Chapter 1 – The Aroma of Biryani

The city of Kolkata always had its own music. Tram bells clanged in the distance, mingling with the faint honks of yellow taxis and the occasional call of a street vendor. From his balcony, Andrew could see the faint glow of the Howrah Bridge as dusk slowly painted the sky with streaks of orange and purple. This was home — crowded, noisy, a little chaotic, yet filled with warmth.

Andrew was twenty-seven, a Bengali boy with an old soul. He had lived near Howrah all his life, in a modest two-room flat his father had left behind. His neighbors called him bhodro chhele — the well-mannered boy — though he wasn’t exactly the traditional kind. Where most boys his age spent their evenings in cafés or cricket grounds, Andrew found peace in his kitchen.

Today, the kitchen smelled like heaven.

A large pot simmered on the gas stove, filling the flat with the rich aroma of spices. Andrew leaned over, stirring carefully as the golden-brown onions softened into sweetness. His sleeves were rolled up, his forehead damp with the steam. Cooking wasn’t a chore for him; it was a ritual.

“Shotti bolchi,” he muttered to himself, sniffing the cardamom pod before tossing it in, “today’s biryani has to be perfect.”

He wasn’t cooking for anyone in particular. No guests, no family — just himself. But that didn’t matter. To Andrew, food was memory. Every spoon of ghee, every sprinkle of saffron reminded him of Durga Puja feasts with his parents, of train journeys where his mother packed aloo chop and his father bought rosogolla from vendors yelling across compartments. Those days were gone, but through cooking, Andrew kept them alive.

The rice had been washed thrice, soaked, and now drained. The chicken had marinated overnight in yogurt, ginger-garlic paste, red chili, and a squeeze of lemon. He layered it all with precision: a base of rice, then chicken, fried onions, boiled eggs, and potatoes — because in Kolkata, no biryani was complete without potatoes. Finally, he sprinkled saffron-infused milk, letting the golden streaks bleed into the white grains.

He paused, inhaling deeply. The fragrance was intoxicating. Outside, the city buzzed on, but in his kitchen, time slowed.

Andrew hummed softly — an old Kishore Kumar tune — while sealing the pot with dough, trapping the flavors inside for dum. His neighbors might complain about the strong aroma later, but he didn’t care. For now, he had all he needed: the promise of a perfect meal, and the simple joy of creating it.

When the pot was left to rest, Andrew leaned against the counter and wiped his hands. His eyes drifted to the small television in the corner of the living room, where a music channel played. A celebrity interview was running — a familiar face smiling at the cameras, answering fan questions. Andrew glanced at it absentmindedly, not knowing how, very soon, that face would become the center of his world.

But for now, it was only about biryani, and the boy who found happiness in making it.

Chapter 2 – Tom (Part 1)

The cameras always found him first.

Bright flashes burst across the lobby of the Grand Mumbai Hotel as Tom stepped out of the black car, adjusting the cuff of his white blazer. At just twenty years old, he had already learned the rhythm of this world — chin up, shoulders straight, smile soft but confident. His face, smooth and almost childlike, had become one of the most recognizable in India. Some called him baby cute, others called him the face of the new generation.

But behind the gloss of the cameras lay a story that had begun far away, in a different country.

Born in England

Tom was born in London on a quiet winter morning. His parents, Gujaratis from Ahmedabad, had moved to England for work years before he was born. His father drove a cab; his mother worked part-time at a local store. They didn’t have much, but they gave Tom everything they could.

London shaped him in small but lasting ways. He grew up bilingual, speaking Gujarati at home, English at school, and later picking up French with remarkable ease. His teachers often smiled at the way he pronounced French words so cleanly, like he had lived in Paris. He loved performing in class — whether it was a poem recital or a play, Tom shone on stage.

He was the boy with the innocent face and unusual confidence. By the time he was twelve, strangers would stop his parents on the street and say, “Your son should be in movies.” His mother would laugh it off, but Tom quietly believed them.

Settling in India

When Tom was fifteen, his family decided to return to India. His father longed for home, his mother missed the smell of Gujarati thepla in her neighborhood, and Tom… well, Tom was excited. He wanted to see the land his parents spoke about in stories.

They settled in Mumbai, the city of films, glamour, and endless crowds. At first, Tom felt out of place. His accent was too sharp, his manners too Western. Classmates teased him, calling him “firangi.” But slowly, he blended in. His Gujarati roots helped, and soon he was switching effortlessly between Hindi, Gujarati, English, and French.

People noticed him everywhere. At malls, at cafes, even walking down Marine Drive — heads turned. Modeling scouts began approaching him. At sixteen, he did his first photoshoot: a small clothing brand ad. By seventeen, he was walking on ramps for fashion shows.

The Rise of a Model

What set Tom apart was not just his looks but the aura he carried. Photographers said his face “spoke,” that he didn’t just pose, he told a story with his expressions. His cuteness wasn’t childish — it had a magnetic pull.

Soon, he was on hoardings across cities: perfume ads, clothing lines, watches, even luxury cars. His social media exploded. Boys envied him, girls adored him, and brands wanted him.

Then came the movie offers.

The Bold Step into Films

Tom chose carefully. His debut was not the typical romantic drama or action flick. Instead, he signed an LGBTQ+ film — a bold choice in India, where such topics still drew mixed reactions.

The film told the story of two young men finding love against societal odds. Tom played one of the leads. His soft features and expressive eyes brought vulnerability and strength to the role. The film was praised in international festivals and caught the attention of critics at home.

Not everyone approved. Some called him “too bold,” some questioned his choices. But Tom didn’t care. He believed in the story. And the more controversy swirled, the more famous he became.

The Craze

By twenty, Tom was everywhere. His interviews played on television, his ads dominated billboards, and his face smiled from magazine covers. Fans screamed his name at airports. Boys and girls both confessed their crushes on him openly. Memes, fan edits, fan clubs — his world was a whirlwind of admiration.

But fame was a strange companion. The lights never dimmed, and the noise never stopped. Tom smiled at the cameras, but at night, in the silence of his penthouse, he sometimes wished for just one real conversation, untouched by glamour.

The Parallel Thread

That evening, as Tom gave yet another interview — this time for a perfume brand campaign — his face appeared on hundreds of television screens across India.

In one small flat near Howrah, Kolkata, a young man named Andrew looked up from his cooking, his kitchen filled with the scent of biryani, and saw Tom’s smile flicker on his old TV.

Two lives, worlds apart, had just brushed against each other — and neither of them knew how dangerously close those worlds would one day collide.

Chapter 2 – Tom (Part 2)

The lights of the city never slept, and neither did Tom, or at least, that was what it felt like.

Behind the flashes of cameras, the endless interviews, and the fan madness, there was a part of Tom that remained unseen. A fragile, quiet part — the part that remembered nights he wished he could erase. Nights with Alex.

Alex.

The name itself carried both warmth and dread. He was the reason Tom had stepped into the industry, yes, but also the reason for the shadows that sometimes clouded his smile.

Alex had been there from the beginning. The first photoshoots, the first modeling contracts, the first movie audition — it was Alex who had pushed him, guided him, opened doors that would have remained forever closed. And for that, Tom owed him everything.

But Alex had another side. The side that demanded more than professional loyalty. That whispered into Tom’s ear, always, “Sleep with me, baby.”

Tom’s father had died when he was only fifteen, and his uncle Eti had taken responsibility for him. Eti was kind, yes, but he didn’t understand the world Tom had stumbled into. He was worried about Tom, always. He warned him of predators in the industry, of people who would use Tom’s looks, his charm, and his dreams against him. But in those first few years, Tom didn’t know how to refuse Alex.

At first, it had seemed harmless — just a way to survive in a cutthroat world. But over time, it became a burden. Nights spent with Alex left a hollow ache inside Tom, a part of him that whispered: This isn’t love. This isn’t life.

For the past few days, Tom had refused Alex. Quietly, carefully, he avoided the late-night calls, pretended to be busy, even left sets early. But Alex was persistent, clever, manipulative. He promised changes, new boundaries, gifts, attention — anything to sway Tom back. And yet, none of it worked.

Tom knew he had to stand firm. The industry could make him a star, yes, but he didn’t want to lose himself in the process. His fame was his own now, and he would not hand over the parts of himself he still owned.

Evenings were the hardest. After a long shoot, after the applause, the camera flashes, the fake smiles, Tom would lie awake in his penthouse, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of Mumbai traffic. Alex’s voice would echo in his mind, insistent, seductive, always asking. And yet, for the first time in years, Tom felt the strength to say no.

Eti had always told him: “A man who respects himself will never let anyone take his soul for granted. Fame is nothing if you lose who you are.”

Tom held on to those words like a lifeline. He remembered the nights he cried quietly, the letters he never sent, the dreams he had carefully hidden from the world. He was twenty, yes, and famous beyond imagination. But he was also alone. And that loneliness was both terrifying and liberating.

Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to meet someone who adored him for him — not his fame, not his face, not his body. Someone who saw Tom, the boy behind the camera flashes, the boy who had lost his father and relied on an uncle’s love, the boy who was brave enough to say no.

Alex’s influence had given him industry access, yes, but Tom’s heart had grown wary. He had tasted freedom, and he would fight for it, even if it meant pushing away the one person who had built the bridge to his dreams.

And in the quiet hours, Tom allowed himself a small, forbidden thought — maybe, just maybe, the person who truly understood him was still out there somewhere. Someone who didn’t know his name, didn’t care about his fame, someone like… a stranger he would one day meet.

He shook his head, trying to chase the fantasy away. Focus. Work. Shoot. Smile. Fame was loud, unavoidable, but Tom was learning to be louder, to hold his own in a world that tried to own him.

The night stretched on. Outside, the city lights shimmered on the glass of his window. Inside, Tom felt something shift — a small but firm seed of independence.

He would not be Alex’s pawn anymore. He would not be anyone’s.

He was Tom. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

Chapter 2 – Tom (Part 3)

The room was quiet, save for the hum of the ceiling fan. The city below Mumbai’s skyline pulsed with neon and headlights, oblivious to the private battles fought in penthouses and apartments alike.

Tom sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the floor. His phone buzzed — another message from Alex. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to answer. And yet, a part of him knew that refusal was pointless.

He slipped quietly into Alex’s waiting arms later that night. It wasn’t about desire. Not anymore. It was routine, survival. The instructions were clear, the orders unspoken but unmistakable: follow, comply, appease. And Tom did, quietly, mechanically, like a ghost moving through someone else’s world.

Inside, he was screaming.

Every touch, every whispered word, felt like another layer of his soul being chipped away. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them back. No one could know. Eti didn’t, the world didn’t, not even himself sometimes.

He cried inside, the sobs hidden behind the calm face he presented to Alex. He imagined calling for help, running away, leaving the industry, leaving Alex, leaving everything. But the fear of losing his dream, the fear of being forgotten, silenced that part of him.

Alex, as always, spoke softly, coaxingly, insisting that Tom was lucky, that he owed this, that this was how the world worked. And Tom, obedient and beaten down, let him.

He lay there afterward, staring at the ceiling, tears finally spilling over in solitude. Each drop felt like both release and punishment. The room smelled faintly of cologne, warm skin, and the metallic scent of his own despair.

He remembered his father, the brief memories of laughter, the stern but loving gaze that always made him feel safe. Father, who had protected him, was gone. Uncle Eti did what he could, but he wasn’t here, wasn’t able to shield Tom from the complicated, predatory world he had entered.

For hours, Tom just lay there, letting his mind drift between guilt and fear, between longing and hopelessness. The industry had given him fame, wealth, recognition — but at what cost? Each accolade felt hollow now, each fan scream a reminder that nobody knew the real him.

By dawn, he would put on his mask again — the perfect smile for interviews, the dazzling energy for photo shoots, the charm for fans and media. But inside, Tom knew the truth: his soul felt heavy, and the loneliness was eating away quietly, relentlessly.

And yet, a tiny ember of defiance flickered somewhere deep inside. He didn’t know how to protect it fully yet. He didn’t know when it would grow. But it was there, whispering that one day, he might stand tall, even if it meant defying Alex completely.

For now, he followed orders. For now, he cried quietly.

Chapter 3 – Andrew’s Obsession

The room smelled faintly of incense and old paper. Posters covered every inch of the walls: Tom’s smiling face on billboards, advertisements, magazine covers, and stills from his movies. Some were neatly pinned, others taped with little care, edges curling, corners torn. The chaos somehow mirrored Andrew’s mind.

Gaurav, Andrew’s best friend since school, let out a low whistle as he stepped into the room.

“Bro… what is happening in here?” he asked, trying to step over a pile of Tom’s posters that had fallen onto the floor.

Andrew didn’t even look up. He was kneeling in front of the largest poster — a full-body shot of Tom in a black leather jacket, eyes sparkling at the camera. Andrew leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the glossy paper.

“Bro… seriously? Again?” Gaurav groaned, massaging his temples. “You can’t just keep… you know, worshipping a poster. It’s getting crazy now.”

Andrew’s eyes shone with a mix of passion and delirium. “Crazy? Gaurav, you don’t understand. He’s… he’s perfect. Every smile, every gesture… it’s like he’s looking at me through the screen. I… I love him.”

Gaurav flopped onto the bed, surrounded by posters that fell off the walls. “Love? Dude… it’s a poster. A celebrity. A… TV star. You’ve never even met him! And yet, here you are, drooling over cardboard.”

Andrew ignored him. He carefully straightened another poster, brushing his fingers across Tom’s face, a shiver running down his spine. “One day… one day he’ll know me. He’ll see me. And when that happens… everything will change.”

Gaurav groaned louder. “Bro, please. Can we just eat first? You’ve been standing here talking to him for… what… two hours? We’re going to the dhabha, come on.”

Andrew reluctantly peeled himself away from the wall, his fingers tracing Tom’s jawline one last time before he left. But as soon as he reached the doorway, he turned back, pressing a dramatic, whispered kiss onto the poster.

“Stay safe, my love,” he murmured.

Outside, the Kolkata streets were alive with the evening crowd. The smell of street food, the hum of conversations, the faint scent of the river breeze — nothing compared to the chaos in Andrew’s mind. His thoughts were consumed entirely by Tom. Every step, every glance at passing strangers, every flash of neon light reminded him of him.

“Bro, you’re acting… I don’t even know, man. Creepy?” Gaurav muttered, following behind. “You talk about him like he’s… like he’s real. Like he’s living in our flat or something.”

Andrew smiled, a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. “He is real, Gaurav. He’s alive, he’s out there, and he’s mine… mine someday. You’ll see.”

Gaurav threw his hands in the air. “I swear… one day your obsession is going to scare a girl away, or worse… get you arrested!”

Andrew just laughed softly, the sound like a little melody of madness. His heart raced as he imagined meeting Tom, touching him, speaking to him — and somewhere deep inside, a little voice whispered: This isn’t enough. I need more. I need him closer.

And as the duo reached the dhabha, Andrew’s gaze flickered to a passing poster on a shop wall — Tom’s smiling face staring back at him. He stepped forward, whispering under his breath, “Soon… very soon, you’ll know me.”

Gaurav groaned yet again. “Bro… I give up. You’re officially insane.”

Andrew just grinned, unbothered, lost in his obsession, as if the entire city had melted away, leaving only him and the object of his undying, chaotic, lust-filled devotion.

✨ That’s Chapter 3, focusing on:

Andrew’s obsessive love for Tom

His messy, poster-filled room

His humorous dynamic with Gaurav

Hinting at escalating lust and craziness