A Rooftop Proposal Under Delhi Stars
He had been planning this for six months. She had no idea. The city held its breath.
Nikhil had string lights delivered in secret, borrowed his best friend's rooftop in Hauz Khas, and bribed the dhaba downstairs to keep playing old Kishore Kumar songs all evening. Everything was ready. Except him.
He called her and said there was a problem with a friend's house. Could she come? She came, because she always came when he needed her — that was the thing about Simran that undid him completely.
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When she stepped onto the rooftop and saw the lights and the roses and Delhi glittering below like a fallen constellation, she went very still.
He walked toward her, ring box in his pocket, six months of rehearsed words completely gone from his head.
"I had a whole speech," he said.
She was already crying. "Nikhil—"
"I forget all of it. All I remember is that every good thing in the last four years has you in it somewhere."
He got down on one knee. The Kishore Kumar song drifted up from below. Delhi glittered. The world was very small and very large at the same time.
"Will you marry me?"
She looked at him for a long time — this man on one knee with Delhi behind him and love written all over his terrified face.
"Get up," she said softly. "Get up and come here."
He stood. She held his face in both hands.
"Yes," she said. "Obviously yes. You idiot."
The city exhaled.
