Chapter 1: Mumbai After Midnight

Rohan broke up with me all of a sudden, and not long after, married a junior from our college.

His decision hit like one of those sudden Mumbai monsoon downpours—unexpected, drenching me before I could even find cover. My heart, which had once danced to the rhythm of our endless phone calls and our shared jokes over roadside chai, suddenly felt hollow, like the emptiness after Diwali lights go out. The sound of distant traffic, the hum of the ceiling fan, even the chaiwala’s bell outside—all seemed to echo the silence he left behind.

Now, I’m almost thirty, still facing one rejection after another on arranged dates.

Each new rishta felt like another round of KBC—question after question, my worth measured in salary, height, and how smoothly I could switch from English to Hindi to please aunty. Sometimes, after an awkward coffee, I’d come home to my mother’s hopeful face and just shake my head, feeling more tired than before. Sometimes, I’d hear her whispering on the phone to Mausi in the kitchen, listing my job title as if it were a puja offering.

Five years later, at a college reunion:

They turned up as a dazzling middle-class couple—driving a Mercedes, wearing branded jackets, carrying Louis Vuitton bags.

The crowd outside the venue buzzed with excitement as the Mercedes made its showy entrance, car horns and all. Neha aunty from the canteen even craned her neck for a look. Someone in the crowd muttered, “Waah, full filmi entry!” In a city where neighbours gossip about whether you buy groceries from Big Bazaar or Nature’s Basket, such a display was enough to start new rumours.

And I, who arrived on my scooty, sit quietly in a corner, feeling completely out of place.

My old Activa, paint chipped, helmet tucked under my arm, looked positively invisible next to their luxury. I settled at the edge of the hall, clutching my purse, sipping warm watery coffee, trying to avoid curious glances. I fiddled with the broken zipper, wishing I could shrink into the plastic chair. Inside, I remembered all those college days we’d laughed on the same bench; now, it felt like I was watching their world from outside a glass window.

Until—

A nosy classmate deliberately asks, “Neha, why didn’t your husband come?”

She was one of those types who always knew the latest family gossip before your own mother. Her tone was syrupy sweet, but the meaning behind her words was sharp as a tailor’s needle.

I smile and reply, “He’s off ringing the bell at the Bombay Stock Exchange.”

I said it with a hint of mischief, the way my Nani used to tell clever stories to shut up the neighbourhood aunty. The others tittered, unsure if I was joking or really married to some corporate big shot.