The morning sun found Arohi awake on the suite's balcony, Mumbai's skyline hazy with golden light. She turned to her new diary, scribbling witty little bullet points—thoughts about freedom, family, and the absurdities of being a "runaway bride."
Shruti padded out, hair a mess, clutching two mugs of jasmine tea.
Shruti (sleepy): "Are we actually doing yoga, or was that just last night's dessert talking?"
Arohi (grinning): "We're doing it."
Downstairs, the hotel's rooftop garden pulsed with soft music and potted palms. A private instructor—hired by Arohi's secret system—greeted them. Arohi pulled on sleek leggings and a breathable tank she'd found among her new inventory, while Shruti settled for neon tracks.
Their instructor, a gentle-eyed woman named Lisa, moved with practiced calm.
Lisa: "Remember, yoga isn't about looking perfect. It's about showing up for yourself."
Arohi eased into the poses—downward dog, cobra, warrior—astounded by how quickly her body responded. It felt as though she'd been doing this for years. Shruti struggled at first, flopping from plank to child's pose, but dissolved into laughter each time she wobbled.
Arohi: "If social media gets photos of this, let's start a new trend: 'Runaway Yoga Pose.'"
Shruti (between giggles): "If we get famous again, you're talking to the reporters. I'll stay in child's pose forever."
Just as their session wound down, a commotion by the pool caught Arohi's eye: a thin man with a camera was angling for a shot between hedges. Clearly, news of their "scandal" still lingered.
Arohi kept her movements calm and deliberate. She positioned herself with her back to the camera, sunglasses on, exuding quiet confidence until hotel security whisked the interloper away.
Lisa (whispering):"Don't worry. Happens more than you'd think in this city."
Arohi flashed her best page-three smile.
Back at the villa, the TV replayed yesterday's headlines, but vigil fatigue was setting in.
Savita Chachi (groaning): "Now she's doing yoga at some hotel. If only she put this effort into marriage."
Bhushan's Mom (to the priest): "Is there a puja for bringing home disobedient girls?"
Mini texted Arohi, delighted by her cousin's morning calm.
Mini (text): "Saw you on TV! Even the yoga looked fancy. Chachi nearly fainted. Keep being you, di."
After their session, Arohi and Shruti wandered the city, a feeling of deep relaxation in their bones. They popped into a gallery (Arohi's new Street Photography skill guiding her through light and shadow), picked up mango smoothies, and sat at Marine Drive, watching the sea crash bright and wild against the promenade.
Arohi's system pinged:
[Sign-In Complete: Flexibility Boost. Skill Acquired – Gourmet Cooking: Basic. New dish voucher: Choose your cuisine for tonight's private lesson.]
Arohi grinned, already planning Thai for dinner.
Arohi (content):"Let's eat well tonight. I'm learning to cook, apparently. You'll taste the first masterpiece."
Shruti: "If you become a chef, all of Indian TV will explode."
Arohi only winked. Underneath, as always, was the deep, steady hum of power building—one adventure, one yoga pose, one bold decision at a time.