Ab misha and ishki ka finally Masters complete hogya and finally dono ne rajveer ke guidance ke help se apna ugc net jrf and gate exam ko bhut ache rank ke saath qualify krliya hai..... Now we'll see their PhD journey.......

The sandstone arches of Banaras Hindu University’s Sociology Department were bathed in the mellow afternoon sun, the air thick with a mix of excitement and tension. The department noticeboard had been updated just that morning — the final list of PhD Sociology admissions for the session. Students clustered around it in groups, pointing, whispering, snapping photos.

Two names, written in bold, seemed to gleam more than the others:

1. Ishika Singh — JRF Awardee, All India Rank: 4
2. Misha Singhania — JRF Awardee, All India Rank: 11

Misha let out a whistle, her arm instantly looping around Ishki’s shoulders.
“Madam Topper,” she teased, her voice bright with pride, “look at you. Still first. Still perfect. And now officially Dr.-in-the-making.”

Ishki smiled shyly, adjusting the strap of her bag. She’d been at the top before — in school, in her Bachelor’s, in her Master’s — but this time, it felt different. Bigger. Scarier. Because PhD wasn’t just a course. It was a commitment of years, a deep dive into research that could either crown her with glory or crush her under its weight.

And there was another reason for her racing heart — one that had nothing to do with academics.
Her PhD advisor was going to be her husband.

Counseling Day

The following week, they were seated in the Department’s wood-paneled seminar hall for counseling. Professors sat at the front, papers in hand, calling each candidate in alphabetical order.

Rajveer Singhania was at the far end of the table — crisp white shirt, black waistcoat, hair perfectly in place. His expression was unreadable, his posture commanding. He glanced up briefly as Ishki entered, his eyes locking with hers for the barest second.

No smile. No nod.
Nothing to betray that just last night, in the privacy of their Singhania Mansion bedroom, he had kissed her until she’d been breathless, murmuring in that dark, velvet tone, “My scholar, my wife. Tomorrow, when you sit in front of me, you will be only my student. But tonight… you’re mine.”

In front of the other faculty, his voice was all business.
“Miss. Ishki Singh,” he said, his pen tapping lightly against her file. “Your research proposal on ‘Digital Labour in Urban Informal Economies’ is promising. You’ve cleared NET-JRF and GATE. You’ll be allotted to my supervision, if you agree.”

The “if you agree” was pure formality. They both knew she already belonged to him — academically, emotionally, and in every other way.

“I… agree, sir,” she replied softly, lowering her eyes.

If anyone noticed the flicker of something dangerous in Rajveer’s gaze, they didn’t comment.

Document Submission

The next days blurred into a rush of paperwork — certificates, mark sheets, ID proofs, research plans. Misha was her whirlwind companion, darting from office to office with energy that Ishki could only envy.

In the Registrar’s Office, Misha nudged her when Rajveer’s name appeared on the supervisor list. “You lucky thing. Half the girls in the department would kill to have him as an advisor. And you… well, you’ve got him 24/7.” She smirked knowingly.

Ishki’s cheeks flamed, but she stayed silent. Only Misha knew the truth — that those late-night “study discussions” were often anything but innocent, and that Rajveer’s guidance came with an intensity that made her shiver for reasons that had nothing to do with academic rigor.

The Interview

Though they had already been selected, the department still held formal orientation interviews to assess research readiness. Ishki sat across from a panel of professors — including Rajveer — answering questions about methodology, theoretical frameworks, and fieldwork ethics.

Rajveer’s voice, when he questioned her, was neutral, precise.
“And how do you plan to address the ethical implications of studying informal labourers in urban settings?”

Her answer was clear, well-prepared — but her pulse raced at the way his eyes held hers for a fraction longer than necessary, the silent conversation beneath the academic one.

You are mine.
Yes… sir.

Life at the Singhania Mansion

At home, the energy was different. The Singhania Mansion was vast, its high ceilings and sprawling gardens a world away from the crowded BHU campus. Here, Rajveer was not “Professor Singhania” — he was her husband, her anchor, her storm.

Misha’s presence kept them careful during the day — but nights were their own. Rajveer would return from his study, papers still in hand, and find her at the desk in their room, scribbling notes for her coursework.

“Still at it?” he’d murmur, stepping behind her, his hands sliding down her arms. “Do you know how distracting you look when you’re this focused?”

Sometimes, he’d quiz her on theory and methods, his questions as sharp as in the classroom. But when she answered correctly, the reward was not just verbal praise — it was his lips at her ear, his breath warm, his voice dark.

It was a different kind of education — one no university curriculum could list.

The First Day of PhD Coursework

The first semester of their PhD was an odd mix of freedom and discipline. Unlike Master’s classes, the sessions were fewer, but heavier — Research Methods, Sociological Theory in the 21st Century, Advanced Data Analysis.

The PhD research scholars sat in a smaller seminar room, their numbers fewer but their egos sharper. Every student here was a topper somewhere, a gold medalist, a JRF awardee. Competition crackled in the air like static.

Misha, ever the lively one, leaned across to Ishki during the introductions.
“Half of them are sizing you up already,” she whispered. “The ‘Topper Girl’ reputation follows you like perfume.”

Before Ishki could reply, the door opened, and the room stilled.
Rajveer entered.

He didn’t rush. He never rushed. The sound of his footsteps alone was enough to straighten postures. His eyes swept over the room — lingering for an extra breath when they landed on her.

“Good morning, research scholars,” he began, placing his leather folder on the desk. “I expect rigor. I expect independence. And I expect you to know that in this room, titles and rankings matter less than your ability to produce meaningful research. If you want hand-holding… go back to your Master’s.”

There was a soft ripple of laughter, but Ishki kept her gaze low. She knew better than anyone — Rajveer’s idea of “hand-holding” in public was non-existent. But in private…

Library Hours

The BHU Central Library became their second home. Misha often sat with her, the two of them buried under piles of books — Bourdieu, Foucault, Saskia Sassen.

But when Misha stepped away to fetch a reference text, Rajveer sometimes appeared, his tall frame blocking the light.
“Show me your notes,” he’d say, voice low but firm.

She’d pass her notebook, her fingers brushing his. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a shiver through her.

“You’re over-citing secondary sources,” he murmured, leaning close enough that only she could hear. “I told you — go to the field, collect your own data. Don’t be lazy, Mrs. Singhania.”

Her breath caught. That name — spoken in a place where no one else could hear — felt like a kiss in itself.

The Department Corridor Incident

It happened one humid afternoon after a research seminar. The corridors were almost empty. Ishki was carrying a pile of articles when Rajveer’s voice called from behind.
“Stay back a minute.”

She obeyed, waiting until the last student turned the corner.

He stepped closer, his eyes sweeping over her face. “You’ve been avoiding eye contact all day,” he said, his tone deceptively calm.

“I… I didn’t want people to—”

“To what?” He cut in, leaning so close she felt the faintest brush of his breath. “To notice that my eyes follow you? That every time you speak in class, I imagine exactly how your lips felt last night?”

Her knees almost buckled.

A sudden sound — footsteps — broke the moment, and he stepped back smoothly, his expression once again unreadable. But as he passed her, his hand briefly, deliberately brushed against hers, a silent promise of the night to come.

Nights at the Mansion

Home was different. Home was where the masks fell away.

After dinner, when Misha retreated to her room, Ishki would be in their shared study, working through her data analysis. Rajveer would enter without a word, standing behind her chair, scanning her screen.

“Your regression model is off,” he’d murmur, one hand on her shoulder, the other guiding her mouse. “Here… like this.”

But the academic guidance always bled into something else — his fingertips tracing her collarbone, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear.

Sometimes, he would quiz her on theory while kissing her, as if testing whether she could still think clearly under pressure. And when she answered correctly, the reward was as intoxicating as it was dangerous.

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😍😘 aaj keliye bs itna hi..... To be continued tomorrow..... Hope you like it...... Pardon my mistake..... Till then keep loving and supporting me and my stories......😘😍

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