She handed him a tissue. Their fingers brushed. Mehta pretended to examine a passing ant. That evening, Jethalal stood on his balcony, staring at the moon. Babita ji was on hers, watering plants.

"Jetha ji. He's reciting meter readings."

Jethalal froze. The jalebis slipped. Babita caught the box mid-air with one hand, her bangles chiming.

As she bit into a jalebi, a drop of syrup landed on her chin. Without thinking, Jethalal reached out and wiped it with his handkerchief.

Mehta shook his head, laughing. "Jetha, that's not logic."

"So?" Mehta asked.

The Sweet War of Jalebi and Love

Jethalal slid down the wall, heart thumping. For the first time, he didn't need poetry. He had something better — hope. Mehta found Jethalal humming in the shop, arranging jalebis in a heart shape.

"Babita ji," he called out, voice trembling. "Can I ask you something… personal ?"