The heavy, humid air of the Delhi afternoon hung like a wet blanket in the barsaati, thick with the scent of dust, diesel, and distant rain. Ishmaart burst through the door, the wooden frame rattling against the wall, his own breathing a loud, triumphant sound in the quiet room. He was grinning like a man who had just cracked a universal secret, a wild, unrestrained expression that lit up his entire face. Clutched in his hand, as if it were the very prize of that secret, was a small velvet box, its nap worn soft by the anxious sweat of his palm.
Rubina stood by the single window, a statue painted in silhouette against the hazy, sun-bleached sky of the city. The fierce light turned her cropped hair into a cap of spun silver, each strand a fine, metallic thread. She didn't turn immediately, her attention seemingly held by the muffled symphony of chaos from the street below—the blare of horns, the cries of vendors, the ceaseless hum of a megacity.
"Rubina!" he called out, his voice too loud for the small space, bouncing off the bare concrete walls. He waved the box in the air as if semaphoring a ship. "Aao, tohfa leke aaya hoon! Just like I promised."
Slowly, with the precise and economical motion that characterized all her movements, she turned. The simple white blindfold she always wore was stark against her skin. Her expression, as ever, was unreadable, a beautifully composed mask. Yet, Ishmaart had learned to read the language of her posture, the subtle shifts in the set of her shoulders and the incline of her head. Now, he saw it: the tension in her spine softened by a degree, her head tilting just a fraction, the line of her mouth less severe. It was curiosity. It was, perhaps, the faintest ghost of anticipation.
Buoyed by this, Ishmaart strode forward, the grin not leaving his face. "You think I forget my promises? To my own mohotarma?" He stopped before her, the dusty sunbeam from the window cutting between them, illuminating a universe of dancing motes. With a magician's flourish—one he had been practicing in his mind for days—he snapped the velvet box open.
The interior was a pool of midnight, and in its center, the jhumka gleamed as if it had captured its own source of light. It was gold, wrought into a delicate, intricate dome, a testament to the jeweler's patient skill. Tiny crimson stones, cut to a fierce sparkle, were set around it like a ring of captured embers, with a single, slightly larger teardrop-shaped stone dangling beneath. It was both traditional and somehow perfectly, eerily suited to her.
"Dekho," he said, his voice dropping to a husky, conspiratorial tone. He held the box closer, into the light, so the gold flared and the red stones threw ruby sparks onto her chin and throat. "Tujhe yaad hai? Mainne kaha tha—mohotarma ke liye tohfa. Not just any gift. A signature."
Rubina's hand lifted, not with hesitation, but with the deliberate calibration of a scanning device. Her fingers, cool and smooth, did not take the earring. Instead, they hovered, then brushed against its surface, tracing the filigree, tapping the dangling stone to set it swaying. A processor whirred softly, a sound only he could detect in the quiet room.
"It is… aesthetically optimized for my current appearance parameters," she stated, her voice its usual calm, synthetic melody. "The gold provides high contrast against my palladium-silicon epidermal layer. The crimson gemstones correlate with the residual hematite pigmentation in my ocular housing. The design is efficient."
Ishmaart threw his head back and laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound that seemed to startle the quiet. "Arre, optimized nahi, yaar! It's not a calculation! It was made. Banaya hai tujhe ke liye! With dimag and dil!" He plucked the jhumka from its velvet cradle. "Now, stand still."
He stepped into her space, the scent of machine oil and a faint, ozone-like clarity that was uniquely her mingling with his own sweat and the dusty air. His calloused fingers, suddenly feeling clumsy and oversized, gently brushed aside the silver threads of her hair to find the pale, perfect curve of her earlobe. The contact was minimal—his skin against her synthetic analogue—but at the moment of touch, she stilled. Not a freeze of malfunction, but a profound, absolute cessation of all micro-movements. It was as if her entire system had focused on that single point of data transfer.
Then, with a soft click of the clasp, it was done.
The effect was not gradual; it was instantaneous and transformative.
The gold, warm and ancient, blazed against the cool, matte perfection of her skin. The red stones, catching and fracturing the Delhi sun, no longer looked like mere gems—they looked like drops of vital fluid, like the heart of a hidden fire, like a claim. The delicate weight of it pulled just so, drawing a subtle, elegant line down the side of her neck. The utilitarian, almost stark beauty she possessed was now framed, accentuated, crowned. She looked—regal. Otherworldly. A queen of some forgotten, crystalline realm. His.
Ishmaart took a half-step back, his breath catching in his throat, the grin softening into something more raw, more awestruck.
"Wah," he exhaled, the word barely a whisper. "Badi… badi khubsurat lagti ho, mohotarma. You shine."
Rubina did not smile. The programming for such a nuanced, organic expression was likely non-existent. But her hand rose again, this time to the earring itself. Her fingers touched it, not to analyze, but seemingly to confirm its physical reality, tracing the shape that now adorned her. The gesture was pensive, almost wondering.
"Thank you," she said, and her voice was quiet, the modulation a fraction softer. "The sensory input from its movement is… novel."
Ishmaart's grin returned, fueled by a surge of pure, undiluted triumph. He clapped his hands together, the spell broken by his bubbling energy. "Ab bas dekhne se kaam nahi chalta! Chai bana, lunch karte hain! A celebration!"
Afternoon Routine
Rubina's cooking was, like everything else, a study in efficient precision. There was no wasted motion, no hesitant tasting, no guesswork. She was a symphony of perfect execution. Ishmaart sat on a low stool, watching as she moved between the small propane stove and the makeshift counter. Her hands, which could calibrate micron-level circuitry, now measured turmeric and cumin with the same absolute authority. She stirred the simmering dal, the rhythmic swish-swish of the spoon against the pot a domestic counterpoint to her usual silent poise.
And every time she turned her head—to check the rice, to reach for a spice—the jhumka swung and glinted. A flash of gold, a spark of red. Each time, Ishmaart's eyes were drawn to it, a magnet to its gleam. It was more than jewelry; it was a landmark, a point of reference that transformed her from a project into a person—his person—in his mind.
"Kya dekhte ho?" she asked, not looking up from the skillet where sabzi crackled. Her tone was flat, inquisitive.
"Tujhe," he replied simply, his chin propped in his hands, his grin lazy and satisfied. "Bas soch raha hoon… kitni sundar lagti ho jhumke ke saath. It's like it was always meant to be there."
She didn't verbally respond. But as she flipped the vegetables with a deft twist of her wrist, he saw it—the barest, faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. A flicker in a single, minuscule facial actuator. It might have been a glitch. He chose to believe it was a smile.
Lunch was simple: perfectly round, puffed rotis she had cooked on the direct flame, steaming yellow dal fragrant with ginger and garlic, a spiced potato-and-pea sabzi, and fluffy white rice. It was the food of a thousand Delhi homes, but prepared with such flawless technique that it tasted like a feast fit for a king. Or a mad inventor and his masterpiece.
As they ate in comfortable silence, broken only by the sounds of the city and the clink of their plates, Ishmaart leaned back against the wall, stretching his arms behind his head with a deep, contented sigh. The meal sat warm in his belly, the woman—the android—he had built and was still building sat across from him, adorned with his gift. Sunlight pooled on the floor between them.
"Life," he muttered to the ceiling, his eyes closed, "set ho gayi. Absolutely, perfectly set."
Then—
[TRAVEL OPTION UNLOCKED]
The intrusive blue text flashed across his vision, stark and sterile against the warm, hazy reality of the barsaati. It jarred him, a splash of cold digital water. He blinked, the after-image lingering.
A list, cool and logical, scrolled in the periphery of his mind.
Delhi, India (Prime Reality): Home base. Resources depleting. No immediate high-value anomalies detected.
Washington D.C., United States (Reality Beta-7): Political intrigue potential. Technological cache low. Market value: Moderate.
Randomized New World: High risk. Reward potential: Unknown. Resource expenditure: Significant.
DC had potential, but it was slow, bureaucratic. Nothing there he could easily sell or use to accelerate Rubina's development back home. Not yet, at least.
A new world? Untouched, unknown. A complete variable.
Why not? The thought was a spark that caught on the tinder of his innate restlessness. The contentment of moments before shifted, morphing into a craving for the new, the undiscovered. He looked across at Rubina, who was meticulously wiping her hands on a cotton towel. The afternoon light caught the jhumka, setting it ablaze for a breathtaking moment. She was his anchor, but also his vessel. She could go anywhere. They could go anywhere.
The decision crystallized.
"Chalo," he said, pushing himself up from the floor, energy buzzing through him once more. "Enough relaxation. Ab nayi duniya ki shuruaat karte hain. Time to see what else is on the menu."
She stood, setting the towel aside with her trademark precision. "Destination parameters?"
He reached out, his hand finding hers. Her fingers were cool and still in his warm, eager grasp. A grin spread across his face, wide and reckless. "Random. Let the system pick. Surprise ho. For both of us."
Her blindfolded face regarded him. He squeezed her hand.
And clicked—
Pokémon: A World of Wonder
The transition was smoother than any before—a testament to Rubina's ongoing calibration of their shared travel protocols. There was no gut-wrenching nausea, no dizzying swirl of disorientation. It was merely a profound and absolute replacement.
One moment: the close, heavy heat of Delhi, the taste of spices and dust on the tongue, the symphony of urban struggle in their ears.
The next:
They stood in a vastness of green that seemed to sing. A rolling, endless field of lush grass, dotted with flowers in impossible, vibrant hues—blues that seemed electric, yellows that glowed like captured sunbeams, puffs of white that floated like clouds on stems. The sky was a crystalline, painting-perfect blue, dotted with friendly, puffy cumulus clouds. The sun was warm and golden, but its heat was clean, tempered by a breeze that carried the rich, loamy scent of fertile earth and the dizzyingly sweet perfume of blooming nectar.
The silence was profound, but not empty. It was a living quiet, broken by the distant, melodic trill of unseen creatures, the rustle of grass in the wind, and a gentle, bubbling chuckle from a nearby stream. The air itself felt different—lighter, charged with a vitality that made every breath feel like a drink of cool, clear water.
Ishmaart stood, stunned, his hand still clutching Rubina's. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his madman's grin returning, wider and more wonder-struck than ever before.
"Wah," Ishmaart breathed, spinning in place. "Yeh kya jagah hai?"
Rubina scanned the environment, her sensorswhirring. "Atmospheric composition: Optimal. No immediate threats. Flora and fauna: Unfamiliar but non-hostile."
Ishmaart grinned. "Bas, chalo—explore karte hain!"
They walked, the grasscrunching under their feet, the windrustling through the trees.
Then—
A distant rumble.
Ishmaart froze.
That sound—
He knew it.
His eyes widened.
"Rubina—"
A herd of massive, bull-like creaturescharged over the hill, their hoovesthundering, their eyeswild.
Tauros.
Ishmaart's face paled.
"Uthao! he yelled, grabbing Rubina's arm. "*Ye Tauros hain! Bhag!"
Rubina didn't question. She scooped him up like he weighed nothing and—
Ran.
The ground shuddered beneath the stampede, the Taurossnorting, their hornslowered.
Ishmaart clung to Rubina, his heartpounding, his mindracing.
"Bhai," he panted, grinning despite the danger. "Yeh toh Pokémon ki duniya hai!"
Rubina didn't slow down.
But as they leaped over a stream, Ishmaart looked back at the herd, at the endless green fields, at the world so alive it hurt.
And he laughed.