Today felt different, though couldn't quite put my finger on why. Like every other day, I woke up at 8, showered, and had breakfast, but there was an air of anticipation, as if today held something unexpected in store. My life had settled into a monotonous routine—college, ignored by classmates, home, eat, sleep, repeat. It's not the life I envisioned.

"Mom, I'm off to college!" I shouted after finishing breakfast.

"Wait, dear! You know, I was checking your Rashi today. It said something special is going to happen to you," Mom called back from the kitchen with a smile in her voice.

"Yeah, maybe I'll meet Shahrukh Khan today; then it'll be special," I joked, my inner fangirl came out. 

Mom chuckled as she disappeared into the kitchen, muttering about my obsession with Shahrukh.

Can you blame me? It's Shahrukh Khan! "Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge" set my expectations for men sky-high. Too bad I'll never experience something like that.

Gathering my books and bag, I slung them over my shoulder and headed out. The morning sun painted the streets with a golden hue as I reached for my scooty, Pushpa, and started the engine.

Halfway to college, Pushpa suddenly sputtered and came to a halt, emitting a troubling sound.

"Oh Kahna Ji, why today of all days?" I muttered, glancing at my watch.

"Today is Mitra Sir's Class. I'm in trouble!"

I'd be late for the first lecture if I had to get this fixed now. With a resigned sigh, I got off and began pushing Pushpa to the nearest mechanic.

The familiar clatter of tools echoed as I entered the repair shop, greeted by the smell of grease and engine oil.

I waited my turn in the parking lot, fidgeting with my phone to pass the time.

Suddenly, as I stood by Pushpa, pondering my missed lecture, a sleek car pulled up behind it.

Before I could react, the driver miscalculated, and with a sickening crunch, Pushpa crumpled beneath the weight of the collision.

Metal screeched against asphalt, and I watched in horror as Pushpa's headlight shattered and its wheels spun erratically.

Stunned and speechless, I stared at the wreckage, feeling a mix of disbelief and frustration. Then, a voice cut through the chaos from behind me.

"Send me the bill,"

I turned, startled, and found myself facing a strikingly obnoxious figure.

He towered over me, dressed sharply in a white shirt, black pants, and immaculate Armani shoes.

But it was his face that captured my attention—a perfect symmetry that seemed almost magical, with eyes of a deep, sunlit brown.

"Madam, are you alright?" A concerned bystander beside me asked, bringing me back to my senses.

My heart pounded in disbelief. This wasn't just any scooter lying in ruins; Pushpa was a cherished gift from my grandmother on my 18th birthday, it was my memory of her.

The panic of seeing her damaged brought a rush of emotions, mixing anger and distress.

As I stood there, struggling to comprehend the situation, murmurs of disapproval rose from the crowd of onlookers.

Some voiced their indignation at the reckless driving that led to this collision.

The man in front of me remained impassive, seemingly unaffected by the commotion he had caused.

Enraged by the man's careless demeanor, I approached him with simmering anger.

"Hey mister, are you blind?" I demanded, my voice trembling. "Didn't you see my scooter? Look what you've done."

"I know well enough how people like you, who think the entire city belongs to their fathers, operate," I continued, my words laced with indignation.

"What do you think of yourself?"

The bystanders murmured their disapproval, some echoing my sentiments with sharp rebukes at the man's recklessness.

Yet, he stood there unaffected, his expression unreadable amidst the growing tension.

God, I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to punch that handsome face. How could he cause so much damage and remain so cold, devoid of any remorse or emotion?

"Oh God, what am I going to tell my father?" My voice barely a whisper, struggling to hold back tears. The reality of the situation sank in deeper with each passing moment.

I stood there, seething with anger, as I shouted at him, "Excuse me, are you deaf? Or are you mute? What is your problem? All of this your fault! Are your eyes just for show or do they work?"

Before I could finish, he cut me off with a mocking smirk.

"Do you have a switch-off button? You're like a radio that won't shut off. And who is this Pushpa? Is your name Pushpa?"

My frustration boiled over.

"You may seem educated, but you talk like an ignorant person. Look at your audacity. You've damaged my Pushpa, my scooter, and now you're turning it around on me?"

"I told you to send me the bill, right?"
he continued dismissively.

"Don't make a scene over such a trivial issue. I don't have the time to deal with your scooter or whatever you call it. And seriously, who names their scooter Pushpa?"

He said it with such nonchalance, as if my distress meant nothing to him.
I could feel my hands trembling in anger and disbelief.

Pushpa wasn't just a scooter; she was a piece of my life, a gift from my grandmother. How could he dismiss it so casually?

"Oh, so you're too busy to take responsibility for your actions?" I retorted, my voice shaking with frustration.

"You've completely wrecked my Pushpa, and now you stand here mocking me? Do you even understand what you've done?"

His expression remained indifferent, which only fueled my anger further. I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. The urge to shout at him was overwhelming, but I needed a solution for Pushpa, not a confrontation with this arrogant man.

"Just fix my Pushpa, okay?" I said firmly, trying to keep my tone steady.

"I don't care about your time or your attitude. I just want my scooter back in one piece."

I could feel the stares of onlookers, some murmuring in agreement with me, others observing the standoff with curiosity.

But all that mattered right now was Pushpa, lying broken and battered on the pavement, and this man, who seemed determined to make things difficult for me.