Chapter 3: Truth in the Shadows

Just as my patience wore thin, my girlfriend finally appeared, holding a little girl’s hand. On the other side stood a tall, well-dressed man—likely the girl’s father.

She knelt to tie the girl’s shoelace, whispering something that made the child giggle. The man hovered close, adjusting the girl’s school bag, his watch catching the light. He looked the type who wore expensive perfume and pressed shirts, even at night.

He walked to a black Audi, opened the door, and waved the girl inside. The child waved at my girlfriend, who ruffled her hair in goodbye.

The man flashed my girlfriend a knowing smile. She smiled back, that gentle touch reserved for her favourite students. For a second, I felt foolish for doubting her. Must be nothing, I told myself. The pills—maybe I misunderstood too.

“Bhai, tu pagal ho raha hai. See? It’s nothing,” I muttered, almost laughing at myself. Everyone always called her simple and sanskari. She’d blush at dirty jokes, sit far from the boys in college, wear long kurtis. My friends would say, “Bhai, you found a real sanskari ladki!” I’d believed them. I felt guilty for doubting her.

I squeezed my eyes shut, shame prickling. Maybe I’d even apologise, buy her jalebis. I was already planning how to make it up to her.

But then I saw something that slapped me awake.

As soon as the girl got in, the man blocked the window with his body. His hand slipped under her dupatta, pressing close—too familiar, too bold for the street. My girlfriend giggled, swatting him playfully. It was intimate, practiced—no way this was their first time.

She leaned in, laughing softly, as if sharing a secret. He whispered something; she swatted his arm, just like girls flirt in Bollywood movies. They didn’t care who watched. In that instant, all those stories about Delhi’s double life felt real.

The chai-wala’s radio was blaring Kishore Kumar, but I heard nothing. My heart just… dropped.