Six years passed like whispered secrets, slipping through the cracks of time.

Noor and Veer had changed, yet somehow, they remained the same. 

Their world was different.

Tucked away in the quiet corners of Amritsar's grand old library, Noor and Veer built a universe of their own, one where names, nations, and rules did not matter. Only stories did. Only friendship did.

Years had passed since their first meeting, and yet, they were still the same in all the ways that counted. Noor still stormed into the library like she owned it, dragging Veer away from his books with her endless questions. Veer still sighed and followed, pretending he wasn't enjoying every moment of it.

But outside their world, the real one had started to change.

The British tightened their grip on India. People whispered in hushed voices about rebellion. Protests erupted, only to be crushed under the weight of rifles and punishments. Noor had seen it...seen men dragged away, their voices swallowed by the growing shadow of British rule. She had heard Baba speaking in low tones to other men, talking of something big, something dangerous. She didn't understand it fully, not yet, but she knew one thing, hatred for the British ran deep in her people's blood.

And yet, here she was, sitting cross-legged beside Veer, laughing as he struggled to teach her English.

"Say it again," Veer said, holding back a grin.

Noor frowned. "The cat... is sitting... on the... thabel."

Veer snorted. "Table, Noor. Not thabel."

She huffed. "Bakwaas! Yeh angrezi bilkul ulti hai!"

Veer leaned back against the bookshelf. "Toh mat seekho."

Noor narrowed her eyes. "Seekhungi! Par apni tarah!" She grinned mischievously and tried again. "The cat is sitting on the mej!"

Veer groaned, shaking his head. "Uff! Ab kya bol rahi ho?!"

Noor burst into laughter, throwing her head back. "Mej bhi toh table hi hota hai, Veer!"

He stared at her for a moment before laughing along. "Tumse toh baat hi bekaar hai!"

Their laughter echoed through the library, but their world—this little world of theirs—was never meant to last.

Noor was still the storm, wild, relentless, full of laughter and mischief. And Veer... Veer was the quiet river, steady, patient, always letting her pull him along.

During that time, the British had partitioned Bengal, and the swadeshi movement was at its peak- a protest to oppose the partition of Bengal.

They met in the library almost every day, their childhood games turning into whispered conversations, books exchanged like hidden treasures. Noor still stumbled over English words, but Veer since had taken it upon himself to teach her, sometimes patiently, sometimes with exaggerated sighs when she messed up.

"Say it again," Veer said, pointing at the book in front of her.

Noor squinted. "The... cat... runned—"

"Ran," Veer corrected, shaking his head. "Runned nahi hota."

Noor groaned. "Par Hindi mein toh sab simple hai! Tumhare Angrezi wale rules bohot ajeeb hain!"

Veer smirked. "Nahi, tum ajeeb ho."

She smacked his arm, making him laugh.

The sun hung lazily in the sky, drenching the dusty lanes of Amritsar in its golden glow. The streets bustled with the chatter of vendors and the clatter of horse-drawn carts. The air smelled of fresh jalebis, sizzling in a wok nearby, mingling with the distant scent of damp earth.

Near the back of an old haveli, hidden behind sacks of grain, two figures sat hunched over a piece of parchment.

"Again," Veer instructed, tapping the page.

Noor huffed, narrowing her eyes at the carefully scrawled letters. She pursed her lips and tried again. "The... sky... is... bloo?"

"Blue," Veer corrected, emphasizing the "u" sound.

"Bloo," Noor mimicked stubbornly.

Veer sighed dramatically. "Nahi, Noor. Blue. Say it properly."

"Arre toh main kya keh rahi hoon? Bloo hi toh!"

Veer groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Tumse nahi hoga!"

Noor shot him a glare. "Mujhse sab kuch ho sakta hai!" She crossed her arms. "Agar itna easy hai toh Hindi bolo."

Veer straightened. "Main Hindi bolta hoon."

Noor smirked. "Accha? Toh bolo... 'main pagal hoon.'"

Veer frowned. "pagal, kya hota h?."

"pagal matalb tum, I mean pagal ka matalb h pyara, good" Noor said, barely hiding her laughter.

Arthur sighed. "Main... pa-pagal  hoon."

Noor burst into giggles, clutching her stomach as she doubled over. "Haan! Bilkul ekdum shi kaha! par tum hindi bhi englis awaz me bolte ho!"

Arthur rolled his eyes "english hota h Noor, aur englis, I mean english awaz kya hoti h."

"Tum nhi samjhoge veer"

"Haan nhi samjhuga, tumhe english seekhni h par aaj bhi mera naam nhi bolna seekhna chahti ho... pata h England me ye naam kitna common h!"

"Co-com-common matlab?" Noor questioned

"Matlab ki kafi logo ka yahi naam hota h"

"Haan par ye humara Bharat h tumhara Englis land nhi"

"England noor" Arthur giggled.

***

One evening, Noor dragged Veer to the market, her eyes bright with excitement. The air was thick with the scent of roasted peanuts and cardamom, the chatter of shopkeepers filling the narrow streets.

Noor stopped abruptly in front of a small stall, her gaze fixed on something shining in the vendor's hands.

A waist chain—delicate silver, with tiny bells hanging from it.

"Meri Ammi pehenti hain aise," Noor murmured, almost to herself. She reached out but didn't touch it, as if afraid it would disappear. "Baba kehate hain, jab bhi Ammi hasti hain, iska awaaz bajta hai."

Arthur stood curious watching Noor speak about her mother with such excitement, he had never felt that for his mother...

"Maa ne batya tha ki unhe voh Baba ne gift kari thi jab unki shaadi hui thi" 

"Tum bhi ek khareed lo" he said simply.

Noor pouted. " Esse toh Maa saree ke saath pehenti h jo mai toh nhi pehnti upar se mere paas paisa nahi hai."

Veer shrugged. "Toh chalo, paisa kamao."

Noor gasped dramatically. "Mujhe mazdoori karwaoge?"

Veer frowned, "Ma-maz-mazdoo kya hota h? kya kya bolti rehti ho tum!"

"Mazdoori veer, matlab are voh jo kaam krete h, jo sir pr pathaakr leke jaate h ghar banane ke liye"

Veer smirked. "Haan, phir toh tumse ye sab karauga. Tumhari English bilkul bekaar hai. Pehle woh sudharo, phir yeh lo."

Noor crossed her arms. "haww tum kitne nirday ho Veer. "

"Ab ye kya hota h!! mujhe toh tumhari baatien samajh hi nhi aati hai" 

"Haan mujhe bhi esa hi lgta h jab tum beech beech me pta nhi konse angrezi sabdh bolne lagte ho!"

Veer chuckled but his smile quickly faded.

Tum dono yahan kya kar rahe ho?!"

Noor flinched. Veer stiffened beside her.

They turned to see the shopkeeper, a stocky man with a thick mustache—glowering at them. His eyes weren't just filled with annoyance. There was something else. Something sharp.

Disapproval.

Fear.

"Chupke se dekhai kar rahe ho? Kya chahiye?" the man barked. But his gaze wasn't on Noor. It was on Veer.

Veer, who had instantly straightened, who was now standing stiff and awkward like he always did when people looked at him that way.

Noor huffed, placing her hands on her hips. "Haan, dekhne ka paisa toh nahi lagta na?"

Veer shot her a look. Bas, ab yeh pakka daant khayegi.

The shopkeeper's face darkened. "Zyada zubaan mat lada, ladki," he snapped, then his gaze flickered back to Veer. His lips curled.

"Aur tu... tujhe yahan aane kisne diya?"

Noor's stomach dropped.

Veer's fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing. Noor could feel the tension radiating from him.

The shopkeeper sneered, shaking his head. "Yeh angrez ke bachche yahan dosti karne aaye hain? Tu bhi samajhdar hoti toh inse door rehti."

Noor's blood boiled.

Angrez ke bachche. Jaise Veer koi bimaari ho. Jaise Noor se dosti karna gunaah ho.

"Aapko kya masla hai?" Noor snapped. "Dosti karne ki anumati nahi hai kya?"

The man's expression twisted. "Tum samajhti nahi ho, ladki. Yeh log humare dushman hain. Kal ko yeh bade ho jaayenge, toh humare upar hi hukumat karenge. Inse door raho."

Noor's heart pounded. The words stung,not because she believed them, but because they weren't new.

She had heard them before.

From her mother. From her father. From the people in the bazaar who lowered their voices when a British officer passed.

But Veer...

Veer was just Veer.

She turned to him instinctively, hoping he'd argue back, but he didn't. His face was blank, unreadable. His knuckles were white. He had heard this before too.

And this time, instead of answering, he just grabbed Noor's wrist.

"Chalo."

His voice was quiet. But firm.

Noor hesitated. For the first time, she wanted to argue... not with the shopkeeper, but with Veer. She wanted him to fight back, to say something, anything. But he just shook his head.

The shopkeeper was still watching them. Noor felt an odd, twisting sensation in her chest. She hated this. She hated that Veer always had to walk away.

But she let him pull her along.

They weaved through the crowded market, dodging carts and baskets of fresh vegetables, until they finally reached a quieter alleyway. Only then did Veer let go of her hand.

Noor, still fuming, turned to him. "Tumne kuch bola kyun nahi?"

Veer exhaled sharply. "Kya bolta, Noor?"

"Tumhe kuch kehna chahiye tha! Unhone tumse aise kyun—"

Veer's eyes flashed. "Kyunki woh galat nahi keh rahe the, hai na?"

Noor fell silent.

His voice was steady, but there was something tight in it, something restrained. "Mujhe pata hai ki log kya sochte hain, Noor. Ki main bhi un jaisa hoon. Par main... main un jaisa nahi hoon."

Noor saw the way his hands trembled, the way he clenched them into fists to stop it.

She softened.

She reached out, tugging at his sleeve. "Mujhe pata hai."

Veer didn't respond immediately. He was staring at the ground, his lips pressed together in a firm line.

Finally, in a quiet voice, he murmured, "Par baaki logon ko nahi pata."

Noor stepped in front of him, arms crossed. "Toh kya? Kya main un logon ki sunu? Ya phir jo main jaanti hoon, uspar bharosa karu?"

Veer finally looked at her. She grinned. "Tu chahe Angrez ho, magar dosti nibhaana jaanta hai. Toh bas, mere liye tu Veer hai. Baaki duniya jaaye bhaad mein."

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Veer let out a small chuckle. It wasn't his usual laugh, not the carefree one Noor loved, but it was something.

Noor nudged his arm. "Waise bhi, tu bina bole bhaag kyun raha tha? Dar gaya tha kya?"

Veer rolled his eyes. "Nahi."

Noor raised an eyebrow. "Sach?"

Veer hesitated. Then, finally, he sighed, shaking his head.

"Thoda sa."

Noor burst out laughing, looping her arm through his as they started walking again. "Daro mat Noor haina tumhare saath, Mai kissi sherni se kam nhi hu ab toh pure gyarah (11) saal hi hogyi hu mai! kya bolte ho tum esse englis me?"

"Eleven" 

"haan dekho kiti badi hu main"

"Mai bhi thirteen years ka hu"

"voh kitna hota h?"

" one aur three"

"acha terahh!"

"mera?"

"tera nhi terah"

"kya bolri ho tum!"

"chhodo veer, tumhe ese nhi smjh ayega likhkr batana padega

***

The evening air in the Brown household was heavy with the scent of burning wood and damp paper. Inside the grand study, Arthur sat stiffly on a wooden chair, his small fingers gripping the edge of the armrest. Across from him, his father, Colonel Edward Brown, leaned back in his seat, swirling a glass of whiskey as he regarded his son with an unreadable expression.

"You are growing up, Arthur," his father began, his voice measured, careful. "It's time you started learning what it means to be a Brown... and a true Englishman."

Arthur swallowed. He had heard this tone before, the one that meant a serious conversation was about to unfold.

His father placed the glass down with a quiet clink and folded his hands over the desk. "You spend too much time running around, reading nonsense in libraries. It's time you learned real things. Things that matter."

Arthur hesitated before asking, "What kind of things, Father?"

Edward Brown studied him for a moment before answering. "Your duties. Your heritage. Our empire rules these lands, but power is not given... it is taken, maintained, and if necessary, enforced." His eyes sharpened. "That is why you must learn discipline. History. The art of war."

Arthur's hands clenched at his sides. "War?"

"Yes," his father said with finality. "You will start training next week. Mr. Thompson will teach you how to handle a rifle. It is essential for every Englishman of good breeding to know how to protect what is his."

Arthur's stomach twisted. A rifle? He had seen British soldiers train with them, loud, powerful, deadly. "I—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I don't think I need to learn that yet."

Edward's jaw tightened. "It is not about what you think, Arthur. It is about what is necessary. The sooner you understand that, the better."

Arthur looked away, staring at the flickering candle on the desk.

His father sighed, rubbing his temple. "And another thing."

Arthur tensed.

"I do not want to hear of you going to the Indian markets again."

Arthur's head snapped up.

"You may go to the library if you must," Edward continued, his voice growing colder, "but you will not roam those streets. They are not for you."

Arthur's heart pounded. "But—"

"No buts," his father cut him off sharply. "You do not belong among them. You are an Englishman. It is beneath you to associate with natives."

Arthur flinched.

His father's eyes bore into him. "They are not like us, Arthur. Their place is to serve, not to be our equals. You would do well to remember that."

Arthur said nothing. His mind buzzed with unspoken protests, but he knew better than to voice them.

His father's voice softened, just a little. "One day, you will understand. But until then, I expect you to listen."

Arthur nodded, but his chest felt tight.

His father leaned back, satisfied. "Good. Now go."

Arthur stood up and left the study, his heart hammering against his ribs.

As he stepped into the corridor, he let out a slow breath, his father's words ringing in his ears.

Stay away from the markets.
Stay away from Indians.

But even as he walked toward his room, he knew one thing for certain.

He wouldn't.