Chapter 1: The Birthday Surprise

It was my girlfriend's birthday, so I booked a Mercedes C-Class for her well in advance.

As I stared at the sparkling keys, my heart pounded in anticipation, palms sweaty with excitement. The car delivery guy handed them over, grinning, and said, 'Happy birthday, bhaiya!' Outside, the Gurgaon street buzzed with the constant honking of auto rickshaws and the smell of petrol drifting up from below. This was no small purchase, mind you. I’d spent nights sweating over EMI calculations, picturing Ananya’s smile. My hands actually trembled a little as I imagined her reaction—what better way to show her what she meant to me?

To surprise her, I hid the car key inside a wishing bottle, stuffing it with hundreds of those tiny folded paper stars.

I spent evenings after office in my cramped Gurgaon flat, hunched over the table, folding those stars as Kishore Kumar’s voice crackled from my old Bluetooth speaker. The ceiling fan chopped the thick summer air above. My room was a mess—scraps of colored paper everywhere, a chipped cup of chai leaving a ring on the table. Once, my flatmate peeked in, shook his head, and chuckled, 'Arrey, kya filmy banda hai tu.' Each star carried a silent wish, a secret promise. I hoped she’d find this filmi gesture as cute as I did.

I never expected that as soon as I brought out the wishing bottle at the dinner table, Ananya’s face would drop instantly.

The lights in the fancy restaurant flickered as a waiter refilled water, but all I could see was the sudden disappointment in her expression. It was like I’d served her bland khichdi when she was expecting a royal thali.

Her group of girlfriends were even more dramatic—each one shouting, making a fuss.

"Are you serious, yaar? For your girlfriend’s birthday, you give her this? Just a bottle of junk?"

The entire table fell silent for a moment before Sneha’s voice pierced the hush, loud enough for even the next table to stop mid-bite. The other girls’ faces were a mix of disbelief and pure entertainment, as if they’d scored front-row seats to a reality show.

"Even school kids don’t play with this stuff anymore..."

Priya snickered, twirling her hair and leaning forward like she was examining a failed science project.

"Bhai, aajkal toh bachche bhi WhatsApp pe better gifts bhejte hain."

Ritika let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. Someone at a nearby table tried not to stare too openly. The clatter of cutlery faded, replaced by the sting of their words.

Ananya’s friends have always been loud and love to stir things up. Every time they see me, they can’t resist pulling my leg.

Even when we’d meet at CCD or on random shopping trips in Select Citywalk, they’d tease me, sometimes just for the fun of it. Sometimes I’d laugh along, sometimes I’d just let it pass. What to do, yaar? Group dynamics.

So I didn’t take it too seriously at first.

I scratched my head and tried to explain, keeping my tone light: "I know this might seem a little childish, but I folded every single one myself. Isn’t that kind of romantic?"

I managed a sheepish grin, hoping my desi romantic side would come through. A couple at the next table exchanged knowing glances, maybe remembering their own silly gifts. I tried to sound casual, but my hands fiddled with my napkin under the table, betraying my nerves.

My work keeps me busy at the Gurgaon office. Folding hundreds of stars took me nearly two weeks.

There were days I’d stumble home late, loosen my tie, and instead of scrolling Insta or passing out in front of the TV, I’d make those stars. My flatmate teased me: "Arrey, kya kar raha hai, bhai? Ladki hai ya bachchi?" But for her, anything.

Even if there wasn’t a car key inside, my sincerity was obvious.

If only they could see the chapped skin on my fingertips, the late nights spent on this silly little idea. Sometimes it’s not about the price tag, na?

But after hearing all that, Ananya’s face grew even more sour.

Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes darted around—maybe wishing for a different surprise, or just hoping her friends would stop. But instead, her expression hardened, like the monsoon clouds gathering before a downpour.

Priya, always quick to anger, slammed the table in front of me.

The plates rattled. Priya’s eyes narrowed—she always acts like the union leader of their group, ready to start a dharna at any small slight.

"You call this cheap, tacky thing romantic?"

Her words were sharp, like the edge of a new blade. She flicked her dupatta over her shoulder, nose in the air.

Sneha chimed in with her signature sarcasm: "So what if you folded them yourself? You’re a grown man, and you have the nerve to call this a gift?"

Sneha’s drawl was half-mocking, half-expectant, like she was waiting for the next twist in a daily soap.

Ritika rolled her eyes: "Don’t you make good money? Can’t you get Ananya a better present? Do you even care about my girl at all?"

Her nails tapped impatiently on the table, her fake Cartier bracelet glinting. She always brought up my salary as if it was a winning lottery ticket.

Meera pretended to be reasonable but couldn’t hide the mockery: "It’s not that gifts have to be expensive, but whether you put your heart into it or not is obvious at a glance."

Meera always played the mediator, but her words stung the most. She adjusted her specs, giving me the look my old tuition teacher reserved for failing students.

I begged for mercy: "Arrey yaar, please, stop scolding me. Really, I did put my heart into this gift. You’ll see in a moment. Can we eat first?"

I put both palms together, half-joking, half-desperate, as if I was facing a group of elders. My voice was light, but my stomach knotted as the aroma of dal makhani and butter naan drifted from the kitchen.

My girlfriend, silent until now, suddenly sneered.

Her lips curled, and she looked away, fairy lights reflecting in her kohl-lined eyes. Even her earrings seemed to lose their sparkle.

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "Eat what? I’ve lost my appetite."

Her tone was cold, final. The waiter, about to serve the biryani, paused, glancing nervously at our table. For a second, it felt like the entire restaurant was watching.

Her attitude only encouraged her friends to attack me more viciously.

Like hungry crows spotting a fallen roti, they swooped in, voices overlapping, each trying to outdo the other in outrage.

"This gift is bloody ridiculous."

Priya’s voice echoed, biting through the plush upholstery of the restaurant.

"And you talk about sincerity and effort? Please, you’re just a kanjoos makhi choos."

Sneha leaned closer, her perfume wafting over, eyebrows raised in scorn. Even a passing waiter shot me a sympathetic glance.

"Men are all the same. When they’re chasing you, they’re sweet as honey. Once they’ve got you, they don’t care anymore. Baniya mentality!"

Ritika huffed, flipping her hair. The others nodded, like a jury handing down a verdict. I felt myself shrinking under their gaze.

They took turns tearing into me, practically abusing me.

The words came fast and heavy, as if I was standing in front of the society’s notice board, being scolded for parking my bike wrong. The humiliation stung, but I tried to keep my face neutral, eyes glued to the tablecloth.

I felt the heat rise up my neck, wishing I could disappear under the table like a kid caught copying in an exam.

I was speechless.

Honestly, what could I even say? There was no point trying to explain myself to this kangaroo court.

Not to mention I’d spent nearly 40 lakh rupees buying my girlfriend a car.

The irony gnawed at me. If only they knew what sat waiting outside, shining under the streetlights. I’d even sent her a hint in her WhatsApp DPs—she hadn’t noticed.

Just this meal today, at three thousand per person, cost me almost 30,000 rupees.

The bill itself could give my dad a heart attack, but here I was, pretending not to notice as the waiter hovered nearby with the card machine.

This group of women, whose average monthly salary is only 35,000, how do they have the nerve to say these things?

Sometimes I wondered if the world had turned upside down. My own friends would never behave like this, not even after a few pegs at the local bar.

And my girlfriend just sat there stone-faced, letting her friends insult me however they wanted.

She kept her gaze lowered, hands folded in her lap. Not once did she try to stop them, not even a token "chodo na, guys." My heart ached with each second she stayed silent.

Honestly, by this point I was starting to get angry.

The tips of my ears burned, and my jaw clenched. I tried to hide my frustration, but my foot tapped restlessly under the table.

But it was my girlfriend’s birthday, so I didn’t want to show my anger in front of her friends.

I took a deep breath, reminding myself that sometimes, peace is more important than pride. Amma’s words echoed in my head: "Beta, respect is earned, not demanded."