tantrayaan

  The dining hall smelled of burnt toast and overcooked hash browns, but Bharath didn’t care. He was hungry. Sore, but ravenous. He limped slightly as he reached their usual table and found Jorge already there, towel draped around his neck, still glistening from his early morning gym session.

  “Look who finally showed up,” Jorge said, grinning. “We thought you were dead.”

  Bharath dropped his tray on the table with a grunt. “Close enough.”

  Jorge took one look at him and narrowed his eyes. “You’re skipping the gym again?”

  Bharath winced as he sat. “I got stabbed, Jorge.”

  “Is that your new excuse?” Jorge smirked. “Next you’ll tell me you rescued a princess and syed a dragon.”

  “Close,” Bharath muttered through a mouthful of eggs.

  Tyrel sauntered over, plopping a folded newspaper onto the table with the grace of a magician revealing his finale.

  “Page three,” he said dramatically. “You’re famous.”

  Bharath raised an eyebrow. Jorge leaned in, unfolding the copy of the Atnta Journal-Constitution with a flourish. A headline on the page read:

  MUGGING INTERRUPTED NEAR MIDTOWN STATION - UNKNOWN GOOD SAMARITAN INTERVENES

  Below it, a blurred photo of fshing lights, yellow tape, and an ambunce van.

  “No names?” Bharath asked, relieved.

  “Nope,” Tyrel said. “But the reporter called the guy a ‘quiet, Indian student who vanished before reporters arrived.’ Sound like anyone we know?”

  Bharath groaned.

  “Atnta Batman,” Tyrel decred, holding out a fist for Jorge, who bumped it with a grin.

  Ravi arrived te, sliding into the seat beside Bharath with a frown.

  “You should’ve told me, man,” he said. “Jorge filled me in. You really okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little sore.”

  “You’re nuts,” Ravi muttered. “I mean, respect bhai - but you are nuts.”

  “Totalmente!,” Jorge said. “I go to the gym for twenty minutes and Bharath’s out here earning viginte status.”

  “Dude’s skipping biceps to fight crime,” Tyrel added. “Respect dawg.”

  “Can we not turn this into an origin story?” Bharath sighed. “I didn’t vanish into the shadows. I got taken to the ER.”

  “Did you at least wear a cape?” Tyrel asked.

  “Or tights?” Jorge grinned.

  “Guys,” Ravi said, shaking his head, “he literally got stitched up for this.”

  They gave him a moment’s silence as a mark of respect.

  Tyrel took a bite of his breakfast sausage and said with his mouth full, “Atnta Batman. I’m printing t-shirts.”

  Bharath rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Maybe he had done something wild. Maybe for once, he didn’t feel like the awkward foreign kid tagging along.

  As the bell tower began its ten-minute warning chime, trays cttered and chairs scraped back. The boys stood up, grabbing their bags.

  “Take it easy,” Jorge said, cpping him on the back. “No heroics till Friday.”

  “No promises,” Bharath said with a shrug.

  Tyrel winked. “Keep the city safe, Batman.”

  As they walked out toward campus under the soft Atnta morning sun, Bharath let himself enjoy the warmth - not just from the light, but from the ughter, the teasing, the sense that these were his people now.

  Bharath walked a little slower than the rest, letting Jorge and Tyrel's chatter fade into the background as they veered off toward their lecture halls. Ravi tossed him a backward wave and disappeared into the crowd.

  And just like that, he was alone again. Backpack slung over one shoulder, sun at his back, stitches tugging gently with each step.

  He tugged the hoodie tighter across his chest and exhaled.

  Atnta Batman.

  The words made him smile. Not because he believed them. But because, for once, he felt like the people around him weren’t ughing at him for his clothes or his accent - they were celebrating him. Like he mattered. Like he had done something that proved he belonged.

  He didn’t feel like a hero.

  He still flinched when he repyed the moment - the glint of the bde, the sound of Sarah’s scream, the blur of motion as he swung that pole harder than he’d ever swung a cricket bat back home.

  But then he thought of Marisol’s voice in his ear. The way she’d whispered I love you like it was a vow. The way she had looked at him afterward - not like he was reckless, but like he was hers.

  And Sarah.

  The way her hands had trembled when she passed him tea. The way her eyes had gone soft with something that wasn’t just gratitude.

  That... scared him.

  He hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t even thought anything noble - just reacted like a teenager who’d seen two goddesses in front of him.

  But even as he told himself that, something uneasy twisted in his stomach.

  Was that true?

  Or was he just trying to nullify a feeling he wasn’t ready to face?

  He pressed a hand to his forehead.

  He was in love with Marisol. He knew that. Every part of him sang for her - her ugh, her warmth, the way she looked at him like he was made of more than flesh and mistake. She had given herself to him without fear. Said she belonged to him.

  And yet… when Sarah had curled into him, when her cheek brushed his chest and her leg slung over his hip, his body had betrayed him. Not in malice. Not even in intent. But in reflex.

  Was that normal?

  Or was he cheating, even in thought?

  The word struck like a sp. He winced. What kind of man gets aroused by someone else the morning after his girlfriend says “I love you”? What did that say about him?

  He’d never been in love before. Never been with anyone. He didn’t have rules for this. Amma and Appa had loved each other deeply - but their world was clearer, older. Bound by dharma and duty. You married once, and that was it. You didn’t lie with one woman while dreaming of another.

  But this wasn’t dreaming. Not really.

  It had just… happened.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the shame. Marisol made him feel like a man. Like someone worthy of devotion. And now, here he was, blood still warm from the way Sarah had looked curled beside them.

  He didn’t want to want Sarah. He didn’t want to disrespect Marisol, even in silence. But part of him - the part that remembered the way Sarah had looked at him while stirring pancake batter, lips parted, gaze soft - couldn’t lie. Something had shifted. A current had passed between them.

  He buried his face in his hands. His stomach turned.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Or… was there nothing wrong at all?

  Could it be that his heart - so unused to being seen, held, wanted - was just overflowing? That love didn’t always mean less for someone else, but something... more?

  He didn’t know. And that scared him more than anything.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he muttered aloud.

  There was something real forming. He didn’t know what to name it. Didn’t know how to carry it. But it was there - humming just under the surface of things.

  For most of his life, Bharath had felt like a background character. The quiet kid. The nerd. The foreigner trying to keep up.

  Now?

  He wasn’t sure who he was becoming.

  But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to find out.

  He adjusted his strap, pulled his Walkman headphones over one ear, and let the hum of Atnta swallow him again.

  Whatever came next... he’d be ready.