राज़ आँखें तेरी
सब बयां कर रही
सुन रहा, दिल तेरी खामोशियां..........

It had been a week since Mantavya read Yatra’s diary, and the atmosphere in the lecture hall was suffocating. Har din, Mantavya class mein enter karta toh uski nazar sabse pehle us akhri bench par jaati. Yatra was there, but she had become even more of a ghost. No eye contact, no reactions—just a cold, mechanical presence.

Mantavya tried to focus on the poetry of Mirza Ghalib, but his own heart was out of rhythm.

"Ghalib kehte hain... 'Ishq par zor nahin, hai yeh woh aatish 'Ghalib', jo lagaye na lage aur bujhaye na bane.'" Mantavya’s voice was soft, his eyes unintentionally drifting toward Yatra. "Love isn't a choice, class. It’s a fire that you can't start or stop. Par kabhi kabhi, hum us aag se itna darte hain ki hum khud ko barf bana lete hain."

Yatra’s pen snapped. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. She looked up, her eyes flashing with a warning. She knew he was talking to her, not the class.

"Is there a problem, Yatra ji?" Mantavya asked, his Jodhpuri politeness now mixed with a bit of a challenge.

"History is full of people who burnt to death because of that 'fire', Professor," Yatra said, her voice raspy and cold. "Maybe ice is safer. At least it doesn't leave scars."

Before Mantavya could respond, the heavy wooden doors of the lecture hall swung open. The sound of clicking heels echoed against the marble floor. It was his Bua Mandakini Rajput.

She was dressed in a crisp, expensive silk saree, her gold jewelry jingling with every step. Her face carried the arrogance of Jodhpur’s royal havelis. The students turned around, stunned by the sudden intrusion.

"Mantavya! Hum kab se bahar wait kar rahe hain," Bua shouted, ignoring the fact that a lecture was in progress. "Ye kya tareeka hai? Royal family ka chashm-o-chirag yahan bacchon ki tarah blackboard par likh raha hai?"

Mantavya’s face turned bright red. "Bua ji... please. Main class le raha hoon. Hum office mein baat kar sakte hain."

Bua ji didn't listen. She walked straight to the podium, her eyes scanning the room with judgment. Suddenly, she stopped. Her gaze landed on the back row—on Yatra.

Bua’s expression changed from anger to a twisted, greedy smile. "Arre! Ye toh Hyderabad wali ladki hai na? Yatra Rathore?"

The class gasped. Yatra stood up, her face turning pale. The 'Ice Queen' looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

"Namaste, Bua ji," Yatra whispered, her voice losing its edge for the first time.

"Dekha Mantavya? Maine kaha tha na ki naseeb tumhe milwa hi dega," Bua said, looking at Mantavya with a smirk. "Tumhare Dada ji ne Hyderabad mein baat pakki kar di hai. Aur tum yahan use 'Professor' bankar ho?"

Pure classroom mein sannata chha gaya. Mantavya felt like the world was spinning. The girl he was falling for—the silent, mysterious writer—was the same girl his family wanted him to marry for a "business merger."

Yatra didn't wait for another word. She grabbed her bag and ran out of the room, her eyes filled with tears of betrayal. She thought Mantavya already knew. She thought his kindness was just a plan to trap her into that marriage.

"Yatra! Wait!" Mantavya shouted, but Bua caught his arm.

"Kahan ja rahe ho? Royal dignity yaad rakho, Mantavya. Bheed ke peeche mat bhago," Bua snapped.

Mantavya looked at his Bua’s hand on his arm, then at the empty door. For the first time in his life, the "Sweet Professor" felt a surge of Rajput anger. He pulled his arm away.

"Dignity insaan se hoti hai, Bua ji... deewaron se nahi," he said firmly, and ran after Yatra into the pouring Delhi rain.