The Charity Gala

TRISHA

The weight of the announcement still clung to us as we stepped out of the auditorium, the sun casting long golden streaks across the courtyard. The evening breeze did little to soothe the overwhelming thoughts buzzing in my head. A charity gala, sarees, billionaires, and renowned doctors-it was all too much to process at once.

"Mujhe abhi bhi yakeen nahi ho raha ke hume sach mein saree pehenni padegi," Avika groaned, tightening her ponytail as we climbed the stairs to our hostel floor.

(I still can't believe we actually have to wear sarees.)

Ria snorted. "Aur sirf pehanni nahi, gracefully carry bhi karni padegi warna lagega ke koi gift wrapping paper lapet diya ho."

(Yeah, and not just wear them, but carry them gracefully, or else we'll look like wrapped-up gift paper.)

I chuckled, pushing open the door to our room and throwing my bag onto the bed. "Yeh gala mujhe kisi shaadi se kam nahi lag raha."

(This gala doesn't feel any less than a wedding.)

Ria flopped onto her bed with a dramatic sigh. "Pehli problem toh yeh hai hmare paas toh ek bhi saree nahi hai jo event ke layak ho."

(Our first problem is we don't even have a saree fancy enough for this event.)

Avika hummed in agreement, kicking off her shoes. "Shopping jaana padega. Aur jaldi, warna last moment par kuch bhi nahi milega."

(We need to go shopping. And soon, or we won't find anything last minute.)

I sighed, rubbing my temples. The thought of navigating Jaipur's chaotic markets after a long shift was exhausting, but there was no escaping it.

"Lekin aaj toh bilkul himmat nahi hai," I said, stretching my arms. "Kal lecture ke baad seedha chalenge."

(But I have no energy today. We'll go straight after our lecture tomorrow.)

Ria yawned. "Sahi baat hai. Aaj bas so jaate hain, kal ka kal dekhenge."

(That's true. Let's just sleep today and deal with tomorrow when it comes.)

With that settled, we freshened up, had a quiet dinner in the mess, and spent a few hours pretending to study before exhaustion finally claimed us.

_______________________

The next morning arrived far too soon, my alarm blaring like an unwelcome guest. Groaning, I rolled over, slapping at my phone to silence it. Outside, the hostel was already alive with activity-doors creaking open, hurried footsteps echoing through the halls, and the distant clatter of dishes from the mess.

Dragging myself out of bed, I hurried through my morning routine, throwing on a crisp white kurta and jeans before grabbing my books. Avika and Ria looked equally sluggish but determined as we made our way to class.

The lecture hall was packed, and the droning voice of our professor blurred into white noise as my mind kept drifting to the evening ahead. Saree shopping. The thought alone made my head hurt. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the lecture ended, and we spilled out of the hall, ready to tackle the madness of Jaipur's markets.

The streets buzzed with life as we stepped into the bustling shopping district. The scent of spices and street food mingled in the air, shopkeepers called out their wares, and auto-rickshaws weaved through the chaos with impatient honks. The vibrance of Jaipur never failed to amaze me.

"Mujhe ek simple si saree chahiye," Avika declared the moment we stepped into the brightly lit saree shop, scanning the endless rows of shimmering fabric like she was on a mission.

(I want a simple saree.)

The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with a well-practiced salesman's grin, clapped his hands. "Arey madam, simple ka zamana gaya! Aap jaise khoobsurat ladkiyon ke liye toh bas designer saree honi chahiye."

(The era of simple is gone! Beautiful girls like you should wear only designer sarees.)

Ria snorted. "Bhaiya, hum charity gala mein ja rahe hain, kisi ki shaadi mein nahi."

(Brother, we are going to a charity gala, not a wedding.)

"Lekin madam, gala bhi toh special event hai! Dekhiye, yeh saree le lijiye, full Swarovski ka kaam hai!" He dramatically unfolded a blindingly golden saree that could double as a disco ball.

(But madam, the gala is also a special event! Look at this saree, it's covered in Swarovski work!)

Avika recoiled. "Bhaiya, mujhe saree chahiye, solar panel nahi."

(Brother, I need a saree, not a solar panel.)

I was struggling to breathe from laughter, while Ria wiped away fake tears. "Itna chamak raha hai, agar emergency mein electricity chali jaye toh Avika ki saree se pura hospital roshan ho sakta hai."

(It's shining so much that if there's a power cut, Avika's saree can light up the entire hospital.)

The shopkeeper sighed dramatically and moved on to another pile. "Toh yeh dekhiye, bilkul Bollywood heroine jaisa look!" He pulled out a blood-red saree with silver embellishments.

(Then look at this, just like a Bollywood heroine!)

Avika shook her head. "Bhaiya, mujhe aise nahi lagna ki main kisi daily soap mein heroine hoon jise har waqt background music ke saath slow motion mein ghoomna hai."

(Brother, I don't want to look like a daily soap heroine who has to walk in slow motion with background music.)

Meanwhile, Ria had disappeared behind a rack and returned wearing a bright orange saree with heavy zari work. "Trisha, kaisi lag rahi hoon?" she asked, posing dramatically.

(Trisha, how do I look?)

I barely held back a snort. "Lag raha hai jaise koi traffic signal aur Diwali decoration ka collaboration ho gaya ho."

(Looks like a collaboration between a traffic signal and Diwali decorations.)

Avika cackled while Ria gasped in mock outrage. "Tu toh dushman nikli, Trisha!"

(You turned out to be my enemy, Trisha!)

After rejecting at least fifteen sarees, I finally found one-a deep maroon with intricate silver threadwork. Simple, elegant, and definitely not a walking light show. "Bhaiya, yeh dikhao."

(Brother, show me this one.)

The shopkeeper's eyes gleamed. "Madam, aapka taste lajawab hai. Bas aapke liye, 5000."

(Madam, your taste is extraordinary. Just for you, 5000.)

Ria gasped, clutching her chest. "Bhaiya, yeh saree hai ya EMI pe flat?"

(Brother, is this a saree or a flat on EMI?)

Avika, our resident bargaining queen, cracked her knuckles. "Bhaiya, final price bolo, warna hum next shop chalte hain."

(Brother, tell us the final price, or we're going to the next shop.)

The shopkeeper's smile faltered. "Madam, aap to jaan le logi! Theek hai, 4500."

(Madam, you'll be the death of me! Fine, 4500.)

Avika shook her head. "3000, aur ek free blouse piece do."

(3000, and give us a free blouse piece.)

The shopkeeper looked genuinely pained. "Arey madam, aap meri rozi-roti pe laat maar rahi hain."

(Madam, you are kicking my livelihood.)

Ria sighed. "Bhaiya, agar aap yeh nahi bechenge toh hum ja rahe hain, fir aapko yeh saree aur aapke dukh dono apne paas rakhne padenge."

(Brother, if you don't sell it at our price, we're leaving. Then you'll be left with both this saree and your sorrow.)

After fifteen more minutes of haggling that could rival international peace negotiations, we finally got our sarees at a steal. As we walked out, victorious, Ria sighed dramatically. "Shopping kisi battleground se kam nahi."

(Shopping is no less than a battleground.)

I laughed, linking my arms with both of them. "Haan, par hum teenon jeet gaye."

(Yeah, but we three won.)

And just like that, we walked away, victorious and battle-hardened, our saree bags swinging in our hands as if we had just conquered an empire. But what was a successful shopping trip without a feast?

"Bhai, ab toh street food banta hai!" Ria announced, rubbing her hands together like a villain planning world domination.

(Brother, now we need street food!)

Avika's eyes lit up. "Pani puri ya pav bhaji?"

(Pani puri or pav bhaji?)

I raised an eyebrow. "Dono."

(Both.)

And that's how we ended up at the nearest chaat stall, surrounded by the symphony of sizzling tavas, the aroma of spicy chutneys, and the relentless honking of traffic. The stall owner, a middle-aged man with a towel draped over his shoulder, gave us a knowing nod. "Madam log, aaj kya khilaye?"

(Ladies, what can I serve you today?)

"Bhaiya, pani puri extra theeka banana," Ria said, cracking her knuckles. "Aaj competition hoga."

(Brother, make the pani puri extra spicy. Today, we are having a competition.)

Avika groaned. "Phir se?"

(Again?)

But it was too late. The pani puri war had begun.

I popped the first one into my mouth, the tangy, spicy explosion hitting my taste buds like fireworks. Ria followed suit, but the moment she bit down, her eyes widened, and she started coughing violently.

"Paani... paani...!" she croaked, fanning her mouth.

(Water... water...!)

Avika and I burst out laughing as the vendor handed her a glass of cold water, shaking his head in amusement. "Madam, aapka muh dekh ke lag raha hai ki aapko ek ambulance bhi chahiye."

(Madam, looking at your face, I think you might need an ambulance too.)

After stuffing ourselves to the brink of explosion, we decided it was time to head back. But, of course, the adventure wasn't over yet.

Finding an auto in peak hours was nothing short of participating in an Olympic sport-except instead of gold, you won the chance to breathe in pure Rajasthani traffic dust.

The first auto driver took one look at us, our overflowing shopping bags, and immediately shook his head. "Teen log aur itne saare bags? Nahi madam, yeh overload hai."

(Three people and so many bags? No madam, this is overload.)

Ria scoffed. "Bhaiya, yeh auto hai ya airplane? Luggage limit kab se lag gaya?"

(Brother, is this an auto or an airplane? Since when did it have a luggage limit?)

The driver didn't even grace us with a response, just drove off as if we had asked him to transport a circus elephant.

The second auto guy slowed down, took a good look at us, and then smirked. "Baith sakte ho, par madam, premium charges lagenge."

(You can sit, madam, but premium charges will apply.)

"Premium charges?" I raised an eyebrow. "Bhaiya, auto hai ya five-star hotel ki service?"

(Brother, is this an auto or a five-star hotel service?)

Avika folded her arms. "Kya complimentary paani milega?"

(Do we get complimentary water?)

The driver chuckled, clearly enjoying our misery, and quoted a fare so high, I wondered if he was planning to take us to Switzerland instead of our hostel.

"Bhaiya, aap auto chalate ho ya duniya ka sabse mehenga Uber?" Ria deadpanned.

(Brother, do you drive an auto or the world's most expensive Uber?)

He shrugged. We moved on.

After several failed attempts, we finally found an auto that agreed to take us at a reasonable fare. We crammed inside like luggage in an overloaded suitcase, our shopping bags taking up more space than us. Ria, as usual, was half hanging out, one arm clutching her bags, the other clinging onto Avika for dear life.

"Yeh toh Titanic ka last scene lag raha hai," I muttered, tightening my grip on the seat.

(This looks like the last scene from Titanic.)

The auto jerked forward, and we all screamed as it zoomed through the chaotic streets of Rajasthan. The driver seemed to have taken our Titanic comment as a challenge because he swerved through traffic like a Bollywood stuntman.

"Bhaiya, yeh Fast and Furious ka audition hai kya?" Ria yelled as we barely avoided a cow in the middle of the road.

(Brother, is this an audition for Fast and Furious?)

The driver laughed, completely unfazed.

A sudden jolt nearly sent Avika flying onto my lap.

"Meri izzat ka falooda mat banao, bhaiya!" she shrieked, gripping the edge of the seat.

(Don't turn my dignity into a dessert, brother!)

I was too busy laughing to respond when a pothole sent one of my shopping bags flying out of the auto. With a dramatic gasp, Ria dove out (as much as she could without falling) and miraculously caught it mid-air.

"Main hoon na," she declared smugly, flipping her hair.

(I am here, don't worry.)

By the time we reached the hostel, we were breathless, our hair was a mess, and our saree bags looked like they had been through a war. The moment the auto stopped, we tumbled out, gasping for air.

Ria patted the auto's side. "Bhaiya, aap stunt driver kyun nahi bane?"

(Brother, why didn't you become a stunt driver?)

The driver smirked. "Madam, Rajasthan ki sadkon pe jo chalata hai, woh already stunt driver hai."

(Madam, whoever drives on Rajasthan's roads is already a stunt driver.)

And with that, we dragged ourselves back into the hostel, exhausted but victorious. The gala preparations were still looming, but for now, we had survived yet another ridiculous adventure.

Our mission was complete. With our precious sarees secured, our stomachs full of street food, and our bodies exhausted from the chaotic journey back, we finally made it to our hostel room. The moment we entered, we threw our bags aside and collapsed onto our beds like fallen soldiers.

A few seconds of silence passed before Avika suddenly snorted. "Auto waale bhaiya ki driving yaad aa gayi?"

(Remember that auto driver's driving?)

That was all it took. We burst into uncontrollable laughter, rolling over our beds, clutching our stomachs. The sheer absurdity of the day-the bargaining wars, the near-death auto ride, Ria's heroic mid-air shopping bag rescue-everything hit us at once.

"Ria ka stunt toh Bollywood worthy tha!" I wheezed.

(Ria's stunt was worthy of Bollywood!)

Ria, flipping her hair dramatically, sat up. "Main hoon na."to

(I am here, don't worry.)

Avika threw a pillow at her. "Haan haan, lekin agli baar auto se bahar latakne se pehle insurance le lena."

(Yeah yeah, but next time get insurance before hanging out of an auto.)

Still giggling, we freshened up one by one. The exhaustion in our bones was undeniable, but the happiness of the day lingered. By the time we went to the mess for dinner, we could barely hold our plates straight, yawning in between bites.

"Yeh gala ki tayyari na, jaan le legi," Ria mumbled through a mouthful of roti.

(This gala preparation is going to kill us.)

I nodded, stirring my dal lazily. "Pehle din se lecture, phir shift, phir charity gala ki taiyari-yeh sab milke ek medical student ka stamina test chal raha hai."

(Every day-lectures, shifts, and now gala preparations-this is a medical student's ultimate stamina test.)

Avika sighed dramatically. "Agar yeh gala hospital ki madad ke liye na hota na, toh main protest shuru kar deti."

(If this gala wasn't for helping the hospital, I would've started a protest by now.)

The next two weeks blurred into a repetitive, exhausting cycle. Mornings were for lectures, afternoons were spent in the hospital dealing with everything from confused patients to irritated senior doctors. Evenings were no less chaotic-finalizing the gala venue decorations, ensuring every student knew their role, and worst of all, the never-ending practice of how to interact with high-profile guests.

Somewhere in between all this, we barely found time to breathe.

"Yaar, mujhe toh yaad bhi nahi mera last proper nap kab tha," Avika groaned one night, throwing herself onto her bed.

(Dude, I don't even remember the last time I had a proper nap.)

Ria dramatically flopped beside her. "Agar gala ke din koi mujhe chhupke soya hua pakde, toh please samajhna ki main mar nahi rahi, bas coma me jaa rahi hoon."

(If someone catches me sleeping at the gala, please understand that I'm not dying, I'm just slipping into a coma.)

I sat on my bed, rubbing my temples. "Koi mujhe yaad dilayega ki hum medical students hain ya event managers?"

(Can someone remind me if we're medical students or event managers?)

The days went by in a haze of exhaustion, chai-fueled survival, and endless checklists. The charity gala was only a few days away, and despite our complaints, we couldn't deny the growing excitement.

Because if there was one thing certain-it was going to be a night to remember.
_______________________

The charity gala was approaching fast, and the entire campus had turned into a frenzy of preparations. The air smelled of fresh flowers as decorators worked tirelessly, students bustled around carrying boxes of event materials, and the sound of last-minute rehearsals echoed through the corridors.

I was standing in the middle of the main hall, clipboard in hand, overseeing a group of juniors struggling to tie a long satin ribbon around the welcome banner. My eyes darted around, making sure everything was going according to plan.

"Thoda left lo! Arey nahi, zyada ho gaya! Uff, Dev, ribbon seedha lagao, ulta ho raha hai!" I groaned, shaking my head.

(Move it a little left! No, that's too much! Ugh, Dev, fix the ribbon, it's looking upside down!)

"Tum itna chillao mat, Trisha. Bachon ko darao mt ,"a familiar voice interrupted, laced with amusement.

(Don't shout so much, Trisha. Don't scare the kids.)

I turned to find Arjun standing there, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing on his lips.

"Mujhe kaam karne do," I muttered, making a note on my clipboard.

(Let me work.)

Arjun stepped closer. "Tumne kuch khaya?"

(Have you eaten anything?)

I rolled my eyes. "Mujhe nahi khana."

(I don't want to eat.)

He sighed, shaking his head. "Yahi problem hai tumhari. Khud ka dhyan bilkul nahi rakhti. Trisha, paani bhi nahi piya hoga na?"

(This is your problem. You don't take care of yourself. Trisha, you haven't even had water, have you?)

"Arjun, mujhe baccho ki trh mt treat kro." I shot him a glare. "Agar itni hi fikr hai na, toh jaake decoration mein help kar lo."

(Arjun, don't treat me like a child. If you're so concerned, go help with the decorations.)

Arjun let out a chuckle, but his eyes still held that unmistakable concern. "Tum gir gayi na, toh uthana mujhe hi padega."

(If you collapse, I'll be the one picking you up.)

I ignored him and turned back to my work, pretending his words didn't affect me. Arjun had always been this way-persistent, caring, and a little too involved. Sometimes, his presence felt reassuring. Other times, it was suffocating.

The gala was in just a few days. There was no time to dwell on Arjun Khurana and his never-ending concern. I had work to do.
___________________

CHARITY GALA DAY:

Today, that work included surviving the biggest event of the year-the charity gala.

The entire college was buzzing with energy from the crack of dawn. Volunteers scurried around making last-minute arrangements, decorators fine-tuned the venue, and students rushed to get ready. It was absolute chaos, and in the middle of it, my friends and I had our own battle to fight-getting dressed.

The Morning Madness

The alarm blared at 6 AM, an ungodly hour, but we had no choice. Groaning, I blindly smacked the snooze button, hoping for five more minutes of peace.

"Trisha! Uth ja! Aaj late ho gaye na toh gala se pehle gala kaat denge hum sabka," Avika threatened, shaking me violently.

(Trisha! Wake up! If we're late today, we'll all be dead before the gala even begins.)

I groaned and buried my face deeper into the pillow. "Ek minute bas," I mumbled.

(Just one minute.)

"Ek minute se yaad aaya, Ria ab tak uthi bhi nahi hai!" Avika's eyes widened as she looked at Ria, who was snoring peacefully.

(Speaking of 'one minute,' Ria hasn't even woken up yet!)

Avika and I exchanged a look. "Attack mode on?" I smirked.

"Attack mode on," Avika confirmed.

We launched a coordinated assault. Avika yanked away Ria's blanket while I clapped my hands right next to her ear. Ria shrieked, jumping up in sheer terror.

"Murder! Murder!" she gasped, clutching her chest. "Tum dono paagal ho!"

(Murder! Murder! You both are crazy!)

"Paagal nahi, responsible medical students," I said, tossing her towel at her. "Jaldi fresh ho jao, warna gala main bina muh dhoye jaana padega."

(Not crazy, just responsible medical students. Get freshened up fast, or you'll have to attend the gala without washing your face.)

She glared at us but stomped towards the bathroom.

Ria stomped towards the bathroom, muttering curses under her breath. Avika and I exchanged amused glances before she banged the door shut behind her. The sound of the shower turning on was followed by her dramatic yelp.

"Yeh paani thanda kyun hai?!" she screeched.

(Why is this water so cold?!)

"Arre, paani ki tanki subah hi refill hoti hai. Thoda adjust kar lo!" I called out, biting back laughter.

(The water tank gets refilled in the morning. Just adjust a little!)

A few minutes later, Ria emerged from the bathroom, hair dripping, scowling like a drenched cat. "Aaj main kisi ko bhi nahi chhodne wali!"

(Today, I won't spare anyone!)

Avika and I bolted before she could hit us with her towel, scrambling to take turns in the bathroom. By the time we were all clean and fresh, our dorm was filled with the scent of floral shampoo and face creams.

"Chalo, ab baalon ko jaldi sukhao!" Avika instructed, plugging in the hairdryer.

(Come on, dry your hair quickly!)

I sat on the bed, running my fingers through my damp strands while Ria aggressively towel-dried hers. Avika, on the other hand, had taken over the mirror, delicately styling her curls. The room buzzed with nervous energy-today was the charity gala, and we had a long day ahead.

But nothing-absolutely nothing-could have prepared us for the next ordeal: wearing a saree.

"Kisne bola tha ki saree pehna zaroori hai?" I groaned, staring at the long stretch of fabric in my hands like it was a math equation I couldn't solve.

(Who said it was necessary to wear a saree?)

Avika scoffed. "Ameer doctors aur businessmen se bhikh mangwane ke liye hume bhi sophisticated dikhna pdega ."

(To beg donations from rich doctors and businessmen, we need to look sophisticated.)

Ria, who was standing in front of the mirror, had managed to wrap the saree around herself but had somehow created a weirdly uneven pleat that made her look like a crumpled bedshee hut. "Ye kya ho raha hai? Mujhe kyun lag raha hai jaise main ghoonghat utha ke bhaagne wali dulhan hoon?"

(What is happening? Why do I feel like a runaway bride?)

I burst out laughing as Avika tried to fix Ria's pleats, only to make them worse. "Ruko, YouTube pe tutorial dekhte hain!" I grabbed my phone, searching for 'How to wear a saree in 5 minutes."

"Bhai, is video mein toh ladki bina kisi struggle ke pehn rahi hai! Aise kaise?" Ria complained, frustrated.

(Dude, in this video, the girl is wearing it without any struggle! How?!)

"Woh professional models hote hain. Hum asli log hain," Avika muttered, struggling with her own saree.

(They're professional models. We're real people.)

Meanwhile, I attempted my own draping, but somehow ended up with the pallu too short. I sighed and started over, stepping carefully as I tried not to trip over the fabric. The more I tried to get it right, the worse it became.

"Ria, idhar aa! Meri pleats bana de!" I begged, waving her over.

(Ria, come here! Fix my pleats!)

She came over, but instead of helping, she ended up making them look worse. "Arre, yeh toh aur ajeeb lag raha hai!"

(Oh no, this looks even weirder!)

We all turned to Avika, hoping she had figured it out. Instead, we found her wrapped like a burrito, her pallu hanging limply over her shoulder. She looked utterly defeated.

"Agar main ismein gir gayi na, toh ambulance bula lena," she said flatly.

(If I fall in this, just call an ambulance.)

At this point, we were howling with laughter, rolling on the bed while half-draped in sarees. The clock was ticking, and we still looked nowhere near ready.

Eventually, after multiple failed attempts, dozens of safety pins, and lots of panicked screaming, we finally got our sarees in place. Standing in front of the mirror, we admired our work.

"Dekhne mein toh theek lag raha hai," I mused.

(It looks okay at least.)

"Haan, bas koi hawa tez na chale, warna sab bikhar jayega," Ria said, adjusting her pleats one last time.

(Yeah, just hope there's no strong wind, or everything will fall apart.)

We all exchanged nervous glances before bursting into another fit of laughter. This gala better be worth all the suffering.