Hearing her mention the golf course, Rahul asked cautiously:
"Is your father at the cantonment right now?"
Anjali shook her head. "No, he's not here today. Why, are you afraid of meeting him?"
It wasn't exactly fear, but meeting the father—especially a high-ranking military officer—right after meeting the daughter always felt incredibly awkward.
However, Rahul didn't say that out loud. He just gave a vague, polite excuse:
"It's not that. I don't even know how to hold a golf club anyway. I just really need to get to the slum area to grab some footage for the vlog."
"Alright then! I'll skip practice today. Let me be your official tour guide!"
As she said that, Anjali naturally reached out and took Rahul's hand. Her grip was firm and confident, making the gesture feel completely natural.
Rahul found himself feeling highly amused. It felt like their gender roles had completely reversed, and he was the delicate tourist being protected by the local VIP.
Since he was already here and the slum was practically next door, he decided not to overthink it. He would just get his shots and leave.
Rahul followed Anjali, taking a sharp turn down the alley, officially crossing the threshold into the heart of the Dhaka slums.
An overwhelming, heavy stench immediately hit Rahul's nostrils.
Garbage was piled everywhere. Cramped, sweltering tin-roofed shanties were stacked haphazardly on top of each other, leaning precariously over narrow dirt paths without any planning or infrastructure.
Walking through the maze, Rahul couldn't help but think: If I had to live here, my mental health would completely shatter on day one.
It was just an environment of pure, crushing hopelessness.
But he was a travel vlogger, not a social worker. His job was to document reality. Audiences back home loved seeing these gritty, unpolished realities. Compared to the curated aesthetic videos of clean beaches, raw footage like this naturally pulled massive traffic.
Holding his camera steady, Rahul pointed the lens at the dense, chaotic surroundings.
As they walked, Anjali acted as a surprisingly knowledgeable guide, introducing Rahul to the history of the area and explaining how the different slum communities functioned.
During their conversation, Rahul noticed the deep, genuine empathy in Anjali's voice when she spoke about the people living there.
Compared to Samina, who completely lived in a bubble of extreme wealth and luxury, Anjali, despite her military background, seemed to have a much stronger sense of social awareness and compassion.
As they navigated the dirt paths, the slum residents suddenly noticed a well-dressed, incredibly handsome foreigner walking through their territory. A crowd quickly started to gather, staring at him like he was a rare exhibit.
A few rough-looking young men spotted the expensive DJI camera in Rahul's hand, and a dangerous glimmer of greed flashed in their eyes.
But the absolute second they recognized Anjali holding Rahul's hand, that greed evaporated instantly.
It was replaced by sheer, undeniable fear. They immediately backed away into the shadows.
Class divisions in Bangladesh were severe, creating a massive chasm between the ultra-rich and the poor. But beyond just wealth, the military held absolute, unquestionable power here. Nobody with half a brain would dare cross a military family.
While the thugs had backed off, the local girls and younger women who were drawn to Rahul's flawless looks continued to crowd around him.
The circle was getting tighter, and more people were rushing over from the neighboring alleys to get a look.
Rahul realized things were getting out of hand. If a stampede broke out in these narrow lanes, it would be a disaster.
"Anjali, let's get out of here. I've got enough footage."
Hearing the urgency in his voice, Anjali tightened her grip on his hand, pushed her way through the growing crowd with surprising authority, and quickly led him out of the slum area.
As they jogged back toward the main road, Anjali suddenly burst into a fit of bright, infectious laughter.
Once they were safely back in a relatively empty commercial street, Rahul stopped, panting slightly.
"Anjali, what is so funny? We were almost crushed!"
Anjali looked at him, her large eyes sparkling with amusement. "I was just thinking! That whole scene of us running away from the crowd holding hands... it was exactly like a scene from a Korean drama I watched!"
Rahul groaned internally. "Anjali, please. Do me a huge favor and start watching some classic Bollywood movies."
"Trust me," he said with a confident smirk, "our heroes are way cooler than K-Drama leads!"
Anjali's eyes widened with curiosity.
"Really?"
"Are the Bollywood heroes as handsome as you?"
Rahul puffed his chest out slightly, putting on a mock-serious expression. "Oh, definitely not. I'm at least ten times more handsome than all of them combined."
His deadpan delivery made Anjali burst into a fit of giggles.
After her laughter subsided, she looked up at Rahul, her expression turning slightly serious and hesitant.
"Rahul... do you have a girlfriend?"
The moment the words left her mouth, a deep blush rushed to her cheeks. She immediately dropped her gaze, staring intensely at the tips of her shoes.
"No," Rahul answered truthfully, keeping his tone casual. "I actually just went through a breakup right before I booked my ticket to Bangladesh."
Hearing this, Anjali's head snapped up. She stared at his perfect features, her face a picture of pure disbelief.
"How is that even possible?!"
"You look like... well, you! Why would anyone ever break up with you?"
"Was it because you didn't love her anymore?" she asked softly.
Rahul shook his head with a wry smile. "No, it's... complicated. It's not something I can explain in five minutes."
"Trust me, relationships in the real world require a lot more than just a handsome face to survive."
Anjali's curiosity about Rahul's past relationship was deeply piqued. But far stronger than her curiosity was a sudden, intense wave of joy rising in her chest.
He doesn't have a girlfriend! Does that mean... I actually have a chance?
Feeling a sudden burst of courage, Anjali tried to channel the smooth, confident energy she had seen in her dramas. She looked up at him with a bright smile.
"Rahul, let's go get some coffee! I know a café nearby that is super aesthetic. You can film it and add it to your vlog!"
Hearing the words 'aesthetic café,' Rahul's brain had an immediate stress response.
He had traumatic flashbacks to Ananya's endless demands, the hours of taking Instagram photos, and the overpriced, tasteless food. A deeply pained expression flickered across his face.
Noticing his sudden discomfort, Anjali panicked slightly, instantly reconsidering her suggestion.
"Oh... do you not like coffee?" she asked gently. "Actually, it's past lunchtime. You must be starving after walking around the slums, right?"
"Let's go get some proper food first!"
Rahul relaxed, letting out a relieved sigh. "It's not that I hate coffee, Anjali. I just really dislike places that are all about showing off and 'putting on an act' for social media."
He tapped his camera against his leg, a helpless smile on his face. "But also, like I told you earlier, I don't have a single rupee on me."
"My wallet was stolen right outside the airport arrivals." He spread his hands out in defeat.
Hearing this, Anjali's entire demeanor shifted. The shy, giggly girl vanished, replaced by an expression of sharp, serious anger.
"Your wallet was stolen?! Where? Did you go to the police station?"
Rahul nodded. "Yeah, I did. But yesterday the SHO told me it would take at least two days to track down the pickpockets."
Anjali clenched her fists. A fierce, intimidating glint appeared in her dark eyes.
In that split second, Rahul truly saw the commanding aura of a military VIP's daughter. The soft, girl-next-door vibe was completely gone.
"It's fine. I am taking you to eat first," Anjali declared, her voice firm. "And the second we are done eating, I am personally marching you back to that police station!"
Without waiting for his response, Anjali grabbed his hand again and marched him toward a clean, traditional Bangladeshi restaurant across the street.
The restaurant specialized in authentic local cuisine.
Anjali sat him down and quickly ordered two plates of their famous Mutton Kacchi Biryani and two bottles of ice-cold Coke from the waiter.
While they were waiting for the food to arrive, Anjali suddenly stood up. "Rahul, wait right here. I need to step out for just a minute."
Rahul nodded, pulling out his camera to review the gritty slum footage he had captured earlier.
Ten minutes passed. The waiter arrived, placing two steaming, fragrant plates of Mutton Biryani on the table. But Anjali still hadn't returned.
Rahul stared at the delicious food, a bit hesitant.
He knew it was traditional to eat biryani with his hands, but after walking through the slums all morning, he felt incredibly unhygienic digging into his food without washing up properly first.
And where is Anjali? he thought nervously. If she doesn't come back, I'm going to have to wash dishes in the back to pay for this!
Just as panic started creeping in, Anjali's figure appeared in the restaurant doorway.
She looked a bit flushed, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, but a bright, triumphant smile lit up her face.
She walked up to Rahul's side, holding her hands behind her back.
With a proud grin, she pulled her hands forward. She was holding a clean pair of steel forks and spoons.