Chapter 1: The Couple Tag Dilemma

Before my promotion match, my online boyfriend got called away for team practice.

The evening air outside my window was thick with the sound of crickets and the distant call of a chaiwala peddling his last round for the night. I glanced at my phone, my heart fluttering like the heroine in a monsoon song sequence, and put on my sweetest voice: "Baby, all the best for your scrims! I'm going to bed now, okay? Don’t forget to think of me."

God, pretending to be a pro player's girlfriend is just too much fun.

He left the game room, looking reluctant. The faint click of the door closing made me smile—just like those dramatic serial scenes where the hero looks back one last time. I felt a little wicked, but also giddy with anticipation.

The moment he was gone, I immediately queued up with four top-tier teammates from the Indian server.

"Didi, my jungle skills are top-notch, I promise we'll win!" piped up Jignesh, his voice crackling through my cheap Bluetooth headset.

"Didi, didi, what song do you want to hear? I'll sing for you while we play," offered Vicky, always the singer of the group, his tone pure Delhi cheekiness.

"Didi, just sit back and relax—I'll make sure you’re safe," said Ritesh, sounding like one of those filmi bodyguards, full of swagger.

I was basking in all the attention, surrounded by eager teammates. Their excited chatter was like a mini baraat just for me, the tiffin on my desk untouched as I grinned ear to ear. I fiddled with my dupatta, twisting it around my fingers, and bit my nails in nervous delight as they teased me.

But then, the mid laner suddenly asked, sounding puzzled, "Didi, why do you have a couple tag with the enemy jungler?"

I glanced at the enemy jungler's familiar username. My heart skipped a beat—he was using our couple tag! Panicking, I immediately exited the game, my hand trembling so much I nearly knocked over my water bottle. The hum of the ceiling fan whirred above, the flicker of my phone screen reflected on the marble floor, and the faint aroma of leftover chai on my desk made the moment feel even more surreal. My heart thudded like it was dhol at a wedding.

The enemy jungler, with the username [Bada Sher Ka Rasgulla] and a level 52 couple tag linked to me, suddenly appeared in my match. I could almost feel my palms getting sweaty—this was worse than being caught sneaking extra gulab jamun at a family function.

The mid laner asked again, "Didi, do you know the enemy jungler?" His tone was teasing but curious, like he was waiting for some juicy colony gossip.

The top laner munched on chips: "Of course they know each other. One is Chhota Sher Ka Rasgulla, the other is Bada Sher Ka Rasgulla, and they're couple-tagged. Arrey wah." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, crunching loudly for effect.

The marksman teased slyly, "Didi, you're playing with us four guys—won't bhaiya get jealous?" There was laughter in the background, probably from his siblings watching TV.

I snapped out of my daze and quickly quit the match. My mouse hand shook; my feet tapped nervously on the cool marble floor. Why did my life suddenly feel like a scene from a daily soap?

A WhatsApp notification popped up.

AAA Online Boyfriend: [Baby, are you asleep?]

Feeling guilty, I swiped the chat away, not ready to face those puppy-dog eyes I imagined behind his profile pic. I almost typed out a confession, then deleted it, glancing at my phone every few seconds for his reply.

AAA Online Boyfriend: [Did you lend your account to someone? Should I go easy on them?]

A spark of inspiration hit me. Typical desi jugaad—make up a quick excuse!

I hurriedly logged back in, heart pounding.

"Sorry, I just disconnected."

I tried to steady my breath, just like before an exam result, and typed as calmly as I could: "I don't know him." I tried to sound as innocent as those kids who claim they didn’t eat the chocolate, even as the wrapper peeks out of their pocket.

Since I hadn’t replied on WhatsApp, Arjun messaged in-game:

Bada Sher Ka Rasgulla: [Is this the account owner?]

I quickly replied:

Chhota Sher Ka Rasgulla: [Hello, I'm a friend of the account owner.]

Arjun didn’t say anything else.

Looked like he believed me.

But I couldn’t help feeling a little upset. My mind buzzed with questions, like aunties gossiping over chai during a wedding sangeet.

What about the scrims you said you had?

Yet here he was, playing ranked in the rift.

Liar.

I couldn’t resist probing: [The account owner said you’re a pro player?]

Bada Sher Ka Rasgulla: [Yes.]

Hilarious. Still acting, are you?

[Don’t you have team practice now?]

His teammate chimed in: [Madam, we’re doing a five-man team queue.]

They were really putting on a show—even got others to play along. Wah re drama!

I hopped onto our jungler Jignesh’s character: "Jignesh, go get them!" My tone was full-on Didi mode, the kind that makes little brothers jump to attention.

Jignesh: "At your command, Princess Kuhu!" He sounded so earnest I almost burst out laughing.

The next second, Arjun wiped out both me and the jungler, sending us straight back to base. Kya yaar, not even a little mercy?

The voice chat went dead silent. Even the background sounds—someone’s mother calling for dinner, a dog barking outside—suddenly seemed far away.

The marksman, who loved singing, stopped mid-song and muttered under the tower, "Didi, their team seems kind of scary..." There was a nervous tremble in his voice, as if he’d seen a ghost in the galli.

The jungler, who’d promised a win, sounded strained: "Didi, don’t worry. If we lose, I’ll pay double..." Poor fellow, his pride was taking a beating along with his character.

Watching my Indian server’s armored chariot get crushed by Bada Sher Ka Rasgulla, I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I could feel my ears getting hot, a telltale sign of stress my mother always teases me about.

"You guys, follow me! Quickly!" My voice rose, desperate, as if trying to rally the cousins for an impromptu cricket match on the terrace.

I led the marksman and jungler to hide in the bush where Arjun liked to lurk after killing the big dragon. My heart thumped—could we actually pull this off?

Sure enough, after he took the dragon, he strolled right over, so casual, as if he owned the whole game.

Jignesh launched a combo with me, and the marksman followed up with damage. It was coordinated chaos, like cousins rushing for the last samosa at a family party.

But Arjun reacted instantly and escaped with barely any health left. Typical. Always one step ahead. He’d taught me this move, whispering instructions late at night—now he used it against me.

Bada Sher Ka Rasgulla: [?]

My teammates thought he was taunting us. In the silence that followed, I could hear someone’s fan whirring loudly, as if mirroring the tension in my chest.

Only I felt a jolt of panic. Did he realise it was me?

I didn’t dare show myself again, obediently sticking with my teammates. My fingers hovered nervously over the keyboard, biting my lower lip like I used to during exam results.

Until all three lanes’ inhibitors were down.

One more wave and my promotion match would be lost. The pressure was so real I could almost hear my mother yelling from the kitchen to shut down the computer and study instead.

I gritted my teeth and decided to gamble.

"They’re probably going for double dragons. The jungler might bring support top. Let’s sneak over."

This was Arjun’s usual move when we played together. The kind of trick he’d whisper to me on late-night calls, voice full of confidence.

The four of us quietly moved up. My hands trembled with excitement and fear—a mix only Indian drama can deliver.

Sure enough, Arjun was soloing the dragon.

We were thrilled—if we could take him out and steal the dragon, we might just make a comeback.

But suddenly, four burly guys jumped out of the bush. It was a perfect ambush. I could almost hear the dramatic background music from a TV serial in my head.

My whole team was wiped out.

Arjun stopped attacking the dragon and stood in front of me.

Bada Sher Ka Rasgulla: [Kuhu, speak.]

Bada Sher Ka Rasgulla: [Stop pretending. I know it’s you.]

I stubbornly played dumb: [I told you, I’m not the account owner. Start the next game already. Don’t waste time.]

Just my luck. No way I’ll run into you again next match. I let out a frustrated sigh, glancing at the faint reflection of my sulking face in the monitor.

But Arjun just ignored me and led his teammates to camp outside my base.

My teammates were about to respawn, so I hurriedly recalled back. I could almost feel the weight of their expectations on my shoulders, like when I used to lead the colony kids in antakshari.

I jumped onto the marksman’s character to protect him while he cleared minions.

Arjun rushed in and sent the marksman packing. No mercy. Only game.

But he let me go. I hesitated for a second, wondering if he could somehow see me through the screen.

I switched to the jungler.

The jungler got sent away, too. One by one, my team fell like dominoes.

The mid laner grumbled, "Their four teammates aren’t even moving. Are they looking down on us?"

"Didi, come up here, I want to see—"

Before he could finish, the mid laner was sent back to the fountain as well.

The top laner, guarding his 1-5 score, kept his distance: "Didi, this is my main Indian server account. If my stats look this bad, my reputation will be ruined..."

"Didi, please talk to your husband, let us go..." His voice was almost pleading, as if asking for an extra sweet from the prasad plate.

Bada Sher Ka Rasgulla stood in front of me with a huge sword: [Speak.]

Their super minions were bigger than me, poking at my fragile crystal one after another. It felt like the whole mohalla was watching my defeat.

I stood next to the crystal, weak, helpless, and pitiful. My character’s posture looked exactly how I felt—small, unsure, and exposed.

Arjun just stared at me in silence.

The super minions did their work quietly.

When the crystal finally exploded, I exited the game in frustration. I pushed my chair back, muttering under my breath in Hindi, "Bas, ho gaya ab. Enough!"

Arjun’s WhatsApp messages kept popping up.

[Why did you lie to me? Didn’t you say you were going to sleep? Why are you playing with so many guys?]

[Did I do something wrong? Was I not enough for you?]

My mind was still replaying the scene where he made me stand alone against him. It felt like a dramatic filmi betrayal, the heroine left abandoned on stage while the crowd watches.

A wave of grievance surged up in my chest. I wanted to scream, throw something, or just dissolve into tears like they do in those emotional serials.

[I hate you. Let’s break up!]

He was the one who lied about being a pro player, lied about scrims, and ditched my promotion match.

Now he made it sound like I was the one who betrayed him.

I blocked him. My finger lingered over the block button, but I pressed it anyway, heart pounding.

I stared at our old chat history, scrolling through the stickers, the late-night confessions, and hesitated over deleting the photo of us with matching couple tags. The memory stung. I almost deleted it, but couldn’t bring myself to let go just yet. The heartbreak felt sharp and raw.

Looking at the game icon, I felt nothing but annoyance. I deleted it, out of sight, out of mind. The sound of the app uninstalling was oddly satisfying, like shutting a noisy window against the Mumbai rains. For a moment, the silence in my room was complete, broken only by the distant whistle of a pressure cooker from the kitchen—just another evening in a typical Indian household.