It was still raining hard, and the darkness kissed the night.
Two friends in school uniforms sat quietly in front of a small roadside dhaba(stall).
Moments before arriving at the place on a bike, the two had already drawn a lot of attention. As they stepped in, nearly everyone present turned to look at them.
The bruises on their faces and the messiness of their clothes made it obvious that they hadn't had a good day.
For the onlookers, it was easy to assume what had happened.
Whispers began to circulate, but the curiosity didn't last long. People quickly formed their own assumptions and dismissed it as just another foolish brawl between hot-headed youths.
This place was nothing more than a modest hut. Its walls were made of bricks and sun-dried mud, and the roof was tiled with reddish clay that gave it a rustic look.
Wooden benches and tables, weathered by time and constant use, stood unevenly on the dirt ground. This gave the whole place a rugged charm that somehow added to its character.
Despite its worn-out appearance, the kitchen seemed surprisingly well-kept. The cooking area looked neat and organized. There were separate utensils used specifically for preparing and serving food, and each one appeared cleaner than Rohit had expected.
However, the washing counter nearby raised doubts in his mind. Rusted pipes dripped water over a stained concrete sink, and the setup made Rohit question whether any proper sanitization standards were followed at all.
Still, the dhaba was fully crowded. People had gathered in groups, some chatting loudly, while others sat quietly enjoying their snack meals with visible satisfaction. Yet, Rohit's mind remained wary.
This particular stall had become the only dependable tea stop near their esteemed school and also happened to lie along the main route connecting their city to Gurgaon. Because of that, it was almost always loaded with customers.
Without a doubt, it was a great location to do business—especially when there was no real competition around. That alone made it difficult for Rohit to judge its quality simply by observing its scale or popularity.
He glanced down at his cup of tea. It looked completely different from what he was used to in Japan. Back in Japan, tea culture was different as it was mostly available in powdered form or served via vending machines.
All one had to do was pay the amount, and the machine would either dispense a bottled or canned version, or prepare the tea right there and then for self-service.
But here, things were different. People mostly preferred milk tea, which Rohit considered a lingering legacy of what he personally saw as the silly habits left behind by the British. Yet, he had to admit that the aroma was at least refreshing.
He recalled the memories of his former owner's facial expressions. With each sip, the boy would exhale and sigh in visible contentment, clearly enjoying the drink.
Thinking that maybe the people around him were not faking their reactions, and trusting his memories, Rohit slowly reached out for the paper cup. His fingers brushed the cup's warm surface as he hesitated.
He thought to himself, 'At least it is warm. There won't be a case of germs still being active in here, right? Huh... just a sip. If it's bad, I will ..'
He paused, then finally took a careful sip. Immediately, he liked it.
He took another cautious sip, this time making sure not to burn his tongue, and again, it felt surprisingly enjoyable. Then, closing his eyes, he took a long slurp with practiced ease. That was when he truly felt it—the sweet taste of milk laced with the soft touch of elaichi.
"It's a unique taste," he murmured inwardly.
However, a curious voice dampened Rohit's mood. His friend Akhil's familiar smug tone reached his ears.
"You always make that face when you drink tea here. Hard to believe you've really lost your memories," Akhil said, trying to sound casual.
Rohit shot him a glare. "You still have time to joke around? Was the last round not enough for you?"
Akhil flinched. "No, no—I didn't mean it like that…"
Rohit, satisfied by the reaction, kept up the pressure. He sighed, masking his amusement with irritation. "Listen, you deep-shit. This is not a joke. Let me remind you that I'm in this mess because of you. So you better cooperate."
Akhil nodded meekly, shrinking back in silence.
Rohit took another sip of tea, then spoke again. "First of all, tell me what you think of my family. What do they think about me? How do they treat me? And don't even think of hiding anything—not a single thing." He emphasized the last part sharply.
Though Rohit had memories of his own, he wanted to cross-check them. He wondered whether Akhil knew something he didn't—or had been hiding something all this time. Now, with leverage on his side, Rohit intended to dig out whatever truth remained hidden.
The result was predictable. Akhil repeated what Rohit already suspected, almost like a well-trained parrot.
According to him, Rohit's adoptive mother—whom Akhil believed to be his real one—was unreasonably strict. She was a dominant woman who liked everything under control and managed the household with an iron grip.
Her elder daughter, Rohit's first sister, was described as gentle. But since she had been married off two years ago as a housewife, Akhil didn't know her well.
The second elder sister, however, was a different story. She was bossy and temperamental. Ever since she had taken interest in their father's business, she had become a near copy of the mother, both in behavior and attitude.
His father, on the other hand, was the only one who seemed to indulge Rohit. He happily spent money on him, granting every wish—though within some limits.
Still, Akhil cautiously added that despite their flaws, they all seemed to genuinely care about Rohit. If he ever needed help, he believed they would surely support him.
There were also the twin cousins, who had been sent by their uncle to live and attend the same school. For Rohit, they were nothing short of constant trouble. Akhil admitted even he preferred to stay out of their way.
Rohit smirked inwardly. The affection and care made more sense to him now. Based on his own investigation, he had learned that the gaming company owned by his adoptive father was, in fact, built on fraudulent paperwork.His real parents still held a larger share, and those shares were to be transferred to Rohit once he turned twenty.
It explained the pampering from his father—small gifts and gestures of warmth—while the rest of the family kept him under subtle control. The aim was clear: win his trust, keep him close.
He took another sip of tea and noticed Akhil's cup untouched.
"Drink your tea," Rohit said, giving him a side glance to avoid drawing attention. Then, after a pause, he leaned in and asked, "Okay, now about the scandal with the teacher. What exactly happened? How did you get into that mess?"
Akhil's eyes immediately clouded with shame. It was a topic he had long tried to avoid. But this time, he knew there was no escaping it. Rohit needed clarity, and Akhil needed his help.
He stammered, "It… it was a misunderstan—"
Rohit raised his hand, cutting him off. "I don't want a monologue or dramatic scene. Just tell me how it started. Who approached whom? Where did it happen? And most importantly, what exactly was recorded in the video?"
He leaned even closer, voice firmer. "If you want my help, don't skip anything. And keep it quick."
Akhil let out a heavy breath, then finally began to speak.