections, and bureaucratic minefields, professional egos collide, tempers fray, and a quiet line is crossed one neither of them expected to notice. what begins as a routine exercise in governance turns into a test of restraint, perception, and power, leaving both a little unsettled, a little sharper, and acutely aware that the rules between them have changed, even if no one said it out loud.
author's note: durdhara is this close to committing a felony, you guys.
vrindavan is one of those places that looks holy until you try to administer it.
it's sacred, crowded, politically radioactive, and administratively cursed in the way only old gods and older files can curse you. the monkeys have political opinions, loud ones. they sit on electric wires like disgruntled vidhayaks, judging you, judging your convoy, judging the way your driver braked too suddenly.
the loudspeakers compete with traffic horns and temple bells in a three-way death match to see who can permanently damage your hearing first. somewhere, a priest is chanting. somewhere else, a bus is reversing against all known laws of physics. faith is alive. and so is chaos.
the white scorpios crawl forward like resigned animals. they get stuck because a line of cows decide this exact moment is the correct one to cross the road with all the leisure in the world, chewing slowly, blinking serenely, absolutely immune to deadlines in the way men can never be. traffic freezes, the locals watch the calm of people who know the road will still be here long after everyone in these cars has retired.
durdhara bhardwaj sits in the backseat of her vehicle, spine straight, jaw clenched, watching vrindavan mock her stiffness like a personal insult.
her phone buzzes.
"kaha tha maine, " uday singh's voice cheerfully says through the speaker, as their cars idle side by side, flanked by local police who look like they'd rather be anywhere else, including under a bus. "kabhi kabhi special privileges exercise karne mein koi galati nahin. kisi karan se milti hain humein, yeh. "
his tone has that lazy lilt of a man who, (delusionally, says some acidic voice in her mind), believes the universe is on his side.
durdhara exhales through her nose. her irritation is no longer a feeling. it's a weather system.
"privileges public ke expense par nahi exercise ki jaati, raja sahab," she replies, already irritated.
then it happens. his laugh. annoying, inconvenient. the kind that doesn't bother knocking, just kicks the door in and pours itself a drink in your living room without permission. it loosens something treacherous in her throat, and the word slips out before discipline can tackle it to the ground — quiet, sincere, and very much under her breath.
"bastard."
"ji?" uday replies pleasantly. the smile on his face is audible.
"nothing," she says, too fast, sweeter. following the kind of pause that clears its throat before making things worse. "bas agree kar rahi thi, ssp sir se. keh rahe the kitna accha kiya aapne, jo humein uninvited join kar liya. woh bhi zarurat ke bagair."
the answer lands like a handshake with a taser.
"arrey, collector madam. aisi kya baat kar di aapne — aap ke liye toh kuch bhi!" uday chirps back, unnecessarily entertained, and very much the man who had won the round he wasn't meant to survive.
the line goes dead.
uday chuckles, leaning back comfortably in his seat as he crosses his arms behind his head.
his driver, ghanshyam, glances at him like a miracle performed by an insult, curious as to what exactly could be so good about being hung up on.
uday turns, waggles hid eyebrows at him before looking away.
what would dear ghanshyam know about the finer pleasures in life, anyway?
the public works department building looks like every government building that has ever existed: functional, tired, and faintly resentful of the people inside it. inside, chaos hums softly under fluorescent lights. inspection reports are submitted. tenders for road maintenance around the heritage zone are announced. costs, scopes, environmental and heritage constraints are supposedly vetted.
supposedly is doing a lot of work here.
durdhara is in full dm sahiba mode now. her voice is clipped but measured, her gaze is surgical underneath that lining of kajal. she scans the room the way a surgeon scans an x-ray, already knowing something is broken and waiting for it to confess.
and then —
"yeh road width yaha par mandated se zyada kyun hai?" she asks, looking up at the executive engineer.
one eyebrow rises. it's not dramatic, it's worse. it's precise. a warning wrapped in politeness, daring him to answer.
"heritage buffer aur norms violate kar rahi hai, aggarwal ji," she continues. "koi explanation?"
aggarwal ji opens his mouth. closes it. sweats under the scrutiny.
uday, standing just beside her — too close, again, like a habit he never quite breaks — pitches in helpfully, which is to say not helpfully at all.
"dange karwaoge, aggarwal ji," he says with more amusement than the act should beget, grin firmly in place. then turns to the superintendent. "pehle check nahi kiya tha?"
the room tenses. and what follows after had the mood of a room where the tea had gone cold and nobody dared to ask for sugar. tense didn't even begin to cover it, actually. tense was a polite word. this was the kind of atmosphere where even the dust motes stopped floating and waited to see who'd get suspended first.
inspectors were summoned like minor gods with clipboards. field surveys were ordered with the gravity of last rites. tape measures appeared, files were cracked open. pens scratched like nervous insects. and slowly — beautifully, inevitably — the truth oozed out of the paperwork like oil seeps out of a bad asphalt.
aggarwal ji, executive engineer, respectable moustache, respectable paunch, respectable corruption. he'd been dancing with a favoured contractor for months, the kind of dance where nobody steps on toes because everyone's barefoot and well-lubricated with chai paani.
a little under the table here, a nod there, a shared laugh about 'constraints.' the road got wider where it shouldn't, thinner where it mattered, and the extra material? oh, that took a lovely little holiday to the black market. the money took a shorter trip — straight into the pockets already stretched to accommodate moral flexibility.
it was corruption done with domestic warmth. homely. almost touching. like salt in daal — too much ruins it, too little and what's the point?
the tender process died right there on the conference table. not dramatically. no gunshots, no fainting, not even a loud 'nahi!' shrieked by a very beautiful, very sad woman in the distance. just a quiet, bureaucratic thud. frozen, sealed. a fresh survey ordered with language sharp enough to shave with. reprimands flew. rules were invoked like ancient spells. sections, clauses, heritage protection norms — each one a nail in aggarwal ji's administrative coffin.
by the time his suspension order was signed the same day, same pen, same grim decisiveness, durdhara bhardwaj felt the migraine bloom at the base of her skull like a slow, malicious flower.
and that was when uday appeared.
like a quick, malicious jester.
of course he did.
just behind her. always behind her, bad conscience with dimples.
"sarkari kamon ki yahi problem hai," he said lightly, hands laced behind his back, posture relaxed like he was waiting for a bus, not watching a man's career get folded into an envelope. his mouth curved into that infuriating downturn that pretended to be sympathy and failed the audition. "woh kya kehte hain . . . ? nazar hati, durghatna ghati?"
durdhara stopped. slowly. the way predators do in national geographic documentaries right before they turn their heads.
"raja sahab —" she began, then closed her eyes because a prison saree would not suit her. "abhi nahi. "
his grin widened. wide, toothy, smug enough to require a permit. "toh fir kab?" he asked, pleasantly unreasonable. "ya fir yeh bhi. . . fursat mein?"
her brows pulled together so hard she could feel her future dermatologist sigh somewhere in the distance. any other twenty-seven-year-old might've panicked about the forehead lines. she would have, too. if she wasn't busy holding back the one-million curses trying to claw their way up to her throat and directly at his face.
"ho gaya, aapka?" she snapped instead.
"nahin, nahin," he said quickly, waving one hand as if calming a nervous horse. "abhi toh baaki hai, thoda sa. socha hai yahi ruk jaun, aapke survey tak. kya jaane. . . firse kuch miss ho gaya toh?" then, with palms up, the universal gesture of men who have never once backed down in their life. "ek se bhale doh, nahin?"
she didn't dignify that with words. fists clenched, jaw locked, durdhara turned on her heel and walked away like a storm with a file folder.
the rest of the survey passed in silence. not the peaceful kind. the kind that buzzes. she was reeling — not from insult, not from his tone, but from the worst crime of all.
he hadn't been wrong.
this was on her. a blind spot. an administrative hiccup that had metastasised under her watch. and as the on-road survey continued, mistakes popped up like badly hidden potholes. measurements off. timelines vague. compliance hand-wavy. and there he was, unhelpfully present, trailing her like a political annotation.
the irritation piled up. it needed somewhere to go.
it landed squarely on rizvi sahab.
"yeh final submissions kab tak aa jayenge?" she clipped.
rizvi sahab, project head of the tenderer company, a private employee not entirely used to administrative machinations and the immunity it provided them against petty constraints such as an human resources office, looked at uday like a drowning man does at driftwood. uday shrugged, apologetically, traitorously.
"ek-doh mahina, madam," rizvi sahab said.
durdhara's voice rose for the first time that evening, sharp and crackling. "hum yahan faltu baithe hai? ki aap galti par galti karein aur sarkaar aapke har failure par duct tape chipka kar chalti rahe? har report yadi ek mahina legi toh road kab banegi, agle janam?!"
somewhere, a clerk flinched.
"arrey, arrey, collector madam," uday cut in smoothly, cool as a man who never had to sign the file. "contractor darr kar bhaag jayenge. itna strict compliance mein kaam kaise karengi?" he leaned in slightly, head cocked, smug pigeon in full bloom. "aur fir. . . humara kaise chalega, hm?"
he smiled, shrugged. then glanced at the locals like see? I tried.
he was enjoying this, that was clear.
and that, more than anything, made her blood simmer.
not just because she'd slipped. but because he was right about the optics. because he was undermining her authority without technically touching it. because he was doing it playfully. if she snapped, she'd look unhinged. if she laughed, she'd lose ground.
and durdhara bhardwaj did not lose ground.
she met his eyes. still. quiet. so calm it almost unsettled him. almost.
"yeh administrative survey hai, raja sahab," she said evenly. "political photo op nahi. "
something in his smile flickered.
and just like that, the temperature drops. not the weather — durdhara. site inspection grinds on, but her voice is suddenly reserved for officers with rank on their shoulders and clipboards in their hands.
uday, quite deservedly and with ceremonial precision, is removed from the privilege of eye contact. this isn't for lack of effort on his part — he keeps trying to wedge himself into the conversation like an unsolicited opinion at a dinner party (naturally), but she ignores him with the kind of focus that could peel paint.
the local staff clocks it. panic levels rise. because her silence isn't petulant. it's not sulking either. it's jurisdictional punishment. administrative frostbite, if you will. she doesn't pout; instead, she files reports.
uday clocks it too. instantly, in fact. and instead of apologising like a normal adult with self-preservation instinct still intact —
he finds it hilarious.
or at least until they reach the guest house.
the place is an old heritage haveli, the sort that has outlived several decades and now tolerates government officers on work tours in return for refurbishment and occasional maintenance. ceilings so high they make you feel morally shorter. frescoes peeling like old secrets. stone railings that look like they could survive a small war. rooms connected by corridors that all spill into a shared courtyard in the middle. the whole building hums with the ghost of old power shaking hands with new administration — and somehow, inconveniently, both of them belong here. just not in the same column.
night drops its weight. the heat refuses to leave. tempers sit on the stove, simmering.
and then guilt, fashionably late, walks in and takes a seat.
"aap toh bura maan gayi, collector madam," he says, strolling into the haveli like he owns at least half of its past lives (which he could have in inheritance, if not for the republic growing hands and snatching such fanciful laws of succession off the royalty's hands. )
durdhara looks at him over her shoulder, hands already busy tying her hair up with a claw clip — a gesture that means conversation is ending, not beginning.
"duty hours khatam ho gaye hain, raja sahab."
"and that means. . . ?" uday asks, eyebrows climbing with interest.
"main ab sarkari asfar nahin hoon, aur aap sansad nahin," she adds, stepping closer.
uday purses his lips in a long, appreciative ooh. amusement flickers in his dark eyes. "aur uska matlab. . . ?"
"formality khatam," she says. and just as he's about to enjoy himself further, she slices clean through the moment — precise as a paper cut. just as mundane, too. "mera dimaag khana band kar dijiye."
then she walks off without looking back, leaving uday where he stands, stunned like a man who thought the punchline was still loading.
later, durdhara steps straight into the shower. warm water does what it always does — rinses the day out of her system. the anger drains away, but something else stays behind. she isn't furious anymore. she's unsettled.
she hated that he was partly right. hated that he managed to get under her skin with seemingly no effort. and most of all, hated that she enjoyed sparring with him.
that realisation seals it. she will not be seeing him tonight.
the universe, which has a long-standing habit of ignoring people's plans, disagrees.
they eat dinner separately, each in their own room. the food is dull, the night is worse. the air conditioner hums like an insect that has learned spite. her book, on top, refuses to hold her attention. eventually she steps into the corridor for air — and turns at the sound of movement.
there he is.
lounging on the railing outside his room, right next door. casual, comfortable. criminally at ease.
he's in a loose kurta and pajama, dangerously informal, waving at her like this is all perfectly normal. he grins. the dimples make an appearance. an offence, frankly, for a public representative.
"aur kitni der gussa rahengi aap?" he says lightly, teasing. "democracy ka foundation transparent conversation hota hai, pata hai? aap democracy ko suspend kar rahi hain. "
durdhara gives him a look that could wither paperwork. "raja sahab — I don't want to talk right now. "
she's about to turn when he says it.
"listen."
and against her will — and every sensible instinct she owns — she does.
"I know aap sahi thi," he continues, enough seriousness in her voice to stop her mid-step. "delays weaponise hote hain, aapke jaise officers ke against. main sirf stress-test kar raha tha, dekhna chahta tha aap kaise react karengi. itna toh haq hai na mera, sansad hone ki khatir?"
"sure," she scoffs. but she doesn't leave. instead, she turns fully, folds her arms, and walks to her side of the railing. "stress-testing bada hi accha bahana hai, waise, maze lene ke liye. "
"guilty as charged," he says, lifting his hands — which almost earns him a concerned look.
"gir jayenge," she warns, eyes flicking briefly to the drop below, then back to him — a reflex, not concern; or at least that's what she tells herself.
"aapki galti hogi," he replies easily, as if gravity itself would take her side in court. his grip on the railing doesn't tighten; he doesn't even look down, in fact. instead, his eyes stay on her, unhurried, assessing, the way men look when they think they've won a small, private reward. "gown bada accha lag raha hai aap par, you know?"
she rolls her eyes with practised efficiency, the kind perfected in meeting rooms and inspection sites. it doesn't quite work. the smile slips through anyway, soft and treacherous. she notes it mentally, irritated — files the moment away under reasons she should have stayed inside. and yet, she hasn't moved.
"don't worry," he says, glancing at the railing now, giving it a perfunctory tap with his palm, like a man vouching for an old accomplice. "badi sturdy railing hai. try it yourself, dhoka nahi degi."
she hesitates. just long enough to pretend she's considering the architectural integrity of the haveli and not the invitation tucked inside his tone. and once again — against her better judgment, which has had a long day already — she listens.
durdhara swings herself up onto the railing. the stone is cool even through the fabric of her gown. her legs dangle over the other side, mirroring his posture so precisely it almost feels intentional. between them stands a single pole, same sandstone that makes the entire haveli and embellished with all sorts of design patterns that surely took a painstaking amount of time to carve.
his fingers brush hers — not enough to be accidental, not enough to be deliberate. neither of them pulls way. the moment settles, quiet and suspended, like the night itself is holding its breath.
"next time," she says finally; eyes fixed somewhere past him, "don't do it in front of my officers. "
"aap opportunity mat dijiyeha," he grins, unrepentant, "toh nahi karunga. "
the laugh escapes her before she can stop it. just once. short, sharp, but it counts. it shifts something.
"waise. . . " he goes on, leaning back slightly, settling in. "darawani hain aap badi. bechare rizvi sahab toh lag raha tha ki wahi manhole ke andar chale jayenge. is this how you treat all your subordinates?"
durdhara lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. "maybe."
"tanashahi?" uday says, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. "meri naak ke neeche?"
"kyun?" she shoots back, finally meeting his eyes, "rajashahi prefer karenge aap?"
his laugh this time is real — unguarded, warm, echoing down the corridor and into the courtyard below.
they keep talking like that, words stacking easily, the night loosening around them, until the grandfather clock on the ground floor announces midnight with all the authority of something that has been interrupting people for a century. eventually, doors close. the corridor empties. the haveli settles back into itself.
it ends simply. quietly.
"bye, dhara. "
durdhara lies awake for the next two hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying it all.
not by choice. thoughts, after all, like trouble — and politicians — never wait for fursat.
Madhuri Dixit and Akshaye Khanna as Diya Shrivastav and MP Raja Uday Singh — in Aaja Nachle (2007)
the last fursat mein chapter got me revisiting this meme lmao.
FURSAT MEIN.
pairing: mp raja uday singh x oc (fem)
synopsis: a golf course, a magistrate with a too-straight spine, and an mp who treats boredom like a personal insult. what starts as polite sparring turns into something more slippery — glances, banter, and a question asked entirely out of turn. power behaves badly. propriety looks away. and answers? they are postponed for fursat mein.
extra notes: an ias officer posted in the shamli district, set in aaja nachle (2007), featuring akshaye khanna's character mp raja uday singh.
the sun was a lurid yolk spilled across the noon-smeared sky. it hung high, and so did durdhara bhardwaj, elevated not by grandeur but by the slow, sovereign swirl of her own detached candour; glorious in a white cotton saree, her hair tied up in a businesslike ponytail, and her pallu thrown over her neck like a medal she hadn't yet decided whether to accept or not.
he wasn't a man of dreadful proportion, or some mystic silhouette out of a storybook royal gallery. that was the first thing she'd noticed about the MP, raja uday singh. the second thing was his shadow — long and willful — sprawled across the manicured absurdity that was the palm links, a golf course overseeing the gigantic, still man-made lake. so surgically trimmed it seemed to mock the very idea of a natural world. that travesty of a landscape design was a landmark in lucknow, a monument to those who liked their nature with the kind of polish that comes with money and bad taste.
"tsk, another miss," came the smug intervention from beside the golf cart.
she could feel her own eyes rebel against a lifetime of study on polite etiquette, and strain to roll back into their sockets. she kept them level, but it cost her.
"collector madam," uday singh drawled, the words oiled with amusement, "jab aapne kaha tha yeh aap pehli baar khel rahi hai.... meri expectations itni bhi low nahin thi."
durdhara turned to him. dark eyes narrowed, letting the sight of him develop like a polaroid she didn't want: the golf club planted in the soft soil like a standard, the whole of him as smug as one could fit inside a tailored polo shirt, smirking at her with lips turned in that infuriating, knowing, downwards grin.
"aap hi sikha dijiye," she clipped back, the sentence sharp and clean, a scalpel thrown on a marble floor.
and before the statement was even done landing, a laugh escaped him — rich, waiting, as though it had been lounging in his throat just hoping she'd admit defeat. this was no defeat, however, and durdhara wasn't about to let any amount of princely goading convince her it was.
uday put his own club aside, and moved to her, unhurried, with the sort of leisure only a legacy of not worrying about meagre things like consequences or a future could buy. some part of her scoffed bitterly at the idea — 'bloody rajkumar types,' the thought was internal as it was acrid in her mind, contrast of wind against the warmth of early spring sun.
the next thing she knew, he was there. close. too close for government protocol, too close for a first level.
her eyebrows shot up. her gaze followed the path of his hands — his hands, some girlish, traitorous part of her noted with more clinical admiration than was strictly necessary — as they confiscated the club from her grip. he positioned himself behind her, voice dropping to a murmur by her ear.
"golf bada hi beimaan khel hai," he said. "ismein discipline ki nahin..." he took her hand, then, wrapped it around the leather handle of the club; his chest brushed against her back. an accident, sure. but not an apologetic one. she wondered, with cold clarity, if raja uday singh was capable of apology at all.
her grip was wrong again — on purpose this time, a tiny act of sedition. he noticed. of course he did.
"stance," he murmured, clasping his large hand over her own, close enough that the english word seemed to alter its shape in whatever space remained between them (and that was to say, not a lot.) uday adjusted her shoulders first, briskly, professionally. and then — slower, deliberate — her hand. his palm lingered, the lightest pressure on her wrist, a correction that felt suspiciously like a test.
"relax," he said. it was almost an encouragement.
durdhara inhaled. the wrong way. he felt it, the hitch in her breath, the tiny betrayal.
his hand came to rest at her lower back. not guiding. anchoring. the heat of it bled through the polite cotton of her blouse, an indecent warmth for an otherwise respectable afternoon. she stiffened, then — annoyingly, infuriatingly — did as she was told.
"now," he said.
she swung.
the club met the ball with that crisp, noble violence of a blade finding ripe fruit. the ball flew. clean, confident. it arced across the obscenely green grass like a thought finally permitted expression.
she turned, triumph already forming a sharp line on her mouth — only to find him watching her, not the ball. behind dark sunglasses, his eyes were hidden, but she could feel them, sharpened into something she wasn't yet able to read. hadn't been for the first full month of knowing him, the total of two months of her posting as the shamali district's magistrate.
and then, his smile. slow indents on either of his cheeks, dimples — a detail too endearing, too pretty, to sit upon a face like his own. no grown man had any business having a smile that disarming, she thought.
"phir se," he said. again.
this time, she didn't wait for instruction. she adjusted herself, correcting the errors he had pointed out. took her stance as he stayed close, not quite as close as he'd been moments ago, but close enough hat the ghost of his presence was a palpable warmth on her back even now.
"badi acchi shagird hain aap," he declared at the second shot, his slow applause muffled by one fine glove.
"aap utne acche guru nahin," she replied, without looking at him, her gaze on the distant flag. "you enjoy the process too much.
a pause. the lake glittered obscenely under the hard sun. the city remained distant and unconcerned.
"aur aap?" he said, the certainty in his voice a tangible thing, like good furniture. "nahin karti? process ko enjoy, that is."
their eyes met — properly, finally, as she turned. the club hung useless between them in her hands. the next ball waited on its little tee, small and white and patient.
neither of them moved.
but somewhere behind them, where the sarkari chauffeur stood sentinel by the cart, protocol slept lightly, one eye open.
"yadi main yeh game jeet gayi," durdhara said at last, her smile doing that thing which suggested mercy had once applied for the job and been rejected. "toh kabhi fursat mein bataungi, guruji."
uday looked away, like a man admiring a joke he wasn't planning to admit landed. the spring breeze lay thick around them, lazy and watchful. "yadi yeh nahin bata sakti," he said finally, voice smooth in the way only dangerous patience can be, "toh fir itna toh bata dijiye..."
she waited. one eyebrow rose. the club rested in her hand like it had authority issues. the silence stretched its legs; somewhere behind them the chauffeur coughed, politely reminding the universe he still existed. she didn't blink. dared him, really, to finish the sentence and live with it.
his smile took its time, strolling in like it owned the place. he leaned closer — not enough to be rude, just enough to be interesting — and lowered his voice to the confidential register reserved for secrets and bad decisions. "perfume kaunsa lagati hain aap?" he asked. the lake behind him glittered like it approved. "badi shandaar khushboo thi."
the question sat there, insolent and innocent all at once. not about power, not about the politics, not even about the game. just khus and rose clinging to her skin — an observation too intimate to be accidental, too foolish to be safe.
for a second, durdhara said nothing. victory loosened its grip on her expression and made room for something sharper, amused, alert. it was a good hand, she'll give him that. not a demand, not a bargain. a sidestep into the personal. he hadn't asked for an answer. no. he'd asked for access.
her eyes narrowed, habit first, instinct always. then the smile arrived — untrained, unmistakably, and annoyingly real — and gave the game away. she turned back to the tee, reset her stance, all seriousness now, letting the quiet return to the respectable territory again.
then, she swung.
the sound was clean. decisive. the ball cut through the sky like it had someplace important to be.
"yeh bhi," she said, watching it fly, one hand shading her eyes, her voice dry as lucknow dust and twice as composed. "fursat mein."
