A Vow across the Borders

The next morning, the energy was different.

The living room had turned into a full-blown dance studio again, but this time… the chaos had found its rhythm.

Zain entered first in cartoon-dinosaur pajamas, already stretching. “Today, ladies and gentlemen, we don’t rehearse—we perform.”

“Someone got eight hours of sleep and a mango smoothie,” Noor muttered, tying her hair into a bun. Her pajamas had dancing pandas on them.

“Manifesting glory,” Zain said, pointing at the ceiling.

Murtasim arrived silently, his shawl still dramatically thrown over his shoulder, even in pajamas. He wasn’t smiling—but his eyes held determination. His steps were cleaner now. Sharper. He’d practiced alone the night before, and it showed.

Haya came bounding in, high ponytail bouncing, bunny slippers still on. “Okay. We’re going full Bollywood today. No mercy. No ‘oopsies’. Let’s get it!”

Numair high-fived her. He wore plain navy pajamas but moved like a backup dancer from a music video. Smooth, confident, and smug about it.

Nusrat slid into the room with a hair flip and socks that said ‘Drama Queen’. “Let’s make it look effortless.”

The speaker lit up, and the beat of Badtameez Dil echoed through the house again.

But this time… they owned it.

Zain rolled his body with ridiculous flair, popping his shoulders like a professional, his expression pure drama. He swayed his hips to the beat, tossed his arms, and smirked at his own reflection in the mirror.

Noor let her body flow effortlessly, every step crisp, every movement exaggerated with style. She twirled, dipped, and matched Haya’s steps beat-for-beat, their pajama pants swishing like skirts.

Numair lifted Haya during a lift move, spinning her mid-air as she burst into laughter, and she landed on her feet with a spin.

Even Murtasim—yes, Murtasim—had loosened up. His steps now had precision. His hips swayed in time with the beat. His arms followed the rhythm, shoulders rolling, and for once he didn’t look murderous.

He looked… good.

“I’m sorry but who is this man?” Zain gasped, pausing mid-move to point at Murtasim. “And what has he done with our grumpy Surpanch?”

Murtasim shot him a side-eye but didn’t stop dancing.

Nusrat and Noor moved side by side, their choreography perfectly in sync, hands flowing, legs stepping to the exact rhythm of Cutiepie.

It was magnetic.

Every sway of the hips, every roll of the shoulders, every jump and glide—they nailed it. Pajamas or not, it looked like a professional set.

They danced as if the living room wasn’t filled with mismatched pajamas, tangled hair, and snacks on the side table. They danced like it was the sangeet stage itself.

The last beat hit. Final poses struck. Panting. Laughing. Sprawled on the floor.

Silence.

Then—Zain clapped. “WE’RE STARS!”

“We’re chaos,” Haya corrected, giggling.

“No, we’re chaos with rhythm,” Noor said, high-fiving Nusrat.

Even Murtasim cracked the tiniest of smiles. “I still hate thumkas,” he muttered.

But no one believed him.

The laughter echoed louder than the music ever had.