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Fanaa

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The Case of the Off-Key Nightingale

It was a universally accepted truth in Haridwar -

Right up there with jalebis being a health food, cows having right of way, and Buaji’s belief that the moon controls digestion, that Khushiji’s singing voice was… a unique experience.

Not bad, necessarily. That would be rude.

Most people had silently agreed it was a topic best left undisturbed.

Like politics at a wedding. Or why Manohar Mamaji insists on using lavender oil during eclipse hours.

It wasn’t just singing.

It was seismic.

A Sur-nami.

And yet, fate, that nosy little prankster, had other plans.

It began, as most disasters disguised as destiny do…with a pamphlet.

A bright yellow flyer, crumpled and overly scented with mothballs, slipped out of a Grihasthi Digest..

It fluttered down onto Khushiji’s lap like it had been hand-delivered by Bappi Lahri himself.

“Indian Idol! Singing competition for all ages!

Winner Gets a Golden Trophy + One Month’s Free Supply of Chhole Bhature from Prem Ji’s Stall!”

Khushi gasped. Her fingers trembled.

A golden trophy. Free food.

A divine calling disguised as mass-produced stationery.

“Finally,” she whispered, clutching the pamphlet. “My time has come.”

By lunchtime, the news had spread faster than haldi in a white kurta.

BREAKING: Khushiji registers for Indian Idol.

ADVISORY: Avoid unnecessary outings. Keep pets indoors.

Posters were printed.

Flyers were burned.

“She’s… really doing it?” Bankelal Ji whispered, glancing at the sky like thunder might answer.

“Rehearsed all night,” Chotu muttered, eyes hollow, forehead bandaged. “Not a single note survived.”

Now look, Haridwar had witnessed miracles.

Mangoes in winter.

Om Prakash Ji’s sweets causing only mild intestinal disruption.

Even Arnav Swami’s scooter starting in one kick…twice.

But this?

This was a new territory.

She sang with the confidence of Usha Uthup.

The tonal range? Somewhere between a pressure cooker whistle and a dying mosquito.

But the conviction? Olympic-level.

Once, during temple aarti, she had attempted a bhajan. The deity’s garland fell off.

A passing saint asked if this was an exorcism.

And yet, nobody had the heart to tell her. It felt too cruel. Like telling a rainbow it was crooked.

So, in what is now referred to as “The Great Sacrifice,” two brave men volunteered:

Bankelal Ji and Akash Ji.

Bankelal Ji tuned his tabla with the weary grace of a man writing his own obituary.

Akash Ji, the town’s most optimistic fool, adjusted his harmonium with both pride and a faint pre-recorded apology playing in his eyes.

He declared, “If her notes fall, we will catch them.”

They were not musicians. They were bodyguards for public dignity.

The last line of defence between art and apocalypse.

But Arnav Swami? He was not on board.

Not because he didn’t support her…he did. Quietly. Steadily. Like the Himalayas support foolish clouds.

But because he could already see it…Khushiji under harsh lights, singing with her whole heart. The audience silent, that specific kind of quiet that scrapes.

And him in the wings, helpless…Unable to shield her from the sting of a smirk or the shiver of secondhand embarrassment.

It wasn’t the notes he feared.

It was the moment her smile dimmed.

The look in her eyes if they laughed.

The sharp inhale of disappointment when the world didn’t clap back.

And that thought…that very specific, utterly inconvenient emotion, shook him far more than any off-key alaap.

So, without telling a soul, Arnav Swami set a trap.

Not to stop her.

Not even to mock her.

But to catch her,

Softly… if she fell…

There were fairy lights.

A sound system scavenged from three weddings and the Ramlila procession.

Tables pushed aside, beetle leaf pattals swept clean.

And an old papad-drying platform resurrected beneath the neem tree.

Under the excuse of “rehearsal night.”

He didn’t want to hurt her.

But he couldn’t lie to her either.

If she was going to sing for the world,

She deserved to first hear herself… among the people who loved her most.

Let the mirror speak what his mouth never would.

If she stepped down on her own,

She’d be spared the city’s tomatoes.

And if she didn’t…

Well, then may the gods protect them all.

That evening, beneath the mellow flicker of lanterns and the ancient panic that lived in Arnav’s bones, the dhaba had transformed.

A banner hung above, painted hastily in red ink and slightly dripping at the corners:

"Haridwar Ki Awaz – Riyaaz Sandhya!"

Khushiji clapped her hands, delighted. "Swamiji, this is for me?"

Arnav busied himself adjusting a lantern. "For everyone," he said, his voice even. "You’ll need a practice round before the real thing, won’t you?"

The only thing flimsier than the platform was his excuse.

She beamed. "You think of everything."

He cleared his throat. “I just don’t like... surprises.”

(Except the kind he delivers, those that involve emotionally safeguarding one’s mortal-enemy-slash-love-interest from public humiliation. But that didn’t count.)

She stepped onto the stage like it was her coronation.

The neem tree rustled.

Chotu turned off the fan.

The world held its breath.

Khushiji pressed one hand to her heart, shut her eyes, and opened her mouth.

“Aaj jaane ki zid na karo…”

(The first note wavered, then cracked.)

But Khushiji powered through, eyes shut, spirit undeterred.

From the fire-station, a bell tolled itself.

Possibly in protest.

Possibly to warn the aliens.

And then…

(One… Two… Fuck it…)

“AAAAJ JAAANE KIIIII ZIDDDDD NA KAROOO…”

Chotu, wide-eyed and trembling, whispered, “It’s happening.”

From the sidelines, Mamiji dropped a steel thali. “What was that? Are we under attack?”

“No,” Arnav muttered, frozen, watching Khushi with equal parts horror and reluctant awe. Breathe caught.

He remembered her humming to the pickle jars last week, off-key and barefoot, the sun caught in her hair. He hadn't dared breathe then either.

“We are under… performance.”

Buaji removed her glasses, cleaned them, and put them back on, just to be sure.

Bankelal Ji beat the tabla with the manic precision of a man playing to survive. Akash Ji, looking faintly religious, kept his fingers crossed and his mouth shut.

Behind the samosa counter, someone muttered, “Yamraj bhi back kar jaaye.”

He stood in the shadows, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying to ignore the very real ache building in his chest.

Because she…

She was glowing.

Blissfully unaware. Gloriously confident. Hand slicing the air with a theatrical flourish as she hit the final note and held it for dear life.

When she finished, she opened her eyes, expecting applause.

Instead, there was a pause. Not long, but long enough.

Arnav took a step forward. "That should be enough practice."

Khushiji tilted her head, glowing with pride. “Should I try another one?

I was thinking Lag Jaa Gale…”

“No,” Arnav said, too quickly. “You don’t want to exhaust your… gift… before the big day.”

He adjusted his shawl. Useless gesture.

Bankelal clapped with the desperate cheer of a man trying not to cry. “Exactly! Even Lata Ji took breaks.”

Akash added, voice quivering with hope, “And a true star knows how to handle sudden fame. One minute you’re under a neem tree, next…press, fans, biopic narrated by Jaya Bachchan.”

Khushi looked between them…Swamiji serious, Bankelal stiff, Akash trembling…and nodded slowly, as though a great truth had dawned upon her.

"Maybe," she said, "the world is not ready for me."

Arnav exhaled, relief washing over him like the first rain of monsoon.

Behind him, a bulb flickered back to life. The cow wandered off, humming in peace.

The dhaba's self-appointed judging panel convened over kulfi and trauma.

Notable Comments - Also, all gave 9 points:

Mamiji: “Beta, your sur was like burnt halwa…stuck, sticky, and surprising.”

Buaji: “She reminds me of my late parrot. Thunder gave it fits too.”

Mamaji (here for snacks): “Wah wah! Beautiful!” (She hadn’t started yet.)

Acharya Nandkishore: “Full marks. Also, Buaji, what a vibrant saree. You glow like turmeric!”

Om Prakashji : “At first I thought it was the dhaba’s Usha mixie, the one we haven’t oiled . But then I felt something… emotion, maybe? Or gas. Either way, unforgettable.”

Arnav Swami (initially gave 9, changed to 6): “Technical flaws. Poor breath control. Wrong pitch. Excessive hand gestures. But… good effort..”

Later that night, long after the lanterns dimmed and Chotu had gone home muttering about tone-deaf trauma, Arnav did something… uncharacteristic.

He didn’t think. He simply walked to the back counter, and retrieved something.

He held the packet awkwardly in both hands, a brown paper bag with the weight of a confession.

Red peeking out from the edge.

Bold, reckless.

“It’s nothing,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere around her elbow. “Just… for you.”

Khushi blinked. “Swamiji?”

He cleared his throat twice, then once more, just to be sure the foolishness hadn’t lodged permanently.

“I mean… for your performance.”

She peeled back the fabric slowly, as though unwrapping a secret. Inside was a deep red saree…the colour of sunset over the Ganga.

Or the colour of his silence every time she made his heart beat wrong.

"Swamiji…its beautiful, but why?" she whispered.

He shrugged, already halfway to pretending he hadn’t been holding his breath.

“You sang… bravely. That has to count for something.”

She smiled, fingers grazing the fabric like it might dissolve if touched too harshly. “You think I was brave?”

“Not everyone dares to do… that. Whatever that was.”

She laughed, soft and sudden. “Your dhaba is the real janambhoomi for Talent.”

He looked at her then…really looked.

At the sparkle in her eyes, at the impossible certainty she carried inside her, that the world would eventually hear her tune.

And for once, Arnav Swami had no argument.

That night, the dhaba stayed open a little longer.

The stove stayed warm.

The benches, still scattered.

A man stirred sugar into a cup of tea he’d never drink, just to keep his hands busy.

A woman hummed under her breath, still off-key, still certain the stars were listening.

A red saree lay folded in her lap…untouched, but already hers.

Haridwar didn’t gain a new Koel that night.

But it witnessed something rarer…

Arnav Swami quietly surrendering to love.

And Khushi, radiant and oblivious, already home.

The pamphlet, now faded and tea-stained, sat pinned to the neem bark. A prophecy fulfilled, or a prank by the gods….no one knew.

P.S.

Somewhere, high above the Earth, the sound waves from Khushiji’s performance bounced off an aging ISRO satellite.

The sonic blast traveled into space and down again, accidentally intercepting Sonu Nigam’s earpiece mid-recording. He reportedly retired for six months citing “unspecified trauma.”

Meanwhile, a lost extraterrestrial hovering near Pluto decoded the vibration pattern, mistook it for a distress call from its mother, and finally found the motivation to return home.

All thanks to Khushiji’s riyaaz.

True talent, after all, knows no bounds. Not even intergalactic ones.

Also on Wattpad and Blog

#arnav singh raizada #arshi #ipkknd #ipkknd fanfic #khushi kumari gupta #arnav and khushi #romance #short story #chronicles of a small town #asr

guidance (pt. 1)

summary: khushi awaits arnav's arrival from the office desperately, craving his presence in one way more than others. arnav uses the opportunity to provide her with some guidance.

genres: romance, angst, smut, fluff-ish

disclaimer: this is a one shot that centers around a mature subject but doesn't really delve into smut. part 2 may or may not .

double disclaimer: gentle reader, i'm new to this genre but wanted to explore it, hope you have fun reading~

Khushi had spent the whole day wearing herself out. Cooking up a week’s worth of food, organizing the already spotless pantry, washing clothes that didn’t need washing. She was trying to keep busy, trying to exhaust herself to the point where her brain and body would beg for rest—and rest only.

But no matter how many tasks she piled onto her plate, her thoughts kept circling back to him.

She was yearning for her husband like never before. In a way that felt wrong to her—too intense, too consuming, as if she were losing control. It was such a foreign feeling, an uncontrollable urge, an inextinguishable fire rising within her.

Ever since she’d caught sight of Arnav that morning—his damp hair clinging to his forehead, water droplets trailing down the planes of his bare chest, the low rumble of his voice as he’d said her name—her heartbeat had quickened, palms growing slick with sweat.

The feeling was so intense, so unrelenting, that she kept clenching her thighs for relief, but it was no use. Her nipples tightened painfully, a sharp, insistent reminder of the desire coursing through her veins.

Every breath felt heavier, every movement more deliberate, as if her body was betraying her with its need. The memory of him lingered, taunting her, refusing to let her focus on anything else all day.

Arnav barely glanced her way, already on a call before his first cup of coffee. His week had been a blur of deadlines, and now, with the final review of their proposals looming, even her presence seemed to fade into the background.

Usually, Arnav was attuned to Khushi’s emotions better than she was herself. He had learned to read her body, to understand the subtle shifts in her posture, the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. He knew she was still learning to trust him, still grappling with how to voice her needs—especially the physical ones. To him, it was a work in progress, a quiet mission: to get Khushi comfortable, both in her skin and under his.

And now, as she stood in the kitchen with the steel strainer in hand, she realized the only thing she’d successfully accomplished was burning her last batch of jalebis.

The sweet scent drew Anjali and Paayal to the kitchen at separate times, their concerned glances lingering as Khushi assured them everything was fine.

Truly, there wasn’t any reason for concern. It wasn’t like she had fought with Arnav that morning, and everything at home with her family was okay as well. In all honesty, Khushi herself did not know what the problem was.

All she knew was that every thought of Arnav sent a jolt through her, leaving her thighs clenched and her breath shallow, as if holding back a flood she couldn’t name.

Each minute passed by agonizingly slowly after Arnav called Khushi to let her know he was on his way home—a small but significant gesture he made every day. It was his way of telling her that, even amidst his busy schedule, he had spent his day thinking of her, his beautiful wife.

Khushi sat in the living room with the rest of the family for evening tea, her fingers fidgeting restlessly in her lap. She tried to act normal, but her thighs kept clenching and unclenching of their own accord, betraying her inner turmoil. Her body was a live wire, every nerve ending alight with anticipation.

“Khushi, are you okay? Did you and chhote fight?” Anjali whispered beside her, her eyes narrowing at Khushi’s restless hands.

“N-no, everything is fine!” Khushi stammered, snapping out of her trance. “We haven’t fought, Di,” she added, forcing a calm tone into her voice.

“If you say so,” Anjali chuckled, though her gaze lingered on Khushi for a moment longer out of concern.

Just then, the front door opened, and Khushi’s breath hitched. She couldn’t bring herself to look up at Arnav, terrified that a single glance would unravel her completely in front of everyone. She was grateful when the family’s attention shifted to Arnav and Akaash, their chatter filling the room as she tried to steady herself.

But she could feel him. His presence was always like a magnetic pull, his electrifying gaze burning into her even from across the room. Her heart raced, skin prickling with awareness.

Just a little peek won’t hurt. I’ve missed him so much today, she reasoned with herself. Cautiously, she glanced up, relieved to see everyone engrossed in conversation. Her eyes trailed up Arnav’s form slowly, taking him in bit by bit.

The way his slacks hung on his hips sent a jolt of heat through her stomach. His waistcoat cinched his defined waist, accentuating the broad expanse of his chest. Her gaze lingered on his wide shoulders, the fabric of his shirt clinging to his muscles in a way that made her mouth go dry. The same muscular arms she clung to when he—

She gasped, cutting off the train of thought, her cheeks flaming. What is wrong with me? she scolded herself, but her eyes betrayed her, drifting shamelessly to his lips. A blush crept up her neck as she fought to push down the thoughts threatening to surface.

Her eyes darted further up before she could stop herself—and she instantly regretted it. Arnav was staring straight at her, his gaze unreadable but intense. That single look was enough to send her spiralling. Her thighs clenched involuntarily, and she shot to her feet.

“I-I have to, umm, clean up something upstairs,” she announced abruptly, avoiding his eyes as she made a beeline for the stairs. She could feel his gaze on her as she fled, her heart pounding in her ears.

Once she reached the stairs, she broke into a run, sprinting up to their room. Her body was on fire, every nerve alight with a need she couldn’t name. It felt like an unquenchable thirst, a hunger that gnawed at her from the inside.

She burst into their room, slamming the door behind her, and leaned on the cool glass of the sliding doors opposite to the pool, gasping for air.

Her entire body was ablaze, her mouth dry, her heart racing wildly. The emptiness between her thighs was unbearable, and the ache only grew worse as she clenched them together. Her nipples were so hard they hurt, and she worried they were visible through her dupatta, which she hastily pulled lower.

Her forehead found the cool glass of the door, and she gasped at the relief it brought. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. What is happening to me? she thought, her mind spinning. What is this?

She was so consumed by her thoughts, that she didn’t notice Arnav entering the room. His footsteps, usually so deliberate and impossible to ignore, were drowned out by the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears. By the time she sensed his presence, it was too late—he was already there, closer than she’d expected, his warmth radiating toward her like a magnet.

“Khushi? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” His voice was laced with concern as he took in her disheveled state.

Khushi let out a startled yelp, as she pressed herself closer to the glass. He grabbed her arm gently, turning her around to face him, his touch leaving a trail of fire on her skin. She gasped, her body reacting instantly to his proximity.

A familiar wetness pooled between her thighs at his mere touch, and her face twisted in frustration, worrying Arnav even more. “Khushi? Look at me, please. What happened? Did someone say something to you?” His voice was soft but urgent, his eyes searching hers.

He had noticed her the moment he entered Shantivan. There was an unfamiliar heat in her eyes, a tension in her body that sent a thrill through him. And when her gaze had trailed up his form downstairs, it had taken all his self-control not to react.

“I don’t know what’s happening, Arnav,” she breathed out, her voice trembling. “I-I think something’s wrong with me.”

Arnav’s brows furrowed. Did she just call him Arnav? Not Arnav-ji? His mind raced as he took in her flushed cheeks, her rapid breathing, the way her body seemed to hum with restless energy.

“Okay, what’s going on Khushi? You’re burning up—it might be a fever,” he murmured, half to himself as he stepped closer. His hands reached out instinctively, pulling her into a comforting embrace.

As soon as their bodies touched, Khushi let out a soft groan, her sensitive peaks hardening even more against his chest. Arnav’s breath hitched at the contact, his own body responding to hers.

It was then that the pieces clicked into place—her erratic breathing, her feverish skin, the blush creeping down her neck.

Khushi wasn’t sick. She was aroused.

> ch 2!

author's note: AAAND scene~

part 2 is in the works 👩‍🍳 still figuring out my writing schedule and frequency. i wanted my first work here to be soft and fluffy (more of that to come, i promise!) but i finished writing this first so here she is in her glory.

#arnav and khushi #arnav singh raizada #arshi #khushi kumari gupta #ipkknd #ipkknd fanfic #ipkknd ff #ipkknd one shot #iss pyaar ko kya naam doon

Saheb, Bibi Aur Ghulaam

For IPKKND’s 13th anniversary, hosted by the lovelies @arshifiesta

1903, Kolkata

Nandkisore sat by the ghats, watching the sun set on the Ganges. Devotees offered prayers while lovers sat in the ferries, gently bobbing from one end of the river bank to the other.

Not too many summers ago he had arrived, with barely a paisa in his pocket, and only a few local words that he had picked from fellow travellers.

“What were you thinking about sahab?” Mohan, his rickshaw puller, asked. Nandkisore chuckled at being referred as a sahab. It would take him some time to get used to that honorific. Granted, his patent for a new type of printer at the printing press gave him a financial security that his ancestors had never seen, but that couldn’t really make him a sahab.

Nandkisore pointed to the sprawling mansion across the river.

Sheesh Mahal

Owned by the richest zamindar in the city. By a true sahab - Arnav Mullick.

“Oh Maa! Did you know him? Were you both friends? Is that how you learned how to make money?” Mohan asked.

“No, Arnav sahab was my employer,” Nandkisore said. The formidable Arnav Mullick was nobody’s friend but his kindest, sweetest wife was the closest friend Nandkisore ever had.

And the only thing he learned in the godforsaken house was tragedy.

#ipkknd #ipkknd fanfic #ipk 13th anniversary fiesta #Jalebi writes

drop in some cool arshi fic recs besties I’m lost 😩

#ipkknd #IPKKND fanfic #arshi ff #Arshi fanfictions

Fifty Shades of Grey

This is my first try at writing a fanfic or fiction of any kind...I usually just write my thoughts on whatever I feel like...I am new to Tumblr and only recently discovered this awesome world of IPK fanfic and the beautiful writings of so many people had me itching to create something of my own...each time I re-watch the show I get so many ideas but as they say, its the execution that's the key..so here I am presenting one of the earliest ideas I had..it had started as a small, funny One shot in my head but has grown into something else as I put it into words...Hope whosoever reads it, enjoys it...I am not sure how many people will read this but if you do, I would love some feedback...any feedback ..positive or negative...I would like to thank @phati-sari @jalebi-weds-bluetooth @featheredclover and @dimaagkadahi as their blogs introduced me to IPK fan world and then inspired me to try my hand at it... so here goes nothing

Chapter 1- Vorfreude The one with anticipation and realizations

“Arnav ji, aap ayenge na?”

Intrigued and amused he had replied with an “I guess so”, but the anticipation mingled anxious tinge to her voice told Arnav how important today was for Khushi. She had planned a date for them.

Their first date…that it had taken them six months of being married, and almost a year of being in some kind of a relationship to actually go out on a date, and that too on the eve of their second marriage, amazed Arnav and he realized, once again, how unusually turbulent their journey had been. He also acknowledged that most of the issues could be laid down at his feet. He had repeatedly hurt her, accused her of imaginary slights and unimaginable crimes, manhandled her and used deliberately targeted words to slice through what he thought was her façade of innocence. If he had been an outsider viewing their relationship, he would have advised Khushi to stay the hell away from him. He himself had tried to keep distance, whichever way possible, tried damn hard do so for a very long time but failed spectacularly and miserably…and when he gave up fighting what she was doing to him, he was a changed man…her personal brand cocktail of charm, tenacity, madness and the sheer large heartedness had at first chipped away gently and then bulldozed its way through the walls around ASR to reveal Arnav and his heart which had an ocean deep capacity to love.

#ipkknd #writing #arnavkhushi #arnavsinghraizada #arnav x khushi #khushi kumari gupta #fanfic #i wrote a thing #i am terrified #colors #first date #fanfiction #ipkknd fanfic #ss: Fifty Shades of Grey

Readers Choice Awards on india-forums;

Hello Hi!!

If you’re on India-Forums and read fics there, feel free to nominate your favorite IPK fics in the thread linked below;

The last day to do so is Feb 25th!

You can nominate any IPK fic. If it’s a fic that’s older with an inactive author, it has to be complete. You can’t nominate “His gardening, Her jalebi” by therain, which is my fav incomplete fic 😭 but you can nominate “colors of the wind” by meera30 because it’s complete.

You can nominate three fics in each section. The three sections are fanfic, short story, and OS/drabbles/ficlets. For the best author you have to nominate someone whose been active in the last year.

Make sure to check out the rules if you decide to nominate! IPKKND fandom has so many good fics and it’d be a shame if they don’t get any recognition. Here is the link:

Hello Guys and Welcome to the biggest Award Ceremony of India Forums. We are here to honour those authors who never fails to entertain foru

- LG&SD

*shared the same over here

#ipkknd #ipkknd ff #ipkknd fanfic #fan contests

Fanaa

Inspired by this word prompt~

On Wattpad

>>>02

#ipkknd #arshi #arnav singh raizada #khushi kumari gupta #fanfic #ipk 13th anniversary fiesta #arnav x khushi #arnavsinghraizada #ipkknd fanfic #ipkknd ff #fanaa