Chapter 2: Winter’s Chill, ShareChat Wisdom

I was born with a cold constitution. No matter how many blankets I pile on in winter, my hands and feet stay icy all night long.

It’s not just any cold—it’s like that stubborn Delhi winter chill, the kind that creeps into your bones even with three sweaters on. Sometimes my mother would tuck hot water bottles near my feet, muttering, 'Nazar lag gayi hai.'

Recently, incubi have been all the rage online. They look human, act like loyal puppies, can do housework, and—most importantly—keep your bed warm.

Even my office WhatsApp group was full of forwards about 'incubus sales'—as if they were the new Bigg Boss contestants. It was only a matter of time before I gave in to the hype.

With winter coming, I decided to buy one and give it a try.

Honestly, in Mumbai, we barely get real winters, but the monsoon chill lingers in my flat like an uninvited guest. My feet were crying for some warmth, and I was tired of buying those cheap electric hot bags that always leaked, leaving me with soggy bedsheets.

But incubi aren’t just any old purchase—they’re living beings. Once you buy one, you’re responsible for it for life. No returns, no discarding after use. You have to commit—like my bua says, 'Don’t treat living things like used plastic dabbas, beta.'

So I was extra careful. Before buying, I did my homework. People on ShareChat said: "Raising an incubus is just like raising a puppy. As long as you spend time with him and treat him well, he’ll be absolutely loyal to you."

"Incubi are as clingy and loyal as puppies. Just wave your hand and he’ll come running, tail wagging. Isn’t that better than a boyfriend?"

"Girls, just go for it—don’t overthink it! I bought one and I’m back to report: as long as you feed your incubus well, he’ll do anything you want. The experience is out of this world."

"Word of advice: sisters who are a bit frail, don’t pick an incubus that’s too strong—you won’t be able to handle it."

"Seconded! Incubi have too much energy. I was young and reckless and bought the super-enhanced version. I’ve been bedridden for two days now—lesson learnt."

Some comments came with enough masala to fuel a full afternoon’s chai session. My eyes widened—did these incubi run on Red Bull or what?

I was a bit confused. Energetic... Did that mean incubi needed to be walked, like dogs?

I mean, what if my neighbours saw me doing rounds in the society garden with a leashed incubus? I could already imagine Aunty Mehta gossiping about me at her evening bhajan group.

I kept scrolling.

"There are all kinds of incubus personalities: passionate, calm, sunny, brooding, quiet, sharp-tongued... The main thing is to pick one that suits you."

"Returns and exchanges are a pain. Many incubi are non-refundable once you sign for them."

Just like with arranged marriages—no refunds, only adjustments. I read every line like a careful investor studying a mutual fund.

After reading all those reviews, I had a rough idea of what to expect.

By now, my brain was full of 'dos and don’ts'—felt more prepared for this than my CA exams.

But my budget was tight. I waited several days and finally found a shop online having a massive sale.

Bhai, it was like a Diwali sale—flashy banners, half-off stickers, and those little 'Only 2 left!' pop-ups. I hovered over the 'Buy Now' button for a full five minutes.

Their homepage was plastered with posters of different incubi—I couldn’t decide.

So many options, it was like choosing sweets at Haldiram’s during Raksha Bandhan. My fingers hovered, indecisive.

I messaged customer service: "Hi, I need a gentle male incubus who can keep the bed warm."

Straight to the point—why waste time? My grandma always said, 'If you want something, ask clearly.'

I’d heard that male incubi have higher body temperatures, perfect for warming up my hands and feet. Besides, what if female incubi also had cold constitutions? Practical concerns, you know—no point swapping one ice-cold foot for another.

Customer service: "Hello, dear, I’m here~"

Fastest reply I’ve ever got from customer care—beats my bank any day.

A moment later, customer service sent over an incubus poster. "Based on your needs, I recommend this model~"

"This incubus will give you ultimate gentleness, letting you experience intoxicating happiness every night~"

That tagline was so over the top, I half-expected the incubus to come with a Bollywood background score.

"Sweetie, the one you picked is on a flash sale right now. You really have great taste!"

Even online, they knew how to butter up a customer. I could almost hear the shopkeeper’s grin through the text.

I hesitated at the crazy discount. Wasn’t it a little too good to be true?

It was almost suspicious—like that time Flipkart listed iPhones for Rs. 5000. There had to be a catch.

I only paused for two minutes, but customer service seemed to read my mind.

"Dear~ hurry and place your order. Our incubi are all quality-guaranteed and super healthy."

"And the discount’s only for today—miss it and it’s gone! If you like it, order fast."

Those words—'Miss it and it’s gone!'—the most dangerous four words on Indian internet. Suddenly my fingers itched to order.

Then they sent a video of the incubus.

The incubus sat properly, wolf-like ears twitching, tea-coloured eyes quietly watching the camera as if saying, "Take me home, madam."

His gaze was as soft as hot chai on a rainy evening. Something about his posture made my heart go dhak-dhak.

So obedient—I was smitten at first glance.

My friend Fatima always says, 'First impression is last impression.' This fellow definitely gave a good one.

Me: "Is this for real? Will it look different in person?"

After all, what if it turned out to be a cat in a dog’s costume? Online shopping can be tricky, na.

Customer service: "Guaranteed real, no colour difference. The video is of the incubus himself. Our incubi are all unique in size and personality. You won’t find another like him anywhere."

Sounded like those saree sellers on Instagram—'No filter, original video, madam!'

That sounded good.

A bit of reassurance never hurts.

Me: "Does he need to be walked?"

Customer service: "...No need, dear."

"But if you’d like, we can throw in a leash and collar as a free gift~"

Even online, they have a sense of humour. Maybe it’s a standard question for pet-owners-turned-incubus-keepers.

Me: "Okay."

Just in case he really was too energetic and needed walking, better to have a leash on hand.

Imagine the headlines: 'Girl walks incubus in Lokhandwala society garden.' I chuckled, but typed 'Okay' anyway.

With all my questions answered, I paid and ordered the gentle, obedient incubus.

The order confirmation sound was sweeter than any lottery notification.

After ordering, a notice popped up:

"Shop announcement: This shop is selling at a loss. No returns after signing~"

In bold, too, like those warnings on paan packets. I rolled my eyes. Sab theek hai—big discount, small risk.

That was fine. The discount was massive—no returns was normal, and I’d already seen the incubus in the video.

Worse comes to worst, I’d just have to adjust—like every Indian does when something breaks after warranty.

Two days later, finally, on a weekend morning when I was sleeping in, the delivery arrived.

As usual, the courier bhaiya rang the bell at the worst possible time. I shuffled to the door in my faded pink nightie, hair sticking up like a coconut tree.

Excited, I opened the door. Standing outside was the incubus from the video: white pointed ears, a slender tail with a little heart at the tip.

His tea-coloured eyes were clear and bright, his smile gentle as a spring breeze, delicate features, fair skin, and an aura of refined gentleness.

He looked like he belonged in a Sabyasachi ad—if Sabyasachi ever designed for supernatural creatures.

"Madam." He bowed slightly, his heart-shaped tail reaching out to my hand, as if offering himself.

That little gesture, so formal and polite, almost made me feel like I was at a shaadi receiving the baraat.

That’s when I noticed another incubus behind him, sulking.

The second fellow had a look that said 'Don’t mess with me.' Even his slouch had attitude.

Huh? Why is there another one?

My mind immediately jumped to all those online horror stories—wrong order, extra package, maybe a hidden charge?

I thought maybe someone else’s package had gotten mixed up, but the dusky-skinned incubus looked at me and also called out, "Madam."

His voice was deep, a little rough around the edges. Almost as if he was daring me to send him back.

Me: ...

I blinked. This was definitely not part of the plan.

Two?

Both are mine?

Standing in the corridor, I suddenly felt like the universe was playing a prank. Was there a camera crew hiding nearby?

I was holding a heart-shaped tail in each hand.

Each tail was warm—one smooth and playful, the other coiled tight with tension. My neighbours were probably peeking through their peepholes right now. Was this what my mother meant when she said, “Beta, don’t pick up more than you can carry”?

The white-eared one spoke gently, "Madam, if you have no objections, we’ll begin the contract now~"

He said it like he was asking for a cup of chai, but the air suddenly felt charged—like when power goes out, and for a second, you wonder if the whole world has stopped.

Wait, hold on—

A white light glowed from the tips of their tails, landing in their palms, pleasantly warm. In a blink, the contract was sealed.

Somehow, I felt a sudden tingling in my own hands. There was no paperwork, no signature—just the kind of magic you hear about from your nani. Somewhere, a pressure cooker whistled in a neighbour’s kitchen, grounding me in the real world.