Just then, Babita ji descended the stairs in a yellow saree, carrying a steel container. "Good morning, Jetha ji. Tarak ji. What's the secret meeting about?"
Time stopped. Even the parrot in the cage looked away.
Mehta nodded gravely. "Very important water. Round water. Wet water."
"You have?"
Mehta raised an eyebrow. "Poetry? Last time you tried, you said, 'Your smile is like a bhindi fry — crisp and unforgettable.' Babita ji laughed for an hour."
Jethalal froze. The jalebis slipped. Babita caught the box mid-air with one hand, her bangles chiming.
Mehta shook his head, laughing. "Jetha, that's not logic."
"No. It's about… feelings." He clutched the railing. "You know, in our society, everyone thinks I'm just a businessman. But inside, I'm a poet. A romantic fool."
"Jalebis?" she smiled. "For me?"
"So?" Mehta asked.
From the balcony above, Babita ji waved — just slightly, just enough. And in Gokuldham, that was more romantic than a thousand novels. Love doesn't need grand gestures. Sometimes, it just needs a little syrup, a steady balcony, and the courage to say what's in your heart — even if you say it badly.
"For… the society," Jethalal stammered. "Breakfast meeting. Important. About the water tank."
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.
"This time it's professional," Jethalal insisted, pulling out a crumpled paper. "I've written: 'In the kitchen of my heart, you are the gas cylinder — without you, no flame.' "