Chapter 1: Mic On, Hearts Off

The sticky heat of a Delhi evening clung to my skin as I queued for another BGMI match. When I was gaming with my online boyfriend, I forgot to mute my mic and called out to my black-and-white cat at home:

"Motu, come here, sit on mummy's lap."

The room buzzed with the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant clatter of utensils from the neighbour’s kitchen. I didn't realise my voice had travelled straight into my headset—so typical of me, lost in my own world, calling out to my darling without a care.

Usually, he calls me 'baby' every other sentence, but today he was unusually quiet.

I fiddled with my dupatta absently, waiting for his usual teasing—maybe a "arre, meri jaan, focus on the game!" My toe tapped restlessly against the cool tile, matching the fan’s uneven rhythm. But the silence between us was so thick, I could almost hear the neighbour’s TV blaring through the wall. I wondered if he was rolling his eyes, or if my voice had made him smile.

After the game, he suddenly lost his cool.

He cleared his throat, voice lower than usual. For a second, I thought I heard him sigh. "What makes you think I'd want to date a divorced woman with a kid?"

His words stung sharper than the time I bit into a green chilli by mistake. For a moment, I could only stare at my phone screen, heart thumping loudly. It felt as if the entire mohalla had gone quiet just to listen in on my embarrassment. My cheeks burned hotter than the oil in the neighbour’s kadhai.

I complained to my best friend. She sighed in exasperation and said,

"Stop with the online dating and just date my brother instead. Lately, he's been totally smitten with an older divorced woman who has a kid. Every day he's searching for ways to get her child to like him."

Sneha's tone was all mock irritation, but I could hear the concern in her voice—like only a real friend can muster, mixing scolding with real care. The sound of her chewing on roasted peanuts crackled over the call, grounding me in the ordinary chaos of our lives.

---

As a corporate slave slogging through overtime every day, with barely any personal life, my only way to unwind is to play a couple of rounds of BGMI after work. About half a year ago, I got randomly matched with a wild player who'd already reached Ace rank. He played aggressively, hardly spoke, and had a deep, slightly reserved voice—strangely attractive.

My evenings had become a routine: traffic horns fading outside the apartment window, dinner leftovers cooling on the table, and me, curled up with my cracked phone, headset slightly askew. That night, when he first spoke, the usual noise of the city fell away; only his voice mattered.

After weeks of shamelessly calling him "Bhaiya, you're amazing!" and "Bhaiya, carry me!", I finally managed to win him over and started a wild, reckless online romance.

I remember the day he hesitantly asked if he could call me something other than "baby" because it sounded so filmi. I laughed and told him to call me whatever he liked—as long as he kept carrying me to chicken dinner.

"Don't move from the spawn point, I'll come get you," he said in that cool, irresistible voice through my headset, sending a chill down my spine.

His accent—somewhere between Lucknow and Noida—gave even the most mundane instructions a hero's touch. Sometimes, just hearing him say my name made my cheeks burn like a cup of hot chai.

"Bhaiya, that crow guy just shot me—come help me beat him up!" I whined, all while stroking my ginger cat. I was totally in my element, giving orders from my perch on his in-game character's shoulders. I stretched out comfortably, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my sneaky black-and-white cat up on the dining table, reaching for my steel water bottle.

My flat was chaos—cat hair everywhere, stray socks, a pile of unread magazines. The fan squeaked on every rotation, my cats prowled like mini-royalty, and I, the harassed but loving queen, tried to keep everyone in line.

I screeched, "Motu, don't touch mummy's water bottle!" The bottle rolled off the table with a clang, making Motu freeze mid-pounce. Chotu, ever the opportunist, darted in to sniff the spill. I tossed my phone aside and chased after the cat. After a round of chaos, I finally collapsed back on the sofa, only to see the game was already over.

There was a fresh scratch on my wrist and my dupatta nearly dragged through the spilled water, but Motu looked smug as ever. Chotu had taken this opportunity to claim my favourite cushion. Typical.

"Bhaiya, let's keep going. Bas, aaj raat ko thoda try maarte hain, Ace rank pakka!" I put my headset back on, pitched my voice extra sweet, and got ready for the next round. But he didn't ready up for a long time. Just as I was starting to wonder if something was wrong with my headset, he finally spoke.

I could hear my own breathing in the silence, the familiar background buzz of the inverter. His pause was so long, I almost checked if there was a network issue.

"You... what were you just doing?"

Thinking he was confused about my sudden AFK, I hurried to explain, "Oh, it was Motu—he almost broke my water bottle. That's the fourth one this month. If he breaks another, I'll have nothing left to drink from!"

I tried to keep my tone light, but inside I was rolling my eyes. In our house, a dropped bottle is nothing new. My mum would have called it nazar lag gayi to my utensils.

"...You have a child?"

I was baffled. Wait—did he actually think I had a real child? I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. Who doesn't have a fur baby these days? I've seen him show off his golden retriever on his Insta stories all the time. What's the big deal?

Arrey, this boy must be joking. Everyone on my work group has posted at least one photo with their 'kids'—whether it’s a cat, dog, or even a turtle!

"Yeah, all my colleagues have them too. But Motu is just too naughty. I think it's genetic—Chotu is super well-behaved, always cuddling in my arms while I play."

I ran my fingers through Chotu’s fur, feeling his steady purr vibrating against my palm. Sometimes I think these two are the only ones who really listen to me after a long day.

"You have two?"

He sounded like he was barely holding it together, but I couldn't figure out why.

His voice had a tremor I hadn’t heard before, like when you’re about to ask for extra chutney at a street stall and are scared the vendor will say no.

"Yeah, I just didn't want Motu to get lonely at home. With Chotu around, the two kids can play together."

I'm really a great cat mum. I proudly stroked Chotu, who was lying on his back purring in my arms.

In our building, being called a "cat aunty" is a badge of honour, not an insult. I even once got a free bowl of milk from the local dairy uncle for them.

"You've been playing with me for so long, calling me 'bhaiya'... does the kids' dad know?"

His voice was a little shaky. I tilted my head, puzzled. "What does that have to do with their dad? I haven't seen him in ages."

Honestly, men sometimes ask the weirdest questions! Like, what, was I supposed to keep tabs on the entire colony of tomcats?

Motu the black-and-white cat and Chotu the ginger cat were both abandoned at my door in the middle of the night by their irresponsible parents. It's all because I feed stray cats out of sympathy, so I keep getting stuck with these deadbeat dads' kittens. One of these days, I'm going to round up all those tomcats and take them to the vet for a snip.

The colony aunties always say I have too soft a heart. Still, I can’t turn a blind eye when a hungry little face shows up at my door. Maybe it’s a family tradition—my nani was the same.

I grumbled, "If I ever see their dad again, I'll make sure he never has kids again."

He was silent for a long time. I thought I'd scared him.

The only sound was the distant whistle of the pressure cooker from someone’s kitchen, echoing down the corridor.

"Relax, bhaiya. I've already put Motu back in the room—he won't interrupt our game. How about I let Chotu say hi to you? I think he really likes you—every time you talk, he climbs right into my lap..."

But before I could finish, my gaming partner suddenly left the room and went offline.

His abrupt logout felt like the sudden silence after a raucous Diwali cracker burst—unexpected, jarring, leaving a strange emptiness in its wake.

I sent him a question mark on WhatsApp, watching that little "typing..." bubble for ages.

Every second stretched longer than the last. I started flipping through my phone gallery just to distract myself, but my eyes kept darting back.

"Meow~" Chotu rolled over and purred in my arms. I shrugged, confused. Must be bad internet. I'll ask him again tomorrow.

Motu gave me a look as if to say, 'humans are so complicated,' before curling up beside me. I switched on the TV, letting the sound of a saas-bahu serial fill the silence.

I hugged Motu close, pretending the world outside was just another level I could respawn in tomorrow.