The Star Kid

By Garima Joshi

The alarm rang at 6 a.m. Janvi stepped out of her single-room paying guest accommodation into a morning thick with fog and a chilly wind that ripped straight through the door.

“Bloody hell,” she groaned, zipping up her hoodie. Delhi winters had always been harsh. It was just that a year ago, she could rejoice in these misty mornings, walking in the lush green lawns of North Campus without much worry.

So much has changed since.

As she bent to pick up The Hindu from her balcony, the newspaper guy rang his classic bell.

“Madam,” he called out, “Aaj khane ka jugaad khud kar lena. Tiffin wala nahi aayega!” (Arrange food for yourself. Tiffin won’t be delivered today.)

She shot him a look. “Kyun?” (Why?)

“Uski maa beemar hai. Hospital gaya hai,” he replied. (His mother is unwell. He has gone to the hospital.)

She nodded, which for him was a green signal to leave.

Its okay. Anyway, it was just Kadhi-chawal and I don’t even like it, she told herself.

Thus began the ritual: forty-five minutes of yoga, then a bath, then self-made breakfast, then study till her head hurt. She slid into the chair at her cramped study table, shuffled past the front page, and flipped straight to the editorial section.

On her way down the stairs to the common room to fill her water bottle, she heard a tiny squeal through the door.

“The return of the rat,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

But when she sat back down and tried to read, something felt off. There was no chatter from the hallway, but it wasn’t the usual quiet either. The air felt... wrong. 

She gripped a broom and let her investigative mind prowl across the room. “I have literally gone mad,” she whispered to herself, holding her head as sweat started to gather at her temples. “This is what it does. Do hell with my life.”

In no time, she started crying and then banged her palm on the table. “Calm down, Janvi. Calm down.”

She chanted a few self-help lines under her breath and stepped out to the balcony for fresh air.

“Ahhhhh!”

The scream tore out of her when she saw the intruder. Only this time, it wasn’t a rat.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” she demanded, staring at the young man half-hidden inside an old drum.

She rushed back in, grabbed the broom like a weapon, and marched back out. “Tell me. Who are you?”

The young man, equally terrified, slowly lifted his head from the drum and raised both hands in surrender. “Don’t hit me. I’m a good guy,” he pleaded.

“How did you even get here?”

“Through the pipe,” he said. “It was the only way I could survive.”

“Then go back through the same way,” she ordered.

“Please,” he begged, “let me stay here for some time. I’m innocent.” He stood up, patted down his pockets, and turned them out. “Look, I don’t have any weapons!”

“I don’t care. You barged into my room and I am calling the police right now.”

Terrified, he leapt out of the drum and snatched her phone.

“You can’t call the police!”

“Give my phone back!” she shouted.

“I will,” he said, voice shaking. “But please don’t call them.”

He paused, then lowered his voice.

“They’re already after me.”

Janvi blinked. “You’re a fugitive?”

Up close, he didn’t look like the kind of boy who crawled through pipes. Clean-shaven. Decent clothes. Fair skin. And then she noticed his wrist.

Rolex.

“Who are you?” she asked again, this time staring directly into his eyes.

The boy swallowed. “Do you know industrialist Yash Mehra?”

“What? Of course. Who doesn’t.”

“I’m his son,” he said quietly.

The ground slipped beneath her.

“You’re Kabir Mehra? Yash Mehra and actress Anamika Khanna’s son?” she gasped.

“Yes,” he said, almost shamefully.

“Give my phone back. I won’t tell the police,” she said, gentler now, trying to take him into confidence.

He hesitated, then slowly handed the phone over.

Janvi immediately Googled his name to confirm what her pulse already knew.

It was really Kabir Mehra.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, the broom slipping from her hand.

“I’ll tell you the whole story,” he said, teeth chattering. “But please let me in first. I’m shivering like hell here.”

Only then did she notice he was wearing just a T-shirt. She grabbed her jacket and threw it at him. “Wear this. It’ll warm you up.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, managing a brief smile.

Janvi went into the tiny kitchen and returned with two chipped mugs of hot coffee.

“So,” she said, settling across from him, “where shall we begin?”

Kabir rubbed his hands together, as if trying to work warmth back into his bones.

“I was partying at a club with my friends,” he began. “The police got some information and barged in. They said someone was doing drugs. A lot of people escaped in time, but I got caught. They tried to force me into an instant drug test. The cop recognised me. I knew I was gone. I panicked, pushed him aside, and ran for the exit with everything I had.”

He took a deep breath.

“I just kept moving. I didn’t even know where I was going. Buses. Trucks. Autos. I landed in Delhi somehow. Then I saw a policeman in the colony and assumed he was after me. I had no option but to climb up the pipeline.”

He exhaled, guilt and adrenaline still fresh on his face. “I’m really sorry for all the trouble.”

Janvi sat very still. Honestly, she was still trying to process the chaos of the last half hour.

The wind blew the newspaper off the desk. It landed face-up beside her.

FAMOUS INDUSTRIALIST YASH MEHRA’S SON CAUGHT IN DRUGS CASE, ABSCONDING.

If only I had read the front page, she thought.

“Never mind,” she said. “This morning has been a pretty decent adventure.”

“But I didn’t do any drugs!” he burst out. “They’re lying. They just want to frame me for publicity.”

“What will you do now?” she asked.

“I’ll find a way to get out of the country soon,” he said. “Then I’ll come back when it all dies down.”

“Just rich people things,” Janvi muttered.

By now it was around 10:00 a.m., and Kabir’s stomach was growling so loudly that even God would have heard it.

“Do you have something to eat?” he asked desperately.

“Umm… tiffin’s not getting delivered today and I don’t think there’s anything in the kitchen. So I guess we’ll have to order.”

“Wait. I think I can do something.”

Kabir walked straight into the tiny kitchen and opened the fridge. A few vegetables blinked back at him, sad and cold.

“Just order some cheese,” he told her. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Are you sure?” Janvi asked, genuinely perplexed.

He nodded. Then he went into full action mode. He kneaded the dough with confident hands. He chopped the vegetables with clean, practiced precision. He sautéed them just right, folded them with cheese and sauce, and rolled them up into perfect, golden Frankies.

He wrapped one in butter paper, placed it neatly on a plate, and handed it to Janvi—who had been watching the entire performance from the doorway as if she’d accidentally tuned into a cooking show.

“Here you go.”

She took the first bite and froze.

“It’s the best Frankie I’ve ever had,” she said, eyes wide.

Kabir’s cheeks stretched into a grin. “I knew it.”

He quickly prepared more rolls. They carried the plates back to her room like contraband.

“You know,” he said, his mood dipping a little as he finished the last bite, “I wanted to be a chef. Open my own restaurant.”

“So what’s stopping you? Money?” she teased.

“Make all the fun you want,” he said, half laughing, half bitter, “but it’s easier said than done. My family runs heavy industries. Do you think they’ll ‘allow’ me to be a chef and open something as insignificant as a restaurant?”

“But you can, if you have the money,” Janvi argued. “Maybe as a side business.”

“It’s not just that. They don’t care about what I want. For them it’s like—if you want to expand, go into petrochemicals or renewable energy. Why a restaurant when there are already so many?”

“They’re not entirely wrong if you see it practically,” she said. “Luxury restaurants are mostly owned by film stars. Solar energy and windmills are actual forces to reckon with.”

“I agree,” he said softly. “But should that decide how I dream?”

That quiet conviction in his voice caught her off guard.

Just then, Janvi’s phone buzzed. “Maa” flashed on the screen.

“Stay quiet,” she warned Kabir.

“Hello maa. Haan, studies are going well. Haan, tiffin bhi de gaya tha,” she lied automatically. “Acha, Papa se kehna 5000 rupees bhej dein. Kuch books khareedni hain.” (Yes, I got the tiffin as well, Tell papa to send me five thousand rupees. I have to buy some books.)

Her mother then wandered into updates about neighbours and relatives. Janvi nodded through all of it with polite “hmm”s and “achha”s, but her mind was elsewhere. After a few minutes, she cut the call.

“Are you still in college?” Kabir asked curiously.

“No. I graduated two years ago. Economics Hons from a top-tier college. I’ve been preparing for UPSC since then.”

“Oww, the OG government exam,” he said. “I’ve heard people waste years for what, like a 0.1 percent chance?”

“Only because they don’t have as many resources as you,” she shot back.

“Hey, stop mocking me,” he said playfully, nudging her shoulder.

“What? It’s true,” she retorted.

“Look at yourself,” he said. “You could’ve been working in some MNC or doing an MBA. You can’t blame the government or the number of seats when you choose something for yourself.”

“Well, it’s more than that,” she said, leaning back. “From where I come from, it’s more about prestige than money. IAS officers are respected and hailed, while a 50 LPA MBA grad is just another guy.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But do you really want to do this?”

“One hundred percent,” she said. “I’ve seen girls struggle for basic education. I’ve seen women themselves pray for the male child. I have seen the labourers suffer. Only IAS officers are the ones people look up to in our place. It’s a long road, but I want to do this. Even if it’s 0.1 percent of the total.”

“I feel a little jealous of how sorted you are in life,” Kabir said quietly. “For you it’s just about clearing the exam, and all the jigsaw pieces will fit right in.”

“For all the ifs, there are whens,” she replied. “Maybe I’m not. There’s a ticking time bomb, you know? I can’t spend my whole twenties chasing an exam.”

His hand went instinctively to hers, like muscle memory that shouldn’t exist yet. “I know you will,” he said. She looked into his eyes, and something shifted. This time there wasn’t suspicion—only a firm belief in his genuineness. Their eyes held for a few seconds. Then Janvi, suddenly aware of herself, pulled back.

“I need to go for a study session at my friend’s house,” she said. “I’ll be away for a couple of hours.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “Just lock me in. I’ll be comfortable.”

“I’m surprised by the trust you have in me.”

Kabir smiled briefly. “That’s nothing compared to what you’ve done for me.”

When Janvi returned from her study session, Kabir was still in the room, quietly sitting on the chair with one of her economics books open.

“I had no gadgets,” he said lightly, “so I thought I might as well make some use of my new friend’s obsession.”

“So we’re friends now, are we?” she said.

“Or maybe more,” he whispered slyly, then laughed it off.

As the night approached, Janvi smuggled a spare mattress from an empty room down the hall. She laid a fresh bedsheet on it and tossed him one of her spare blankets. “Woah. Thanks a ton,” Kabir said, and jumped straight on the bed.

“Hey mister, get off the bed,” she snapped. “You’ll sleep on the mattress. It’s my room.”

Realising his stupidity, he scrambled off in embarrassment. “I forgot I’m living on your alms. But just so you know, I have no money. I can’t pay you back for anything I owe you.”

“You do know I could rob you and you still wouldn’t be able to complain, right?” she joked, eyes flicking to his Rolex.

Days passed like weeks.

To her own surprise, Janvi was no longer wary of a guy living in her room. Kabir was more respectful and organised than anyone she had ever met. He adjusted to her routine like a shapeshifter—quietly melting into a corner whenever she studied. He cooked like a dream. He cleaned up after himself. He said thank you.

Kabir, for his part, was more than grateful. He had never felt this… seen. For all the nuisance he had been through, to actually have someone to trust was a miracle. His only worry was how long she would let him stay.

“Hey, what are these candles doing up there?” Kabir asked one evening, stretching to bring down a set of beautiful scented candles from the top kitchen shelf.

“How dare you touch them? Put them back!” Janvi snapped so hard and Kabir’s hands shivered as he placed them exactly where they were. 

“Why do you have to snort your nose up everything?”

Kabir froze. Her tone had shifted so fast it rattled him. 

“I was thinking of cooking Manchurian and Schezwan fried rice for dinner today,” he said carefully. “Okay?”

“Whatever. I’m okay with anything,” she muttered.

“Hey, easy,” he said softly, trying to calm her.

But she jerked away, swallowed by a wave of emotion he couldn’t read. They didn’t talk for the entire evening after that. Kabir busied himself cooking. Janvi studied harder than she had in weeks — or at least she pretended to.

Later, Janvi went into the kitchen to fill her water bottle. Kabir had just finished cooking. Their eyes didn’t meet.

And then, without warning, the room dropped into darkness.

“Shit! The light is gone,” Janvi yelped.

“Is that a regular phenomenon here?” Kabir asked, a little panicked, having never experienced a power cut in his life.

“There must be some fault!” she said, voice rising. “Oh God. The inverter’s dead too.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “We can survive a few minutes with the flashlight.”

She checked her phone. 29 percent battery. Her throat tightened. She knew she couldn’t live like this for long.

“Get the candles,” she said.

“What candles?” he asked, confused.

“The ones we fought over,” she said, quietly this time.

“Are you sure?” His voice was low now too.

“Just get them,” she nodded.

Kabir carefully climbed up, fetched the candles, and lit them one by one. Outside, the rain had started hammering down, which meant the electricity would probably be out for hours.

Janvi dragged her bed table to the floor and set out two plates for dinner. Kabir placed the bowls. The soft flame flickered across their faces, painting warm light into a cold room.

“These candles,” Janvi said softly, after a few minutes of eating, “were the last souvenir of my ex-boyfriend.”

Kabir looked up in surprise.

“We were together for four years,” she said. “The most inseparable couple in our college.”

“Then he left you for someone else,” Kabir guessed.

“No,” she said quietly. “I left him.”

Kabir blinked.

“When I failed UPSC the first time, I blamed it on our relationship. On him. I thought I could never prepare well if I stayed with him. I was the selfish one. He tried to stop me...” Her eyes went glassy but she held herself together. “Then I failed again. Even without him.”

She let out a breath that sounded like it had been locked in her ribs for months.

“Before you came,” she admitted, “I hadn’t smiled in a month. I had let myself down on every front. I was always the topper. Second to none. Look at me now.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. “You are still the topper Janvi. You had the guts to let go of a long relationship when it started choking you. Not many people have this level of maturity.”

He paused for a second as if enduring a lot of pain. “Some relationships are best left buried. I’ve seen that pretty close. My parents aren’t together.”

“What?” she blurted, shocked. “Your parents? Yash Mehra and Anamika Khanna?”

“Hell yeah,” he said bitterly. “It’s been a secret for a long time. They’ve been living separately for five years. Mom had to prioritise family after marriage and her film career went on a long, forced hiatus. Aspirations collided with insecurities and love faded away like thin air. The cracks were so deep they couldn’t be salvaged. Separation was still okay, but I couldn’t bear the idea of them actually getting divorced. You will hear it in the news very soon.”

“That’s why you did drugs that night,” Janvi said, softly but certainly.

“What?” His head snapped up in shock.

“I knew it the moment I caught you,” she said. “I knew you were lying.”

Kabir lowered his head in shame. “Well... I wasn’t going to, but I was feeling really low and my friends pushed me to ‘just try once’. That very night I was caught.”

“But you still are wrong,” she said gently. “You know that, right?”

Kabir didn’t answer. He stared at the candlelight instead.

“And what should I do now?” he finally whispered. “The police scrutiny. The media. They’ll eat me like vultures.”

Janvi scooted closer and put her hands tightly on his arms.

“You cannot live here forever, Kabir.”

He breathed out. “I know.”

As the candlelight painted their silhouettes, instinct moved faster than thought. Their faces tilted toward each other, and their lips met in a slow, helpless, aching kiss.

For a moment, time just dropped.

Then Janvi, being who she was, pulled herself back before it could go any further.

“I cherish every bit of this moment, it's special,” Kabir whispered. “I somehow enjoy being stuck with you.”

“I like you too,” she admitted, voice barely audible. “But this is the stuff of dreams, and we would be rotting in hell if it turned to reality.”

The next morning, Janvi went out to pick up groceries.

A few policemen were hovering around her building. One of them stopped her.

“Have you seen this guy?” he asked harshly, showing her Kabir’s photo. “We got a lead. He’s hiding somewhere around.”

Janvi froze.

A fugitive. She had spent her days with a fugitive. She knew enough Indian law to be terrified — harbouring someone on the run could get her tangled in it too.

“Oh hello, madam, so gye kya?” the policeman snapped, waving a hand in front of her face. (Oh hello madam, are you sleeping?)

Janvi snapped back into herself. “No, sir. I haven’t seen any guy like him,” she replied, steady and firm.

The policeman gave her a nasty look, but moved on.

She rushed upstairs.

Kabir was in the bathroom, rinsing his clothes in a bucket before hanging them to dry.

“The policemen came asking for you,” Janvi said bluntly.

He looked at her in disbelief. “What? How? What did you say?”

“I didn’t tell them,” she said.

Kabir let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he whispered, and hugged her.

Janvi didn’t hug back immediately. When she did, it was brief — and then she pulled away.

“You must surrender yourself, Kabir.”

He stiffened.

Before he could argue, she continued.

“I didn’t tell them because I want you to own up to your mistakes. If you surrender, you may set an example for others. But if you don’t, they’ll eventually catch you, and you’ll be branded worse than a murderer.”

The words hit him like ground vanishing under his feet.

He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, letting the truth sting.

After a long silence, he said quietly, “I will leave tomorrow.” Janvi stood there in dead silence.

 “So can we have some fun today?” His voice broke a little on fun, like he was begging without wanting to sound like he was begging.

“Of course,” she said, suddenly bright.

They spent that evening laughing, talking, trading stories from two different planets. From Kabir’s childhood shenanigans to Janvi’s small-town adventures, everything came live. Electricity had come back, but they still chose to burn the leftover candles.

Although he was scared, Kabir got ready in the morning to leave Janvi’s place.

“I will miss you,” she said, a tear peering at the edge of her eye.

He pulled her into a tight, honest hug. “It’s just the beginning,” he whispered. “I hope to see you soon, IAS Janvi Sharma.”

She smiled then — not the polite smile she used on friends, not the defensive smile she used on her relatives, not the cold smile she used when she felt small. A real one. Reserved just for him.

This uninvited guest had plucked a leaf out of her rulebook and given her a forest in return.

He waved heartily at Janvi as he walked away, and her eyes kept piercing through him until he vanished from her sight.

By Garima Joshi