The morning air is cool and slightly misty as you cling to the handles of your brand-new, secondhand scooter like it’s a wild animal waiting to bolt. The road is nearly empty, the sleepy trees lining either side of the stretch, and the only sound is your nervous, over-excited breathing and the occasional chirp of birds.

Piyush stands beside you, tall and calm, like a statue carved in indifference. Except, of course, for you — his one and only exception. He’s already adjusted your helmet strap, flicked the mirror into alignment, and tapped the brake twice to check its responsiveness. Now, his arms are folded across his wide chest, and he’s looking at you with that familiar mix of focus and amusement.

“Okay,” he says, voice deep and slow like honey, “remember what I told you. Both feet on the ground, brake with the left, accelerate gently with the right. Gently.”

You nod so enthusiastically that your helmet bobs like a cartoon. “Yes, yes. I remember! But wait—if I accidentally throttle like in movies and go straight into a tree, will you still marry me again in the hospital?”

“You’re already my wife, Neha.”

“Right. But would you again?”

He exhales through his nose. “Just start the scooter.”

You try. It coughs, sputters, and finally, with a lurch, roars to life. You squeal. “Oh my god, it’s alive!”

“Stop talking to the scooter,” he mutters, walking alongside as you very slowly — very slowly — begin to inch forward like a suspicious tortoise.

You begin to ramble, because the sound of the engine makes you nervous. “Piyush, do you think ants have rush hours? Because I saw two lines of them yesterday moving like they had office tension. And also—oh! Oh! Did you know I named the scooter?”

He sighs, jogging slightly to keep up. “Do I want to know?”

“Her name is Thunder Baby. Or maybe Scootika. I'm undecided.”

“You’re making me reconsider this marriage.”

“No, you’re not. You like me too much.”

He stays silent, but the faint twitch in his cheek is proof you’re right.

Suddenly, the quiet of your adorable scooter ride is shattered — a vrrroooom of a flashy motorcycle slices through the still air. A young guy, hair flying, shirt flapping, zooms past you with zero respect for scooters, life, or early morning silence.

You blink after him, lips parted, scandalized. “People like him should fall once. Not badly! Just enough to learn humility.”

Piyush opens his mouth to scold your very non-Gandhian thoughts when—

KRAK!

The boy’s front wheel hits a rock at the corner bend.

And like destiny had listened to your innocent wish, the bike skids.

The guy topples.

In slow motion, he hits the ground, rolling into a nearby bush. The bike spins dramatically before falling with a loud thunk.

You gasp, eyes wide. “Oh no.”

Piyush stares. Deadpan.

You twist to look at him, lips trembling between horror and amusement. “Did… did I do that?”

He doesn’t blink. “You’re a panauti.”

You slap his arm. “How dare you! I only said—”

“Exactly. You only said it.”

You shrink a little. “Maybe the universe likes me too much?”

“Or maybe you’re secretly cursed.”

You pout. “You’re not scared to marry a panauti?”

Piyush lifts your kickstand with one graceful move, grabs the handlebar, and starts walking the scooter and you both back home, his free hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “No. I’m into long-term danger.”

You grin up at him, your cheek dimpling under the helmet. “You do like me too much.”

He side-eyes you. “Thunder Baby, huh?”

“Scootika still has a chance!”

The sound of the fallen boy moaning in the background is drowned out by your giggles and your husband’s deep sighs as he silently wonders what he’s married into — an angel-faced media planner with a scooter, big hips, and the dangerous powers of poetic karma.

But he wouldn’t change a thing. Not even the panauti part.