In that same moment outside the ashram, Daisy sat alone in her small apartment, staring at her phone screen. The post she had drafted stared back at her—exactly as Raghav had instructed: the selfie from the temple balcony, a long caption explaining the "circumstances," framing them as a couple on a spontaneous date, her dragging him into the Ram Navami celebrations.
Her thumb hovered over the "Post" button.
"Damn it, Dizzy. Why am I even calling myself Dizzy?" she muttered, rubbing her forehead.
"I don't want to do this."
"But boss…"
She gently banged her forehead on the table once—twice.
"News channels are blowing everything up like wildfire. We need time. We need something strong. But what?"
"What will people think? They're going to call me a gold-digger. I don't want to be in this situation."
"Maybe I should just resign. No—that needs his signature. He'll ask a million questions. Can't I ever have a normal job? Why is my boss always some hot playboy type or a creepy old man? Why can't I get someone like Mr. Ratan Tata? This must be payback for sins from my previous birth."
After a long silence, she decided she couldn't go through with it. She would confront him tomorrow—tell him straight that she refused, that he'd have to face the fallout himself.
"I can't say that out loud," she whispered.
"What am I supposed to do?"
Her phone rang.
She picked up hesitantly.
"Hello?"
With Raghav – The Training Continues
He was still trying—step after failed step—on the water's surface.
"Can I get a little help here? Or at least some warm clothes? A heater? Night's falling."
"Hard times create strong men."
"Laughing at my face now?"
"Your sarcasm won't help in this situation. You have to be calm."
"I am a calm person."
"Well… I don't think so."
"Forget this test. Let's go back. I'll try again later."
"Alright. But wait—you said I could access Soma's power if I achieve balance. Has anyone ever drunk it?"
"Yes."
Raghav waited.
"But let's just say… it didn't go well."
The sage sighed.
A moment later, reality shifted. Raghav found himself back in his office—clothes dry, suit jacket gone, just white shirt and trousers.
The office was dark, closed for the night. On his desk sat a brand-new phone—already active, full network. Beside it lay the final draft invitation card for the Drishyam News Channel launch.
He picked it up. Elegant blue design, modern touch.
First line:
"In loving memory of Mr. Ram Charan Suryavanshi. The doctrinaire journalist."
"Doctrinaire?!" Raghav tore the card in half, then in quarters.
He dialed Daisy in anger.
No answer.
Twice more. Still nothing.
He tossed the phone down, sat heavily in his chair.
He opened Instagram. Comments flooded in—memes, trolls, accusations. "Publicity stunt." "Glory seeker." "Fake devotion." Nothing from Daisy's account. No post.
Things were spiraling.
He felt the anger rise.
"Calm down, Raghav," Pitha-Ma's voice said gently. "Your anger won't help anyone. Remember what I taught you. Think with a calm mind."
Raghav took several deep, deliberate breaths. When he looked at the screen again, his eyes were steady—cold, calculating.
"They like spice? I'll give them hellfire."
He dialed a number.
"Hello? Who is this?" a male voice answered.
"Big man. Got time for an old friend?"
"Raghu, my man!" Joy exploded through the line, followed by a quick curse under the breath. "Are you busy?"
"No, no. Plenty of time. What's the problem?"
"Can you post our old photo with this caption?" Raghav sent the message instantly.
Blue ticks appeared. The man read it.
"You know… if I post this, in my position… questions will come. Opposition will scream. My public image might take a hit. But your problem gets solved."
"You know me too well. So—are you going to do it? Think about the old days. You and me. And you know the opposition and image won't change anyway."
"Until they know about us. You know if our young days came out, what would happen?"
"Yeah. Your perfect leader image would crack."
Raghav switched to mock-serious announcer voice:
"So deviyon aur sajjano! Here is the question for seven crore rupees! Will you help your old friend who skipped classes for your dates, took the blame to keep your record clean, and helped you lose your vir—"
"Okay, okay! I understand. What are the options?"
"Option A: Yes, I'll help. Option B: I have to help. Option C: I'm going to help right now. Option D: I've already done it."
Laughter burst from the other end.
"I choose Option D."
"'Cause you never get them."
More laughter.
"Your antics… even after all these years. I'm glad you called. Ever since I came to power, I've missed the good old days. I'm definitely helping."
"And hey—you have to come to my news channel launch. I'll send you an invitation card."
"Sure. I'll check my appointments. My secretary won't be happy hearing about this post."
"Looks like we have a lucky fish," Raghav joked.
The man chuckled.
"It's nothing. The secretary's an old lady—worked for my father. I've known her since I was a child."
Raghav understood. After warm goodbyes, the call ended.
He sighed.
"Well… that went as expected."
He checked his phone again.
"Let's boom this net."
He searched: "Mr. Mahen Yadav, Prime Minister of India."
A grin spread.
"Love you, bro."
He looked at the old photo the PM had just posted: both of them years ago, in a gurdwara, serving langar to people—orange cloth tied around their foreheads. Caption matched exactly what Raghav had sent.
Then another photo surfaced—same two friends in a temple, doing the same service. Hashtag: #TRUEHINDU
"Damn… he went overboard."
Then a third: Mahen riding a horse in traditional attire, sword raised, blue turban.
"Looks like I'll have to make that public speech way earlier than planned."
He chuckled.
"My advice worked, didn't it?"
"Hell no. That was all me."
"You didn't do a thing."
The surroundings shifted again.
Raghav found himself standing outside a dimly lit bar. Sign read: EMPTY.
"Do I do that good that you're treating me to a party? I'm really grateful. But I don't drink on Tuesdays and Fridays."
"Why?"
"Mother told me not to."
"Did you follow?"
"No. But I tried. That's more important."
"Go inside."
"Find the girl. Don't let her die."
"Wait—what girl? Die?"
"If you don't save her, she will die tonight."
"Save who?"
No answer. The connection felt cut.
"Hello? Old man? Dumbledore?"
Nothing.
Raghav sighed.
"Fine."
He stepped inside.
The place was almost deserted—soft lighting, quiet tables, no loud music. People sat in small groups, talking civilly, drinking slowly.
Raghav walked to the bar counter.
The bartender slid him a complimentary drink.
"Hey—why's this place so empty and quiet?"
"Not a popular spot. Far from the crowds. Mostly locals and regulars."
Then—a woman's muffled sob from the back corner.
Both of them noticed.
Raghav focused longer.
"That cry… sounds familiar."
"Johnny—one more," the woman called out, voice thick.
The bartender excused himself, grabbed a bottle of cheap whisky, and disappeared toward her.
He didn't return for a while.
When he did, he looked heavy-hearted.
Raghav was scrolling on his new phone, searching for traces online.
"What happened? Did she get to you?" Raghav asked, sarcasm light but not cruel.
The bartender sighed.
"She's… depressed. No real friends to talk to. I kinda know her, so… you know."
Raghav studied him.
"I'm impressed you didn't take advantage. You seem like a good guy."
Then it hit him.
"Wait—did you say depressed girl?"
"Yes," the bartender replied, pouring another drink.
"Great. She looks like someone lost… someone who might do something drastic. You know what I mean."
"Yes. Loss of interest in everything, significant impairment in daily life—that's the basic definition of depression. And she's fresh in that department."
Raghav looked thoughtful.
"Is she bad?"
"Bad enough. Cursing her boss, drinking hard, crying like hell, praising some unknown deity, talking about demons and death."
Raghav's gaze shifted to the corner where the bartender had gone.
"Hey—old man, give me some ideas."
Silence.
"I thought you didn't need my help."
Raghav face-palmed.
"Yeah… I don't."
The bartender looked confused, thinking Raghav was talking to him.
"Nothing," Raghav waved it off.
"If you want a suggestion… go talk to her."
"Oh! I didn't think of that," Raghav muttered sarcastically.
"Sometimes it's better to do something than wait for it to happen."
Raghav got thoughtful.
"You know she doesn't have much time. If you don't hurry, you can wait here and watch her walk out in three… two… one—"
A woman rushed toward the exit.
Raghav stood—but the bartender beat him.
"Ma'am—you forgot the bill."
"That's convenient," Pitha-Ma remarked dryly.
The woman turned back to pay with her card.
Raghav saw her face.
"Dizzy."
She froze mid-signature, looked up, blinked hard—trying to sober up.
"Hey, Mr. Bartender… am I seeing things? Or is my angry, brute, handsome, douchebag boss sitting right here?"
The bartender glanced between them, awkward.
Raghav gave a subtle head shake—go with it.
The bartender cleared his throat.
"No… no one's here."
Daisy looked back at Raghav, then at the bartender, then at Raghav again.
She shrugged, slumped onto a stool, head on the counter.
"I won't drink another drop," she mumbled.
The bartender quietly continued his work.
Raghav tried—futilely—to get Pitha-Ma's attention in his mind. No response.
Sweat formed on his forehead.
Then, softly:
"Why are you still here?"
He looked. Her head still rested on the counter, eyes glassy.
No one spoke for a long moment.
She reached for his half-finished drink, downed it in one go, and started crying—hard.
She leaned into him, head on his chest.
Raghav froze—then awkwardly patted her back.
"He left me," she sobbed.
Raghav kept patting—unsure.
"How could he leave me behind? Why did he have to die? I loved him so much. Why did God take him away? He shouldn't have died. He had a family… a big, happy family. Why, Dada? Why, Dada?"
"She lost her dad," Raghav thought, glancing at the bartender—who was suddenly very interested in polishing a glass and blushing.
Raghav gently shook her.
"Hey—Dizzy, listen. Steady."
He signaled the bartender.
"Lemon slice."
The bartender handed one over.
"Eat this. Sober up a bit."
She looked at it like it was poison, pushed his hand away like a child refusing medicine.
"I don't wanna."
"Come on—you need to sober up."
She clamped her mouth shut.
"I don't wanna sober up. I want more."
She reached for his drink again.
"That's mine."
He moved it away.
"She's really drunk," he thought.
"Maybe I should drop her home."
"Hey—Dizzy, listen. Where do you live?"
"Home."
"Where's home?"
"Near the banyan tree."
"Where's the banyan tree?"
"Near my home."
"Where near your home?"
"Somewhere near my home."
A vein throbbed in Raghav's temple.
He exhaled slowly.
Relax. She's drunk. Just keep her safe. Calm down.
"I'm asking one more time. Where. Do. You. Live?"
She turned to the bartender.
"Mr. Bartender! Why is this man acting like he's my boss? I've had enough of him in the office—and now here? This man is ruining my joy."
She snatched Raghav's drink again and downed it.
"Listen, mister—don't act like my boss. I don't care if he's the worst boss ever—he's a good man. He paid my education loan. Gave me an apartment—Road Number 10, near Ram Nahar, Janki Chowk, Building Number 8, Krishna Complex, Floor 4—three-star place with parking. The day I joined Drishyam, it felt like home. You know how hard it is to find a safe place in a prime sector with zero crime? My dad was so happy when he found out I was working there. Mr. Ram Charan was a great man."
Raghav's jaw tightened.
"He was not."
She looked at him—shocked by the sudden sharpness.
Raghav composed himself.
"Give me another drink," he told the bartender.
He took a long sip.
"Listen, Dizzy… I know I'm not the best boss. But never mention his name in front of me. Okay?"
"You have no right—"
"Say one more word and I'll forget why I came here to save you."
She blinked—didn't catch the slip.
"You know… I know you have daddy issues. I have some too. My dada died. Your dad was a prick. My dada died. Let's drink in sorrow."
They both drank heavily for the next half hour—until they were very, very drunk.
Raghav laughed—slurring.
"He was more than a prick."
Daisy leaned shoulder-to-shoulder with him, walking unsteadily toward the back of the bar—near a small pond.
"Sure. You're now my best friend. Promise me."
She held up her pinky.
He linked his pinky with hers.
"Pinky promise. Best friends."
"Okay—let's play a game. You tell me an embarrassing truth, then I tell one. Okay?"
She started.
"When I was a child, I used to steal from my friends' lunchboxes."
Raghav grinned.
"That's actually impressive. Okay—mine: I once slapped the Prime Minister of India."
She laughed.
"You can't lie."
"I'm not."
"Umm… when I was little, a dog bit me—so I bit him back."
Raghav spat his drink.
"Really?"
"Really. I was worried about his safety."
They both laughed.
"My turn. I once grabbed a live snake and brought it home."
"You can't lie."
"I'm not. Why would I?"
"Okay, forget that. My turn. I once accidentally ate a beef burger at McDonald's… vomited right there."
Raghav looked at her.
"I thought you could eat that."
"Yes—but I don't want to. I don't want to risk it."
"Are you sure you're not religious?"
"No… but prayers are pointless if you don't believe. And I don't want Dad finding out."
"Daddy issues."
"No! He's a great person."
"Hmm. Wait—what? Didn't he die?"
"What are you talking about? My dad is alive."
"Wait—you said your dad died."
"I said my dada died."
"Dada, daddy, dad—aren't those the same?"
"No! Dada is my dog's name."
Raghav stared.
"You were crying and drinking like hell… thinking about dying… over a dog?"
"Yes."
"So you were ready to do something drastic… for a dog?"
"Bitch."
"Excuse me?"
"She's female."
She showed him her phone—an Instagram post of her Japanese Shiba Inu, looking regal.
"After three days she left me. I had to put up missing posters."
Raghav shook his head, giggling helplessly.
Seeing him smile, she asked,
"What happened to the fake boss? Why are you smiling?"
"Nothing. Let's continue the game."
She nodded—forgetting the dog drama for a moment.
"So… I once accidentally kicked a puppy."
She burst into tears again.
"Some monster killed my dog!"
Raghav mentally kicked himself.
Great job, Raghav.
He calmed her.
"Come on—your turn."
She wiped her eyes, still clutching the bottle.
"I had a massive crush on my boss."
Raghav smiled—then froze.
"Wait—what? You had?"
"Yeah. When I first saw him… he was so handsome. I fell for him instantly."
"Then what happened?"
"He's a prick. Egoistic. Ultra-arrogant. Emo guy."
"I'm not emo."
"You're agreeing you're egoistic."
Raghav muttered under his breath,
"Dumbledore…"
"Hmm?" she asked, head tilting.
"Nothing. Your turn."
"Hey—this game is getting boring. Let's do something weird."
She started stacking empty bottles and glasses—six bottles, two glasses on top.
"Tada!"
Raghav stared.
"How?"
"Just balance and skill."
Raghav's eyes widened.
"Balance… how?"
"How did you do that?"
She disassembled and rebuilt it slowly.
"First—a solid base. This heavy whisky bottle."
"Then a medium one—like this wine bottle. Wait—when did we order wine?"
She kept going.
"Then you balance the weight—like a scale. Too much on one side? Counter it with something else."
Raghav stared at the tower.
"You're a genius, Dizzy."
"Yes—no—I mean yes, I'm a genius, but that's not what I meant."
He ignored her—mind racing.
"I just have to balance it… with all the good in me."
"Hey, Dizzy—what's good in me?"
"You're handsome."
"Thank you—but I mean actual good qualities."
"I've known you for five minutes. How would I know?"
"Okay—what's good about your emo boss?"
"You agree you're emo."
Raghav mentally cursed Pitha-Ma again.
"Tell me, Dizzy."
She paused—then spoke quietly.
"I'm not Dizzy… and he gave me an apartment—Road Number 10, near Ram Nahar, Janki Chowk, Building Number 8, Krishna Complex, Floor 4—"
"I know about that. Something else. As a person."
She looked down—then up.
"He's a good person."
She paused again.
"He never treated me like a child. Everyone else did. They called me childish, immature—because I didn't see the world their way. They never yelled… but they never treated me as an equal either."
She swallowed.
"I had three jobs before this. Everywhere—pointing out how childish I was, how I did things wrong. But he… he yelled at me a lot, but he also treated me like an equal. Because of him, people in the office respect me now."
"And when I asked him to dance at the rally… he danced with me too."
They both chuckled softly.
"Guess he's not much of an emo after all."
No reply from her.
She was asleep—eyes closed, breathing even.
Raghav repeated louder—half to convince himself:
"Guess he's not much of an emo after all."
She didn't stir.
Pitha-Ma's voice:
"She didn't believe you."
"Shut up, old man."
"Isn't it your turn to show me something cool?" she mumbled—half-asleep.
"Ah—yeah. Well… I don't have much. But I can do magic."
"Really? What kind?"
He straightened, showed his hands dramatically.
"Watch closely."
He did the classic thumb-finger "disappearing" trick.
She stared—then deadpanned:
"I'm not a kid. That was lame."
She pushed his hand away.
"Hey—it's not lame. My mom taught me. It's classic."
She shrugged.
Raghav's eye twitched.
"What's with that shrug?"
She shrugged again.
He got angrier—then sighed, looking at the pond in front of them. She was idly paddling her feet in the water.
A thought struck.
"You want to see something cool, right?"
"What are you gonna do?"
"Walk on water, of course."
He stood—took deep breaths.
"Calm… cool…"
"That's peace and balance."
"Of course."
"Peace… and pie."
"Let's start."
He focused—imagining every good moment: the temple with Daisy, helping his driver-brother Raghav, saving the people in the storm, his mother's memory.
He heard her gasp.
"Holy crap—you did it!"
He looked down.
He was standing—on water—in the middle of the pond.
A single tear slipped from his eye.
He turned back to her. She rubbed her eyes—again and again.
Still there.
She looked at the bottle in her hand—snapped photos of him standing on water—then threw the bottle away.
"Damn… that stuff was strong."
She shook her head, dazed.