Star-Crossed

By Vibha Batra

"A collection of heart-warming romance shorts, peopled with quirky, endearing characters. 

Meet Krish. He is enamoured of Niru, who runs a support group for the heartbroken. The only hitch? He's never had his heart broken ever. 

Enter Shweta whose ex-boyfriend is tying the knot. And she's down in the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Apr 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9789361721793

Book preview

Star-Crossed

Vibha Batra

Ukiyoto Publishing

All global publishing rights are held by

Ukiyoto Publishing

Published in 2023

Content Copyright © Vibha Batra

ISBN

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

Contents

Story 1

Into the Arms of Danger

STORY 2

When a Painter Courts his Muse

STORY 3

The Zamindar’s Wife

STORY 4

The X Factor

STORY 5

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

About the Author

Story 1

Into the Arms of Danger

‘D

ahlin’!’ Pompy Aunty exclaims, rushing up to greet me. ‘Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!’

I almost groan out loud.

Being accosted in the restroom is bad enough. Being accosted by the biggest busybody in town is sheer hell.

‘How have you been, dahlin’?’ She asks solicitously, cupping my face, effectively ruining Mickey Contractor’s painstaking handiwork.

‘Great, thanks.’ I croak, feigning enthusiasm.

She throws me a pitying look. A split second later, she throws her arms around me. Next thing I know, my face is sandwiched between her heavy, heaving, heavily perfumed boobs. 

‘Oh, honey, just hang in there,’ she pats my head, this once, playing havoc with Avan Contractor’s handiwork. ‘I know just what you need.’ She dips a fleshy paw into her Judith Lieber minaudiere. ‘Here, take this,’ she says solicitously, slipping a suspicious looking Ziploc type baggie into my clutch. ‘No need to thank me.’

I wasn’t about to.

She smacks my face against her bosom one last time and then she’s off. I’m about to flush the ‘gift’ down the toilet, when a gaggle of Aunties swoop down on me.

I make small talk for a bit, tag along with them, and when they disappear into the cavernous interiors of the ballroom, I beat a hasty retreat.

In case you’re wondering, I’m at what’s being touted as the Wedding of the Year. You know the hashtags AkashGotDip,AkashDiShaadi,PhatPhenomenalPheras that are trending on social media? That’s the one.

But am I chronicling the event of the century with a flurry of duck face selfies?  Am I kissing the hallowed air near the ears of the country’s one percenters and A listers? Am I flaunting my custom made silver Zuhair Murad cocktail dress in a sea of Vallyas, Tahilianis, Sabyasachis? Am I on the dance floor, hip butting Bollywood royalty, punctuating the air with rallying cries of OyeHoye?

Sadly enough, the answer to all the above is a Big Fat No.

Instead of actively participating in the season’s biggest buzz generating event, I’m getting buzzed alone. There’s a reason why I escaped the grand ballroom, why I made a beeline for the adjoining terrace, why I’m drowning my sorrows in solitude. 

I know what you are thinking.

What does Shweta Piramal, the Shweta Piramal – celebutante, glamazon, high priestess of cool, fashion force, red carpet goddess - have to be sad about?

See, that’s the problem. Most people think if you live in a hundred-year-old colonial mansion surrounded by lush, landscaped gardens, if your parents gift you a private jet for your thirtieth, if you summer in the French Riviera, if you can snag a Birkin without being placed on the notorious waiting list, and if you have the planet’s Who’s Who (including Victoria Beckham, Paris Hilton, and a duchess or two) on your speed dial, you don’t feel pain. 

It’s a myth.

Look at me. I’m a wreck.

The thing is, Akash and I used to be an item. Eons ago. In fact, he was my first ever BF. You know how it is. Nothing like an ex’s wedding to make you rue/regret/reconsider your single status. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in love with Akash or pining away for him. (What I’m really pining for is carbs (the punishing diet I’ve been on for the last few weeks is positively killing me). It’s just that I was always supremely confident of getting hitched before him. But my so-called serious relationships didn’t really take. So here I am, the cynosure of all eyes (and not in a nice way), the BechariKunwari, the Still Single Shweta.

I could have stayed away,