"Trust me."
He led her through narrow lanes into the kind of neighborhood tourists never found. Street vendors lined the walkway, pani puri, vada pav, pav bhaji, bhel puri.
"We're eating street food?" She looked at him incredulously. "You eat street food?"
"What do you think I lived on in college?" He stopped at a pani puri stall. "Two plates."
The vendor looked up, started to do a double-take, then clearly dismissed it. The disguise worked.
They stood at the small counter. Vikram popped the pani puri whole into his mouth.
"You have to commit," he said, preparing another. "Can't be tentative about it."
"Says the man who probably hasn't eaten street food in years."
"Says the man who used to eat here twice a week in college." He gestured around. "This was my spot."
She watched him eat with such casual enjoyment, such complete lack of self-consciousness. This was Vikram without cameras, without image, without the weight of fame.
"You're different right now," she said without thinking.
"Different how?"
"Less... performed." She struggled for words. "Like you're just being."
He considered this. "Maybe because nobody's watching. Except you."
"I'm watching."
"That's different." His eyes found hers. "With you, I don't need to perform."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning neither was ready to unpack.
They moved to the next vendor. Vada pav. Then bhel puri.
At the pav bhaji stall, music suddenly blared from a nearby shop. Bollywood remix. Loud enough that people stopped, looked around.
A group of college students burst into coordinated movement right there on the street. Flashmob. Dancing to the remix with abandon and joy.
More people joined, vendors, pedestrians, all jumping in with varying degrees of skill and absolute commitment to having fun.
Vikram's face lit up. "Oh, we're doing this."
"What? No!"
He'd already grabbed her hand, weaving them through the crowd toward the dancers. Not into the center, that would draw too much attention, but to the edge where people swayed and moved with less structure.
"I can't dance."
"Just move." He positioned himself beside her, not behind, giving her space but staying close. "Feel the rhythm."
"I can't."
"Stop thinking." His hand found hers again, squeezing once before releasing. "Just feel it."
The music pulsed. People around them laughed with complete lack of self-consciousness. And somehow, somehow, Divya's body started responding. Not gracefully. Not skillfully. But moving. Swaying.
Vikram's movements were easy, unselfconscious, nothing like his carefully choreographed film performances. This was just... dancing. For joy. For the hell of it.