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AUTHOR

The sun climbed slowly over Meerut, painting the city in shades of gold and amber. The narrow lanes were already alive—shopkeepers unrolling their shutters, chaiwalas calling out, and temple bells mingling with the distant clang of school bells. The smell of fresh jalebis, simmering chai, and burning agarbattis drifted through the air, blending with the earthy scent of early morning dust. Rickshaws rattled past, cows ambled lazily along the roads, and the city hummed with its usual chaos—a rhythm as familiar and comforting as an old friend.

Tarani Mishra, twenty-two and already as firm-footed as a banyan tree, was up before dawn. Her modest two-room rented ground floor in the Bhure Lal colony was filled with the gentle clinking of steel utensils and the faint hiss of the pressure cooker.

She moved around the kitchen purposefully, making her father's favourite adrak wali chai. The man who once taught half the mohalla now barely made it out of bed—years of stress and a recent heart condition had slowed him down, but hadn't dimmed the sharpness in his eyes.

"Papa, chai," she said softly, placing the cup near his bedside.

(Father, Tea.)

He slowly sat up with her support. "Tu har roz meri itni seva kyun karti hai, beta?" he asked with a tired smile.

(Why do you serve me like this every day, my child?)

"Seva nahi hai, duty hai. Aur aap dawai time pe loge, ye bhi meri duty hai," she said sternly, placing the pill strip beside his cup.

(It's not service, it's my duty. And taking your medicine on time—that's my duty too.)

"Lunch dabbe mein rakh diya hai. Time pe kha lena. Aur dawaiyaan mat bhoolna."

(I've packed your lunch. Eat on time. And don't forget your medicines.)

With that, she tied her dupatta tightly on her shoulder, picked up her jute bag and tiffin, and stepped out into the buzzing lanes of Meerut.

She walked past chaiwallahs, newspaper boys, and groups of priests sipping kulhad chai. Everyone knew her here. Not just because she was Mishra Masterji's daughter, but because she was the kind who would raise her voice if a man spat paan too close to a temple wall.

"Arre Tarani beti, ka school ja rahi ho?" asked Sulekha Aunty from her balcony, her face buried in multicoloured papads she was sun-drying.

(Going to school, daughter?)

"Haan, aunty, board exam ka season hai na. Bachchon ke sar pe stress chadh gaya hai," Tarani replied with a polite smile.

(Yes, Aunty, it's board exam season. The kids are stressed out.)

She wasn't just a teacher. She was a thunderstorm in a simple blue cotton kurti, the kind that could argue with a local goon at the paan stall and return home with a smile—and sometimes a bruised elbow. But bruises didn't bother her. Not when her heart is still beating for something bigger.

Just as she turned into the alley that led to Government Middle School No. 3, a loud screech of tyres shattered the peace. A black Thar came to a halt inches from her.

Tarani froze, her jute bag nearly slipping from her shoulder.

Out stepped a man in a black kurta, Ray-Bans shielding half his arrogance. Broad chest, a tattoo peeking from under his sleeve, and a cigarette lazily tucked between his fingers.

Baldev Singh Thakur.

The name alone made people shiver. Son of MLA Raghunath Thakur. Thirty years old. Feared across Meerut, adored in equal measure. Rumoured to have left three engagements at the mandap. Known for punching before speaking.

Their eyes met.

"Tum theek ho?" he asked softly, removing his sunglasses.

(Are you alright?)

She blinked, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Main theek hoon. Aur aap? Gaadi chalani aati hai ya sirf dikhawa karte ho?"

(I'm fine. And you? Can you drive, or is it all just for show?)

He smiled genuinely, surprised by her boldness. "Tum jaise log toh hume dur se aata dekh ke hi chip jaate hain. Lekin aap... alag nikli."

(People like you usually hide when they see me from afar. But you... You're different.)

A jeep screeched to a halt. A burly guard jumped out, marching toward her. "Dur ho ja, madam!"

(Move aside, madam!)

Tarani didn't flinch but moved. "Bhaich*d!!" Her leg shot out in a perfect arc.

(Brotherfuc*er)

But... the guard, faster than expected, twisted aside—only for her kick to land squarely between Baldev's legs.

For a moment, silence swallowed the street. Birds froze mid-flight. Chaiwalas froze mid-sip. Even the street dogs looked shocked.

Baldev's cigarette fell. He muttered under his breath, voice low but audible to himself:

"Haaye... fod diye mere balak."

(Oh... you have broken my child.)

Le his guard, huh! "Teen engagement chordne ke baad... ab bachche yaad aa rahe hain... ab to inke bachche pari hi inki god me daal kar jaayegi."

(After leaving three engagements... now he is missing his children... now only Angel will leave his children in his lap.)

Three failed engagements, three brides walked out of his life, and here he was, falling—hard, in every possible way—because of a kick from a fearless girl. His calm façade cracked, a crooked grin spreading over his face.

The crowd froze in terror. Everyone feared Baldev Singh Thakur... except that one girl, who had just kicked the don. And instead of wrath, he felt something dangerous—admiration, respect... and an inexplicable pull straight to his heart. And yes, somewhere much lower too.

Tarani stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Thakur ho? Toh kya hua? Road tumhare baap ka hai kya?"

(So what if you're a Thakur? Does this road belong to your father?)

Baldev blinked.

Baldev stood there, legs still tingling, cigarette dangling uselessly between his fingers. The crowd slowly exhaled, murmuring to each other in fear and disbelief—"Yeh kaun hai? Thakur Singh ko bhi... usne maar diya?"

(Who is this? He killed Thakur Singh too...)

He cleared his throat, voice calm, almost too calm. "Aap... shayad..." He faltered, then muttered under his breath again: '..kya ladki hai yaar, seedha dil me ghus gayi aur... aur meri ego ke sath sath mere hathiyar ko bhi chot de bhaithi.'

(...what a girl she is, Damn, she entered straight into my heart and... and along with my ego, she also hurt my weapon.)

Tarani turned, eyebrow raised. "Kya hua? Tumhara ego ko chot lag gayi kya?"

(What happened? Ego hurt?)

Baldev blinked. That sharp tone, that fearless stare... it made him pause. Usually, fear opened mouths, lowered heads. Not here. Not now.

"I... main... maafi chahta hoon," he said, forcing calm over his internal chaos.

(I... apologise.)

The crowd froze again. The shopkeeper holding a basket of vegetables nearly dropped it; a chaiwala gagged mid-sip. Someone muttered, "Abey yeh toh Thakur Singh... maafi maang raha hai!"

(Right now, this Thakur Singh... is asking for forgiveness!)

Tarani smirked, lips curling like she knew the effect she had. "Bilkul sahi keh rahe ho. Tumme akal aa gyi hai ab apne naukaro ko bhi seekha dena."

(You're absolutely right. You've got some manners, now teach them to your servants.)

Baldev's chest tightened in a way he hadn't felt before. Calm, feared, untouchable Baldev Singh Thakur—this guy who ruled Meerut with a glare and a gun—was thinking about her every move, every word, every fireball glance, and it made his pulse quicken.

He tried to regain his composure. "Bas... chhodo. Chalo, main aage badhta hoon."

(Enough... let's move on.)

Tarani raised an eyebrow. "Aage? Aise hi sabko dara ke chalna hai kya?"

(Forward? Just scare everyone like this?)

Baldev blinked. And then muttered under his breath, because no one could hear but him:

'Haaye... teen engagement chodke ab is ladki ki kick... meri life ka sabse dangerous aur sabse achha encounter hai. Dil bhi tod diya, aur... haan, baaki jagah bhi hil gayi.'

(Hey... after three broken engagements, this girl's kick... It's the most dangerous and best encounter of my life. It broke my heart, and... yes, the rest of the body was shaken too.)

For the first time, Baldev didn't want control. He wanted to watch her, follow her, be near her—even if it meant bending to her fire.

And that was the moment it started: the most feared don in Meerut had fallen—head over heels, heart and... everywhere else—because of a kick, a stare, and a girl who refused to bow.

Before he could say another word, she walked away, the scent of jasmine hair oil trailing behind her, replacing even the smoke of his cigarette.

Baldev stood frozen, watching her retreating figure. The city seemed to hold its breath, the market slowly returning to life. His driver coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat. But Baldev didn't hear it. He couldn't. His mind was still on her fire, her fearlessness, her power.

"Maalik... chalein?"

(Master... shall we go?)

Baldev didn't respond. For once, his mind wasn't on politics or power.

It was on a girl who didn't give a damn about his surname.

By the time the afternoon sun had started softening, Tarani was already deep into her role as Miss Mishra, the beloved, strict-but-fair teacher of Government Middle School No. 3. Her dupatta was now pinned tighter, her stern look polished, and her voice crisp with authority as she walked into Class 8B.

The classroom buzz died the moment she entered.

"Good morning, ma'am!" chorused the students.

Tarani nodded with a half-smile. "Good morning. Aaj koi smart banne ki koshish karega toh yaad rakhna, main tum sabse zyada tez hoon."

(Try to act too smart today and remember—I'm the sharpest among you.)

The class chuckled nervously.

One of the boys whispered, "Ma'am ke dimaag se bachna mushkil hai."

(It's impossible to outwit Ma'am.)

She spent the next hour solving algebraic expressions with clean, precise strokes on the blackboard. Occasionally, she'd throw a question over her shoulder without turning back. And when someone hesitated to answer, she'd twist halfway, raise an eyebrow and say, "Beta, silence ka matlab sirf shaadi mein haan nahi hota."

(Silence doesn't always mean yes, especially not in my class.)

The kids adored her. Not because she was lenient—but because she was fiercely protective. A month ago, when a local politician's son teased a girl outside the school gate, Tarani had marched straight to the police station and complained. And then taught her next class without batting an eyelid.

During the lunch break, Tarani sat in the tiny staffroom with Rekha Ma'am and Mr Tripathi, the principal.

"Aaj toh aap badi hero ban gayin," Rekha teased, handing her a samosa.

"You're talking about the Thar incident, right?" Mr Tripathi chimed in with a grin.

Tarani shrugged, chewing calmly. "Bas ek aur road ka gunda. Thakur ho ya Chief Minister, mujhe farak nahi padta."

(Just another road thug. Whether Thakur or Chief Minister—I don't care.)

"Waise kick badhiya thi," Rekha laughed. "Guard toh zameen chaat gaya."

(By the way, that kick was brilliant. The guard hit the ground hard.)

Tarani smirked. "Lesson free mein diya tha. Next time charge loongi."

(That lesson was free. Next time, I'll charge for it.)

School ended by 4 PM. Tarani tied her dupatta back over her head, picked up her empty tiffin, and walked out through the back gate, avoiding the gossiping eyes.

On the way home, she stopped at the vegetable market near Assi Ghat.

"Tarani bitiya! Aaj toh matar naye aaye hain, le lo," called out Munni bua.

Tarani lifted the basket lid and sniffed the peas. "Bua, ye toh kal ke hain. Matar ho ya neta—thande pad gaye toh kaam ke nahi."

(Bua, these are from yesterday. Whether peas or politicians—once they go stale, they're useless.)

The sabziwalas laughed.

She bargained like a pro, snatching tomatoes, ginger, green chillies and a fresh bunch of coriander for exactly fifty rupees.

As she turned into her lane with a full jhola and even fuller spirit, the street kids playing gilli-danda waved at her. "Didi! Aaj aloo ki sabzi banaoge kya?"

She smiled and called out, "Aloo, lauki aur tum sab ke liye ek chocolate bhi, agar homework time pe kiya ho toh!"

(Potato, bottle gourd, and a chocolate for all of you—if homework's done on time!)

At home, her father was sitting near the window, a book of poetry in hand.

"Kaisi raha din?" he asked.

(How was your day?)

"Bas, ek Thakur se takra gayi. Par usse zyada ziddi toh meri class ke bachche hain," she replied, touching his feet.

(Just bumped into a Thakur. But even he's not as stubborn as my students.)

He chuckled, patting her head. "Tu meri asli virasat hai, Tarani."

(You are my true legacy, Tarani.)

Baldev Singh Thakur. The name that ruled Meerut. The man whose glare could silence a street, whose presence made even the bravest tremble. And yet...

A girl had kicked him. Literally. Right where it hurt. In front of his men. In front of the entire street. In front of everyone who feared him.

And now, sitting in the dim light of his haveli, he couldn't stop seeing her—her fire, her fearless stare, her defiance. Every movement, every word replayed in his mind. The chaos she had caused, the laughter of the street, the whispers of shocked shopkeepers... and the ache in his chest, the heat in his heart, and somewhere lower... he couldn't deny it.

But one question gnawed at him, sharper than any knife:

Was this admiration... or humiliation?

His ego, so carefully built over thirty years of fear and control, had been trampled by a girl who didn't even know his name. And yet... he couldn't stop thinking about her.

Would this fire she had ignited in him turn into desire... or into a storm of revenge? Would he chase her to see her again—or chase her just to make her pay for wounding him in front of his people?

The city whispered, the streets waited, and in the heart of Meerut, the most feared don stood at the edge of obsession and wrath, unsure whether the girl had captured his heart... or awakened a fury he wouldn't easily forgive.

One thing was certain: their first encounter had changed everything.

And whether it would lead to love... or hate... only time would tell.