The Scissors & The Secret ~ A Vikrima SS ~ Chap 3 on pg 1

In a small-town barbershop, two sisters disguise themselves as young men to save their family business. Amid playful banter, secret identities, and late-night tea rides on a vibrant orange bike, unexpected chemistry sparks with a charming stranger, while nosy relatives threaten to unravel their careful masquerade. This fiction is inspired by the 2007 Korean series "Coffee Prince".

Chapter 1 (The New Beginning)

Disguises in Place

The morning sun slanted through the narrow windows of Kaatelal & Sons. Dust motes danced in the golden light as Garima adjusted the wig over her head, checking her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. The boyish short haircut framed her face, convincing enough to pass at first glance.

Beside her, Susheela tugged her own wig into place.
“Do you think anyone will notice?” she muttered.

“Not if you stop fiddling with it,” Garima teased, lowering her voice into a deeper register. “Remember, we’re Gunnu and Sattu now. Two dashing young barbers ready to conquer Rohtak.”

Susheela gave her a look. “You sound like you’re announcing a film trailer.”

“Better that,” Garima shot back, “than slipping up and sounding like a girl.”

By the time they rolled up the shutters, a few customers were already waiting. The sisters slipped easily into their roles — Gunnu cracking jokes, Sattu fussing over details — until even the skeptical regulars relaxed.

The Arrival of Vikram

Around noon, the shop buzzed with chatter and clippers. That was when Vikram walked in.

Heads turned automatically. He carried himself with a quiet authority that filled the room without effort. His fitted shirt, sleeves rolled up, added to his aura of calm confidence. After scanning the shop, his gaze settled on Gunnu, who was finishing a fade cut with brisk precision.

“Need a quick haircut,” Vikram said, sliding into the chair. “I’ve got a meeting in an hour.”

Gunnu leaned casually against the chair. “Big meeting? Or big date?”

“Neither. Investors,” Vikram replied, clipped but not unfriendly.

“Investors are worse than dates,” Gunnu quipped, comb sliding through his hair. “At least dates smile when they like you.”

That earned a soft, unexpected laugh from Vikram. “You’re cheeky.”

“Cheeky gets the best results,” Gunnu shot back, leaning close with the scissors.

Tension in the Mirror

The air grew charged in the small space between them. Watching Gunnu’s reflection, Vikram noticed the sharp concentration in his eyes — playful yet serious, teasing yet precise. This wasn’t just a haircut; it felt like Gunnu was studying him.

“Stay still,” Gunnu said, steadying Vikram’s jaw with a hand. The touch lingered a second too long, warm and deliberate. A jolt ran through Vikram’s chest — irritation, maybe, or something more unsettling.

“You’re unusually confident for a barber,” he remarked.

“Confidence is free with every cut,” Gunnu replied with a grin.

At one point, Gunnu leaned too close, and the faint scent of jasmine hair oil slipped from the wig. Vikram’s brow furrowed.
“That’s… not a usual smell in a men’s salon.”

Garima’s heart skipped, but she recovered smoothly. “It’s my secret formula. Keeps customers coming back.”

Vikram gave him a look that lingered just a moment longer than it should have, before turning away.

An Unexpected Impression

The haircut continued with playful interruptions, until Gunnu spun the chair lightly to check the angles. “New hair, new perspective,” he declared. “Trust me, investors will notice.”

When it was done, Vikram ran his fingers through his hair. Clean, stylish, sharp — better than anything in months.
“Impressive,” he admitted. “You’ve got talent.”

“Of course I do,” Gunnu said with mock arrogance. “Now you just have to pay for it.”

Vikram chuckled. “Tell you what. Come to my next party. Some of my friends need this kind of talent. You’d make a killing.”

“Gunnu doesn’t do free promotions,” Garima replied lightly. “But for you, maybe I’ll think about it.”

Their eyes met in the mirror — Vikram’s curious and amused, Gunnu’s sparkling with mischief but hiding a storm beneath. For the first time, Garima felt the danger of this disguise.

Reflections at Night

That evening, as she locked the shop with Susheela, Garima couldn’t stop replaying the moment. The way Vikram had looked at her — sharp, assessing, almost intrigued — made her chest tighten.

“Don’t get carried away, Garima,” she whispered later, tugging off the wig once they were safely home. “To him, you’re just Gunnu. Nothing more.”

But deep inside, she knew this was only the beginning.

And somewhere across town, Vikram, running a hand through his freshly styled hair, found himself smiling faintly.
“Gunnu,” he murmured under his breath, “you’re not like the others. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Late-Night Encounters

The night air in Rohtak was crisp, laced with the lingering smell of fried pakoras and the metallic tang of shuttered shops. Gunnu had just finished wiping down the last chair at Kaatelal & Sons when a sudden roar split through the quiet street.

She froze. The growl was unmistakable — deep, throaty, commanding attention. Moments later, Vikram rolled up on his bright orange KTM Duke, the headlight cutting through the dim lane like a spotlight. The bike purred even after he killed the engine, like a restless animal waiting to be unleashed.

“Still cleaning at this hour?” Vikram asked, pulling off his helmet. His hair was windswept, a little messy, but it suited him — too much, Garima thought irritably as she fought to keep her Gunnu-mask in place.

“Barbers never sleep,” Gunnu replied, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Unlike rich shop owners who have fancy bikes to show off.”

Vikram smirked, patting the bright orange tank of his Duke with obvious pride. “This isn’t just a bike, Gunnu. This is freedom on two wheels.”

“Freedom? Looks more like mid-life crisis on wheels,” Gunnu teased.

Vikram laughed, shaking his head. “You talk too much for someone who hasn’t even sat on one.”

“Oh, I can sit. The question is, can you handle a passenger without crashing into a paan shop?”

That was all the challenge Vikram needed. Within seconds, Gunnu found herself awkwardly climbing onto the back of the bike. The seat was narrow, forcing her closer than she liked. Her hands hovered uncertainly in the air before she finally grabbed the edge of the seat.

“You’ll fall like that,” Vikram said, glancing back. His voice was low, matter-of-fact. “Hold on properly.”

Gunnu hesitated, then carefully placed her hands on his shoulders. The warmth beneath the fabric sent a confusing rush through her chest. She quickly masked it with bravado. “Don’t worry, Vikram sir. I’ll save you if we crash.”

The Duke roared to life, and in a flash, they were flying down the narrow Rohtak streets. Gunnu’s wig threatened to slip with the wind, and she had to duck her head to keep it in place. The bike vibrated beneath her, every gear shift like a heartbeat.

“Scared yet?” Vikram called over his shoulder, his voice almost lost in the rush of air.

“Not at all!” Gunnu shouted back, though her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “But if we end up in a gutter, I’m charging you extra for the haircut.”

Chai by the Tracks

They screeched to a halt near the railway crossing, where an old tea stall was still open. The Duke’s engine gave one last growl before Vikram kicked the stand and motioned for Gunnu to climb off.

“See?” Vikram said smugly. “Not even a scratch.”

“I’ll admit, the ride was… tolerable,” Gunnu said, brushing imaginary dust off her shirt. “But this thing is so loud, it could wake the dead.”

“That’s the point,” Vikram replied with a grin, handing her a steaming kulhad of chai. “If you’re going to ride, ride like you own the road.”

They stood by the tracks, sipping chai, their banter filling the quiet night. The orange Duke gleamed under the faint light, parked proudly like a beast at rest.

“Tell me, Gunnu,” Vikram said after a pause, his tone softer now. “What’s your deal? You’ve got sharp hands, a sharper tongue, and an ego bigger than my bike. Most barbers I know just nod and cut.”

Gunnu smirked, blowing on her tea. “Maybe I’m not like most barbers.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Vikram studied him curiously, his eyes narrowing just slightly, as if trying to solve a puzzle.

Gunnu felt a pang of panic — the disguise, the wig, the game she was playing. For a second, she feared he could see right through it all. She masked it quickly with another quip.

“Careful, Vikram sir. Staring too long at me, people might think you’re in love.”

Vikram chuckled, shaking his head. “Cheeky barber.”

Susheela vs. Chanchal Chachi

Meanwhile, back at the Kaatelal house, Susheela had her own troubles. Chanchal Chachi, armed with her usual nosy energy, had cornered her in the kitchen.

“Susheela!” Chachi barked, squinting suspiciously.

Susheela nearly dropped the bowl of flour she was holding. “What now, Chachi?” she asked with forced patience.

“Hmph. Don’t act innocent. I saw you and Garima sneaking around with those strange wigs earlier. Are you planning to join some nautanki troupe behind our backs?”

Susheela’s heart skipped a beat, but she quickly forced a laugh. “Wigs? Oh, that was nothing! Garima wanted to try a new hairstyle, and I was just helping her practice. You know how girls are about fashion.”

Chachi narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced. “Fashion, eh? Then why do I keep smelling shaving cream in this house? And don’t tell me it’s face packs!”

Thinking quickly, Susheela wiped her hands on her dupatta and struck a mock-dramatic pose. “Exactly, Chachi! Face packs. Haven’t you read in magazines? Shaving cream is the hottest new beauty trend from Delhi. Clears the skin, makes you glow.”

Chachi blinked at her, baffled. “What nonsense… you girls will ruin your faces with these modern experiments.”

Muttering about “weird fashions of the new generation,” Chachi stomped away, leaving Susheela to sag against the counter in relief. She let out a long breath, whispering under her breath, “One day this woman will catch us red-handed… and that day will be the end of me.”

Midnight Confessions

Back by the tea stall, Vikram and Gunnu lingered longer than either expected. The tracks were quiet, stars scattered above. Vikram leaned casually against his Duke, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I don’t usually waste time on people I don’t trust. But you… you’re different. Rough, irritating, but different.”

Gunnu’s heart thudded at the words, though she forced a cocky grin. “Don’t tell me you’re catching feelings, Vikram. That would be tragic.”

Vikram smirked, but his gaze lingered a moment longer than it should have. “We’ll see.”

For the first time that night, Gunnu was silent — her tea cooling in her hands, her disguise suddenly feeling too fragile under his stare.

The Ride Back

When the kulhads were empty, Vikram kicked his bike to life. “Hop on. I’ll drop you.”

Gunnu hesitated, then climbed on, careful to keep her distance. The bike jerked forward, and instinct made her grab his shoulders.

Vikram glanced back, smirking. “Thought you weren’t nervous.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Gunnu shot back. “I just don’t trust your driving.”

“Good,” Vikram said, voice low but playful. “Keeps things interesting.”

By the time they reached the lane, the silence between them felt strangely comfortable. Gunnu hopped off, adjusting her wig.

“You’re different, Gunnu. I like that,” Vikram said, his tone unexpectedly sincere.

Garima’s heart stuttered. She forced a grin. “Careful, Vikram. Different can be dangerous.”

He revved the bike, laughing. “Then I’ll take my chances.”

Restless Night

Later, Garima tugged off her wig, Vikram’s words still echoing in her ears.

“You’re Gunnu to him. Nothing more,” she whispered into the dark.

Across town, Vikram leaned against his bike, replaying Gunnu’s grin and sharp wit.

“Strange fellow,” he muttered, half-amused. “But refreshing.”

For the first time in weeks, sleep didn’t come easily.

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To be continued.

Chapter 2 (The Party Invitation)

A Chance Encounter

The next morning at Kaatelal & Sons, Gunnu was sweeping up hair clippings when a deep, throaty growl rolled down the street. Heads turned even before the bright orange KTM Duke appeared, its engine purring like a beast.

Garima froze mid-sweep, heart skipping. She knew that sound now.

Vikram swung the bike to a neat stop outside the shop, removed his helmet, and ran a hand through his hair. The fitted navy shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and the faint mischief tugging at his lips made him look maddeningly effortless.

“Barber!” he called, stepping inside. He dropped a small white envelope onto the counter. “You free tomorrow night?”

Gunnu cocked an eyebrow, leaning against the broom. “Depends. Free for what? Another haircut? Or another death ride on your orange beast?”

Vikram smirked, tapping the envelope. “Party. My place. You’ll bring your scissors, your charm, and that big mouth of yours. My friends need both.”

From the background, Sattu nearly dropped a pair of scissors. “Party?” she mouthed at Garima, eyes wide.

“Quiet,” Gunnu muttered, then turned back with a grin. “I don’t usually do house calls. Too risky. What if your investor friends can’t handle my cheek?”

“They’ll survive,” Vikram said dryly. “And if they don’t, you’ll cut them down to size. Literally.”

He laughed shortly, then revved the Duke dramatically as he left, leaving the faint smell of petrol and adrenaline behind.

Sisters in Debate

That night in their shared room, Garima tossed the invitation onto the bed. The gold-printed letters glowed under the lamplight: Vikram Mehra invites you to an evening of music, friends, and celebration.

Susheela snatched it up. “You’re not going,” she declared flatly, pacing like a general. “Parties mean exposure. Lights, cameras, nosy people. Someone will notice the wigs.”

Garima flopped onto the bed, hugging a pillow. “And what if this is our chance? Vikram’s friends are big-shots. Investors. Influencers. If they like my cuts, Kaatelal & Sons could be on the map. No more begging for customers.”

“Or,” Susheela countered, waving the card like evidence in a trial, “Kaatelal & Sons becomes a scandal when they find out Gunnu and Sattu are actually Garima and Susheela. We’ll be ruined.”

Garima sat up, eyes gleaming. “Not if I make Gunnu unforgettable. I’ll keep the act sharp. No one will doubt me.”

Susheela groaned. “One day, Garima, this overconfidence will—”

“Save us,” Garima cut in with a grin. “You’ll see.”

The Party Atmosphere

The following night, Gunnu arrived at Vikram’s home — a spacious two-storey house adorned with vintage automobile posters and glinting bike helmets lining the walls. Outside, the orange Duke stood like a proud guardian.

Music spilled through open windows, mingling with laughter and clinking glasses. Men in blazers and women in sparkling sarees and gowns carried cocktails with practiced ease.

Into this polished crowd walked Gunnu — crisp white shirt tucked neatly into fitted black trousers, wig trimmed to perfection, steps measured with practiced swagger.

Vikram spotted him instantly, a smirk tugging his lips as he weaved through the crowd. “You showed up. Good. My friends could use your ‘philosophical haircuts.’”

“Of course,” Gunnu drawled. “I couldn’t resist an evening of free snacks and inflated egos.”

Vikram chuckled, shaking his head. “Stay cheeky. It suits you.”

The Haircut Challenge

It didn’t take long for the spotlight to fall on Gunnu.

“So this is the miracle barber?” one of Vikram’s friends scoffed — a portly businessman with a too-tight blazer and a face already flushed from drink. He plopped into a chair. “Come on then, boy. Show us what makes you so special.”

Garima’s fingers trembled for a heartbeat before Gunnu’s smirk returned. Knuckles cracked, scissors in hand.

“New hair, new life,” Gunnu declared theatrically. “Sit back, uncle-ji. Tonight, you’re twenty-five again.”

The room erupted with laughter as she snipped, combed, and teased. “Your hairline may be running faster than a train to Delhi, but I’ll distract everyone from noticing.”

The businessman laughed so hard he nearly fell out of the chair. By the time Gunnu spun it around, his reflection revealed a sharp, modern cut.

“Not bad,” he admitted, ruffling his hair. “Maybe twenty-eight.”

The crowd cheered, and Vikram, leaning casually against the wall with his Duke helmet under one arm, couldn’t hide the flicker of pride in his eyes.

The Dance-Off

Later, the music pulsed louder, the crowd cheering Vikram into the center. “Come on, Mehra! Dance!”

He rolled his eyes but obliged, moving with surprising rhythm. Then, with a mischievous glance toward Gunnu, he extended a hand. “Your turn, barber. Let’s see if your moves are as sharp as your scissors.”

Before Garima could protest, the crowd pulled her in. Beats thumped, steps clashed in playful rivalry.

“Don’t trip,” Gunnu teased.

“Don’t lose,” Vikram shot back, twirling smoothly.

Laughter and applause filled the room. At one point, Garima stumbled, and Vikram’s hand shot out, steadying her. Their eyes locked — the party vanished around them.

Balcony Talk

Much later, when most guests had left, Gunnu slipped onto the balcony, gulping in the cool night air. The city stretched in a quiet sprawl of lights, the faint growl of the Duke parked below.

Vikram joined her, carrying two glasses of soda. “Not bad for your first party. You kept everyone entertained.”

“Barbers don’t just cut hair,” Gunnu replied casually. “We cut boredom too.”

Vikram chuckled. Then his tone softened. “You know… you’re not what you seem. And I can’t decide if that makes you interesting or dangerous.”

Garima’s chest tightened. For a moment, she feared he could see right through her. But Gunnu only grinned. “Why not both?”

Vikram studied her in silence, eyes searching, before nodding slowly. “Both it is.”

Aftermath: Questions, Curiosity, and Morning Debrief

Back in their shared room, Susheela couldn’t contain herself.

“Garima! Spill it! How was he? Did he… flirt?”

Garima tossed the soda glass lightly onto the bedside table, smirking. “If by ‘flirt’ you mean challenge my patience and make me consider mid-air stunts on a KTM Duke, then yes. He’s insufferably charming.”

Sattu’s eyes widened. “You’re going to make him visit the shop, aren’t you?”

Garima tilted her head, mock innocence in her smile. “We’ll see. I might let him. After all, business opportunities ride in mysterious ways.”

And somewhere across town, Vikram was already plotting casual “visits” to Kaatelal & Sons — finding excuses to see Gunnu, laugh with Gunnu, and linger just a moment longer than necessary. The threads of connection were tightening — playful, dangerous, and deliciously unpredictable.

The Next Morning

The narrow lane outside Kaatelal & Sons buzzed with life — shutters clanging open, street vendors calling out, the scent of fresh parathas wafting from a nearby stall. Inside, Garima was sweeping the floor when Susheela appeared, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like a hawk.

“So?” Susheela started, not even greeting. “Tell me everything. And don’t skip a detail, Gunnu.”

Garima paused mid-sweep, smirk tugging at her lips. “Everything? You mean, the dancing, the orange Duke, the charmingly exasperated host?”

“Charmingly exasperated?!” Susheela exploded. “Garima, don’t you dare play games with me. Did he… talk to you? Did he… notice you?”

Gunnu—er, Garima—leaned casually against the counter, adopting her signature mischievous grin. “Notice me? Susheela, I think he did. But it was strictly professional. Haircuts, parties, and… mild flirting. Nothing scandalous.”

Susheela’s eyes widened. “Mild flirting?! Garima, you call hand-on-shoulder, saving-me-from-falling-on-the-dance-floor mild?”

“I said nothing scandalous,” Garima repeated, smirking. “You can read into it however you want.”

“Read into it?!” Susheela snapped, pacing like a general planning battle. “You were on a bike with him, Garima. A Duke! In the dark! Did you die of fear or… excitement?!”

Garima laughed, shaking her head. “Neither. I survived. Barely.”

Susheela groaned, grabbing her head. “I don’t know whether to strangle you or applaud your nerve. Or both.”

The air in the room hummed with tension and anticipation — sisterly exasperation on one side, controlled mischief on the other. Somewhere outside, the orange Duke growled faintly in the distance, a silent herald of more encounters yet to come.

Vikram’s “Coincidental” Visits

Meanwhile, over the next few days, Vikram found reasons to visit Kaatelal & Sons more often than strictly necessary. First, it was an innocuous “I need a quick trim before a meeting.” Then, “Could you fix my sideburns? They’ve been driving me crazy.”

Each time, Garima, in Gunnu-mode, felt the magnetic pull stronger. His easy smile, the way he leaned casually against the counter, the Duke’s growl parked out front like a warning… it was intoxicating.

One afternoon, as Garima styled a customer’s hair, she noticed Vikram lingering near the entrance, watching her work. He clapped softly once the cut was done.

“Not bad,” he said, voice low and approving. “You’ve got precision. And… personality. Most barbers just nod and snip.”

Gunna smirked, spinning the chair with flourish. “Most barbers don’t have to compete with orange Dukes outside.”

Vikram chuckled, eyes crinkling. “True. But then again, not all barbers are as fearless as Gunnu.”

Susheela’s Investigation

Back at the Kaatelal house, Susheela was pacing. “You’re hiding something, Garima. Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Garima insisted, tucking scissors into the apron. “Vikram is… interesting. But it’s all part of the act. Nothing more.”

“Interesting?!” Susheela shouted, nearly tipping over a tray of scissors. “You spent the night dancing, he held your hand to save you from tripping, and now you’re calling it ‘interesting’? Garima! That’s dangerous!”

“I’m aware,” Garima replied smoothly. “Which is why I remain Gunnu, and you remain Sattu. Keep the disguises in place, and no one — especially him — needs to know the truth.”

Susheela huffed. “Truth or no truth, that man has interest written all over him. I just hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

A Growing Connection

The next evening, as the shop quieted, Vikram leaned against his Duke parked outside. “I forgot to ask,” he said casually, “do you ever take tea breaks?”

Gunna raised an eyebrow. “Tea breaks? In a barber’s life? Only if the tea is worth the calories.”

“Lucky for you, I know a place,” Vikram said, smirking. “Quiet, strong masala chai, no investors, no business talks. Just us… if you want.”

Gunna paused, heart hammering. “You mean… a real conversation? Away from customers, scissors, and… that orange beast of yours?”

“Yes. Away from everything. But you’d have to trust me.”

Gunna’s smirk returned, sharper this time. “Trust is earned, Mr. Bike-Rider. And I’ve got my eyes on you.”

Vikram tilted his head, amused. “Fair enough, Gunnu. Consider it a challenge.”

Closing the Day

As the street lights flickered on, and the lane fell quiet, Gunnu and Vikram exchanged a look — playful, tense, teasing — the orange Duke gleaming behind him like a silent witness.

Inside the shop, Susheela sighed, muttering to herself, “One day, that bike will be the death of us all… or the start of something worse.”

Gunnu, oblivious to the exact danger Susheela feared, tucked scissors into her apron and smiled to herself. Something about this small-town, orange-Duke-owning, mysteriously charming man had made her forget the careful rules she’d built around her disguise.

And for Vikram, leaning against his bike, watching the barber-turned-philosopher leave, one thought lingered: Gunnu isn’t like the others. And I don’t want him to be.

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To be continued.

The sisters disguised as men. I like it already. Let the mystery unfold.

That jasmine scent will have to go. They need to find a man's cologne and shampoo. It was a giveaway.

The strange fellow is growing on you a little too much Vikram. That cheekiness is getting to you.

Does Vikram have an inkling who he is dealing with? He must be suspicious. He would not be inviting a guy out to tea and rides so much.

Chapter 3 (Brothers, Banter, and Blunders)

The “Brother” Bond

The narrow lane outside Kaatelal & Sons buzzed with life. Rickshaw bells clanged, vendors shouted, and — like clockwork — the orange Duke roared to a stop.

Garima, already in Gunnu disguise, muttered under her breath, “And here comes trouble on two wheels.”

Vikram strutted in, helmet dangling from one hand, grin firmly in place. “My brother!” he announced loudly, slapping Gunnu on the back so hard the wig nearly slipped.

Garima choked on air. Brother?

“Uh… yes. Brother,” Gunnu said, forcing a grin.

“See?” Vikram said to the nearest customer. “This barber isn’t just my stylist. He’s my brother now. Blood or not, same thing.”

Garima’s smile stiffened. Brother. Out of all things, he had to pick brother.

“Careful, Mehra,” Gunnu said, snipping the customer’s hair with extra flair. “I charge double if you keep hugging me mid-shave.”

“Good,” Vikram smirked, leaning against the counter. “That way, I can pay for my brother’s loyalty.”

Garima clenched her jaw, scissors clicking. If only he knew.

Tea Stall Confessions

Later, Vikram dragged Gunnu to a nearby tea stall.

“Two cutting chai!” he ordered, plopping onto a bench. “Come, brother, sit.”

Garima sat stiffly, tugging at her wig. “You treat all your barbers like siblings?”

“Only the special ones,” Vikram said easily. “You’ve got guts. Honesty. Feels like family.”

Garima’s heart skipped. Family. Dangerous word.

She forced a smirk. “Careful. If you keep adopting strays like me, you’ll run out of helmets.”

Vikram laughed, sipping chai. “Then we’ll share. I’ll drive, you hold on tight. Brothers look out for each other.”

Garima nearly spilled her cup. Hold on tight? This is getting unbearable.

Susheela vs. Chanchal Chachi, Round Two

Back at the Kaatelal house, Susheela — in her Sattu disguise — tiptoed into the kitchen, hoping to steal a late-night paratha.

But fate, in the form of Chanchal Chachi, was already there, kneading dough like she was punishing it.

“Sattu!” Chachi barked, narrowing her eyes. “Why are you sneaking into this house at midnight? This isn’t your baap’s haveli, it’s Kaatelal House!”

Susheela froze, clutching a plate like a shield. “Uh… I was… checking security! Yes. Robbers are everywhere these days.”

Chachi snorted. “Security? With a plate in your hand?”

Susheela quickly hid the paratha behind her back. “Weapon. Very… advanced. Delhi style.”

Chachi stepped closer, squinting. “Advanced weapon? Smells more like ghee than gunpowder.”

Susheela’s nervous laugh echoed through the kitchen. “Exactly! Ghee-power is stronger than gunpowder, Chachi.”

Chachi folded her arms, unimpressed. “Hmph. And why are there two tea cups here when only you came sneaking?”

Susheela stammered, shoving one cup behind a jar. “That? Uh… practice. One for me, one for… my reflection. Builds character.”

“Reflection drinks chai?” Chachi asked flatly.

“Yes! Very modern reflection. Delhi brand.”

Chachi shook her head, muttering, “This Sattu eats more in this house than his own. One day, I’ll check if his real home even exists. Strange boy, with stranger habits.” She stomped off, still glaring over her shoulder.

As soon as she was gone, Susheela sagged against the counter, clutching the paratha like a life raft. “One day, this Chachi will drag me to court herself,” she whispered.

Banter in the Shop

The next day, Vikram appeared yet again, Duke growling like a herald of chaos.

He leaned casually on the barber chair. “So, brother, tell me something. Why don’t you ever talk about your family?”

Garima froze, comb in mid-air. Because you’re staring right at them, fool.

“Private life stays private,” Gunnu said coolly, trimming a customer’s hair.

Vikram smirked. “Ah, mysterious type. Fine. Then at least tell me — why this shop? You could be in Delhi, cutting models’ hair, charging five times the rate.”

Garima tilted her head, lips curving. “Because Delhi doesn’t have customers with your kind of ego. And that’s my specialty — cutting egos down.”

The customer burst out laughing. Vikram clutched his chest dramatically. “Brother, you wound me! First my hair, now my ego.”

“Both needed trimming,” Gunnu shot back.

The shop erupted with laughter, and even Susheela, sweeping nearby, couldn’t hide her smile — though worry flickered in her eyes.

Midnight Ride

That evening, Vikram revved the Duke outside. “Come on, brother, let’s ride. Nothing clears the head like wind in your face.”

Garima hesitated. Riding pillion again meant holding on — dangerous, tempting. But Gunnu couldn’t refuse without suspicion.

So she climbed on, muttering, “If we crash, I’m haunting you.”

“Relax,” Vikram grinned, speeding off into the night. “I take care of my brother.”

Garima’s heart pounded as the wind whipped her wig. She held tighter than she meant to, silently cursing his choice of words. Brother, haan? If only you knew what kind of sister you just adopted.

Closing the Day

Later, back at home, Garima collapsed onto the bed, still flushed from the ride.

Susheela pounced. “He took you out again?! At night?! On that monster bike?!”

Garima smirked, hiding her nerves. “Don’t worry. According to him, I’m just his brother.”

Susheela’s jaw dropped. “BROTHER?!”

“Yes.” Garima grinned wickedly. “So relax. Safe as houses.”

Susheela groaned, burying her face in a pillow. “This is worse. Much worse. Brothers never stay brothers in these stories.”

Outside, the faint growl of the Duke echoed like a promise — playful, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

The Next Day (Confusion in the Air)

The clang of scissors and the sharp scent of shaving foam filled Kaatelal & Sons that late afternoon. Customers lined the benches, gossip bouncing off the shop’s wooden walls. Gunnu worked briskly, sweeping stray hair while Sattu manned the chair like a general in uniform.

Vikram strolled in casually, helmet tucked under his arm, his confident stride softened with an awkward hesitation.

“Arrey, Bhai! Again?” Sattu teased, raising an eyebrow. “You’re becoming a fixture here more than our customers.”

“Bas… thought I’d check in on my bhai log,” Vikram replied, giving Gunnu a friendly clap on the shoulder. His hand lingered just a second too long. “Besides, Gunnu here gives better company than my useless college friends.”

Garima swallowed hard, masking the jolt that ran through her. She forced a gruff tone. “Bas, bas, don’t butter me up. We charge extra for that.”

The men in the shop laughed, and Vikram smiled wider than necessary.

Later that evening, outside the shop

Vikram leaned against his bike, speaking in low tones to his friend Rohit, who had dropped by. Gunnu, sweeping near the doorway, caught every word.

“Yaar, it’s strange,” Vikram muttered. “I’ve been around plenty of girls—pretty ones too. But this Gunnu… I don’t know, there’s something different. I feel… calmer? Lighter? Even when he irritates me, I just…”

Rohit smirked knowingly. “Bhai, you’re falling for your barber.”

“Shut up!” he hissed, dragging his fingers through his hair when Rohit’s smirk didn’t fade. “It’s not like that. He’s… he’s like a brother. A younger brother. A very… warm, confusing, dangerously magnetic brother.”

Rohit leaned lazily against the bike, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Magnetic, haan? Careful, Bhai, magnets don’t care if it’s north or south—they just attract.”

The words cut deeper than Vikram expected. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his silence louder than denial.

Just beyond the threshold, Gunnu’s broom froze mid-air. Garima’s heart hammered in her chest, her breath stuck somewhere between a gasp and a sob. The weight of his confession—twisted by Rohit’s joke, softened by his own hesitation—washed over her in waves of guilt and aching longing.

She pressed herself to the wall, praying they wouldn’t notice her. For the first time, the charade felt less like a disguise and more like a trap she had built with her own hands.

The Salon Chaos

The next day, Vikram decided to “help out.”
“Hand me that razor, Gunnu,” he said confidently, rolling up his sleeves.

Gunnu’s eyes widened. “Arrey, this is not your bike carburetor! One wrong move and you’ll send uncle-ji home with half an eyebrow.”

Sattu snorted. “Go on, try it. Let’s see how much talent you have beyond counting bolts and brake pads.”

But before either of them could stop him, Vikram had already lathered shaving foam on a bewildered customer. He held the razor like a spanner, concentrating so hard his tongue peeked out.

“Steady… steady…” he muttered.

The customer flinched. Foam splattered on Vikram’s shirt. The crowd erupted in laughter.

Sattu smacked his forehead. “Hai Ram! He’ll ruin our reputation before the scissors do!”

Vikram, embarrassed but unwilling to admit defeat, grinned. “Dekha? Free comedy show with every haircut. Best offer in town!”

The shop roared with laughter again. Even Gunnu couldn’t suppress a chuckle, though her chest ached with the memory of his words from the night before.

The more Vikram tried to rationalize his confusion, the deeper he slipped into it. And Gunnu—alongside Sattu, equally invested in the charade—found the comedy of errors tightening like a net neither of them could escape.

The Razor Disaster

The salon was buzzing with chatter when Vikram, with sleeves rolled up, barged confidently behind the barber’s chair.

“Move aside, Gunnu. I’ll show you how it’s done,” he declared.

The poor customer, a pot-bellied uncle-ji with half his face already covered in foam, stiffened in terror.

“Arrey beta, have you… done this before?”

“Of course!” Vikram lied smoothly. “How hard can it be? Just cream and blade. Like adjusting a clutch plate!”

Sattu nearly choked on laughter. “Clutch plate? This is not a Hero Splendor, Bhai. It’s a face!”

Ignoring her, Vikram positioned the razor at a dangerous angle. He pressed too hard, dragging it across the foam with a dramatic flourish. A long white streak appeared, but so did a thin red line.

“AAAAH!” the uncle-ji yelped, clutching his cheek.

“Relax, relax!” Vikram panicked, dabbing at the foam. Instead of wiping, he smeared more cream across the man’s nose. The customer sneezed violently, spraying shaving cream everywhere—on Vikram’s shirt, Gunnu’s face, and even across Sattu’s wig.

The Great Rescue

“Bas! Enough!” Gunnu shoved Vikram aside, her voice gruff but firm. “Go tighten a nut, Romeo, and leave shaving to professionals!”

Sattu swooped in, grabbing a towel and pressing it to the uncle’s face. “You’ll live, uncle-ji. Maybe. Unless you get infection. But don’t worry, Gunnu has special haldi-turmeric treatment.”

“Special?!” Gunnu hissed under her breath, glaring at Susheela’s improvisation.

The entire shop roared with laughter. One of the younger boys shouted, “Oye, Vikram bhaiya! You’re the first mechanic-barber in Rohtak! Maybe open ‘Cuts and Clutches’?”

Even the injured uncle-ji, once pacified, chuckled nervously. “Beta, stick to spark plugs. Your hands are made for spanners, not razors.”

The Aftermath

Red-faced, Vikram slumped in a chair, watching Gunnu clean up the mess with efficient swipes of the razor. His gaze softened despite the humiliation.

There was something about the way Gunnu’s brow furrowed in concentration, the way his (her) laughter burst out unrestrained when Sattu teased him. Vikram found himself smiling without meaning to.

But then the thought crept in again, unsettling and unshakable:
Why does this feel different? Why does being around him… feel good?

“Stop staring and pass me the towel,” Gunnu muttered, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Vikram obeyed instantly, only realizing later how quickly he’d done it.

That night, Gunnu lay awake replaying everything—his words to Rohit, the accidental hand lingering on her shoulder, and the way he had stared while she shaved the uncle clean.
Her heart was split in two: one half soaring at the attention, the other crushed under the weight of the lie.

And across town, Vikram tossed in bed, muttering to himself:
“He’s my brother. Just a brother. A very… dangerously magnetic brother.”

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To be continued.