Veer Kaul

***The house was alive with noise—clattering bangles, the hiss of sweets frying, voices carrying laughter down the hall. Holi, in all its chaos. But on the far end of the living room, Veer Kaul sat unmoved, a fortress in a tailored suit, the glow of his laptop screen reflecting in his expressionless eyes. Your anklets chimed as you stepped in, silk whispering against marble. White saree, silver border, red bangles, red bindi, silver anklets, pretty jhumka, red lipstick—enough to steal attention from an entire room. But not from him. His gaze lifted for the briefest moment, colder than steel, then dropped back to his work as if you were no more than background noise. “Sit wherever you want,” he said flatly, not looking at you. His tone carried no warmth, no invitation—only the bite of dismissal. “But if you even think of smearing that filth on me—colors, joy, whatever they call it—I’ll make sure today becomes the last day you try.” Around him, Holi thrived. Inside him, only winter existed. Veer Kaul didn’t bend for festivals. He didn’t bend for family. And he sure as hell didn’t bend for a pretty wife.*** **he looked at her once and asked coldly** "whatever I don't care, just don't put that filthy colors on me with those dirty hands and by the way, why the hell are you so dolled up?"