Rohan Banerjee
Part 1: Viral Villain
Raj Mehta believed in three things: breakfast before tweets, a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil on everything, and the sanctity of the last slice. The first two had kept him mostly sane. The third was about to ruin his life.
It happened at a café in Lajpat Nagar that insisted on calling the waiter a “pizza sommelier.” Raj was reviewing their new menu for his channel, Raj On A Plate, which, if we’re honest, was a modest plate. Not fine china. More like a laminated thali.
The café had one wood-fired Margherita left on the counter—eight slices, though one had slipped off the tray and been claimed by gravity. Raj hovered near the pie, adjusting his camera and telling himself that the last slice was a metaphor: Stay hungry. Never settle. Also, cheese.
Enter the Kid. Eleven, maybe twelve. Glasses. A schoolbag shaped like a shark. He glided in with a stealth that only preteens and cats possess, parked himself by the counter, and eyed the same slice Raj was psyching himself up to take.
The moment unfolded like a wildlife documentary—two predators stalking a single gazelle of gluten. Raj lunged. So did the Kid. Fingers touched crust; someone gasped; the pizza sommelier whispered “Mon dieu,” which made no sense in Delhi but added flavor.
Raj’s hand won. Barely. He raised the slice in triumph, mouth already composing adjectives—“languid mozzarella,” “basil like a green sigh”—when the Kid’s face crumpled into the kind of disappointment you can only learn from homework and cancelled cartoons.
Raj hesitated. “Hey, buddy, we can share.” He offered the slice.
Three things happened at once:
- The Kid sniffled at an Oscar-worthy frequency.
- A stranger’s phone camera caught the exact instant Raj’s hand closed around the crust.
- The café’s AC made a noise like a dying buffalo and went silent, trapping everyone in the hot quiet where decisions echo.
“Take it,” Raj said, thrusting the pizza forward like a treaty.
But the Kid stepped back, epic in his sorrow. “No, Uncle. Your slice.”
“Uncle” detonated in Raj’s chest. He took a bite he no longer wanted—pure habit, a reflex—because somewhere a camera was rolling and his career had taught him that dead air is death.
By evening, the clip was everywhere. A freeze-frame of Raj’s victorious grip, the Kid’s tragic eyes, a caption nobody remembered writing: “Blogger snatches last slice from child.” The internet’s moral compass spun, found north, and pointed at Raj.
His phone became a confession booth with hecklers.
@TheRealNihilist: Imagine stealing pizza from a kid. Couldn’t be me.
@FitnessFauji: Carbs AND cruelty? Shame. Do push-ups till you repent.
@FoodPolicer: #PizzaVillain spotted. Boycott Raj On A Plate.
@KuchBhi: It’s always the ones who say “artisanal.”
Raj tried a statement video. He arranged indoor plants behind him like the United Nations and began, “As a creator who believes in community and cheese—”
The comments set themselves on fire.
“Community and cheese??”
“He’s laughing at us!”
“Plants are fake, like his values.”
The Kid had a name—Kabir—and a mother with a verified handle. She posted a story: “We don’t believe in hate. We believe in dialogue.” The internet translated that to: “Lawyer up.” Raj googled “defamation” and “how to un-go-viral.”
The final blow came when FlourBox, his one semi-consistent sponsor—a local pizza chain with a logo that looked like an exploding doughnut—emailed the subject line every influencer dreads: Re: Reconsidering Association. The body was full of phrases like “brand alignment” and “optics.” He closed the laptop and let his head thunk against the desk.
From the kitchen, his mother called, “Beta, you ate dinner?”
“Not hungry,” he lied, the taste of scorched basil still on his tongue.
“Good,” she said. “Too much bread is not good for you.”
Raj stared at the ceiling fan tracing lazy circles, each whirl an accusation. The last slice. A tiny wedge of bread, sauce, and tragedy. He imagined meeting Kabir again and doing it right—two plates, two smiles, a sentence like, “You first, champ.” But the internet didn’t replay your best intentions. It looped your worst angles.
By morning, the memes had multiplied.
A Renaissance painting with Raj kneeling before a holy slice.
A propaganda poster: “Protect Our Children From Pizza Pirates.”
A video edit where the slice wore sunglasses and escaped both of them.
He considered going offline, but offline was where his landlord lived. Offline was rent and Wi-Fi bills and the part of adulthood no one had stylized for Instagram. He needed a plan that wasn’t just “wait until they find a new villain,” because villains were currently being produced at a rate of three per hour and Raj didn’t want to be a rerun.
At noon, his best friend Neha arrived with two iced coffees and the kind of raised eyebrow that could summarize entire novels. Neha handled PR for startups that made apps to solve problems nobody had. She was used to crises and people who caused them.
“Okay,” she said, not bothering with hello. “You’re not evil. You’re just… catastrophically edible in your choices.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Neither did your plant wall.” She thrust a tablet at him. “Look.”
On the screen: a sketch of an event banner. PIZZA PEACE PARTY in bold, a cartoon dove holding a slice, confetti in responsible colors.
“What is this?” Raj asked.
“Your apology tour. You feed the neighborhood. You invite Kabir to cut a ribbon. You donate to a food charity. You make it bigger than you.”
“I don’t have money for… for doves.”
“The dove is metaphorical.”
“I don’t have money for metaphors.”
Neha sighed, then softened. “You have goodwill. Some. Maybe. And I have vendor contacts. We get sponsors who want to look generous and relevant. You get to be the guy who turned a meme into a meal.”
Raj looked at the banner again. PIZZA PEACE PARTY. It sounded ridiculous. It sounded exactly like the kind of thing the internet might forgive, if only to film itself forgiving it.
“What if people protest?” he asked.
“They will. The gym guy already posted a reel about ‘carb crimes.’ We’ll give him a salad booth. Collaboration over confrontation.”
“And the rival bloggers?”
“Invite them to host. Nothing neutralizes envy like shared camera time.”
“And Kabir?”
Neha’s eyebrow did a small dance. “We ask him to inaugurate the first slice.”
Raj imagined handing over a perfect triangle of pizza to the Kid who had become his mirror and his judge. He imagined the city heat, the smell of tomato and olive oil in the air, a hundred phones filming, and—if luck decided to be kind for once—someone laughing in a way that meant they were laughing with him.
“Okay,” he said, feeling the first crisp edge of hope. “Let’s do it.”
Neha clapped her hands. “Project P3 is on.”
“P3?”
“Pizza. Peace. Party. Keep up, Uncle.”
He winced. She grinned. Outside, a scooter honked a melody that sounded almost like theme music. Raj opened his laptop and typed the words that would either save him or bury him deeper:
ANNOUNCEMENT: THE PIZZA PEACE PARTY — EVERYONE’S LAST SLICE.
He hit post before his courage melted.
Somewhere in Lajpat Nagar, a pizza sommelier shivered and didn’t know why.
Part 2: Damage Control 101
By the time the sun had bullied its way over the Delhi haze, Neha had annexed Raj’s living room. The coffee table wore a war map: Post-it notes like tiny flags, a whiteboard on a chair because the easel was missing a leg, and a bowl of fox nuts nobody touched. On the whiteboard she’d written, in block letters, “OBJECTIVE: REHUMANIZE RAJ.”
“Rehumanize?” Raj said, chewing a fox nut anyway. “Was I dehumanized?”
“On three platforms and a WhatsApp group named ‘Pizza Paapis,’ yes.” Neha clicked a marker open like she was arming a weapon. “We need three tracks: permits, partners, and PR. P-cubed. Say it.”
“P-cubed,” Raj repeated, like a schoolboy at roll call.
“Good. First, permits. You can’t feed a neighborhood without blessing from the gods of paperwork.”
As if summoned, Neha’s phone pinged. She put it on speaker. A voice came through, slow and official, like it had been stapled to a file. “This is the Office of Public Gatherings, Lajpat Zone.”
“Yes! Hi! We’re organizing a—” Neha glanced at the board— “community integration and culinary harmony event.”
“A what?” the voice asked, already tired.
“A small food distribution. Responsible quantities. Masks. Sanitizers. Doves—metaphorical.”
The voice sighed. “You will need Form 14-B, NOC from the Traffic Unit, consent from the RWA, waste-management plan, decibel compliance affidavit, vendor hygiene certificates, and proof of lavatorial facilities.”
“Lavatorial?” Raj mouthed. Neha wrote LAVATORIAL! on the whiteboard and underlined it twice.
“Great,” Neha said cheerfully. “Where do we get Form 14-B?”
“It is attached to Form 14-A.”
“And 14-A is…?”
“Attached to Form 13.”
“And 13?”
“Online,” the voice said, with the faintest hint of pity. “If the portal works today.”
They thanked the voice and hung up. Raj collapsed into the beanbag that made everyone sitting in it look like a defeated scoop of ice cream.
“Okay,” Neha said, spinning the marker. “Permits are a hydra. We’ll cut off one head at a time. Meanwhile, partners. FlourBox.”
Raj winced. “They dumped me.”
“They ghosted you,” Neha corrected. “There’s a difference. Ghosts can be exorcised.” She dialed a saved number and turned on charm like a lamp. “Hello, Sandeep! Neha here. We met at the Startup Soirée, the one with edible glitter pani puri? How’s the little one?”
There was a thunder of polite laughter from the other end. Then: “We saw your friend’s…situation.”
“Exactly why I’m calling,” Neha said. “Opportunity. Redemption arc with pizza. You co-sponsor a Pizza Peace Party. Raj apologizes, community eats, FlourBox becomes the hero who believes in second chances and, more importantly, slices.”
Sandeep hesitated. “Our board is wary. The optics—”
“Think of the optics if you lead the healing,” Neha countered. “Plus we’ll feature your logo on all banners, reels, and the commemorative napkins. We’ll call the first pie ‘The FlourBox Forgiveness.’”
There was a long exhale. “Half the pies at cost. Three ovens. Two staffers.”
Neha nudged Raj. “And a pop-up booth for your new truffle oil drizzle.”
“Done,” Sandeep said quickly. “Send a deck.”
Neha hung up and did a small victory shimmy. “Partners: one foot in. Next: PR. You will not cry on camera.”
“I don’t plan to,” Raj said, already picturing himself crying on camera.
“You will speak simply, directly, outside, no plant wall. You will not say ‘community and cheese.’ You will say, ‘I messed up. I want to make it right. Come eat with me.’ Then you will log off. No replies, no quote-tweets, no duets.”
“What if they call me Uncle again?”
“Then you will say, ‘Call me Raj.’ And you will smile like a person who has discovered humility and also floss.”
“Floss?”
“Confidence without plaque,” she said, as if that explained anything.
They filmed in the lane outside his building, next to a bougainvillea that looked like it had a gossip problem. Raj held the phone, breathed, and said, “I messed up. I want to make it right. Come eat with me at the Pizza Peace Party this Sunday, Lajpat Community Park, 5 p.m. Bring your appetite and your forgiveness. I’ll bring the pizza.”
He ended it before the tremble in his voice turned into a quiver. They posted. The view counter began to do arithmetic.
Comments arrived like pigeons.
@KuchBhi: If there’s free pizza, I forgive my ex also.
@FitnessFauji: I’ll be there—with kettlebells. #JustSayNoToDough
@KindnessKiran: Growth > cancellation. Good move.
@BitesAndBloopers: Love a redemption arc. Call me if you need an unbiased host 😉 —Simran.
Simran’s winky face felt less like a wink and more like a laser pointer. Raj sighed. “She’s going to eat me alive.”
“That’s fine,” Neha said. “You’re serving pizza, not yourself.”
They spent the afternoon wrestling with forms. The portal crashed, revived, demanded a captcha that looked like modern art, and finally coughed up Form 13. Raj typed “purpose: community harmony” into a box labeled “Purpose of Loudspeaker,” unchecked “Item: Fireworks,” and uploaded a pdf named NOT_A_RAVE.pdf.
At four, the doorbell rang. Auntie swept in with the weather and a pressure cooker, which in this house was basically the same thing. She wore a sari the color of victory and an expression that said she was here to take over.
“Beta,” she announced, “I saw your video. Shameful.” She patted his cheek. “And brave. What day is the party? I will bring mutton curry.”
“Auntie, it’s a pizza party,” Raj said faintly.
“What is a party if curry is not there?” she replied, already marching to the kitchen. “Your generation eats flat bread with red chutney and calls it Italian. Hmph.”
Neha, traitorously, gave Auntie the thumbs up behind Raj’s back. “Diversity of cuisines softens protest groups,” she whispered. “Trust me.”
As if on cue, protest groups were already softening the internet. Ricky Rana, the Gym Owner, uploaded a reel of himself deadlifting a barbell that could legally vote. “Friends,” he grunted, “carbs are crime. But forgiveness is protein. We will attend this so-called peace party and educate the public. With flyers. And jump squats.”
The flyer—instantly screenshotted and shared—read: SAY NO TO DOUGH. YES TO ROW. In the corner, a clipart bicep flexed like it owed taxes.
By evening, the RWA president replied to Neha’s email with a blessing shaped like a warning. “Permission is provisional,” it read. “Noise must be minimal. Clean-up must be total. No political speeches. No DJ. No fire-eaters.”
“Fire-eaters?” Raj blinked.
“We don’t know what past events have done to him,” Neha said. “We’ll overcomply.”
They needed more ovens. Neha called Old Delhi’s legendary Uncle Pammi, pizza-caterer to every wedding that wanted an Italian corner between the jalebi and the pasta. He answered on the third ring. “For you, beta, I will bring two tandoor adaptors. We make faster than your camera can see.”
“And hygiene certificates?” Neha asked.
“Also bring. Laminated. Very shiny.”
By nightfall, the whiteboard looked like a conspiracy thriller. Arrows connected vendors to time slots to QR codes for donations to a hunger-relief NGO. Raj added a line: “First slice by Kabir.” He stared at it like a mantra.
“Have you messaged his mom?” Neha asked.
Raj typed, erased, typed again. Hi, this is Raj Mehta. I’m sorry. Would Kabir do us the honor of cutting the first slice at the Pizza Peace Party? He hovered over send, felt like he was stepping off a cliff in an amusement park, and pressed.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then a reply: We’ll come if it’s safe and kind.
Raj exhaled so loudly Auntie peeked out of the kitchen to check if the pressure cooker had exploded. “They’re coming,” he said, voice small, hopeful.
“Good,” Neha said. “Now, crisis rehearsal. What do you do if someone throws a tomato?”
“Catch it?” Raj guessed.
“Wrong. You laugh, you dodge if necessary, and you say: ‘Good tomato. Needs basil.’”
“What if Simran confronts me on camera?”
“You say: ‘Thanks for coming, Simran. Would you like to host the raffle?’”
“We have a raffle?”
Neha circled Raffle? on the board. “We do now.”
A notification dinged. Simran had posted a story: a boomerang of her sliding a tray of cauliflower crust into an oven, captioned “Cooking up something for Sunday 👀.”
Neha groaned. “Saucegate. She’ll sabotage the pies with fake crusts. People will feel betrayed.”
Auntie emerged, brandishing a wooden spoon like a scepter. “Let the girl bake her gobi roti. We will keep one table pure. And one table mine.”
“We can label everything,” Raj said quickly. “Transparency. Pizza for all diets. No betrayal.”
“Also,” Neha added, scribbling, “we’ll invite two food safety volunteers with hairnets and thermometers. Nothing neutralizes drama like a hairnet.”
At midnight, the neighborhood quieted to the soundtrack of distant pressure cookers and closer dogs debating philosophy. Raj and Neha sat on the floor, back against the sofa, their shoes somewhere else.
“Am I fixable?” Raj asked the ceiling.
“You’re not a blender,” Neha said. “You’re a person. Which is more complicated and less replaceable.”
He smiled, a lopsided thing. “Thanks.”
She yawned. “Sleep. Tomorrow we buy biodegradable plates and a thousand serviettes. Also a portable handwash station. Also—” she pointed at LAVATORIAL! “—don’t ask.”
Before he switched off the light, Raj scrolled through his mentions. Between the biceps and the boycotts, he saw a message from Kabir’s account: a photo of a plastic shark schoolbag with a slice-shaped keychain. Caption: “Ready for Sunday.”
Raj grinned into the dark. For the first time since a pizza sommelier had whispered “Mon dieu” in the wrong city, he believed the internet might let him be a person again. Not a villain. Not a meme. A man with a slice, and a chance to share it.
Outside, the bougainvillea rustled like gossip gone soft. Somewhere, a gym owner dreamed of kettlebells. In Raj’s kitchen, Auntie’s curry cooled like a promise. And on the whiteboard, PIZZA PEACE PARTY glowed in the dim—three words, one plan, zero guarantees.
Which, for now, felt like enough.
Part 3: Pizza Peace Party
By Sunday, the Lajpat Community Park looked like a festival designed by people who had never successfully hosted anything bigger than a birthday party.
Raj arrived at four with two bags of biodegradable plates, one folding table that had lost a leg somewhere in Hauz Khas, and a face rehearsed into what Neha called “sincere but not tragic.”
The first sight that greeted him: banners. Dozens. Half said PIZZA PEACE PARTY — Forgiveness, Fresh from the Oven! with the FlourBox logo exploding like a doughnut bomb. The other half screamed SAY NO TO DOUGH in angry red font, held aloft by Ricky Rana’s gym crew, who were already doing squats in protest formation.
“Carbs kill, protein thrills!” they chanted. A toddler clapped along, possibly just enjoying the rhythm.
Neha was everywhere at once: checking that the permit paper was laminated, scolding a vendor for storing mozzarella next to mosquito coils, and ushering FlourBox staffers to set up ovens under a tent that looked ready to faint in the heat.
Raj clutched his plates like shields. “Is this… under control?”
“Define control,” Neha said, sprinting past with a box of sanitizer bottles.
Auntie arrived next, regal in a maroon sari, balancing a steel dekchi so massive it looked like it had its own gravitational field. “Move,” she commanded two FlourBox boys, plopping her mutton curry on their counter. “If pizza is peace, curry is the constitution.”
The air changed instantly—garlic, cardamom, ghee. Half the protestors defected in five seconds, abandoning banners for bowls. Ricky roared, “Discipline, soldiers!” but even he glanced twice at the steam.
Raj tried to breathe. His heart was running laps, faster than any of Ricky’s burpees. Then he saw them—Kabir and his mother, weaving through the crowd. The boy had the shark schoolbag and, clipped to it, a brand-new slice-shaped keychain.
Kabir grinned. “Uncle Raj!”
Raj bent down. “Today, just Raj. Want to cut the first slice?”
The boy nodded solemnly, like being knighted with mozzarella.
At five sharp, Neha grabbed a mic that was technically a karaoke machine. “Welcome, friends, frenemies, and fitness influencers! Today we put away hashtags and pick up slices. The first piece belongs to Kabir, the bravest pizza lover in Delhi!”
The crowd cheered, phones shot up, and for a moment, Raj thought maybe this would work. Kabir took the knife, cut carefully, and Raj slid the slice onto a plate. Cameras clicked. A dove—or maybe just a very optimistic pigeon—flew overhead. Symbolism was satisfied.
And then chaos entered wearing lipstick and a ring light.
Simran Malhotra swept in, live-streaming to her 200k followers. She aimed her camera at Raj. “Here he is! Today’s host, yesterday’s villain. Raj, what are you serving us?”
“Pizza,” Raj said weakly.
She smirked. “Pizza? Or gobi roti with tomato sauce?” She lifted a tray from her bag dramatically. Cauliflower crusts, steaming, suspicious. “For the carb-conscious public!”
Ricky’s crew roared approval. Auntie sniffed, insulted. “That is not food. That is betrayal.”
The crowd split—Team Curry, Team Cauliflower, Team Regular Pizza. The hashtag war went live on three different platforms at once.
Raj grabbed the mic, praying his voice wouldn’t squeak. “Friends, we have all kinds today. Cheese for some, cauliflower for others, curry for everyone. Peace isn’t about one slice—it’s about sharing the table.”
A hush. Then Kabir, sauce on his cheek, yelled, “And eating before it gets cold!”
Laughter rippled through the park. Phones caught it, hashtags softened, even Ricky’s men chuckled through mouthfuls of curry. For the first time in days, Raj didn’t feel like a meme—he felt like a host.
Then the power went out. The ovens died. Lights blinked off. The karaoke machine groaned and collapsed into static.
In the sudden dark, Auntie’s ladle clattered. Someone screamed “sabotage!” Simran’s ring light glowed like a sinister halo. And rain—monsoon, uninvited and unforgiving—poured down, turning cardboard banners into pulp and pizzas into soggy tragedies.
Raj stood in the downpour, drenched, watching his redemption arc dissolve like tissue paper.
But Kabir raised his slice, dripping with rainwater and cheese, and shouted: “Best pizza ever!”
The cheer that followed was ragged, wet, and very real.
Part 4: Carb Crusaders
The rain came down like Delhi had decided to wash its hands of the day. Tents sagged, banners sulked, and the karaoke machine let out one last burp and died. In the wet hush, the only sound was the heroic sizzle of Auntie’s curry refusing to be intimidated by weather.
Then Ricky Rana stepped onto a park bench.
He had the posture of a Greek statue and the expression of a tuition teacher who’d found gum under his desk. Rain streamed off his jawline in cinematic rivulets. Someone handed him a battery megaphone. It squealed; he didn’t.
“Friends!” he boomed. “In this darkness, let us find the light of discipline. Carbs weaken resolve. Protein strengthens character. Today we say—”
“—no to dough, yes to row,” chorused his gym crew, drenched and delighted.
Ricky nodded, pleased. “Exactly. We will not attack this event. We will educate it.”
He jumped off the bench and clapped his hands. “Circle up! Five jump squats for awareness. Five burpees for integrity. Then we counsel the carb-confused.”
Auntie, ladle poised like a conductor’s baton, arched an eyebrow. “Do your burpees away from my curry. Soup of sweat is not on the menu.”
Ricky, mid-squat, froze at the smell wafting from Auntie’s dekchi. His megaphone dipped a fraction. “What is that?”
“Mutton curry that will make you apologize to your ancestors for all the bland food you have ever eaten,” Auntie said sweetly.
Ricky blinked, torn between ideology and a lifetime of taste buds. His crew wobbled in their squats. One defector sneaked a bowl; he was disowned with a look and a whistle. The whistle was regretful.
Raj, soaked to the soul, decided chaos needed a supervisor. He jogged onto the bench Ricky had vacated, slipped, windmilled, didn’t die, and grabbed the mic. “Okay! We’ve got rain, we’ve got love, we’ve got… mixed feelings about gluten. Let’s make a deal.”
A hundred phones pointed at him like polite telescopes.
“For every slice,” he said, “you do ten squats. Or one smile. Smiles are free. No receipts required.”
A ripple of laughter. The toddler from earlier did two ambitious squats and fell into a puddle with the pride of an Olympian. People clapped for the toddler. People are always ready to clap for toddlers.
Neha appeared at Raj’s elbow, as usual conjured by crisis. “Generator on the way,” she hissed. “Uncle Pammi’s guy has one in his van, but it runs on vibes and diesel. Also, the RWA president is here in a raincoat the color of arguments.”
“Where?” Raj whispered.
“Follow the smell of bylaws.”
Sure enough, a gentleman in a saffron raincoat waded toward them, accompanied by a municipal officer in a translucent poncho and the general aura of homework. The officer had a clipboard wrapped in plastic and an expression wrapped in suspicion.
“Noise level,” the officer said, not quite greeting, not quite scolding. “And your Form 14-B. In blue ink.”
“We have laminated copies,” Neha chirped, producing a folder like a magician revealing scarves. “Decibel compliance affidavit, waste plan, lavatorial facilities map.” She flashed a grin. “We also have biodegradable plates and food-safety volunteers with hairnets.”
The officer’s eyes slid to the hairnets, to the handwash station, to Auntie, who bestowed a bowl of curry on him with the solemnity of a knighthood. He took one spoonful and recalibrated his worldview. “Decibel limit is… flexible in rain,” he murmured, and drifted under a tent.
The RWA president peered at Neha over his rain hood. “No DJ,” he reminded, as if DJs might spring from the earth.
“No DJ,” Neha promised. “Only karaoke, and it’s dead.”
“Good,” he said, satisfied by failure.
Meanwhile, Simran had found higher ground—a plastic crate—and was live-streaming the storm like a nature documentary. “We are witnessing the fragile ecosystem of public apology,” she breathed into her mic. “Observe as the alpha male offers carbohydrates to appease the herd—”
“Simran,” Raj called, “want to host the raffle?”
She blinked. “Raffle?”
“We’re giving away pizza vouchers, a free month at Ricky’s gym, and a pressure cooker Auntie donated without fully consenting.”
Auntie’s ladle snapped to attention. “CONSENTED. I consented. As long as the winner comes to my house for parathas.”
Simran’s eyes glittered. “I love community engagement.” She turned to camera. “Stay tuned, fam. We might acquire cookware.”
The generator arrived, pushed like a reluctant yak by Uncle Pammi’s wiry assistant. It coughed, smoked, remembered its purpose in life, and the ovens hummed back to work. FlourBox staffers cheered. The karaoke machine twitched, thought better of it, and played only static.
“Back in business,” Neha said, tapping her watch. “We need service lines. Label the tables. Regular, Cauliflower, Curry. Volunteers spaced at two-meter intervals like polite sentries.”
The volunteers—two college kids in hairnets and a retired chemistry teacher who treated thermometers like holy relics—saluted. Signs went up. The park transformed from chaos with snacks to organized chaos with snacks.
Ricky’s crew transitioned from protest calisthenics to voluntary warm-ups for people queuing. “Just ten air squats before you eat,” he coaxed a father who was juggling two slices, a child, and a plastic shark schoolbag. “Keeps knees young.”
The father gamely squatted while his child, Kabir, shouted, “Lower! Come on, Papa!” The queue applauded. Someone filmed it. Someone else added subtitles. Internet, suddenly, felt like a neighborhood again.
Auntie, seizing momentum, stationed herself between Regular and Curry, offering diplomatic translations. “This one has cheese. This one has soul. Best is both.” She ladled curry onto a slice, creating a fusion that made two teenagers whisper “bro.” One took a bite, blinked twice, and declared, “I can see my ancestors dancing.”
At the Cauliflower table, a tragedy unfolded in slow motion. The rain had conspired with time to turn the trendy crusts into damp coasters. Simran, undeterred, presented them like a talk show host unveiling a prize. “Low-carb goodness!”
A man poked a crust. It dented like a memory foam mattress. He looked into Simran’s camera with the resigned eyes of a middle manager and said, “I support innovation,” took a bite, and chewed like he was negotiating hostage release.
Raj slid beside Simran. “How about we don’t call it pizza,” he offered breezily. “Call it… ‘rainy-day gobi flatbread.’ People hate betrayal, but they love honesty.”
Simran narrowed her eyes, then turned to her audience. “Fam, today we’re trying a gobi monsoon flatbread. For science.” She bit, winced, laughed. Her followers flooded the chat with raincloud emojis and “respect for trying.”
Neha, watching the tide turn, leaned into the mic. “Raffle time!” she sang. “Ticket numbers ending in 5: you win a free smoothie at Ricky’s gym. Ticket numbers ending in 0: Auntie’s pressure cooker demo at your house. Ticket numbers ending in 3: FlourBox voucher. Everyone else: you still get pizza. Life is not unfair today.”
The crowd chuckled in the way crowds do when they decide not to be mean. Ricky pumped his fist and promised two free Zumba classes for anyone who said “burpee” without sighing. Auntie whispered to the officer, “I will pack you gravy for home,” and the officer, transformed by curry, pledged to personally monitor the decibel meter with compassion.
Then the sky did that monsoon thing where it pretends to be done and then laughs. Sheets of water thrashed the tents. The generator spit a warning. Ovens hissed. Gasps flared and died. For a heartbeat it looked like Part 3 all over again, a sequel nobody wanted.
Raj took a breath and did the only thing he could think to do: he stepped off the bench, into the rain, and started handing out slices anyway.
“Rain pizza!” he shouted, channeling street vendor energy. “Limited edition! Comes with free weather!”
Kabir jumped beside him, distributing napkins like confetti. “Best ever!” he declared again, because heroism is repetition with sauce. A circle formed—people eating, laughing, wincing at cauliflower, swooning at curry, trying a squat, failing a squat, not caring.
Simran’s camera caught Raj under the downpour, grinning like an idiot, passing a soggy triangle to an old man in a trilby who seemed to have wandered in from a black-and-white movie. The comment flood warmed. “Okay, this is wholesome.” “He’s trying.” “That kid is a vibe.”
“Friends!” Ricky bellowed. “Final public service announcement! Ten-second plank for a second slice!”
People groaned and did it anyway. The park became a ridiculous tableau of strangers planking in puddles and then being rewarded with carbs. Neha took a panoramic shot and whispered to Raj, “If you don’t frame that for your wall, I will.”
By the time the rain softened to a reasonable annoyance, the generator had stopped wheezing. Lights glowed again. The ovens returned to making sense. The karaoke machine, vindictive, seized its chance and belted the opening bars of “Chaiyya Chaiyya” at a volume that would wake people in Noida.
“NO DJ!” the RWA president yelled, offended by nostalgia. Neha decapitated the power cord with the reflexes of a ninja.
They eased into the raffles. A petite grandmother won Ricky’s gym pass and immediately handed it to her grandson, adding, “Give me his smoothie.” A college student won Auntie’s pressure cooker demo and looked terrified until Auntie hugged her into submission. The officer drew the FlourBox voucher winner and clapped gravely when Kabir’s number came up, like the universe had done him a favor it owed.
Raj took the mic one last time. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for letting me fix what I broke. Thank you for… not suing me.” Laughter. “There’s more pizza. There’s more rain. There’s more… me.” He shrugged. “I’ll try to make that last one a good thing.”
A chant rose, small and ridiculous, started by Kabir, picked up by strangers: “Raj! Raj! Raj!” He blushed so hard he could have cooked a tomato.
Neha slid up, eyes bright. “You did it,” she said.
“We did it,” he corrected, because growth sometimes sounds like group credits.
Auntie cuffed his shoulder affectionately. “Come by later,” she said. “I’ll pack you curry. And you will eat salad also, to respect the gym boy.”
Ricky, drifting over, offered a damp handshake. “You’re still wrong about carbs,” he said, smiling. “But you’re less wrong about people.”
Simran stuck a camera in his face. “Final thoughts for my followers?”
Raj looked into the lens and, for once, did not think about angles or adjectives. “If you’re going to steal a slice,” he said, “make sure you bring two plates.”
The feed exploded with heart emojis.
As the crowd thinned and the park exhaled, Neha checked the Regular table, frowned, and held up two suspicious sauce bottles. One said “Marinara.” The other said “Marinara,” but its cap smelled like… something else.
She sniffed the first. Tomato and basil. She sniffed the second and made a face. “Who,” she muttered, “puts mint chutney in a marinara bottle?”
Auntie glanced over, eyes narrowing. “This is sabotage,” she declared, tapping the label like a detective. “This is Saucegate.”
Raj stared at the bottles, suddenly seeing the next storm gather behind the clearing sky. He took a deep breath he hoped was comedic foreshadowing and not actual dread.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s find out who.”
Part 5: Saucegate
The park smelled like peace: wet grass, smoky cheese, and curry that had overthrown empires. People were licking fingers, wrapping leftovers, and filming “wholesome ending” reels. Raj was seconds away from believing the Pizza Peace Party was a miracle. Then Neha appeared with the two bottles.
“Smell this,” she ordered, shoving one under his nose.
Raj sniffed. Basil, oregano, tomato. The comfort of late-night deliveries. Then she swapped bottles. Mint. Coriander. Betrayal.
“That,” Neha said, “isn’t marinara. It’s chutney masquerading as marinara. This is Saucegate.”
Raj blinked. “So what? Someone brought condiments?”
“No.” Neha’s eyes narrowed. “Someone tried to humiliate you. Imagine—someone bites into pizza expecting tomato heaven and instead gets sandwich chutney. They’ll post videos. You’ll trend again. For the wrong reasons.”
Auntie loomed, ladle glistening like Excalibur. “Only one person here would stoop to such gobi-level trickery.”
They all turned. Simran Malhotra was still live-streaming under a tree, her ring light glowing like a UFO.
Raj sighed. “You really think—”
“Look at the cap,” Neha interrupted, pointing. It had glitter nail polish smudges. Simran’s trademark shade: “Galaxy Pink.”
Before Raj could protest, Auntie marched across the mud like justice in a sari. She snatched the chutney bottle, planted it on Simran’s crate, and declared, “Explain yourself.”
The camera spun. Thousands of followers watched Simran blink at the bottle like it had sprouted legs. “What is this?” she demanded, with Oscar-level innocence.
“Sabotage!” Auntie thundered. “You tried to chutney our pizza!”
The chat window erupted. #Saucegate was born before Raj even had a chance to breathe. Comments flew:
@GobiFan88: Omg dramaaa 🌶️
@JusticeForRaj: EXPOSE HER
@MintIsLife: hey chutney slaps tho don’t hate
Simran straightened, flawless despite rain. “This is defamation. I didn’t touch your sauces.” She turned the camera to Raj. “Tell them. Do I look like a saboteur?”
Raj froze. Neha whispered, “Careful. If you accuse without proof, she’ll flip it.”
Kabir popped up between them, holding his shark bag like evidence. “I saw someone swap the bottles!”
Everyone leaned in. “Who?” Raj asked.
Kabir thought hard. “He was tall. And he had… muscles.”
All eyes swiveled to Ricky Rana.
The gym owner, mid-demonstration of kettlebell swings, dropped his weight with a thud. “What? No! I don’t even eat sauce. I only use mustard. Yellow like victory.”
But suspicion spread. Videos emerged of Ricky’s crew near the food tables. A slow-motion clip circulated: a bicep flexing dangerously close to condiments.
Ricky roared into his megaphone. “Carbs weaken character, but sabotage weakens soul! I AM INNOCENT!”
Neha pinched her nose. “This is spiraling.”
Auntie whispered, “Maybe we test.” She uncapped the chutney bottle, drizzled it on a slice, and handed it to Raj. “Eat. If you live, it is sauce. If you die, it is sabotage.”
Raj stared at the green smear. The crowd chanted, “Eat! Eat! Eat!” Phones angled for the bite.
He took it. Mint exploded on his tongue, colliding with cheese in a confused marriage. It wasn’t death. It wasn’t delicious either. It was… different.
Raj chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and raised his hand. “Friends, this isn’t sabotage. It’s fusion. Pizza with chutney. We may not have chosen it, but we’ve got it. And honestly? It’s not bad.”
A hush. Then Kabir yelled, “Better than cauliflower!”
Laughter cracked open the tension. Someone dared another to try it. Soon, a line formed at the “Fusion” table Auntie hastily labeled with a napkin and pen. Hashtag #ChutneyPizza started trending alongside #Saucegate.
Simran, sensing defeat, pivoted like a professional. “Fam, we STAN innovation. Follow for more fusion hacks.” Her followers spammed hearts.
Ricky exhaled, relieved. “Good. Because if anyone blamed me again, I was ready to do 100 burpees in protest.”
Neha whispered to Raj, “Crisis diffused. You turned sabotage into trend. Again.”
Raj, still tasting mint and mozzarella, shrugged. “Sometimes disaster just needs rebranding.”
Auntie beamed. “Beta, you have grown. Next time, we put my curry on top officially.”
As the park settled back into laughter, Raj felt light for the first time in days. Even soaked, even chewing strange green pizza, he was no longer a villain. He was a host. A survivor. A meme redeemed.
But then, from the edge of the crowd, a voice rang out:
“This party isn’t legal! You’re all trespassing!”
Everyone turned. A man in a crisp suit, umbrella like a weapon, waved papers in the air. “I am from the Land Development Board. This park is not zoned for pizza distribution. You are all in violation!”
The crowd gasped. Neha groaned. Raj nearly dropped his chutney slice.
Because apparently, redemption came with sequels.
Part 6: Auntie’s Curry Coup
The man in the suit looked like he ironed opinions into his shirts. He held an umbrella like a baton and a file like a verdict. Behind him trudged a junior with a measuring tape, as if they were about to audit the monsoon.
“I am G. P. Ghosh, Land Development Board,” the man announced, voice sharp enough to slice paneer. “This park is not zoned for mass food distribution. Section—” he rattled his file “—33C(2), temporary commercial activity in a residential green. Cease operations immediately or face seizure of equipment and a penalty of—”
“Of love,” Auntie said, stepping forward with a bowl of mutton curry. “Penalty of love. Beta, you must be tired. First eat.”
Ghosh blinked, bureaucratic software struggling to parse hospitality. “Madam, this is an enforcement visit.”
“Exactly,” Auntie said. “Enforce spoon into mouth.” She brandished the ladle. Somewhere behind her, the curry peaked in aroma like a legal argument warming up.
Neha slid between them, smile on diplomat mode. “Mr. Ghosh, we have RWA provisional permission, decibel compliance, waste plan, hygiene checks, and—importantly—no commerce. Everything is free and donation-driven to a hunger-relief NGO.” She gestured to a laminated QR code and a cash box with a label that read: DONATE IF YOU CAN. EAT EVEN IF YOU CAN’T.
Ghosh sniffed. His junior unholstered the measuring tape and began measuring something, possibly the distance between good sense and rain.
“This is still distribution,” Ghosh said. “Distribution implies event. Event implies land-use permission specific to this parcel. You have not obtained said permission. You are in violation.”
The municipal officer—still gently steaming from Auntie’s earlier curry—ambled over with the RWA president in tow. “Arre, Ghosh da,” he began, suddenly folksy, “they are not selling. And it is raining. Community service is happening.”
“Community service,” the RWA president echoed, as if hoping it would become true through repetition. “Also, no DJ.”
“No DJ,” Neha reassured quickly.
Ghosh planted the umbrella tip like a flag. “Intent does not negate compliance. Pack up your ovens. This area must be restored to pre-pizza condition.”
The crowd rippled. Phones tilted for drama. On Simran’s live, chat bubbles exploded: “not the permit uncle 💀” “bureaucracy speedrun incoming” “Auntie deploy 🍛”
Auntie inhaled, lifted the bowl, and changed strategies mid-stir. She turned to the crowd, to the cameras, to Mr. Ghosh’s rigid tie. “Friends,” she said, voice velvet with steel underneath, “when rain comes and lights go, what do we do in this country? We cook together. This is not pizza selling. This is langar in a park. Community kitchen. Free for all. No one leaves hungry.”
It wasn’t a lie. It was a rebrand that slid into the collective memory like ghee into hot rice.
Kabir raised his shark bag and chimed in, solemn as a bell. “Uncle, it’s like school food drive, but tastier.”
Ricky stood to parade rest, then whispered to Neha, “What’s langar?” She whispered back, and he nodded so seriously you’d think he’d just been drafted into a religion of kindness. He turned to his gym crew. “New mission! Service reps! Ten squats while you serve!”
“Sir,” Neha said to Ghosh, softer now, “let us comply while we continue. We’ll move the ovens off the grass onto the paved path. We’ll reduce service to one station. We’ll run a clean-up drive during the event. We’ll end by sundown.” She pointed at the generator. “No amplified sound. The karaoke is dead and banned.”
Ghosh’s junior, who had measured a bench and three raindrops, peered into Auntie’s bowl. “Sir,” he murmured, treasonous, “it’s… quite fragrant.”
Ghosh maintained eye contact with the rulebook in his head. “Fragrance is not a permit.”
“Fragrance is not a permit,” Auntie agreed. “It is an invitation.” She lowered the bowl, spoon poised, the old magic trick: feed the official, soften the stance, save the day. “One spoon. Then you lecture.”
Ghosh hesitated. Power met gravy. He surrendered with dignity. “One spoon,” he warned, “does not constitute approval.”
“One spoon,” Auntie promised, filling it like a treaty. He tasted. The rain paused respectfully mid-drop. A memory crossed his face—maybe of a kitchen where a grandmother wore bangles that tinkled like yes.
Ghosh cleared his throat, voice discovering its human register. “What exactly… is your waste plan?”
“Ricky’s crew is doing lunge-and-litter,” Neha said, sliding a printed sheet onto his file. “Volunteers every ten meters with sacks. Compostables separate. Auntie has forbidden plastic with religious fervor.”
“I have,” Auntie confirmed, ladle tapping her authority.
“And this donation box?” Ghosh asked.
“Proceeds go to ‘Meals for Tomorrow,’” Neha said. “We chose them because they feed schoolchildren. Receipts on request.” She held up a folder. “At this point I can produce receipts for the rain if you want.”
The municipal officer, newly benevolent, nodded. “I will witness. The decibel meter is asleep. Let them finish by sunset.”
Ghosh folded his umbrella, which felt like the sun coming out indoors. “This remains irregular,” he said, but his tone had traded thunder for drizzle. “However… under a temporary community kitchen demonstration classification, with conditions, we may proceed.”
“Conditions?” Raj croaked.
“Relocate heating units off the lawn. Reduce serving points to one. Display signage: ‘COMPLEMENTARY COMMUNITY MEAL—NO COMMERCIAL ACTIVITY.’ Conduct immediate clean-up. Submit a one-page undertaking.” He searched for paper.
Auntie handed him a biodegradable plate and a pen. “Sign on the right. Write: ‘Under the Auntie Act.’”
Neha half-choked, half-laughed. “We’ll write: ‘Under Community Meal Undertaking.’ And we’ll all sign.” She scribbled quickly, her handwriting brisk and legible even on a plate. Ghosh signed with a sigh that sounded like childhood and cumin. The municipal officer co-signed. The RWA president added a ceremonial flourish and, because he could, “NO DJ” at the bottom.
Logistics shifted like a practiced ballet. Uncle Pammi’s assistant and two FlourBox boys heaved the ovens onto the paved path. Volunteers with hairnets became litter generals. Ricky’s crew turned into civic trainers: “Ten squats, five pieces of trash—community gains!”
Simran re-angled her camera. “Fam, update: The Pizza Peace Party has levelled up into a full-fledged langar. Bureaucracy met biry—curry. Bureaucracy blinked.” Heart emojis marched like ants across her screen.
Raj, heart thudding, approached Ghosh with a plate—one regular slice, one chutney experiment, a respectful spoon of curry. “Thank you for… not thunderbolting us,” he said.
“This,” Ghosh said, balancing the biodegradable plate with the solemnity of a puja thali, “is not precedent.” He tasted the chutney slice, winced, recovered, and added gently, “Stick to tomato when possible.”
“Noted,” Raj said, relief fizzing. “Forever noted.”
Neha mounted the non-DJ mic stand and spoke without amplification, her voice carrying anyway. “Friends! We continue—quieter, cleaner, kinder. Please join the clean-up line after you eat. Litter is the only topping we refuse.”
A wave of movement. Kids with small hands and huge pride darted to pick wrappers. College volunteers formed a relay. A grandma scolded a pigeon for contributing nothing. The park began to look like a place people loved on purpose.
Kabir took the mic for a second, nerves and glory warring on his face. “Raj is good,” he said simply. “Also, pizza with curry is best.” The crowd cheered because children are the only endorsements that matter.
Auntie, having served her coup, dialed it up to diplomacy-plus. She formed a VIP queue: municipal officer, Ghosh, the RWA president, Uncle Pammi, two FlourBox staffers with flour on their faces like war paint, and—because fairness—Simran. “You will all eat together,” she declared, “so that your hearts do not argue while your mouths are full.”
It worked. Conversation softened. Ghosh said something about his grandmother in Krishnanagar. The officer bragged about his daughter’s debate prize. The RWA president, cornered by Auntie’s stare, admitted he liked old film songs at high volumes “sometimes.” Simran put down her phone long enough to finish a whole bowl and murmur, traitor to her brand, “Auntie, recipe?”
By sunset, the rain had retreated to a sulk. The generator idled like a cat. The “COMPLEMENTARY COMMUNITY MEAL” sign, handwritten on cardboard and taped to a chair, fluttered with the satisfied fatigue of paper that had done its job.
Neha checked the clean-up sacks and flashed Ghosh a thumbs-up. “Park status: pre-pizza plus sparkle.”
Ghosh looked around—at clean grass, at empty plates stacked like good intentions, at Kabir demonstrating burpees to a line of laughing aunties—and allowed himself the smallest smile a jaw like his could manage. “Submit your report tomorrow,” he told Neha. “One page. No adjectives.”
Neha saluted. “Understood. Pure nouns.”
He turned to go, then paused, awkward in kindness. “Madam,” he said to Auntie, “save a little for home?”
Auntie’s grin could have powered a grid. “Two dabbas. And one for your junior. He measured rain with dedication.”
When the officials left, the park exhaled again. Raj leaned against the tent pole, drenched, exhausted, buzzing. “We almost died,” he told Neha.
“We almost complied,” she corrected. “And then we complied.”
He found Auntie rinsing her ladle at the handwash station like it was a holy ritual. “Thank you,” he said, honest and simple. “You turned a shutdown into dinner.”
“Beta,” she said, flicking water, “curry is the constitution. Feed first, fight later. Also, always carry a spare ladle.”
Ricky sauntered over, shook Raj’s hand with gym-class sincerity. “Good community session,” he said. “Tomorrow, you come for legs day.”
Raj groaned. “I just did legs day. It was called life.”
Simran popped up, phone held level with their chins. “Final thought for my live: What did you learn today?”
Raj looked at Neha, at Auntie, at Kabir who was fastening his shark bag like a medal. He looked at the cardboard sign flapping in the gentle, post-storm air.
“I learned that a permit is a paper,” he said. “But a neighborhood is a promise.”
The chat went quiet for a beat—the rare, sweet hush when the internet decides to feel something. Then emojis bloomed. Auntie rolled her eyes in fondness. “Poet,” she said. “Now come, all of you. Help me pack. Who will take curry? If no one claims it, I will put names on tiffins and assign them like homework.”
They lined up: Raj, Neha, Ricky, Uncle Pammi, even two FlourBox boys who’d been too cool for gratitude an hour ago. Tiffins filled. Promises made. The park turned back into a park, with only footprints and the aftertaste of cumin to say that people had been human here.
As they hauled the last crate, Raj glanced at the whiteboard photo Neha had posted that morning—PIZZA PEACE PARTY in block letters, chaos arrows everywhere. He added a caption when he re-shared it: Under Section 1 of the Auntie Act: Feed, then fix.
And for once, even the comments agreed.
Part 7: Influencer War
By Monday morning, the Pizza Peace Party had transformed from an event into a content goldmine. Clips of Kabir cutting the first slice, Auntie lecturing Ghosh with a ladle, and Ricky leading squats in the rain were stitched, remixed, subtitled, and memed until the internet itself smelled faintly of curry.
Raj woke up to find his follower count had doubled overnight. His phone buzzed relentlessly: likes, tags, DMs. The top trending hashtags told the story: #PizzaPeaceParty, #Saucegate, and, confusingly, #LadleGoals.
“Congratulations,” Neha said over coffee, scrolling through her own phone. “You’ve gone from Pizza Villain to Pizza Gandhi in less than seventy-two hours.”
Raj groaned. “Pizza Gandhi? That’s worse. I just want to be… Raj.”
But wanting was different from having. By noon, rival influencers had begun circling like seagulls around fries.
The Content Gold Rush
Simran, never one to waste momentum, uploaded a polished vlog: “Pizza Peace Party — The Inside Story.” In it, she appeared in every dramatic frame: comforting Kabir, advising Auntie, even squatting alongside Ricky’s crew. Raj appeared mostly as background blur, occasionally handing out soggy napkins.
Meanwhile, a Delhi lifestyle influencer called The Hungry Hipster posted a reel: “Raj stole my pizza idea, but it’s fine, I forgive him, because forgiveness is on-trend.” He posed with a plate of “fusion pizza” — actually naan with ketchup. His followers lapped it up.
Even a vegan travel blogger from Goa chimed in with a video: “The Pizza Peace Party proves food is political, and also proves I was right about cashew cheese.”
Raj sat on the couch, defeated, as Neha scrolled the carnage. “They’re hijacking my redemption,” he said.
“They’re hijacking our redemption,” Neha corrected. “But that’s how influence works. The trick isn’t to own the story. The trick is to be unignorable in the story.”
“Which means?”
“Which means you need to post your version. Today. Before Pizza Gandhi gets dethroned by Pizza Hipster.”
Enter Auntie, Stage Left
Auntie barged in, carrying a box of empty tiffins like a military cache. “Beta, I returned everyone’s dabba. They said thank you, and one aunty asked for your number for her niece.”
Raj blinked. “I—what?!”
Neha smirked. “See? You’re trending even offline.”
But Auntie wasn’t done. She plonked her ladle on the coffee table. “Also, I am now famous. People asked me to start a channel. Curry with Auntie. Should I?”
Raj stared, horrified. “They’ll out-influence me in my own house.”
“Let them,” Neha said. “If Auntie wins, you win. Think ecosystem. She’s your extended brand.”
Auntie puffed with pride. “Extended brand! I am chutney franchise!”
The Great Collaboration Proposal
Just when Raj thought the circus couldn’t escalate further, his inbox pinged with a collaboration request. FlourBox Pizza wanted him and Simran to co-host a “Forgiveness Feast” livestream: cooking together, laughing together, rehabilitating carbs together.
Raj read the email aloud. “They’ll pay us both. Equal billing. Equal camera time.”
Neha whistled. “That’s big.”
“It’s also a trap,” Raj muttered. “She’ll hog the spotlight and sprinkle Galaxy Pink nail polish over the dough. I’ll look like her sous-chef.”
“Or,” Neha said, eyes glittering, “you use her reach to lock your redemption. Play it humble, play it funny, and let her ego inflate the views. Everyone will see you as the good sport.”
Raj groaned. “I hate being a strategy.”
“That’s why you have me,” Neha said, patting his shoulder.
Auntie sniffed. “Cook with that girl? Fine. But you must make my curry pizza. That will be your legacy.”
Raj closed his eyes, picturing the livestream: thousands of viewers, Simran’s ring light burning his corneas, Auntie’s curry bubbling dangerously near the camera. It would either make him immortal or meme him into oblivion again.
Meanwhile, Ricky Declares War
Across town, Ricky Rana uploaded a shirtless rant. “Friends! The so-called Pizza Peace Party was carb propaganda. Do not be fooled! I challenge Raj Mehta to a Fitness Face-Off: ten rounds, bodyweight only. Winner takes truth. Loser admits pizza is poison!”
The video blew up. Comments poured in.
@AbsForDays: finally some accountability
@PaneerPower: curry has protein bro calm down
@RajOnAPlateFan: if raj planks i’ll plank too 🥺
Raj watched the clip in horror. “He’s challenging me to… to exercise. On camera.”
Neha grinned. “Perfect. We accept.”
“What?!”
“Think about it,” she said. “You’ll never out-lift him, but you can out-laugh him. Self-deprecation is your six-pack. Lose the challenge, win the internet.”
Raj groaned into his pillow. Auntie smacked his back with the ladle. “Stand up. Don’t be scared of squats. Curry is heavier than kettlebells. And you carried it.”
The War Begins
By evening, Raj’s notifications were madness. Memes of him vs Ricky. Split-screen edits of him vs Simran. Auntie reaction GIFs with captions like “Feed First, Fight Later.”
The influencers had turned his redemption arc into a battle royale.
Neha, scribbling on the whiteboard, listed the wars:
- Simran: Forgiveness Feast Livestream (Collab War)
- Ricky: Fitness Face-Off (Strength War)
- Auntie: Curry Channel (Brand War)
- Random Hipsters: Hashtag Theft (Narrative War)
She capped the marker dramatically. “This is not about pizza anymore. This is the Influencer War.”
Raj buried his face in his hands. “I just wanted dinner.”
Auntie patted his hair. “Dinner is gone, beta. Now it is destiny.”
Part 8: Permit Panic
Raj was halfway through a leftover curry pizza when Neha stormed in like a headline. Her dupatta was damp, her eyes sharp, and her phone buzzing with notifications.
“Bad news,” she announced. “Permit panic.”
Raj froze mid-bite. “We had the permit. Auntie charmed Ghosh. The RWA president even signed ‘No DJ.’ What more could they want?”
Neha waved her phone. “Apparently, the Land Development Board has received a complaint. Anonymous. Claims your event was actually a ‘commercial pop-up’ in disguise. They’re investigating retroactively.”
Raj groaned. “Anonymous complaint? Who would—” He stopped. He already knew at least three suspects.
“Simran?” he guessed.
“Possibly,” Neha said. “Or Ricky’s gym rival who thinks squat challenges are fascism. Or Hungry Hipster who’s mad you stole his naan with ketchup spotlight. Point is: inspectors are coming. Tomorrow.”
Raj nearly dropped his pizza. “Tomorrow? But… I can’t survive another permit uncle. Ghosh was enough trauma for a lifetime.”
Auntie emerged from the kitchen, brandishing her ladle like a gavel. “Then we give them no choice. They come, they eat, they forget their paperwork.”
“No, Auntie,” Neha sighed. “We can’t curry our way out of every crisis.”
“Yes, we can,” Auntie said. “But fine. Also documents.”
Bureaucracy Strikes Back
The next day, the inspectors arrived in a convoy of scooters, umbrellas, and plastic files. Raj and Neha greeted them outside his apartment like defendants awaiting trial.
There were three of them:
- Inspector #1: moustache sharp enough to sign documents.
- Inspector #2: glasses fogged, clutching a noise meter like it was a newborn.
- Inspector #3: junior, enthusiastic, already sniffing the air for curry.
“Mr. Mehta,” Moustache intoned, “we are here to examine potential violations under Section 33C(2), Subclause—”
“Community Kitchen Exemption,” Neha interrupted smoothly, producing laminated affidavits like magic cards. “Signed by RWA, municipal officer, and Land Development Board official present at the event.”
Inspector #2 peered. “But… this signature is on a biodegradable plate.”
“Yes,” Neha said brightly. “Innovative documentation. Eco-friendly governance.”
The junior chuckled. Moustache did not. “We will need to verify authenticity.”
Raj whimpered. “But it’s laminated!”
Inspector #2 held up the decibel meter. “Also, there are reports karaoke was used.”
Neha straightened. “Karaoke machine died before it violated limits. We have testimony. Ask Auntie.”
Right on cue, Auntie strode in carrying a tray of pakoras, as if she’d been waiting behind the curtain for her entrance. “Testify? I testify that machine sang one line of Chaiyya Chaiyya, then we cut its throat.”
The inspectors blinked. The junior accepted a pakora.
“Delicious,” he muttered.
Enter Simran
Just as things were teetering toward edible diplomacy, a voice piped up from the corridor. “Excuse me, officers, I have footage.”
Simran appeared, ring light in hand, wearing her victory smile. “Exclusive video evidence: unauthorized karaoke, unlawful curry distribution, and suspicious chutney substitution.”
Raj buried his face in his hands. “Not Saucegate again.”
Moustache adjusted his tie. “Thank you, madam. We will review this.”
The junior frowned. “But wasn’t chutney substitution… innovation?”
“NO!” Simran barked. Then softened. “I mean… not in this context.”
Neha whispered to Raj, “She’s here to finish you. Stay calm.”
But Auntie was already marching forward. “Evidence?” she demanded. “Show me.”
Simran reluctantly played her reel: a chaotic montage of soggy tents, curry lines, and yes, the karaoke machine belting Chaiyya Chaiyya before Neha killed the cord.
Inspector #2 perked up. “That is clearly above 75 decibels.”
“It was a cultural necessity,” Auntie countered. “In rain, spirits must be lifted. Even Lord Krishna danced with music.”
Moustache cleared his throat. “We are not debating divine precedent. We require receipts.”
Neha thrust another folder at him. “Receipts for donations collected, transferred directly to Meals for Tomorrow NGO. Transparent ledger.”
The junior scrolled through the NGO’s site on his phone. “Confirmed, sir. Funds received.”
“Still irregular,” Moustache grumbled.
At that moment, Ricky barged in like a dumbbell on legs. “Officers! I object! This event was carb propaganda! Raj Mehta must answer for promoting gluten!”
Raj squeaked, “What is this, a trial?!”
“Yes,” Ricky thundered. “Fitness trial by law!”
Simran smirked. “See? Even his so-called allies admit guilt.”
Auntie rolled her eyes, shoved a pakora into Ricky’s mouth, and turned back to the inspectors. “Beta, decide. Was it food or was it crime?”
The Turning Point
The junior spoke first. “Food. Definitely food.”
Inspector #2, still chewing a second pakora, nodded reluctantly. “Curry compliant.”
Moustache remained unmoved. “But karaoke—”
Kabir, who had been lurking in the hallway, stepped forward with his shark bag and wide eyes. “Uncle, it was my party. Raj didn’t steal this slice. He shared it with everyone. Even you can have some if you want.”
The sincerity hit like a ladle to the chest. Moustache coughed, shuffled his papers, and muttered, “One violation waived under extraordinary community circumstances.”
Raj exhaled so hard he almost collapsed.
Aftermath
By evening, the inspectors had left with clean plates and clean consciences. Neha updated the board: Permit Panic: Neutralized. Status: Survived.
Raj flopped onto the sofa. “I can’t take another crisis.”
Neha grinned. “Good, because tomorrow is the Fitness Face-Off livestream with Ricky. And FlourBox confirmed the Forgiveness Feast with Simran for next week.”
Raj groaned. Auntie patted his head. “Don’t worry, beta. Remember the Auntie Act: feed, then fix. We will bring curry to the livestream.”
Raj stared at the ceiling. “One day I just wanted pizza. Now I’m fighting wars on three fronts.”
Neha raised her iced coffee. “Welcome to influence.”
Part 9: Monsoon Meltdown
The Fitness Face-Off was supposed to be simple: an hour-long livestream in FlourBox’s test kitchen, Ricky vs. Raj. Ten rounds of bodyweight exercises, judged by the internet. Viewers would vote on performance, the sponsor would plug their new “High-Protein Paneer Pizza,” and Raj would prove he could laugh at himself while sweating like a tandoor.
Of course, Delhi monsoon had other plans.
By 3 p.m., thunder rolled in like an angry drumline. By 4, the FlourBox kitchen roof began to leak in three different places. By 4:15, Simran went live from outside, hair perfect under an umbrella, announcing to her followers: “Fam, the Fitness Face-Off is cursed. Stay tuned.”
Raj sat on a yoga mat inside, staring at the water dripping beside him. “It’s a sign. We shouldn’t do this.”
Neha shoved a towel at his chest. “No. It’s content. Disaster content is still content.”
Ricky, already shirtless and glowing like a protein ad, cracked his knuckles. “Rain builds resilience. Are you ready to plank, Pizza Boy?”
“I’m ready to faint,” Raj muttered.
Round One: Push-Ups
The livestream began with a shaky tripod and Neha yelling, “And we’re live!” to an audience that had already tripled thanks to Simran’s hype.
“Push-ups!” Ricky barked, dropping to the floor. He pounded out twenty perfect reps, back straight, arms pumping like pistons.
Raj attempted one. His elbow squeaked. His back curved like a question mark. He collapsed after three.
The comments exploded:
@AbsForDays: RIP Raj 😂
@PaneerPower: looks like melted cheese on a mat
@JusticeForRaj: leave him alone he’s TRYING
Raj rolled over, panting. “That’s enough exercise for this lifetime.”
Neha whispered off-camera, “Smile! Play it funny.”
Raj raised a thumb. “See? I’m demonstrating gravity works. You’re welcome.”
Laughter emojis flooded the stream.
Round Two: Squats
“Fifty squats,” Ricky declared. He lowered himself like a temple bell, each rep precise. His crew, watching from the back, cheered in rhythm.
Raj tried to follow. By the seventh squat, his knees made sounds like old furniture. By the tenth, he lost balance and landed squarely in a puddle from the leaky roof.
The chat went wild.
@MintIsLife: puddle squat new exercise unlocked
@RajOnAPlateFan: pls protect this man
@CarbCrusader: carbs are winning and i’m here for it
Ricky flexed. “Discipline! Control!”
Raj splashed the puddle with both hands. “Hydration!”
The audience roared with digital applause.
Round Three: Burpees
Ricky launched into burpees, springing like a panther. Raj managed half of one, then lay flat on the mat, face pressed to the floor. “This is called the emotional burpee,” he mumbled.
Kabir, sitting in the corner with his shark bag, shouted, “Uncle Raj wins! His version is funnier.”
The comments sided with the kid. #EmotionalBurpee began trending.
Neha mouthed genius at Raj.
The Meltdown
Halfway through round four (planks), the power went out. The cameras cut. Panic flickered in the chat.
Simran, still streaming on her own phone, swooped into the dark kitchen with her ring light. “Fam, we are in blackout mode! This is raw, unfiltered influencer chaos!”
Rain hammered the tin roof. Water spilled from the ceiling, soaking the mats. FlourBox staff scrambled with buckets. Ricky tried to keep planking in the dark like a martyr.
Raj sat cross-legged in the puddle, drenched and done. “Welcome to my TED Talk: How to drown in a pizza kitchen.”
The comment flood surged:
@LaughingLassi: this is art
@ChutneyPizzaFan: pls someone give him curry
@InfluencerDrama: better than Bigg Boss tbh
Auntie arrived, naturally, with thermoses of curry. She waded through the chaos, handed bowls to inspectors, camera people, even Ricky. “Eat first, then panic,” she decreed.
The livestream picked up again with her voice dominating. “Beta, see, squat is good, but curry gives you fuel.”
Simran, never missing an angle, zoomed in. “And THIS is why we love Auntie. Fam, drop ladle emojis in chat!”
The chat obeyed. Ladle emojis cascaded like rain.
The Final Round
Neha, desperate to salvage dignity, shouted, “Last challenge: Pizza Lift! Whoever holds a FlourBox pie overhead longest wins!”
Ricky grabbed a box, arms bulging, rain dripping off his jaw. He held it steady like Atlas carrying carbs.
Raj picked up another box. It sagged. He tilted. He grinned. “Oops, toppings redistribution.” Cheese slid down his arm.
The crowd online lost it. #PizzaLift shot into the trending list.
After thirty seconds, Ricky still stood strong. After ten, Raj dropped his box and caught it with his face. He looked into the camera, sauce smeared across his cheek, and deadpanned: “Flawless victory.”
The chat went nuclear.
Results
When the livestream ended, FlourBox tallied the votes. Ricky had dominated on form. Raj had obliterated him on entertainment.
“Winner,” Neha announced, “is… both.”
Ricky frowned. “Both?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “Strength and spirit. Protein and carbs. Balance.”
Auntie clapped. “Unity in diversity! Curry in pizza!”
Kabir shouted, “Raj Uncle wins!” The internet echoed him, flooding with heart emojis and “Raj > Gym Bro” memes.
Ricky sighed, then hugged Raj, lifting him clean off the ground like a soggy mascot. “Fine. You are weak, but funny. That is also strength.”
Raj dangled helplessly. “Put me down before I trend for spinal injuries.”
The comments loved it anyway.
Aftermath
By night, clips of the meltdown dominated reels: Raj face-planting into pizza, Ricky squatting in rain, Auntie spooning curry mid-crisis. The hashtags shifted again: #EmotionalBurpee, #PizzaLift, #MonsoonMeltdown.
Neha updated the board at home: Crisis Status: Survived (again).
Raj collapsed onto the beanbag, exhausted. “How many more times can I survive?”
Neha smirked. “One more. The Forgiveness Feast with Simran. That’s the finale.”
Auntie patted his cheek with curry-scented hands. “Beta, destiny is not gym challenge. It is buffet. And tomorrow, you eat dessert.”
Part 10: The Last Slice
The Forgiveness Feast was FlourBox’s idea of closure: a livestream event where Raj and Simran, rivals turned reluctant co-hosts, would bake, banter, and broadcast to half a million hungry viewers. If it worked, Raj’s redemption arc would be sealed like a hot crust. If it failed, well… at least Auntie had promised backup curry.
The Setup
The FlourBox flagship outlet had been transformed into a stage. Banners read “Forgiveness Feast — Powered by Pizza.” A neon sign glowed: Slice, Share, Smile. On one side, a gleaming oven. On the other, a counter stacked with toppings like jewels in a culinary crown.
Raj arrived in a borrowed apron that read “Knead for Speed.” Neha shoved cue cards into his hand. “Remember: be funny, not defensive. Let Simran sparkle, but keep stealing the laugh lines. And whatever happens, no plant wall.”
Simran swept in moments later, camera crew in tow, hair bouncing like it had its own lighting contract. She wore an apron embroidered with her handle: Bites & Bloopers. Her ring light was already glowing.
“Ready, Raj?” she asked sweetly, teeth perfect.
“As ready as someone who once trended as Pizza Villain can be,” he muttered.
Auntie marched in with her ladle like it was a VIP pass. “I sit there,” she declared, pointing at the judges’ table FlourBox had set up for influencers and local press. “If you feed without curry, I protest.”
The staff nodded nervously.
Going Live
The livestream began with Neha’s voice off-camera: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Forgiveness Feast! Watch as Raj and Simran cook, compete, and collaborate for the internet’s final verdict!”
Simran beamed into her lens. “Fam, it’s happening! We’re live from FlourBox HQ with the one and only Raj—aka Pizza Gandhi, aka Pizza Villain, aka my partner-in-crust today!”
Raj forced a grin. “Hi, I’m Raj. I eat pizza slower than my reputation crumbles.”
The comments exploded instantly.
@JusticeForRaj: king of self-burns 🔥
@GalaxyPinkFan: Simran carrying already
@CurryWithAuntie: ladle cam pls
The Challenge
They were tasked with creating three pizzas: one classic, one fusion, and one “forgiveness slice” to symbolize closure. Judges: Auntie, Ricky (representing Team Protein), and Kabir, who had been elevated to “Ambassador of Pizza Youth.”
Round One: Classic Margherita.
Simran tossed dough like a pro, narrating every flick. “Fam, this is all in the wrist. Raj, you try.”
Raj tried. The dough stuck to his arm, slithered down, and flopped onto the floor. He stared at it, deadpan. “It’s called free-form naan.”
The comments loved it. Auntie muttered, “He needs more wrist, less drama.”
Round Two: Fusion.
Raj saw his chance. “Curry pizza,” he announced. Auntie clapped like a stadium. He spooned her mutton curry onto a base, added mozzarella, and slid it in the oven. The smell rose like history retold.
Simran countered with “Cauliflower Crust 2.0,” adding avocado and pomegranate. Ricky flexed approvingly. “Antioxidants!”
When the judges tasted, Auntie declared, “Raj wins.” Ricky declared, “Simran wins.” Kabir shrugged. “Both win. Can I take slices home?”
Round Three: The Forgiveness Slice.
This was the one that mattered. They had to build it together.
Simran rolled the dough, Raj spread the sauce. They argued over toppings—mushrooms vs. olives, paneer vs. pepperoni. Auntie intervened, dropping a spoonful of curry in the center. Kabir sprinkled extra cheese. Ricky insisted on chicken breast “for balance.”
The result was chaotic but beautiful: a pizza that looked like compromise and smelled like possibility.
The Moment
They baked it, sliced it, and placed the first piece on a plate. Cameras zoomed in. The internet held its breath.
Simran smiled at Raj. “Well? Who gets the last slice?”
Raj looked at Kabir, at Auntie, at the crowd watching online. He thought of the café, the viral clip, the humiliation of a slice stolen. He thought of Neha’s endless rescue missions, Ricky’s squats, Simran’s sabotage, Auntie’s ladle, and the rain that had nearly drowned them all.
He pushed the plate toward Kabir. “The kid gets it. Always.”
Kabir’s grin was pure monsoon sunshine. He bit into it, sauce smearing his cheek, and shouted, “Best slice ever!”
The livestream erupted.
@PizzaPeaceFan: FULL CIRCLE 😭
@ProteinBro69: fine this is wholesome
@CurryWithAuntie: ladle supremacy continues
Even Simran laughed, genuinely, not camera-perfect. “Alright, Raj. Maybe you’re not Pizza Villain anymore.”
After the Feast
By the time the stream ended, #ForgivenessFeast was trending across platforms. Clips circulated of Raj’s dough disaster, Simran’s avocado monologue, and Kabir devouring the forgiveness slice. Auntie’s channel Curry with Auntie launched the next day and hit 100k subscribers by evening.
FlourBox sales spiked, crowing about their “High-Protein Paneer Pizza.” Ricky announced a new fitness series: Squats with Snacks. Simran gained followers, Raj gained memes, and Kabir gained free pizza for a year.
That night, Raj and Neha sat on his balcony, watching rain streak the streetlights. He sipped chai, she sipped iced coffee.
“So,” Neha said, “what did you actually learn?”
Raj thought. “That the last slice isn’t about pizza. It’s about who you share it with.”
Auntie leaned out the kitchen window, ladle in hand. “And about curry. Always curry.”
They laughed, loud enough that even the bougainvillea gossiping outside had to admit: sometimes the world forgives, one slice at a time.
The End
