He walks down the road, his mind whirling like a washing machine with a load of equations and numbers floating around in a slippery, soapy tangle.

His feet take him on a familiar path: turning right at the gate of the institute, going straight ahead till the furniture shop, taking a left and proceeding down a peaceful tree-lined avenue that culminates in a dead end, and then turning left again onto a small but busy street. He will finally reach his apartment building at the corner, take the elevator to the sixth floor, and unlock the door with his key into a world of dark silence. His mother, a nurse, is seldom home from the hospital before midnight.

As his mind tries time and again to hack its way through the knotty thicket of math and science problems that crowd in, he misses the mangy street dog at the street corner, allowing her thinning brood of puppies to suckle her hungrily. He misses the blue of the sky peeping through the crown shyness of the trees that line the road. He misses the vivid cascade of bougainvillea that ripples over the tall walls of a mansion, the pretty impatiens that hang from the windows, and the fragrance of the frangipani that spills its blossoms on the pavement.

His focus is laser-like, his mission clear. He needs to get a seat in an IIT. His life for the past seven years has been geared towards this single goal. There is no life beyond this. No friends, no hanging out, no movies or concerts. He has been scribbling symbols in books and seeking patterns and meaning in them for an eternity. Every wrong answer is frustrating, every right one making him thirsty for getting just one more victory over these ninjas that sneak in and attack him. His mind has been honed, polished and sharpened with a dedication that will brook no interruption and no interference.

The world however, is unmindful of his tapas. It saunters in and out with a parade of colourful distractions, mingling with his thoughts, haunting his dreams, which are spectacular, noisy and musical. But when he awakes, the world is like a blank page again.

As he walks briskly down the road, something tickles his nose. He is so taken by surprise that he freezes mid-step and inhales deeply. The aroma is that of freshly baked bread, and its tantalizing tentacles lasso and pull him right in. Before he knows it, he is standing in front of a new bakery that has opened at the corner of the road. His eyes widen as they take in the array of mouth-watering pastries and baked goods spread under the clear glass. There are layered vegetable puffs, creamy frosted cakes, plump glossy buns, pillowy loaves of bread, and multi-hued piles of biscuits in all shades of brown and beige. And above all – what his heart really wants.

“Yes?” The burly shopkeeper stands before him.

“Dilkush,” he whispers, afraid to open his mouth lest the drool drips.

After paying, he worshipfully takes the layered slab that is served on a ripped piece of newspaper. He admires the flakiness decorated with a confetti of tutti frutti and coconut, and he cannot bring himself to bite this slice of heaven. When he finally does, the taste explodes in his mouth, and he feels as if he is reborn. For all these years, food has just been sustenance, mere fuel one needs to replenish before hitting the road towards the goal once again. But now his tastebuds have woken up, and they are dancing a happy dance. He hums in approval as he relishes his first bite, and then, devours the rest.

He remembers the first time he ever tasted this piece of bliss. It was a happier time, when his father was alive and his mother laughed often. He must have been five years old. His father had taken them to a small, dingy shop with an old bent man behind the counter. It was hard to say if the walls were darkened with smoke or age, but the aroma that wafted out of the tiny place was magical. One small bite of the pastry that looked like a pirate’s treasure of rubies and pearls, and his heart sang, while his parents argued over the difference between Dilkush and Dilpasand.

The next day, his father was mowed down by a rash bus driver and his mother stopped laughing. She transformed into a fierce dragon battling a harsh life, with no room left for smiles and fun. Everything was aimed at winning, losing was not an option. She pushed him hard, unforgiving and severe. He became a topper in class, an ace fast bowler in cricket, a champion chess player, a performance-worthy flautist, and now he was aiming for the pinnacle of it all.

The Dilkush is over too soon, and he licks the crumbs off his fingers before heading back to an empty home, where the walls echo with the endless scratching of his pen on paper.

The bakery now becomes part of his routine. It is an addiction and he is hooked. This is the highlight of his day, the only time when he feels alive, his senses awake and rejoicing.

Almost two months later, one evening, the burly shopkeeper is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a girl who looks to be about his age is manning the counter. Her hair is a messy bun, her eyes kohl-rimmed dark pools, and the tiny stone nose-ring that glints every time she turns her head a little is utterly mesmerizing. She waits patiently for him to say something.

“D..D..il..kush?” he stutters, his throat hoarse and his voice breaking.

“Huh?” Her voice is low and melodious to his ears. She might as well be singing.

“Dilkush, please,” He manages to say without mangling the words.

“Full, or piece?” she raises an eyebrow, and he is fascinated by how smooth the arch is. Much like the trajectory of…

She clears her throat, and he is back to earth. “Piece, please.”

He pays for it and is handed the slice as usual. How perfectly tiny her hand is, how perfectly shaped her slim fingers are, how perfectly oversized the metal bangles are on her slender wrist.

The piece of pastry is no longer the most appetizing thing in the world.

The burly shopkeeper has disappeared mysteriously, but there are no complaints. Who would object to the presence of this veritable angel? He now waits eagerly all day for the evening, is restless in the tutoring class, and he has to consciously slow himself down from rushing to the bakery. She’s there, waiting for him behind the counter. She asks – Dilkush? – and he nods, not trusting himself to speak. She bestows a shy smile upon him as they complete their transaction. Every word, every gesture, every little sigh and breath carries a world in them. He wishes he had the courage to talk more to her, to know her story, to know her dreams and desires, and to have the temerity to ask if he features in any of them. He locks down the vault of his yearnings, trying to remain focused on his goal. But that goal is now getting more and more blurred, and his anxiety is growing proportionally.

Today, he is late. The coach gave him a royal dressing down for getting so many of the questions wrong, and made him redo everything. The sky has turned dark and the air cold. He walks as fast as he can down the road, and as he turns right, he sniffs the air urgently. Why isn’t he getting the aroma of the bakery? It’s not closed, is it? It can’t be! His heart pounds in desperation as he accelerates his pace.

He reaches the bakery and takes a deep breath before pushing the door open.

She’s there! She waited!

She breaks into a broad smile when he enters, almost as if she too is relieved to see him. She hops off the stool she’s perched on.

Dilkush?

They say together, and they laugh. It’s a cosmic entanglement, their laughter entwined. As she hands over the pastry piece to him, her fingers brush his palm, they lock eyes, and an electric current courses through him.

The spell is broken when she pushes something else towards him. It is a slice that looks very similar to Dilkush, with a soft, bun-like exterior, and a cake-like filling.

He raises an eyebrow at the alluring offering. What’s this?

“Dilpasand,” she says, blushing with a shy smile.

The heart likes.

He stands rooted to the ground in disbelief. And then the joy erupts on his face, splitting it with a broad smile.

“Dilpasand,” he echoes, and they stand in the naked light of the bakery, smiling, their eyes reflecting the universe they see in each other.