The sun blazed over Jaipur like a mischievous child set loose with a giant magnifying glass. The city streets bustled with traffic, hawkers shouted out their deals, and somewhere amidst it all, a man in a crisp white kurta-pajama and aviator sunglasses sat grumpily in the back seat of a bulletproof black SUV.

“Sir, please reconsider. The route ahead is crowded. Security can’t be guaranteed.”

Aarav Malhotra, Chief Minister of Rajasthan and heartthrob of every WhatsApp auntie group, rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses.

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               Aarav Malhotra (Male Lead)

•Age: 35

•Charismatic, witty, sharp, and kind-hearted

•Chief Minister of Rajasthan — known for his clean politics and youth appeal

•Secretly craves a simple, normal life away from politics

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“Yaar, Lakhan,” he sighed, addressing his security chief, “for once, let me live like a normal person. No cameras, no Z-plus security, no political drama. I just want one day… one day where nobody recognizes me.”

Lakhan Singh, a giant of a man with a mustache that could rival a broom, looked ready to cry. “But sir—”

“No buts!” Aarav snapped, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Consider it a secret mission. Code name — Freedom.”

And before Lakhan could protest further, Aarav slipped out of the SUV at the next signal and vanished into the crowded street, leaving behind a panicked security team and a trail of confused vendors.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the street, Meera Sharma was busy yelling at a supplier on the phone.

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          Meera Sharma (Female Lead)

•Age: 26

•Independent, cheerful, honest, and fearless

•Runs a small bookstore-café in Jaipur

•Believes in living life on her own terms

•No interest in politics

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“I ordered thirty copies of The Fault in Our Stars, not Fifty Shades of Grey! What will I do with these?” she barked, her face flushed with frustration.

Her tiny bookstore-café, BookNest, was her pride and joy. A cozy little space nestled between a tailor’s shop and a saree showroom, it smelled of old pages, fresh coffee, and sometimes, burnt cookies.

Meera, with her loose braid, cotton kurti, and fierce eyes, was known in the neighborhood as the “Jhansi ki Rani” of the market. Nobody dared mess with her — except maybe her eight-year-old nephew, Chintu, who currently sat at a corner table, building a fort with sugar sachets .

“Bua, can I have one more pastry?” Chintu asked sweetly.

.

..

~Chintu — Meera’s 8-year-old nephew, cheeky and adorable~

.

.

“You already had two. Your mom will turn me into human chutney if she finds out,” Meera grumbled, but handed him one anyway.

Just then, the bell above the door jingled, and Aarav walked in.

Unshaven, hair slightly messy, sunglasses still on, he looked like someone trying too hard to be incognito.

“Excuse me,” he said, glancing around, “do you have a copy of The Alchemist?”

Meera barely looked up. “Shelf on the left. Third row. Alphabetical order. Like any normal bookstore.”

Aarav chuckled. “You’re a little rude, you know.”

Now she looked at him properly — tall, sharp features, annoyingly perfect teeth. Probably another rich brat pretending to be intellectual.

“Comes free with the job,” she shot back.

Aarav grinned, picked up the book, and walked over to the counter.

“How much?”

“Three hundred.”

He fished out a thousand-rupee note.

“Don’t you have change?”

“No,” Aarav lied, enjoying the rising irritation on her face.

“I swear, you rich types think the world runs on five-star menus and unlimited WiFi. Fine, take the book and leave. Consider it charity.”

Aarav laughed out loud. It had been years since anyone had spoken to him like that — no sir, no protocol, no flattering. Just raw, fiery honesty.

“Thank you… uh?”

“Meera,” she snapped.

“Thank you, Meera.”

As he turned to leave, a sudden commotion broke out outside. A group of protestors waving placards stormed the street. “Down with the government!” they shouted.

Aarav cursed under his breath. “Damn it, not now.”

“What happened?” Meera frowned, stepping out.

“Nothing. I just… I forgot something.” Aarav ducked behind a shelf.

The protestors were getting closer. One of them peered through the glass. Aarav yanked Meera down beside him behind the counter.

“Are you insane? Who are you hiding from?” she hissed.

“Trust me, it’s better you don’t know.”

“Well too late now! Stay put.”

She grabbed a broom from the corner and marched out. “Oi! This is a bookstore, not a protest ground! Go shout slogans somewhere else before I call the police!”

The leader of the group, a wiry man with an unwashed scarf, blinked at her. “Sorry, Didi,” he mumbled, and the group shuffled away.

Aarav peered out, astonished.

“You… you just dispersed a mob with a broom?”

“I disperse my landlord with the same broom every month. You’re lucky it wasn’t a rolling pin.”

Aarav burst into uncontrollable laughter.

In that moment — dusty bookstore, angry girl with a broom, and a Chief Minister hiding behind a counter — something shifted.

A strange warmth settled in his chest.

Maybe it was madness. Or maybe… it was fate.

...****************...

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Meera wasn’t the type to let anyone hide behind her counter — especially some stranger with shady sunglasses and a talent for attracting mobs.

The moment the protestors left, she turned to Aarav with crossed arms and fire in her eyes.

“Okay, Mister Secret Agent or whoever you are, what the hell was that?”

Aarav dusted himself off, still grinning. “I told you, it’s better you don’t know.”

“You’re hiding from protestors, you carry thousand-rupee notes for a 300-rupee book, and you’ve clearly never bargained with a sabziwala in your life. Who are you?”

Aarav considered his options. He could lie. But there was something about this girl — a kind of fearless honesty that made lying feel pointless.

He took off his sunglasses.

“My name’s Aarav.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Meera narrowed her eyes. “Well, Aarav Whatever-Your-Surname-Is, you owe me an explanation. And since my pastry stock was already wiped out by that sugar-loving monster over there—” she jerked her thumb at Chintu, who was now asleep with frosting on his cheek “—you can pay with a coffee.”

Aarav raised an eyebrow. “A bribe?”

“A punishment,” she smirked.

Ten minutes later, they sat at a corner table. Meera placed two cups down with a bang.

“Here. It’s on the house. So don’t think you’re special.”

“I wouldn't dare.” Aarav chuckled, taking a sip. He winced. “God, that’s bitter.”

“Good. It suits you.”

A beat passed. Then both of them burst out laughing.

“So, what do you do, Aarav?”

“I… work in government,” he said carefully.

She snorted. “Figures. You’ve got that ‘I’ll pass your file to the higher authority’ vibe.”

“You’re not exactly easy to impress, are you?”

“I leave that to Instagram influencers.”

Aarav found himself enjoying this strange conversation more than any cabinet meeting or VIP dinner he’d ever attended.

“What about you? Bookstore owner by day, vigilante by night?”

Meera leaned back, shrugging. “I run this café-bookstore. It was my dad’s dream. He passed away last year. Everyone told me to sell it off — said it doesn’t make enough money. But I like it. It’s quiet, it’s mine, and I don’t have to wear a blazer.”

Aarav smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

Just then, an old man with a tea-stained shirt wandered in. “Meera beti! One cutting chai, fast.”

“Coming, Ramesh Chacha!

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Ramesh Chacha — A wise tea stall owner and Aarav’s secret confidant

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She turned back to Aarav. “Excuse me, Minister of Mystery.”

As Meera moved to the counter, Aarav’s phone buzzed relentlessly. He glanced at the screen.

•19 Missed Calls: Lakhan Singh

•4 from Dadi :-Dadi (Savitri Devi) — Aarav’s grandmother, full of wisdom, warmth, and old-school humor

•3 from Ishita :- Ishita Mehra — Aarav’s press secretary, loyal but hides feelings for him

And one text from Lakhan:

“Sir, where the hell are you? Jaipur is on fire! Protestors, media, opposition — everyone’s looking for you!”

Aarav sighed, shoving the phone aside. Just five more minutes, he thought.

When Meera returned, she noticed the phone lighting up.

“Popular, aren’t we?”

“Work never leaves me alone.”

“You should try switching it off sometimes.”

Aarav grinned. “Maybe I will.”

“So tell me,” Meera said, eyeing him playfully, “why exactly were those protestors after you? Are you a tax evader, a crooked builder, or someone’s runaway groom?”

Aarav choked on his coffee, laughing. “None of the above.”

“Well, you’ve got one week to come clean. Otherwise, I’ll start guessing out loud, and trust me, my imagination is dangerous.”

“Deal,” Aarav chuckled.

As he got up to leave, Meera called out, “And next time, carry change, you snob!”

Aarav paused at the door, turning to face her. “Noted, Jhansi ki Rani.”

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped out into the street, the evening sun painting the sky orange.

From the café window, Meera watched him go, shaking her head but unable to stop smiling.

“Bua, who was that?” a sleepy Chintu mumbled.

“No one important,” Meera lied, ruffling his hair.

But something deep down told her — this wasn’t the last she’d see of him.

Not by a long shot.

\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*

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The next morning, Meera Sharma had completely written off the mysterious, no-change-carrying, sunglasses-wearing stranger from yesterday.

In her mind, he was just another rich, lost man passing through her world — and she had neither the time nor the patience for people like that.

Her day began as usual. Open shop. Scold Chintu for trying to eat cookies before breakfast. Brew a large cup of chai for Ramesh Chacha.

Business was slow in the mornings, which suited Meera fine. She could read in peace or argue with Chintu about why he couldn’t have a pet monkey.

Across the city, however, things were anything but peaceful.

Aarav Malhotra sat in his sprawling office at the CM residence, his face buried in files, his head pounding with the relentless complaints of ministers, journalists, and party members.

Lakhan Singh stood stiffly nearby, his mustache twitching in irritation.

“Sir, yesterday was… reckless,” Lakhan grumbled. “Do you realize the trouble you caused?”

Aarav waved a hand. “Yes, yes. I’ll apologize to the universe later. Right now, I need fresh air.”

Lakhan’s face turned the color of undercooked dal.

“Sir, no. No more secret outings. No more ditching security. And no more random bookstores!”

Aarav grinned. “Relax. I’m just going for a quick drive. No bookstore this time.”

And before anyone could stop him, Aarav was out the door.

Later that afternoon, on a busy Jaipur street

Meera was on her way to deliver some books to an old customer when she heard the unmistakable sound of screeching tires and angry shouting.

A small crowd had gathered ahead, and Meera’s curiosity, always a troublemaker, dragged her toward it.

What she saw made her heart skip a beat.

There, amidst a chaotic tangle of autorickshaws and angry street vendors, was the same sunglasses guy from yesterday — Aarav — cornered by two thugs.

“Give us your wallet, boss. No drama,” one of them growled.

Aarav, looking impressively annoyed for a man being mugged, sighed. “Look, I really don’t have time for this. Can we reschedule?”

The thug raised a stick.

Meera didn’t think twice.

“Oi!” she yelled, marching forward.

The crowd parted as Meera stormed through like an avenging goddess, armed with nothing but a grocery bag and an attitude.

“What’s going on here?”

The thugs hesitated.

“This fellow was bothering us, Didi,” one of them lied.

“Bothering you? He looks like he can barely find his way to a bus stop!”

Aarav smirked. “Nice to see you too, Jhansi ki Rani.”

The thug glared at Meera. “Mind your business, Didi.”

“Oh, it’s very much my business now,” Meera shot back, pulling out her phone. “Should I call the police or should we post your ugly faces on Facebook Live first?”

The threat worked like magic. The two goons mumbled curses and disappeared into the crowd.

The spectators, bored by the lack of bloodshed, wandered off.

Meera turned to Aarav, hands on hips.

“What is wrong with you? Are you some sort of trouble magnet?”

Aarav shrugged, grinning. “Seems like it.”

“You really need a GPS. And maybe pepper spray.”

“I was handling it.”

“Yeah, I saw. You were about to lecture them to death.”

Aarav laughed. He liked this girl more every minute.

“I owe you one… again,” he admitted.

“You owe me a lot more than that,” Meera grumbled. “A hundred rupees for the book discount, a decent coffee, and an explanation.”

Aarav sighed. “Okay, fine. Coffee now?”

“Forget it. I’m busy. But you owe me, Mister Mysterious.”

“Can I at least walk you home as a thank you?”

Meera narrowed her eyes. “I don’t take favors from men who attract street fights.”

“Then consider it me protecting you in case those thugs come back.”

Meera couldn’t help it — she smiled. “Fine. But one wrong word, and I’m calling your mother.”

Aarav chuckled, falling into step beside her.

As they walked through the bustling streets of Jaipur, dodging cows, cycle rickshaws, and overenthusiastic bangle sellers, Aarav felt something he hadn’t in years.

A strange, light, heart-thumping happiness.

He glanced at Meera, animatedly arguing with a shopkeeper about overcharging for lemons, and thought — God, she’s trouble. And I’m in so much deeper than I planned.

...****************...

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