Chapter 27 #2
Divya found her usual workspace, a folding table pushed against the far wall. She set down her bag, pulled out her notebook, prepared to slip back into her familiar rhythm of managing calls and schedules from the periphery.
Vikram went through his usual pre-shoot checks. Makeup touch-up. Hair confirmation. A quick run-through of dialogue with Farhan.
Then, fifteen minutes before the scheduled start time, he stopped mid-conversation.
"I need fifteen minutes," he announced.
Farhan blinked. "We haven't started yet."
"Fifteen minutes," Vikram repeated, already moving away from the main set. "I need to do something."
He walked directly to the craft services area with purpose, scanning the available supplies. The spot boy stood nearby, organizing breakfast items.
"Sir? Do you need something?"
"Fresh ginger. Cardamom pods. Loose tea leaves. Whole milk." Vikram started opening cabinets.
The spot boy’s confusion deepened. "Sir, I can get you tea."
"I'm making it myself. You can manage the breakfast. Sandwiches. Veg." He found the ginger, examined it, nodded approval. "Where's the cardamom?"
Word spread across the set like wildfire. Crew members found excuses to drift closer. The lighting team suddenly needed to check equipment stored nearby. Even the makeup artists abandoned their station to observe.
Vikram Khanna doesn't cook. Vikram Khanna is making chai. Himself.
Farhan materialized at his elbow, arms crossed. "What are you doing?"
"Making chai." Vikram measured water into a pot with careful precision.
"I can see that. Why?"
"Because I want to."
Across the set, Divya sat at her workspace, phone pressed to her ear, completely absorbed in conversation with a producer about Vikram's upcoming schedule.
Her back was to the craft services area.
She hadn't noticed the commotion, the gathering crowd, the way the entire crew had stopped working to watch Bollywood's highest-paid actor handle a tea strainer.
Vikram crushed ginger with the flat of a knife. Smoother this time. Two cardamom pods. The water reached its boil. He added tea leaves with Raju's voice echoing in his head: Three seconds. Not two. Not four.
The timing had to be precise.
He counted internally as the second boil approached. Pulled the pot from heat. One. Two. Three. Poured through the strainer.
The chai emerged the right color. The scent, ginger and cardamom balanced just so, made several nearby crew members inhale appreciatively.
He poured it into a clean cup, checking the color against the morning light streaming through the studio windows. Just right. The way Raju's had been.
Then he turned toward Divya's workspace.
The effect was immediate. The set didn't just quiet. It froze.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence. A lighting technician's hand paused over a switch. Even Farhan went still, watching with the intensity of a director witnessing something unscripted but flawless.
Forty people. Not breathing. Just watching.
Vikram crossed the set with measured steps, the cup held carefully.
Divya's voice floated across the distance, professional and efficient: "Yes, the fifteenth works. I'll confirm with him and send over the contract details by…"
He stopped directly in front of her workspace.
"Mrs. Khanna."
Two words. Delivered with quiet certainty.
Divya's pen froze mid-note. Her shoulders tensed. The voice on the phone continued talking, but she'd stopped listening. Slowly, she turned her head.
Her eyes found the cup first. Then they tracked up to Vikram's face. His expression serious, unreadable, offering the cup like it meant something beyond simple refreshment.
Then, finally, her awareness expanded. The frozen crew. The absolute silence. Forty pairs of eyes watching this moment unfold.
Her face cycled through emotions in rapid succession. Confusion. Shock. The beginning of understanding.
Vikram was holding out a cup of tea for her?
She looked back at Vikram, the phone still pressed to her ear, the producer's voice a distant buzz she no longer processed.
"What..." Her voice emerged barely above a whisper.
"Chai," he said simply, extending the cup closer. "For you."
"I'm... I'm on a call."
"Hang up."
The command was gentle but absolute. Not a request. An instruction that allowed no debate.
Her fingers shook as she lowered the phone. "I need to go," she said into it, cutting off the producer mid-sentence. "Something's come up. I'll call you back."
She didn't wait for a response. Just hung up, the producer's confused "Wait, what," cutting off as she set the phone down.
Her hands reached for the cup automatically. Her fingers brushed Vikram's as she took it, the contact lasting a heartbeat longer than necessary. The chai was warm against her palms.
She brought it closer, inhaling. Her breath caught. That scent. Ginger, cardamom, tea leaves. She knew that scent. The tapri chai.
Impossible.
She looked at Vikram again, questions forming that she couldn't articulate. He just watched her, waiting. The entire set waited with him.
Her hands shook as she raised the cup to her lips. The first sip hit her tongue and she gasped.
Exactly right. The balance of spice and sweetness that had made her walk fifteen minutes out of her way three times a day during college.
"How..." She couldn't finish the question. "This is... did you order it?"
"No."
"But it tastes just like..." She took another sip, needing confirmation. "This is from that tapri near college. How did you get it? How is it still hot?"
"I made it," Vikram declared, spreading his hand dramatically.
Divya's eyes went wide behind her glasses. She looked at Vikram. At the cup. At the crew who still stood frozen.
"You made this?" Her voice had gone higher. Thinner. "You learned... you actually..."
"I learned," Vikram confirmed. "This morning."
Her brain stopped working.
"How did you even know..." She stammered, professional composure completely abandoned. "Who told you about..."
"I have my ways." He leaned closer, his voice dropping so only she could hear. "Mrs. Menon sends her regards. And Raju as well."
Her face flushed. Then paled. Then flushed again, warmth rising from her neck to her cheeks in a wave she couldn't control.
Her hands trembled visibly. From something she couldn't name or process or defend against. The professional mask didn't just slip. It shattered.
A smile spread across her face before she could stop it. Wide. Genuine. Completely unguarded. The kind that transformed her features from merely pretty to radiant.
A small sound escaped her throat. Half laugh, half sigh of pure pleasure.
"It's perfect," she whispered. "Just perfect."
Vikram's expression softened into satisfaction. A smile. Real. Private.
Before the moment could stretch further, Farhan's loud laugh shattered the bubble.
"Unbelievable!" He approached with theatrical exaggeration.
"Vikram Khanna, highest-paid actor in Bollywood, making chai during production hours.
And that too for his wife." He grabbed Vikram's arm, physically pulling him away.
"Do you know how much your time costs? How much this delay is costing production? "
The teasing was obvious, but Farhan played it with enough drama to make the crew chuckle.
"Send me the bill," Vikram replied calmly. "I'll pay it."
"Oh, you'll pay." Farhan steered him toward the main set. "Unless you want to make chai for everyone now? Turn this into craft services duty?"
The suggestion hung in the air. Several crew members perked up, clearly hoping Vikram might actually agree.
Vikram stopped walking. Turned to face Farhan directly. His expression shifted. Warmth disappearing, replaced by something colder. Territorial.
"No."
The single word carried absolute finality.
"Come on," Farhan wheedled. "Just once,"
"This chai is for my wife." Vikram's voice dropped lower, temperature falling. "The rest of you have craft services. I'm not running a charity."
The declaration landed like a physical barrier. Clear. Possessive. Drawing a line no one would dare cross.
Farhan's grin widened, satisfied. He'd gotten exactly the reaction he wanted. The public moment of possessiveness that made everything impossible to misunderstand.
"Fair enough," he said, backing away with hands raised. "Your wife. Your chai. Got it."
At her workspace, Divya sat frozen. The cup burned warm against her palms. Around her, the set resumed its rhythm, but she remained trapped in stillness.
He'd made this. Vikram Khanna had learned to make chai. Her chai.
Her brain kept trying to process it. He'd learned this morning, he'd said. Which meant he'd gotten up before dawn. Found Raju somehow. Stood at that tapri and learned from scratch. Then came here. Made it fresh.
For her.
She raised the cup again, needing to confirm. The liquid touched her tongue. Ginger. Cardamom. Tea. Just right.
Her hands trembled. The smile wouldn't leave her face.
From across the set, Vikram watched her between scenes with Farhan. Noticed she hadn't set the cup down. Noticed the way her fingers traced its rim absently. Noticed the small smile that kept appearing.
Worth it. Every second of learning. Every failed attempt.
Completely worth it.
The morning filming proceeded. But the atmosphere had irrevocably shifted. The professional distance had dissolved.
Now there was just Vikram Khanna and his wife. And Divya sat at her workspace, holding an empty cup long after the chai had finished, feeling the ghost of its warmth against her palms.
The foundation of their relationship had shifted. Just enough that everything built upon it would now sit at a different angle.
This wasn't temporary anymore.