Chapter 1 - Dostee Ki Dagar: Bandhanon Se Azaad

In the bustling lanes of Jaipur, where pink palaces whispered secrets to the desert wind, lived Rajveer Singh Rathore—a 20-year-old B.Com final-year student with dreams bigger than the Amber Fort. Raj was the golden boy of his joint family: topper in financial accounting, prepping for ACCA papers, and future MBA hopeful. His days blurred between ledger books, mock tests for SBI Clerk, and family poojas. "Beta, padhai karo, shaadi karo, business sambhalo," his father, a textile trader, would say, eyes stern like the city's ancient walls.Raj's world was mapped by rules. No late nights. No strangers. Caste mattered—Rathores only mingled with fellow Rajputs. And girls? Strictly for arranged rishtas after exams. But Raj craved more. He devoured motivational shayari on WhatsApp forwards: "Zindagi ek safar hai suhana, yahan kal kya ho kisne jaana." Late evenings, he'd sneak-watch Bigg Boss reruns on his phone, cheering underdog fights that mirrored his bottled-up rebellion.One dusty Diwali eve, as fireworks lit the sky like corporate profit charts, Raj escaped to his favorite chai tapri near Galtaji Temple. The stall, tucked under a banyan tree, served cutting chai with elaichi that chased away exam stress. There, sketching on a worn notebook, sat Meera Kumari—19, from the potter clan across the wadi. Meera's family molded clay diyas for Jaipur's markets, their hands etched with tradition. She was fire to Raj's ledger: wild curls, kohl-lined eyes, and dreams of art school in Delhi. No books for her—just freehand sketches of elephants marching through Hawa Mahal gates.Their eyes met over steaming glasses. Raj, shy, offered, "Bhaiya, ek aur cutting do." Meera glanced up, smiled. "Fireworks se darr lagta hai?" she teased, her laugh like monsoon bells."Nahi, bas soch raha hoon—ye roshni kitni temporary hai, jaise quarterly profits," Raj blurted, then blushed. Meera giggled. "Aur tu ledger boy lagta hai. Main Meera. Tu?""Raj. Student life, yaar. ACCA ka pressure." They chatted—about Bigg Boss fights (she loved Elvish's sass), shayari (he recited "Dostee woh jo dil se dil tak jaaye"), and Jaipur's chaos. One chai became two. By midnight, they'd shared numbers. Forbidden? Maybe. But that spark felt like Diwali mithai—sweet, irresistible.Days turned to weeks. Raj's routine cracked. Mornings: cost accounting classes at Commerce College. Afternoons: family lunch of dal-baati, lectures on "family honor." Evenings: secret meets at the tapri. Meera brought sketches—Raj as a turbaned king auditing a magical khazana. He shared ACCA notes, explaining debits like poetry: "Har galti ek lesson, credit side pe daalo."Their friendship bloomed like khejri trees in summer drought. Meera taught him freehand: "Zindagi straight lines nahi, curves banao." Raj introduced Bigg Boss clips—"Dekh, yeh twist! Jaise hamari mulakatein." Shayari flowed: "Dosti mein na jaat, na dharm; bas dil ka armaan." They laughed over her family's potter wheels—"Tere jaise smooth nahi, bumpy!"—and his dad's textile looms—"Fibers jaise hamari baatein, jud jaati hain."But shadows loomed. Raj's chacha spotted him once, near the temple. "Kaun thi woh ladki? Kumharon ki? Beta, sambhal!" Raj brushed it off. Meera's brother, Vikram, grumbled: "Art kar, par upar wale bacchon se door reh. Unka business, hamara haath ka kaam—alag rahein."One evening, rain lashed Jaipur like unpaid loans. Raj waited at the tapri, soaked. Meera arrived, clutching a clay diya. "Yeh tera—light your dreams." Inside it, a tiny sketch: them as heroes defying forts. Raj hugged it. "Meera, tu meri best plot twist hai."That night, Raj's phone buzzed. Father: "Ghar aao. Urgent." Heart pounding, he dashed home. The courtyard was tense—elders circled, chacha glaring. "Woh ladki kaun? Kal raat dekha! Kumharon se dosti? Humare khandaan ka naam kharab!"Raj froze. "Bas dost, Papa. Kuch nahi.""Dost? Jaise Bigg Boss mein dosti dikhaate hain? Yeh reality nahi, hamari sanskriti hai. Padhai pe focus karo—ACCA, MBA, rishta. Kal se phone de do!"Meera faced worse. Vikram stormed in, smashing her sketchbook. "Rathore ladke? Woh log humein niche samajhte hain! Tera future art mein, na unke business mein." Tears stung as Meera hid the diya. "Bhaiya, woh mera dost hai. Jaise tu mera."Word spread like Jaipur's gossip winds. Families clashed at the market—Rathores boycotted potter stalls, Kumhars whispered curses. Raj's funds froze: no coaching for IBPS Clerk mocks. Meera's paints vanished, brother locking her in. But texts flew: "Raj, fight kar. Shayari bol: 'Bandhan tod, udaan bhar.'"Raj wrestled inside. Duty vs. dostee. Nights, he pored over ledgers, but numbers blurred. Debit: Family rules. Credit: Meera's smile. He recalled human development lectures—rural artisans like Meera's kin fueled India's economy. Why hate?Two weeks in, Holi splashed colors, but their worlds stayed gray. Raj snuck out, colors smeared like war paint. At the tapri, Meera waited, face painted blue. "Happy Holi, ledger boy!" They hurled gulal, laughing till breathless. But Vikram's gang spotted them. Chase ensued—through gullies, past elephants.Raj hid Meera in an alley. "Bhag ja. Safe reh." She pressed the diya in his hand. "Yeh hamara promise. Dosti jeetegi."Back home, explosion. Father roared: "Bahut hua! Aaj se ghar se bahar nahi. ACCA drop, shaadi fix kal." Raj snapped. "Papa, suno! Meera kumhar nahi, artist hai. Jaise aapka business jaise rural development se chalta hai—unke haath se diyas ban jaate hain. Dosti jaat nahi dekhti!"Silence. Then slaps. Raj locked in room, phone smashed.Meera's side mirrored. Vikram: "Kal Rathore uncle se milenge—dosti todne ko." She pleaded: "Bhaiya, woh mera bhai jaise. Bigg Boss sikhata hai—evictions galat hote hain."Night fell. Raj stared at stars from window, reciting: "Dostee woh jo dil se dil tak jaaye, na ki samaj ke bandhanon mein bandhe." Meera's diya glowed faintly. He chipped the clay—inside, a note: "Galtaji, subah 5. Last chance."Dawn broke. Raj slipped out, heart racing like banking exam timer. Galtaji's monkeys chattered as he climbed. Meera there, bag packed. "Raj, Delhi ja rahi. Art fellowship mila. Tu?""Papa ne mana kiya. Funds gaye." Hug. Tears. "Par dostee nahi jayegi."Voices echoed—families converging, tipped by Vikram. Rathores vs. Kumhars, sticks raised like ledger errors. Raj stepped forward. "Ruko! Suno sab!"Crowd hushed. Raj, voice steady: "Yeh Jaipur hai—pink city of unity. Hum B.Com padhte hain, Indian economy sikhte hain. Rural development mein artisans jaise Meera ke parivaar backbone hain. Unke bina Diwali kaisa? Papa, aapka textile unke rangon se chamakta hai. Jaise auditing mein balance chahiye, zindagi mein bhi."Meera added: "Humari dosti forbidden nahi—future hai. Main art, woh finance. Saath mein Jaipur ko nayi roshni denge."Chaos peaked. Vikram lunged. But then—Raj's bua (aunt), eyes misty: "Ruko. Mujhe yaad hai... 40 saal pehle, maine bhi forbidden dosti ki thi. Ek Muslim ladke se. Aaj uska beta mera damaad." Gasps. Raj's father paled. "Didi?""Haan. Humne chhupaya, par seekha—traditions badalte hain, dil nahi."Vikram softened. "Meera ke sketches ne mujhe inspire kiya. Business ke liye designs chahiye."Tension cracked like Holi colors. Elders talked. Chai rounds later, truce. "Dosti allowed," father grumbled. "Par padhai first. ACCA clear kar."Raj-Meera hugged. Families parted as allies.Months flew. Raj aced ACCA Paper 1, blending Meera's sketches into presentations—financial art. Meera's Delhi fellowship shone; her diyas now in malls, Raj handling books. Weekends: tapri dates, Bigg Boss marathons, shayari slams. "Dosti ne badla sab, jaise balance sheet balanced."One year on, Galtaji reunion. Raj proposed collab: "Art-finance startup. Jaipur ke artisans ko global." Meera grinned: "Deal, partner."Jaipur's lanes buzzed brighter. Forbidden became family legend. Raj whispered: "Zindagi suhana safar, dost ke saath aur bhi pyara."