The corporate training center was buzzing with energy, a rare kind of chaos that came with celebration. Halfway through the grueling six-month training program, the organizers had decided to give the trainees a break—a small fest, filled with snacks, lights, impromptu games, and casual performances. It wasn’t formal, no banners or speeches. Just music, laughter, and random people being shoved onto stage by their new-found friends.
People clapped wildly as a tall boy in HR did a surprisingly graceful Bhangra. Someone else sang Kesariya off-key but with full heart. Then came the next name.
"Ira Rathore!"
A short silence. Then cheers erupted, mostly from the boys.
"Oye bro, go show them your moves!"9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlxmuzndywq
"Come on Rathore, don't act shy now!"9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2GAvUVHfkx
"Ek solo toh banta hai!" (One solo is necessary bro.)
Ira, sitting cross-legged near the corner of the room, blinked. She wore a slate grey hoodie—not cropped, not oversized, just enough to sit right—and a pair of slightly faded jeans. Her hair was tied in its usual loose ponytail, a few strands escaping over her face. She had always blended in—not because she wasn’t striking, but because she moved like one of them. The boys called her Rathore bhai. She was cool, sharp, and untouchable.
But now all eyes were on her.
She stood slowly, her face unreadable. "Do I really have to?" she asked, looking toward the faculty in mock protest.
"Yes, Ms. Rathore," someone grinned from the organizing team. "Everyone dances or sings. It's law tonight."
Ira exhaled, slow and deep. “Fine.” She walked toward the center with an odd calmness, like someone stepping into water to test its temperature.
The music changed. A slow table began to beat. Then the tanpura. A haunting melody. “Mohe Rang Do Laal.”
People stilled.
The hoodie dropped. Underneath, a simple black fitted top. And then her hair—she untied it. In a single flip, it cascaded down, dark and fluid. She stood barefoot now on the temporary wooden stage, her eyes closed, hands forming a perfect mudra.
And then—she danced.
Not the reckless kind of dancing parties demanded. But trained, precise, and devastatingly elegant. Her arms moved in arcs; fingers poised like they belonged in temple sculptures. She spun once—twice—then dropped into a soft contemporary flow, her body swaying like it was part of the song itself.
Her expressions shifted with every note—soft devotion, fierce pride, then serenity. The music built and so did her presence.
At exactly two minutes, the track faded out. She stopped, steady as stone, breathing quiet but heavy. Her hair fell over one eye as she glanced at the stunned crowd.
Silence.
Then—
“Holy sh*t.”9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡolN5WSEF3V
“Bro… that’s not bro.”9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi0ddyMjEqm
“That’s not Rathore bhai anymore…” (Bhai - brother)9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh1FQ0fzCgD
“She just danced into my heart, man.”
Someone dropped their juice box. Another accidentally knocked over a stool.
Ira walked off stage casually, like nothing had changed. But it had.
That night, a silent line was drawn. And every boy who once called her “bro” suddenly didn’t know what to call her anymore.
Because Ira Rathore had just flipped more than her hair.9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCDR9doOfdZ
She flipped the entire room’s heartbeat.
