Chapter 3: Rain and Recognition

After the interview, the sky turned gloomy.

Outside the venue, rain fell in fine sheets. Amit Bhaiya patted his pocket and started ordering me about again: “Rohit, the memory card was left inside, go get it.”

I stepped onto the wet ground and jogged back.

My shoes squelched in the monsoon puddles, water soaking through the holes in my cheap Bata chappals. The smell of wet earth rose up—a scent every Indian knows, the smell of a world scrubbed clean but never really new.

The elevator number ticked down to one. The next second, the door opened.

I ran straight into the two people inside.

Arjun was tilting his head, chatting with Priya about trivial matters on set. She looked indifferent, but listened patiently. They seemed very close.

Their voices echoed softly in the confined space, mixing with the distant sound of someone laughing at a joke, maybe from the security guard at the lobby. It felt like the whole world was humming with secrets just out of my reach.

When Arjun saw me, his expression immediately turned sour.

“...Sorry.”

I mumbled an apology, turned around, and planned to take the stairs.

But Priya spoke from behind: “Stop.”

I froze in place.

“Weren’t you going to use the elevator? Go ahead.”

I slowly turned around and deliberately lowered my voice. “Thank you, President Priya.”

She told me to use the elevator but didn’t make way, just stared at me.

Her eyes held the stillness of someone who knows too much and says too little—a desi quietness, not dramatic, but heavy as a mother’s sigh.

“Are you also a reporter for today’s interview? Why didn’t I hear your question?”

I lowered my eyes. “President Priya, I just graduated and returned to India. I’m only an intern reporter, not qualified to ask questions.”

“I see.”

She responded lightly, not revealing what she was thinking.

At the side, Arjun glared at me and said, “Let’s go, Priya. We have to meet Director Lata and the others tonight.”

Priya finally looked away. “Let’s go.”

The elevator doors slid shut with a ding, cutting off their voices. I was left alone in the metallic box, the air thick with the scent of rain and regret.

I stood alone in the ascending elevator, lost in thought.

The dull hum of the machinery matched the emptiness in my chest. Somewhere below, the city roared with rickshaw horns and distant azaan from the mosque. I closed my eyes, picturing the small one-room flat I used to share with Ma, the flickering light bulb, and her tired smile.

After my parents divorced, my father took Arjun and became a ghar jamai at the Arora family. Since I can remember, I had never met Arjun.

But five years ago, he suddenly found me.

“I’ll give you five lakh rupees. Take my place and take care of someone for me.”

At that time, my mother had died of illness, and my family was deep in debt. I had no other choice and agreed.

Only after meeting her did I realise that the person he wanted me to care for was the Mehra family’s eldest daughter, Priya—his fiancée, who had gotten into an accident not long after their engagement.

“A blind person, and an abandoned daughter of a wealthy family—who would want to take care of her?” He looked disgusted. “If it weren’t for log kya kahenge, I would’ve broken off the engagement long ago.”

At that time, Arjun had just debuted. He’d landed a good role and his career was on the rise. Afraid of being called heartless, he dumped this difficult job on me.

Priya had lived smoothly for eighteen years, then suddenly suffered a huge setback. Her temper became terrible. When I first took care of her, she always mocked me with cold words. I was just doing a job for money, never arguing back.

Until that day, when I went to the ghat to offer flowers for my mother and came back late.

The scent of marigold and burning ghee still clung to my clothes. The priest at the ghat had given me extra prasadam, and I was late returning. I remember the way Priya sat alone, silent, the TV in the background playing some old Doordarshan serial.

She started venting her bad temper again:

“Arjun, stop acting in front of me. Don’t think I don’t know—you actually despise me, you’re just afraid of what people will say—”

She couldn’t finish the sentence, because I suddenly lowered my head and kissed her.

Actually, that was my first kiss, completely unskilled, and with some anger—more like an animal’s bite.

Priya suddenly went quiet. Even the tips of her ears turned red.

“You—”

With a hint of mischief, I bit her lips again. Then I pulled back a little, held her shoulders, and panted: “Did you feel it? Still think I despise you?”

Her breath hitched, and I felt the tremor in her fingers. That moment, it was as if the whole world had shrunk to that tiny flat, the hum of the fridge, the distant call of a chaiwala on the street, and her soft gasp against my shoulder.