Ruhi's Firestorm — The Plagiarism Accusation
It hit her like a punch.The headline on a literature blog:
"Young Columnist Accused of Plagiarizing Old Hindi Poem — A Case of Imitation or Inspiration?"
Ruhi stared at the screen in disbelief.
They were pointing at her poem "The Rain I Never Asked For", claiming it resembled a 1980s Hindi piece by an obscure poet named Suresh Malik.
She had never even heard of him.
But online, it didn't matter.Hate piled up.Comments turned cruel.Writers she admired posted ambiguous takes on "ethics in youth poetry."
Her inbox flooded.
And for the first time…She couldn't write back.
🎧 The Call to Simran — A Cry Between the Lines
"I didn't copy it," Ruhi whispered over the phone.
"I know," Simran said. "You don't even read 80s poets."
"That's not the point," Ruhi said, voice cracking. "They're destroying everything I built. Every line… they're calling it borrowed."
"You didn't borrow those words," Simran said. "You bled them."
Ruhi cried.
But she also promised herself:She would not stop writing.
Even if no one read her again.
📓 Beyond the Buzzer – Page 179
"They called my pain recycled.But they didn't feel the ache when I wrote it."
🇪🇸 Rudra's Fall — The Injury Before the Glory
In the final quarter of his biggest game in Spain, Rudra sprinted toward the basket.
One second he was mid-air.
The next —Agonizing pain tore through his ankle.
He collapsed.
Trainers rushed.The match paused.
Diagnosis: Grade II ligament tear.Minimum 6 weeks rest.No travel. No pressure. No games.
Back in his apartment, Rudra stared at the ceiling, ice pack taped to his leg, phone buzzing with messages of sympathy.
Except the one message he wanted.
He hadn't told Ruhi yet.
He didn't want her to worry — not now.
But silence was growing between them.And silence wasn't love.
💻 Simran's Proposal — Not Marriage, but Mission
Simran was approached by a Delhi-based NGO called VoiceVerse.
They wanted her to lead a national poetry workshop series for girls in rural India.
It paid little.It demanded time, travel, and sleepless nights.
But it meant something.
She sat with Aarav in their favorite café, stirring her cold coffee.
"I don't know if I'm ready," she said. "To teach others how to survive through words."
Aarav said nothing.
He took out a folded napkin, scribbled on it, and handed it to her.
It read:
"You don't teach survival.You become proof of it."
She held his hand across the table.
That was her yes.
🧓 Aarav and His Father — A Door Long Closed
That Sunday, Aarav stood outside a blue door in Patel Nagar.
He hadn't seen his father in nearly six years.
Not since the day he dropped out of school, threw away the IIT dream, and said he wanted to play basketball.
The door opened.
An older man, face wrinkled by disappointment more than age, stared at him.
"I'm not here for forgiveness," Aarav said. "I'm here to show you that I didn't waste my life. You just never waited to see it bloom."
The man didn't speak.
He stepped aside.
And Aarav walked in — not as a son desperate for approval.
But as a man whole without it.
✉️ A Letter Ruhi Never Sent
That night, Ruhi wrote Rudra a letter.
"You're far. I'm falling.You're quiet. I'm drowning.
But I believe in something bigger than this pain.I believe in us.
Even if the world forgets my name — you won't.
That's the only audience I ever needed."
She folded it.Didn't post it.
She just kept it under her pillow —next to his last letter.
📓 Beyond the Buzzer – Page 181
"Some storms come uninvited.But the people who stay through them —They are your forever."
💫 End of Chapter 36