His Deewangi– The Mob Lord's Bride Born from Streets

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Yasmin’s POV

The morning light flickers through the torn curtain, forcing my eyes open.

I roll over and glance at the cracked screen of my secondhand phone—the only thing ...

I ever bought with my own hard-earned money.

The room around me isn’t much. Chipped walls. Holes in the floor.

Rust creeping along the window frame. But it’s mine. My space. My freedom.

Even if it means fighting for it every single second.

Since I can remember, life has been nothing but survival.

Selling pens on the road. Sleeping on footpaths. Eating stale, thrown-away food.

Drinking dirty water when I was lucky to find some.

That was me. A child abandoned before she even learned what “home” meant.

Should I blame the parents who didn’t want me? Cry about the family that never came back? No. What’s the point? If they didn’t need me, then I don’t need them either.

I’ve done every job the streets could offer—selling balloons, slippers, washing dishes, helping food vendors, carrying loads, even begging shopkeepers for a day’s wage.

I’ve fought off men with filthy eyes, survived animals and storms alike.

And through it all, I fed myself, clothed myself, protected myself.

So no, I’m not weak.

Yes, sometimes I cry when it gets too heavy. But only for a while. Because tears don’t feed you.

They don’t protect you. I wipe them away and keep moving, because life isn’t waiting for me to break.

And still, despite it all, I want to live. Not just breathe, but live.

That’s why I drag myself up, wear the same faded jeans with the ripped knees I once picked out of the garbage, pair it with my long kameez, and step out into the street.

I’m twenty-two now. My life is better than it was before.

I have a stable job—cleaning tables and taking orders at a new café in Chandigarh.

I had to beg the old owner to take me in, but he finally agreed.

He’s strict, but kind. He laughs a lot too… sometimes I wonder what there is to laugh about in this world.

But who cares? I need money. He gives it. That’s all that matters.

The truth is, I don’t have the luxury to dream of studying.

I’ve already learned enough from the streets—lessons harsher than any classroom could teach.

I don’t waste energy hating people, not even the disgusting old men in my apartment building whose lecherous stares burn my skin.

I’ve beaten some of them black and blue when they tried crossing the line.

It’s hell here. But even in hell, I’ve learned to fight.

Because I’m Yasmin. And I am strong.

While walking, I tell myself autos are a luxury I can’t afford.

Come on, even ten rupees is a lot for me. How can I waste it for a twenty-minute path?

So I keep walking.

My stomach twists, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything. But what’s new? I already spent everything on the room rent.

I have just twenty rupees left, tucked away like treasure,

And I can’t dare spend that too. Not today.

The footpath is crowded, but I’ve walked worse.

My legs ache, but compared to what I’ve gone through, this is nothing.

I tell myself it’s even good for health. Free exercise, right?

Finally, I reach the café. My aching body feels lighter as I push open the glass door.

Yasmin

“Assalamualaikum, Chacha,” **I greet with a smile.

Irfan chacha/cafe owner/

"walekum assalam"

Irfan Chacha isn’t that old, but still much older than me, so I call him chacha out of respect.

He nods, already busy at the counter.

I head straight to the storeroom, slip into the plain white apron, and then get to work.

Cleaning the floor, wiping down tables, scrubbing the windows until they shine—this is my routine.

Soon, customers begin to trickle in.

Irfan Chacha is famous for his chai and coffee. I’ve never tasted them myself, of course.

Spending money just for “taste” would be foolish when one proper meal a day is the real luxury I chase.

Energy—that’s what I need, not flavors.

As I move between taking orders and wiping tables, something unexpected happens.

Warm arms wrap around me from behind.

I freeze. A hug. Someone hugged me.

I turn, stunned, and find her—her face bright, her eyes sparkling. It’s been barely a week since I met her, and yet…

She hugs me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Do you know what’s funny? I’ve never been hugged before. Not like this. Not warm. Not gentle. Not real.

And it feels… good. Too good. Like I could melt into it and stay there forever.

I manage a small, polite smile, still not knowing how to react. She’s kind.

She talks to me every time she’s here.

She never treats me like the poor orphan girl in rags—I’m just Yasmin to her.

She’s Irfan Chacha’s granddaughter. Same age as me.

She just shifted here for her studies, and when she’s bored, she comes to help at the café. She speaks endlessly about her college, her friends, her little adventures. I don’t say much—I’m always guarded—but I listen.

I love listening. Her words are like pieces of a world I’ve never seen, and somehow, hearing them makes me want to see it for myself.

Her name is Aaliyah.

And maybe… just maybe… she’s the first real friend I’ve ever had.

Aaliyah

Talking to her nonstop, following her around**

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Author

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