CHAPTER-13 Heaven For Demons

Dhruv's breath was heavy, his heart pounding like a war drum. The streets blurred as he sprinted, his vision clouded with unshed tears. His feet pounded against the pavement, his mind screaming at him to escape—escape from the weight pressing on his chest, from the unseen chains pulling him back, from the unbearable presence of the past waiting for him inside that auditorium.

But then…

The world snapped back into place.

He wasn't running. He hadn't moved an inch.

Dhruv was still standing there, frozen at the entrance of the auditorium. His fists were clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. His breathing was still erratic, his body stiff as if held captive by some unseen force.

The imagined flight—his desperate escape—was nothing more than a cruel trick of his mind. His body wanted to move, to turn and run, but his legs refused to obey.

He was still here. Still standing at the threshold. And the fear? It was still very, very real.

"What the hell am I doing…?" he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible.

His eyes darted toward the grand entrance, where laughter and music flowed out like an invisible wave, pushing against his chest. His heart clenched.

"I should just go in… it's not a big deal, right?"

But his feet wouldn't move.

It was as if every step forward carried the weight of everything he had avoided for years..

Dhruv took a deep breath and finally stepped inside.

The moment he entered, he was immediately engulfed by the sheer vibrancy of the wedding. The air was thick with the scent of fresh marigold and rose petals, mixed with the aroma of rich, spicy food being prepared in the distance. Golden fairy lights were draped from every corner, twinkling like tiny stars, casting a warm glow over the grand auditorium.

The rhythmic beats of dhols thundered through the air, blending seamlessly with the joyous melodies of the shehnai. Laughter, chatter, and the occasional high-pitched call of relatives echoed across the vast hall. Women draped in dazzling sarees and lehengas moved gracefully, their bangles clinking in rhythm, while men, clad in sherwanis and kurtas, exchanged greetings and hearty hugs.

Children ran around, weaving through the crowd, some playing while others tried to steal sweets from the dessert counter. The buffet area was a feast for the senses—rows of steaming biryanis, crispy puris, creamy curries, and an entire section dedicated to sweets like gulab jamun and jalebi. The fragrance was enough to make anyone's stomach rumble.

At the center of it all, on a beautifully decorated stage, sat the bride and groom, adorned in regal attire, smiling and greeting the never-ending line of guests who came to bless them. Around them, photographers flashed their cameras, capturing every candid laugh, every tear, every fleeting moment of the grand occasion.

The whole place was buzzing with life, a celebration of love, family, and tradition. But amidst this sea of people, Dhruv felt like an outsider—lost in the past, unsure of where he truly belonged in this moment.

Dhruv's heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst out of his chest. His breathing was shallow, and despite the cool air-conditioned auditorium, he was drenched in sweat. His hands were clammy, his forehead damp—every few seconds, he wiped the sweat off his brow, then his neck, then his palms, only for it to return instantly.

The wedding hall, with its golden glow and vibrant decorations, felt suffocating. Every voice, every burst of laughter, every dhol beat crashed into his ears like waves, making him feel smaller, out of place. His eyes darted across the crowd, searching desperately for Gorgo, his only anchor in this overwhelming sea of colors and noise.

But Gorgo was nowhere to be seen.

The chaos of the wedding wrapped around Dhruv like a storm. The scent of fresh jasmine garlands mixed with the aroma of ghee-drenched sweets, making the air thick with festivity. The rhythmic beats of the dhol reverberated through the marble floor, shaking his already unstable nerves.

Women in shimmering sarees glided past him, their gold bangles jingling like temple bells. The men, draped in silk kurtas, laughed heartily, clapping each other on the back, exchanging stories of old days. Children zipped between the legs of the guests, their hands sticky with ladoos, their giggles like tiny explosions of joy.

But for Dhruv, everything was just... too much.

His heart drummed violently against his ribs. His pulse raced. He wiped his sweat again, his palm damp as he ran it over his forehead. His fingers trembled. Every face in the crowd blurred together, yet he felt as if all of them were staring at him—judging, whispering.

Where was Gorgo?

His breath hitched as he stood frozen at the entrance. The world inside the auditorium was loud, vibrant, bursting with life. And he—he felt like an outsider looking in, a man standing at the edge of something he wasn't sure he could step into.

Still, his legs moved forward. Hesitant. Heavy. But forward.

As Dhruv stepped deeper into the wedding hall, his heartbeat thundered in his chest. The cold air from the hall's air conditioning brushed against his skin, yet his palms were damp with sweat. He wiped them against his trousers, then ran a trembling hand over his forehead and neck, trying to compose himself. But his body refused to listen.

His breath was uneven. His feet felt heavy, as though the polished marble floor beneath him was trying to pull him down. The weight of unseen eyes bore into his back, an almost suffocating presence that made him shrink within himself. He didn't have to turn around to know—he could feel them. The silent gazes of people who had stopped their conversations for a brief moment, their eyes following him, registering his presence.

Was it recognition? Was it curiosity? Or was it judgment?

He didn't know. And that terrified him more than anything.

He tried to steady his breathing, forcing himself to blend into the crowd. Find Gorgo. Just find him and everything will be fine. But his eyes searched in vain, the figures around him blending into a blur of bright silks, gold jewelry, and hurried movements.

The sounds of laughter, clinking bangles, the rhythmic beats of nadaswaram music—it all felt distant, like he was hearing it from underwater. His mind kept replaying a single thought, over and over again.

What am I doing here?

He clenched his fists. The air felt too heavy, the walls too close. The people around him were moving, smiling, laughing, but he—he was stuck, frozen in place, drowning in the storm of his own emotions.

Would they be happy to see him? Would they resent him for disappearing? But the biggest fear for him was this......

"Would they even remember me?"

The weight of years, of distance, of silence pressed against his chest.

And for a second, he wasn't sure if he could take another step forward.

Through the blur of colors and the suffocating noise of the wedding hall, Dhruv's eyes finally landed on him—Gorgo.

There he was, sitting comfortably at a table, completely at ease, stuffing his face with an unholy amount of food. A mountain of sweets, curries, and fried snacks piled high on his plate as if he were preparing for battle. His cheeks were puffed out, his eyes half-closed in bliss as he devoured a gulab jamun, drowning it in thick, golden syrup before tossing it into his mouth.

For a second, Dhruv forgot his anxiety.

"Are you serious…?" he muttered under his breath..

As Dhruv stood there, frozen in place, Gorgo continued his feast, completely unaware of the storm raging inside his friend's mind.

With a satisfied sigh, Gorgo picked up another plate, stuffing his mouth full of sweets. "Man, I swear, human weddings are the best! Why don't demons do this? We just burn stuff and call it a day."

He grabbed a ladoo, admiring it like a rare treasure. "This thing? This is divine. If I ever start a war, it'll be for this."

As Gorgo continued to devour the buffet like a man who had just discovered the meaning of life in a plate of biryani, he mumbled to himself, "Bro, if hell had food like this, nobody would be scared of dying."

He picked up a massive gulab jamun and held it up like a philosopher contemplating the secrets of the universe. "What if... what if this is what enlightenment tastes like? Was Buddha just hungry all along?"

Taking a dramatic bite, his eyes rolled back in pure ecstasy. "Ohhh yeah, that's the stuff. This isn't just a dessert. This is a spiritual experience."

Then he noticed something—paneer butter masala. His eyes widened like he had just seen a divine vision. "I was a fool. A blind, ignorant fool. I thought ladoo was my life's purpose. But no—THIS! This is my true calling!"

Grabbing a roti, he dipped it into the rich, creamy paneer like he was handling a sacred relic. "Gods above and demons below, I would trade my soul for another bite of this."

The waiter passing by gave him a weird look. Gorgo, without missing a beat, leaned in and whispered, "You don't understand, my guy. This isn't food. This is a love letter from the universe."

Meanwhile, Dhruv was sweating bullets, going through a full-blown emotional crisis, but Gorgo? Gorgo was in heaven. Literally...

 -TO BE CONTINUED