Chapter 6: Tracing the Truth

I remembered the license plate from last night. His daughter was in my girlfriend’s class. It wasn’t hard to figure out who he was.

I jotted the number in my notebook, just like Papa notes down tenants. My mind ran through clues—the Audi, the school badge, the expensive watch. I started asking around, calling in favours.

The guy’s name was Rajeev Sharma. Deputy GM, some big company, drives a luxury car, lives in Noida. Typical big shot.

His LinkedIn had a smug photo. Social media: family pics, "work-life balance" posts. All fake. He oozed money and double standards. I felt sick.

Ever since his wife got pregnant with their second kid, he’d been taking his daughter to dance class. Over time, he got close to my girlfriend.

I remembered him, always dressed sharp, slipping in the odd "haan ji" to fit in. I should’ve noticed the way he lingered, the way her smile changed for him.

I paid a friend to follow him for a few days. Turns out, he was still meeting his ex, plus a couple of visits to a shady massage parlour. His wife’s pregnant, and he’s out fooling around.

My college friend Ramesh is a private detective. For a small fee, he tailed Rajeev Sharma and sent me photos: the ex at a café, the massage parlour with faded curtains. "Yeh banda toh full on kameena hai," Ramesh said. I agreed.

I gathered all the chat screenshots, photos of him with his ex, proof of his massage parlour visits. Then I found his wife’s number through a mutual friend. In Delhi, all secrets leak eventually. My hands shook as I wrote out my plan.

I wanted to send everything straight to his wife. But maybe that wouldn’t be enough. If I wanted to ruin him, I needed to wait for the right moment.

In movies, confrontations get applause, but real life is about timing. I wanted Rajeev Sharma to lose everything—his image, his money, his peace.

As for my girlfriend, she acted like she was in love—living with me, always on her phone. Her laughter was hollow, her hugs empty.

She’d text him from the kitchen, smile at her phone while stirring dal. Her lipstick got bolder, her clothes shorter, her nights longer. I told her to be careful with her students, but she just snapped, “Tum bilkul uncle ban gaye ho.”

One evening, she wore a backless kurti. I warned, “Parents notice karenge.” She rolled her eyes, “Boring ho gaye ho.” I felt like a fool, standing there with my sensible shoes.

Fine, I’m boring. That scumbag’s got style.

I thought of Rajeev Sharma’s slick hair, imported perfume, easy confidence. For a second, I envied him. Then I remembered what he’d done. My anger returned, sharp and bright.

Later, I found out the new bags and perfumes weren’t bought online—they were his gifts. They’d even planned a trip to Mussoorie.

She’d shown me her new bag, claiming it was a sale steal. I’d felt proud. Their trip was already booked, disguised as a "girls’ getaway." Shameless.

She used her best friend as an excuse again. I played the devoted boyfriend, even offered her a lift to the station.

I put on a smile, told her to have fun. Inside, I was rotting.

As soon as she left, I followed in my Wagon R. My palms sweated, heart pounding. The auto she took weaved through Delhi’s chaos—paan shops, chaat stalls, rickshaw bells. Finally, they reached the meeting spot.