[Trisha, a fiery orphan girl, barges into Avi’s purposeless life in a rundown colony of 27 rooms.
Their daily fights, care, and chaos slowly stitch an unexpected bond between them.
When tragedy almost takes her away, Avi realizes she’s his only anchor.
From broken hearts to building dreams, their love finds purpose — one kick, one tear, one smile at a time.]
Part 1: “The Cricket Incident”
The street was a cracked vein of sunlight and dust, scattered with loud children and louder dreams.
Trisha stood under a half-broken shade, holding a handmade donation board with crooked letters:
“Help Us Build a Home, A School for Those Without One.”
She smiled, waved, shouted, and begged. Some people gave coins, some ignored her, some gave glances filled with pity and discomfort. She didn’t care. She’d been through worse.
A group of shirtless boys ran past her, whooping with joy, chasing a tattered red cricket ball. They had made stumps out of bricks and used a stick instead of a bat. Their laughter was the kind that could heal cities.
Until it stopped.
A sudden yell. A sharp gasp. Then silence.
Trisha looked up just in time to see a tall man—unkempt, barefoot, wild-eyed—holding the cricket ball in his hand like it was a bomb. His shirt was torn at the collar, and his hair looked like it hadn’t met a comb in months.
“Who threw this?” he growled.
The kids froze. One of them timidly raised a hand.
Avi hurled the ball deep into the jungle behind the slum.
The boys burst into cries — real, helpless sobbing. They had only one ball.
“Are you mad!?” a kid shouted.
Wrong move.
Avi stepped forward and slapped one boy across the head. Two others got hit with backhand swings. It wasn’t brutal, but it was enough to make them back off and cry harder.
Trisha instinctively stepped forward — but paused.
Avi reached into his dirty jeans pocket. Pulled out a crumpled wad of notes. Dropped them on the ground in front of the boys.
“There. Buy six balls,” he barked. “Now shut up.”
Then, with the same ferocity, he kicked one of the bricks over. The stump toppled. “And next time, if you throw a ball at me again,” he hissed, “I’ll break your legs. And I mean it.”
One of the younger boys ran away sobbing. Another looked like he was about to faint.
Avi turned, mumbling curses, and walked away.
Trisha stood still, her heart somewhere between anger and fascination.
Who the hell was that?
A man who beat kids… then gave them more than they asked for?
A devil with a wallet?
A broken man with leftover pieces of kindness?
She couldn’t stop watching him.
Part 2: “The Dog, The Biscuit, and The Psycho”
The evening in the market was its usual cacophony of noises, rickshaws honking, aunties bargaining, and the smell of overripe bananas mingling with the aromas of frying oil and diesel. Trisha had a bag in one hand, a half-torn vegetable list in the other, and a mind already daydreaming about rice and dal.
Then she heard a familiar voice.
No, not a voice. A yell.
“I told you people to control your bloody kids!”
Trisha turned around instantly.
And there he was again. The same man from the cricket-ball incident. Unmistakable. Slightly more combed, but still very much unhinged.
This time, a little girl was sobbing loudly, clinging to her mother’s saree. “He hit me, Mom! That uncle hit me! Huh huh huh!”
The mother, fierce and fiery, turned toward Avi like a lioness.
“You hit my daughter!? Have you lost your damn mind!?”
Avi didn’t even flinch. “Your daughter was poking a dog with a stick. I warned her. She didn’t listen.”
“She’s a child!”
“She’s a menace.”
“How dare you lay hands on someone else’s child?!”
Avi snapped, voice booming through the market:
“One day, a dog will bite her, and then you’ll understand, nonsense woman! Take care of your child before lecturing strangers!”
Gasps spread across the nearby crowd.
The mother stood there fuming, but Avi had already turned his back.
Trisha stood near a potato stand, frozen, trying not to laugh.
Avi walked into the nearby shop, bought a packet of Parle-G biscuits, tore it open, and walked toward the same stray dog — a skinny brown mutt with a wagging tail.
The dog looked up, hopeful.
“Come,” Avi said softly.
The dog came running.
Avi knelt and twisted the dog’s ear.
YIPPP!
Then he gave a few gentle but firm slaps on its bum.
“Bad dog!” SLAP!
“No scaring kids again, huh?” SLAP!
“Next time I’ll bury you behind the ration shop!” twists ear again
The dog was squealing now, tail tucked between its legs, but still hadn’t run away.
Trisha stared, horrified and entertained all at once.
Then, just as suddenly, Avi sighed and opened the biscuit packet.
He gave the whole thing to the dog.
The dog, still whimpering, sniffed it cautiously, then started eating.
Avi pulled out a few biscuits for himself and started munching, muttering to the dog:
“You’re lucky I’m a vegetarian, bro.”
He wiped his hands on his jeans, adjusted his collar, and walked off like nothing happened.
Trisha was left standing there, clutching her brinjal and coriander, mouth half open.
“What… what the hell did I just watch?”
Part 3: “Weird Dreams and Weirder Truths”
Trisha woke up sweating, confused, and mildly offended.
In her dream, she had been sitting peacefully in a room when Avi walked in like a madman. Without a word, he grabbed her hair, dragged her to the sink, and started scrubbing her face with a rough towel.
“Stay clean!” he shouted.
SCRUB SCRUB.
“Stay fit!” he repeated with a twisted smile.
SCRUB SCRUB SCRUB.
“🙂🙂🙂”
When she jolted awake, it was 6:37 AM.
She sat up in bed, blinked twice, and muttered,
“…what kind of nonsense dream was that?”
For the rest of the morning, she kept giggling to herself.
Avi — that rude, biscuit-sharing lunatic — was now showing up in her dreams as a violent self-care coach. What next? Was he going to show up with a fruit salad and yell, “Eat fiber or die!”?
Still, the dream left her curious. More curious than ever.
By noon, she decided to ask around.
At the tea stall, she leaned on the counter casually. “That guy… the tall one with messy hair who talks like a madman, angry all the time. You know who I mean?”
The tea vendor snorted. “Avi? That psycho?”
Ah. So he had a name. Avi.
“Why psycho?”
“He once threw a shoe at me because I put less sugar in his tea.”
“Did you?”
“I mean… yeah. But still.”
Trisha nodded and moved on.
At the laundry corner, an aunty in a pink nightie was more than ready to gossip.
“He’s a curse, that boy,” the aunt declared. “Shouts at children, fights with dogs, stares at walls. I saw him once scolding a goat for chewing plastic.”
Trisha tried to hide her smile. “A goat?”
“Yes! ‘You’ll die, you idiot animal,’ he shouted, and then tied the goat to a pole and fed it spinach!”
“Sounds like a responsible citizen,” Trisha muttered.
“He’s a menace.”
But just then, a little boy tugged on Trisha’s kurta. His nose was running, and he had a cricket bat taller than himself.
“Don’t listen to aunty,” the boy said. “He’s not bad.”
Trisha knelt. “No?”
The boy shook his head. “He’s soft in the heart. But weird. Very weird.”
“How weird?”
The boy scratched his head, thinking hard. “One day, we were playing near the pond, and our football fell into the water. We tried to get it with a stick but couldn’t reach.”
“And?”
“He came out of nowhere and beat us. Slapped me here.” He pointed proudly to his left ear.
Trisha tried not to laugh. “Why!?”
“Said we’d drown and die, stupid children. Then he jumped in the pond, swam like a hero, and got the ball. But his phone was in his pocket.”
“Oh no.”
The boy nodded seriously. “It got ruined. He screamed at us again. Said, ‘My phone is dead because of you morons!’ and slapped us again. Then he said, ‘If I see you near this pond again, I’ll kill you. Go home and study, you idiots!”
Trisha just stared at him.
“And we did go home,” the kid finished. “But also… he gave me a samosa later.”
A pause.
Then the boy added, smiling:
“He always helps us. Just… with some extra beatings.”
Trisha stood up slowly.
So he was weird. Angry. Wild.
Part 4: “Stay Clean, Stay Fit”
By the time Trisha found Avi’s “home,” she was already sweating, annoyed, and holding a torn donation form in one hand and half a coconut in the other. (Long story.)
It wasn’t exactly a home.
It was a three-story, aging colony building with paint peeling like dead skin, rusted pipes hissing water on the sides, and the distinct smell of burnt curry floating in the air. About 15–16 families lived there, along with a few random bachelors, students, and a man who ran a pressure cooker repair business from the stairwell.
But the building? It belonged to Avi.
Well, technically, to his late father, a man who built this place with dreams and dignity. Avi had inherited the property, the rent from its 27 rooms, and exactly zero will to live.
He spent what he got, ate whatever came, and mostly stayed in his dark, unkempt corner room — Room No. 7, ground floor, behind the garbage bin.
Trisha knocked on the door.
THUD.
Something massive slammed against the inside of the door. Maybe a water bottle. Either way, she jumped back.
“What the—?”
She hesitated, then knocked again, this time harder.
THUMP. THUMP.
Footsteps. Angry footsteps.
Then the door opened — just a crack.
Avi appeared, hair a nest, eyes swollen, rubbing his face like a zombie mid-reboot.
“I don’t need lice,” he muttered.
Trisha blinked. “What?”
“LIFE, LIC agent, lawyer, whatever! GO. AWAY. Let me sleep. Or I’ll kill you.”
And he started to close the door.
But before he could, Trisha shoved it open, grabbed him by the hair, and dragged him into his room.
“YAAAH!” Avi screamed, startled. “What the hell—?!”
She found a drum of water near the broken sink. With the power of a woman on a divine mission, she dunked his face right in.
SPLASH.
“AARGHH—!”
Then came the towel.
SCRUB SCRUB SCRUB.
“STAY CLEAN!” Trisha shouted.
SCRUB SCRUB.
“STAY FIT!” she added, face glowing with evil joy.
Avi coughed, spat water, tried to pull back — but slipped on his own junk-covered floor and fell flat on a pile of old T-shirts and fried snack wrappers.
He looked up, dazed, blinking. “What… just happened?”
Trisha stood above him, towel in hand, smiling like a kindergarten teacher with rage issues.
Avi opened his mouth to yell — but before he could say anything, her expression instantly changed.
She folded her hands. “Hello, Uncle. I’m raising funds for a school for helpless kids. You have to donate.”
“WHAT?!”
“We’re trying to build a better future for the poor, the orphans, the ignored. Just like us.”
Avi stared at her like she was a hallucination caused by expired noodles.
Before he could respond, he got up, opened a drawer, grabbed a fistful of crumpled notes, and threw them at her.
“Take it. And don’t ever wake me up like that again. Or I’ll kill you.”
Trisha picked up the money, straightened her kurta, smiled sweetly, and said:
“You said the same to the kids, the aunt, the tea seller, and the goat. But you never kill anyone, Avi. You just beat them and feed them later.”
Avi narrowed his eyes.
“…Are you following me?”
“Nope. God is. I’m just His volunteer.”
She walked out, humming a random Bollywood song, leaving the door wide open and water dripping from his hair.
Avi stood there, soaked, towel-burned, robbed (technically), and confused.
“…Who is this girl?”
Part 5: “35 Days of Madness (and Meals)”
Day 1.
Knock.
No answer.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.
THUD. Something heavy slammed behind the door.
Trisha flinched. Then knocked again, harder.
The door creaked open. Avi emerged like a zombie — shirtless, one sock, wild hair.
“I don’t need LIC, I don’t need donation, I don’t need YOU. Go to hell!”
Trisha didn’t flinch. She grabbed his hair, dragged him to the bucket outside.
“Stay clean, stay fit,” she smiled, dumping water on his head.
Avi: “WHAT THE HELL?!”
Trisha: “Fund my school, or I’ll flood your soul.”
She tossed a towel on his face.
He threw ₹50 at her just to make her leave.
Day 2.
Knock. Bang.
No response.
She slid a tiffin box under his door.
Note: “Fund me. And eat this. Masoor dal.
Avi kicked the box accidentally, sniffed, and paused.
Grumbled. Then ate all of it.
Then cursed himself for liking it.
Day 4.
She whacked his window with a ruler.
He shouted: “I’ll call the cops!”
She replied, “I made paneer today. Say thank you.”
He opened the door mid-rant. She shoved the tiffin into his chest and walked off.
He stood still for a moment.
Then muttered, “I hate you.”
But licked the spoon clean.
Day 7.
“I told you, DON’T come here again!” Avi screamed.
She sat on his floor, flipping through his dusty books.
“Why are you so dramatic at 7 AM? Relax.”
“I’m not funding your scam school!”
“Then don’t. Just eat this khichdi. It’s for your dying stomach.”
Day 10.
He threw the money before opening the door.
She still knocked.
He opened. She threw a roti at his face.
“You forgot the magic word.”
“…Thanks?”
“Too late.”
But he didn’t stop chewing.
Day 14.
She knocked with one hand, held tamarind rice in the other.
He opened the door. Shirtless, but now at least brushed.
“You made this?”
She nodded. “With hope you’ll get a job someday.”
“I have a job.”
“You breathe, eat, sulk, and repeat. That’s not a job.”
Day 17.
“Why do you keep feeding me?”
“Because I don’t trust your cooking. Or hygiene. Or your life decisions.”
A pause.
“Also… you’re helping kids.”
“Against my will.”
“Still counts.”
He rolled his eyes.
She smiled.
Day 20.
He didn’t open the door.
She left the biryani anyway.
He peeked at the hallway. Looked both ways.
Took the tiffin in.
Day 23.
“Why do you never say thanks?”
“Because it’s your choice to torture me.”
“And you keep eating it.”
“…shut up.”
“Say it.”
“…Thank you.”
She gasped. “Did the angry bear just say ‘thanks’?”
“Shut. Up.”
Day 27.
He waited at the door before 7.
Pretended he was just stretching.
She noticed. Grinned.
“Missed me?”
“No.”
She handed him soya curry.
“Shut up and chew.”
Day 30.
He tried to cook for himself.
Burnt the rice.
Ate her rajma instead.
Left the money under her tiffin.
No note. No smile. Just clean the box.
She saw it, and for the first time, said nothing.
But her heart thumped once.
Day 33.
Neighbor aunt: “That girl feeds you every day, beta. Marry her.”
Avi choked on the upma.
“NO. SHE’S A DEMON.”
Trisha popped her head from the stairs.
“You talking about me, sweetie?”
He blushed. “Go to hell.”
“You first, dear.”
Day 35.
No knock.
He panicked.
Checked the hallway.
Found the tiffin. Still warm.
But no Trisha.
No note.
His heart sank.
Day 36: The Day She Didn’t Come”
It was the 36th morning.
For the first time in over a month, Avi woke up without a knock, a slap, or someone yanking his hair and rubbing his face with a towel.
No yelling voice saying, “Stay clean, stay fit!”
No fight.
No food box was placed at the doorstep.
No wild eyes of that crazy orphan girl named Trisha.
At first, he thought maybe she overslept. Then maybe she was busy.
Then three days passed.
And she still didn’t come.
For someone who claimed to hate her, Avi couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“Where did that moron go…” he murmured, checking his phone for any missed calls – though she never called. She just appeared like a hurricane and left like a storm.
That afternoon, while buying a biscuit packet for the colony dog, he heard a few tenants whispering:
“That girl… the one from the school thing? She met with an accident near the old building.”
“Yeah, an anonymous biker hit her. People say someone wanted to scare her away from the place she was using…”
Avi froze.
The old building… She was building her school there…
And someone didn’t like it.
His fists clenched. He didn’t wait for more gossip. He got on his bike.
And then it began.
“Avi’s Wrath”
The men who hurt her?
He found them.
He broke their legs, their arms, smashed their egos, and reminded them that monsters can be born from pain, not just hate.
Some ran.
Some crawled.
All were hospitalized.
Then he rode toward the hospital with bloody knees and scraped hands. His heart was pounding.
But at the hospital…
“You’re too late… she’s been taken to the shoshan…”
(graveyard)
He kicked the bike. Accelerated. Only one thought: See her face. One last time. Now his head filled with her thoughts, he regretted. He remembered
Her knocking.
Her food.
Her stupid notes.
Her voice calling him ‘baba ji’ sarcastically.
Her laughter when he fake-coughed just to avoid talking.
Her hands, bruised, still carrying tiffin.
Suddenly, A boy ran across the street. Avi swerved hard to avoid him.
Screech. Crash.
The bike slid. Avi flew. Landed on his knees. Blood streamed down. Palms scraped. He opened his eyes, saw a dog licking the boy’s face. The boy was okay. So was the dog. He smiled through the pain. Then winced and whispered, “She’d have done the same…” Staggered up. He ignored the burning pain. Got on the bike. Started it again.
He reached the shoshan. The rusty gate creaked open. He entered. He saw her. She was standing. Avi dropped to his knees.
Trisha saw him.
“What happened, dumbass?” she asked, confused. “Is that old man your uncle or something?”
Then saw his bruises, the bleeding, the face of a man who cried for the first time in years.
“WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU MORON?!” she yelled, grabbing his hair tightly.
And then… Avi did the unthinkable.
He smiled.
Tears flowing.
He hugged her, collapsed into her arms like a lost child, and cried:
“Don’t leave me… please… I can’t live without you…”
She blinked. Then kicked him straight into a puddle.
“You idiot. I don’t love you!” she shouted, kicking him again.
“You’re disgusting! I just felt bad for you!”
She walked away.
Avi got up. Then ran to her. Fell at her feet like a stubborn kid.
“Please… don’t leave me. I want to live… I want YOU…” he said, hugging her legs like a kid.
Trisha tried pushing him off.
“Leave my legs, you moron! Hush hush! Go away!” she shouted, sounding like a mad peacock.
“No,” he whimpered. “I need you. I won’t let go…”
She sighed. Then grabbed his hair, pulled him up.
“Go home first.”
Avi blinked.
“Which home? Mine?”
She smirked. “Colony 27, huh. I’m the owner now, right?”
Avi: “What?! It’s… It’s mine—”
Trisha: “And who are you?”
Avi (meekly): “Yours… 🥺🥺”
Trisha: “Hmmmm 😌”
Riding Back
They rode back on his bike.
Trisha sat behind, arms crossed.
“I can’t make the school. That building is claimed by someone. I lost it.”
Avi grinned.
“No, you didn’t. It’s my Baba’s land. I had no reason to use it before. But now it’s yours. Mrs. Trisha’s School for Helpless Kids. The men causing trouble? I… requested them to leave.”
Trisha smiled… then softly said:
“You’re still a moron.”
Avi: “But your moron.”