Humsafar ✨

chapter - 2

The wall clock had already slipped past 9:03 a.m. when Meera blinked awake. Sunlight pooled on her desk, skimming over open sketchbooks, gemstone charts, and a velvet tray with half-strung pearls. She’d worked late—again—chasing the curve of a necklace till midnight felt like a minute.

KNOCK.
“Meera!” Kaki sa’s voice cracked through the door. “Ab tak soti ho? Na breakfast bana, na jhadoo. Ghar ka kaam koi aur karega?”
(“Still sleeping? Breakfast isn’t made, nor is the sweeping done. Who’s going to do the housework?”)

Meera sat up, tied her hair into a quick ponytail, and slipped into a white shirt, beige trousers, and a slim watch—clean, professional, hers. She opened the door with a small, practiced smile.

In the courtyard, Kaki sa Kusum stood with arms folded, eyes sharp. Kaka sa Raghav scrolled his phone, pretending not to be there. Priya, in a glossy suit set, was busy taking selfies near the tulsi.

“Sketch banane se roti nahi banti, Meera,” Kaki sa said, eyeing the design book in her hand.
(“Sketches don’t put food on the table, Meera.”)

Before the sting could settle, Dadi sa Savitri tapped her stick lightly. “Bas, Kusum. Ladki kal raat tak kaam kar rahi thi.”
(“Enough, Kusum. The girl was working till late last night.”)

Dada sa Vikrant folded his newspaper, warmth steady in his eyes. “Aur aaj khushi ka din hai.” He looked at everyone. “Saalon baad, mere dost Abhimanyu Singh Rathore—Dada sa—ne humein raat ke function ke liye bulaya hai.”
(“And today is a happy day. After years, my friend Abhimanyu Singh Rathore—Dada sa—has invited us for tonight’s function.”)

Priya’s phone paused mid-air. “Rathore Haveli? Like—the Rathore Haveli?” Her smile turned dreamy. “Aviyansh Rathore will be there, right? He’s literally perfection. The way he runs their empire—uff!”

Kaki sa’s glance slid to Meera. “Kuch log sapne dekhte hain, kuch sach mein unki aukaat samajhte hain.”
(Some people only dream; others know their limits.)

Meera swallowed it with the ease of long practice. “Dadi sa, main office nikalun?”
(“Dadi sa, shall I leave for the office?”)

Savitri’s face softened. “Sambhal ke jaana, beta. Aur shaam ko tayyar rehna.”
(“Take care, dear. And be ready in the evening.”)

Vikrant added, “Aur Meera—tumhara kaam kaafi badhiya chal raha hai. Main jaanta hoon.”
(“And Meera—your work is going well. I know it.”)

A real smile reached her eyes. “Ji, Dada sa.”

The elevator doors opened to clean lines and soft lighting. Inside Ishita Singh Rathore’s luxury brand headquarters, the air smelled of fresh paper and metal polish, of new ideas becoming heirlooms. Mannequin necks gleamed with trial pieces; CAD screens held the angles of future icons.

“Morning, Meera,” called rahul from product ops. “Client loved your filigree hoops—asked for a matching pendant.”

Meera’s shoulders loosened. “Great. I’ll refine the bail and weight.” She slipped into her station, clipped on her loupe, and studied a rose-cut morganite like it had secrets to tell. Her sketch from last night—an art-deco choker with a soft Rajasthani curve—waited on the board.

A calm, authoritative voice: “Meera.”

She stood. Ishita herself—elegant in a structured sari-blouse and blazer—stepped in. “Your prototype for the anniversary capsule,” Ishita said, picking up the choker sketch, “—this line breathes. Traditional spine, modern finish. Exactly our language.”

Meera’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Ishita’s smile was brief, approving. “Two notes: lighten the clasp—three grams max—and explore a diamond pavé option for the center blossom. Also… you’re attending the Haveli event tonight, right?”

Meera hesitated. “Ji. Dada sa insisted.”

“Good. Observe the pieces the older patrons wear—lineage jewellery teaches more than any book.” Ishita leaned in, softer. “And Meera—don’t let small voices at home shrink you. Talent speaks louder.”

The words landed like a hand on her back—steadying. “I won’t, ma’am.”

Afternoon

By lunch, Meera had rendered two clasp alternatives, tested a lighter chain, and sent the specs to casting. The rhythm of work steadied her breath the way prayers steadied others. She changed into ink-blue cigarette pants and a soft blush blouse, slipped a delicate mother’s pendant under her collar, and checked her tote: swatch book, loupe, hairpins, a compact.

Her phone buzzed—Priya on the family group: “OMG we’re going to see Aviyansh tonight!!! Manifesting queen vibes ✨”
Then, from Kaki sa (privately): “Zyada modern mat lagna. Yaad rakhna kahan se aayi ho.”
(“Don’t look too modern. Remember where you come from.”)

Meera exhaled, long and even. She typed nothing. Instead, she saved the day by doing what she always did—show up.

Evening

Back home, Dadi sa placed a small black bindi on Meera’s forehead. “Bas itna sa shagun.”
(“Just a little blessing.”)

Dada sa adjusted his cufflinks, eyes kind and proud. “Aaj ki raat sirf dosti ka jashn nahi… kismat ka bhi hai.”
(“Tonight is not just a celebration of friendship… but of fate.”)

Priya floated past in sparkle and perfume, whispering to her mirror, “If Aviyansh looks at me once—just once—game over.”

Kaki sa’s gaze weighed Meera head to toe—modern, minimal, composed. “Bas wahan chup-chaap rehna,” she murmured. “Nazron mein aaye bina kaam ho jaye, toh behtar.”
(“Just stay quiet there. Better if the evening ends without anyone noticing you.”)

Meera met her own reflection instead—clean lines, quiet strength, a designer’s eye. She tucked the pendant close to her heart and lifted her chin.

“Ji),” she said evenly.
(“Yes. I’m only going to do my work, Kaki sa.”)

Outside, the city lights flickered to life. Somewhere beyond them, the Rathore Haveli waited—stone and legacy and expectations. And within its marble halls, a man whose presence moved rooms without a word.

Tonight, paths would cross. Not loudly. Not yet.
But precisely—like a line that finally finds its curve.

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