Alright after a long wait and some really good opening reviews, here is my second chapter of this rib tickling story! Feel free to leave suggestions and comments! Love you all so much! Enjoy! N yeah Aditi, sorry for posting the abusive word, but you know how the Daya kid is portrayed in this story...obnoxious and swearing pre teen! Just like every other 13 year old! So, we can pretty much expect Daya to be the same in his childhood, TOTAL JUNGLYY! Anyways, I will shut up now!

OK, so technically, the thirteen year-old Daya Shetty had travelled forward in time, so to him, he found himself in a world filled with untold possibilities and no consequences. This explained why, once I'd gotten the saucepan off his foot with liberal amounts of butter and mustard oil, he was freely rooting through the other kitchen cupboards, helping himself to whatever food he found. Seeing as he tended to tear up dangerously whenever I tried to stop him, I'd given up with trying to stop him and was now mentally calculating how much I would owe Chirag in food for the next month (Sweta's large stock of nutritional diet bars and healthy fruit and vegetables were left completely untouched).

However, for me, the girl who was in-the-future-for-Daya-but-present-day-2012-for-me, a thirteen year-old Daya Shetty was the past. This meant that I had to make sure not to do anything that would alter or change him from the person he would eventually become for fear of thus negating my current existence and world I lived in.

Oh my God, what a headache. I reckon Einstein realised the nightmare he was causing himself when he said time travel was possible and so quickly made up some rubbish about it only being theoretical and not actually possible.

Daya had moved on from the cupboards and was currently exploring the recesses of the fridge. I eyed the empty packets of Brittania Cakes on the floor nervously; what on earth was I going to say to Chirag?! "Well, this cute little CID bacha suddenly showed up and started eating us out of house and home..."

"Beta, kitna khaoge?" I asked.

Daya's head poked out the fridge, a frozen noodle hanging half-out his mouth.

"Kay?" he asked.

"Oye baat mat kar jab muh me khana ho, samjha!?"

He grinned and stuffed handful of noodles into his mouth.

What a brat! Three minutes in my house and I was already seriously reconsidering my membership for Ration card. Once I'd gotten over the initial shock and disbelief of him being here, the fangirl in me suddenly went bezerk at the realisation that I had the future CID officer in my kitchen. Here he was, the same man who had rescued so many lives with his bravery, along with his entire team. The man who had always risked his life to save our country, the thought that had been the one thing to get me through a particularly miserable time in my life; the same man who had helped our government to operate in unique ways to keep us safe and live a fear free life. The same man who had turned me from an ordinary girl to a fan freak. And there he was, a weirdly-dressed, rude thirteen year-old who was scoffing his face and emptying my fridge.

Disappointed? Disillusioned? Me? Naah.

"Why'd he have to be so bloody normal?" I muttered, blowing my fringe out my eyes.

"Hey!" Daya suddenly cried triumphantly, emerging from the fridge with a bottle of beer. He looked at me with adorable, wide eyes. "Please? Pleeaasee?"

"NAKOO!" I said firmly, pulling the bottle out his hand – I knew enough Marathi for that! He tried to grab it back but I was too tall – and there was a weird thought if ever there was one. Me, in my 5ft7 glory, too tall for THE Daya...

I stuck my tongue out childishly and swung the beer over his head, just out of his reach. Daya folded his arms and gave me a furious glare that clearly said "Bache se panga, bacho ka khel nehi."

I opened the fridge again and chucked a Coke at him instead. He caught it – about three times – before it finally slipped through his fingers and hit the floor, rolling away under the depths of one of the counters. I chuckled and handed him another one; hey, I don't want my favourite coat getting sticky from a Coke explosion or grubby from scrounging about on the floor to find it – God knows when we last cleaned the kitchen! He glared at me again, as if I dared laugh at him, which only just made it all the more tempting to ruffle his curly hair, though I had a feeling he wouldn't be too applicative of it.

"Yeh beer mere dosto ke hai – I'm not allowed to drink them either," I explained, putting the beer back and grabbing myself a Coke as well. Technically speaking, the Coke also belonged to Chirag but hey, students are far more protective of their booze than their soft drinks.

Daya took a long slurp of Coke and then burped loudly, echoing through the house.

Wow. This was my CID officer.

I opened my Coke, took a large gulp and then burped even louder than Daya, finishing with a smirk. He looked genuinely impressed.

"Ab kya hoga tera?" I asked.

Daya responded with his usual quick fire-Marathi. I thought wistfully back to why I did not taken Marathi at school for one year when I was eleven; I'd spent every Sanskrit lesson laughing with my friends at the back of the class, playing criss cross and generally not paying attention, thinking I was never going to need any of the Indian language other than Hindi – I remember arrogantly saying to my teacher once "Why should I bother? Everyone speaks Hindi anyway and if they don't, they should!"

Hindsight was a bitch at times.

Daya suddenly darted out the kitchen.

"HEY!" I yelled, running after him. I had to do a quick jump to avoid Sweta's shoe collection, which was scattered hazardly in the hallway; I love her, I really do, but she drives me mad as she never puts her shoes away!

Daya hadn't gone far – in fact, from the kitchen, I could already see he'd only gone as far as into the room next door.

My bedroom.

My bedroom with a rather large poster of the CID team on the back of the door.

OHMYGODNOOO! Surely seeing a poster of yourself older in someone's room was a bit of a giveaway that some considerable success was coming your way in the future?!

"HEY!" I yelled again, bursting into my room after him and slamming the door against the wall, keeping the poster well and truly hidden. "Get out of here!"

Daya was already at my desk, shifting through the scattered papers and picking up every book on it; my desk was always a bit of an organised mess.

"He kaay ahe?" he suddenly asked, holding up one of my thicker text books.

"Kitab hai," I answered flatly. He wouldn't understand if I went into details.

"Film... the-rey... an... in-tro-duc-tion," he read slowly with a very thick accent and then looked up at me. "Film? Cinema?"

I nodded, assuming 'Cinema' was a simple definition for 'film'.

Daya looked at the cover again, his head cocked to one side. He made a little "huh!" noise, as if he'd seen something interesting, then carelessly chucked the book over his shoulder and turned back to going through my desk.

"Hey!" I said, catching it painfully – heavy book! Sharp edges! "yaar, dusro ki cheezo ko haath... NOO!"

It was too late; he'd already opened the top drawer in my desk. He looked in it, let out a tiny squeak and slammed it shut, turning around and heading for my bookcase instead. He was determinedly not looking at me but I could see his cheeks were bright red... probably the same colour as mine actually.

That was it, as soon as I found a way to send him through whatever time vortex or worm hole he had fallen through, I was quitting the CID fandom. There was no way in hell I could stay a fan of that department when the senior officer as a kid had seen inside my underwear drawer.

And this had probably traumatised him for life or something as well! Fantastic. Daya probably was not getting married and was going to come out and do this long interview which would start with "Well, jab me chota tha tab mene ek larki ke drawer me underwears dekhe the, isi wajah se main aj tak sirf ek cheez se dur bhagta hu, sorry do cheez, larki or shaadi..."

I, Sakshi Gupta, was responsible for giving Daya Shetty a life-long fear of women. CID fan-girls around the world, you can kill me now.

"Hey!"

I was half-scared to look at what he'd found now.

Oh man, I kept my napkin box on the shelf.

"What?" I said, painfully slowly turning to look at him. If I had to explain to him what they were, I was going to die.

The napkin box was –mercifully – untouched on the highest shelf, out of his reach and eye-line. What Daya was actually holding up was my car keys with a grin on his face that could only mean one thing.

"NO!" I said firmly. "No way in HELL! Bache gaari nehi chala sakte, or mere gaari ko to bilkul nehi, chahe tu koi bhi ho!"

"HO HO!" Daya said excitedly, nodding and grabbing my hand. He started trying to pull me towards the door, babbling away in Marathi eagerly (I hate kids).

"NOOOOO!"

Trying to reason with an over-excited thirteen year-old is difficult at the best of times. Trying to reason with an over-excited thirteen year-old who doesn't even speak the same language as you is just plain stupid. I had a sneaking suspicion that Daya was also deliberately choosing not to understand me. I mean, I knew a few basic words and phrases of Marathi. Surely Daya should have at least understood what "no" meant?!

"Hey Daya," I said, pulling my hand free. I looked around my room desperately for a distraction; my eyes fell on a football, discarded at the foot of my bed. It was Chirag's football actually.

Hmm... He likes to kick the doors don't he. He might just love to play the football too then.

"Yeh lo, khelo isse!"

I seized the white ball off the floor and handed it triumphantly to him.

Here's what I was hoping would happen:

I was hoping Daya's face would light up with joy, disbelief and happiness when he looked at the ball. This would keep him occupied for several hours when he decided he wanted to try out as many new ways of kicking it, and yes, it would be a wrench to have him kick the ball in my room since..its my room for heaven sakes and every single thing in here is so precious to me, even the plastic cups. (student, i.e. permanently poor, remember?) but as long as it kept Daya occupied for a bit, it would be a worthwhile sacrifice.

And I was not at all mentally wondering in an obsessed fangirl way where I was going to frame Chirag's football on the wall once Daya had played with it.

Here's what actually happened:

I forgot that Daya, for all his officer stunts, was not actually an officer yet. I also forgot that Daya was not the one who symbolized himself to be the kicker of the team. It is job not hobby.
And then he abruptly gave me a disgusted and somewhat bewildered look that clearly said "... the hell is this?"

I realised – far, far, far too late – my elementary error. I might as well have tried to shove him into reading Sherlock Holmes.

"Never mind," I said, grabbing the ball from his clutches. Daya still looked rather confused as he said something; I had a feeling it was probably something along the lines of questioning my mental health. "OK, so what else could we do?"

Here's what I hate about kids; turn your back on them for one second and they'll be doing something they shouldn't, whether it's sneaking their hand back in the cookie jar or shoving a fork in a plug socket.

Or, in this instance, making a break for the front door as I looked around the room for a suitable distraction.

"HEY!" I yelled (not for the first time that night. I hoped this wasn't becoming my catchphrase) and ran after him. He was already in the hallway with the front door unlatched. This was really starting to get old.

"DAYA IDHER AOO!" I snarled through gritted teeth, trying to sound scary.

Do you know how he responded?

He didn't quiver in fear and stop where he was, as I'd hoped. Instead, he laughed and jangled my car keys teasingly at me.

The little idiot was laughing at me.

"You are SO DEAD!" I yelled, running after him. "Mere car keys wapas –"

Daya yelled delightedly and disappeared out the front door. I ran after him –

"AHHH!"

The next thing I knew, I was lying painfully on the floor. I looked back at what I fallen over – a patent red, six-inch stiletto heel. Bloody Sweta and her shoes! I quickly scrambled to my feet, ignoring the stinging sensation on my hands and stumbled to the door, propping myself up against the doorframe as I looked out on my estate.

Daya was nowhere to be seen.

"Daya?!" I called out.

No reply.

"Shit!"