Chapter 3: Chai, Shame, and Sindoor

A week later.

The monsoon had finally arrived. Outside, auto rickshaws splashed through puddles, and the air was thick with the smell of wet earth and frying vada pav. Rain streaked the glass, and puddles filled with fallen gulmohar petals dotted the road below. Kunal still hadn’t turned up, but I ran into Arjun first.

He wore a shirt washed so many times it was nearly white, faded jeans, and battered canvas shoes.

You could spot boys like him on any Mumbai local—slim, earnest, with eyes always a bit wary. Fresh-faced and handsome—the classic poor campus heartthrob.

He got off the local train, not even willing to spend on an auto.

His hair was still damp from the humidity, his shirt stuck to his back in patches. Honestly, I have no idea where the thirty thousand rupees I give him every month goes.

Don’t get me wrong.

It’s not like he’s gambling it away at some shady den in Kurla. But every month, without fail, his phone needs recharging, his shoes have a new hole, and he never once splurges on himself.

He wasn’t here to see me; usually, I’m the one who goes to him.

He’d picked up a part-time job at the chai café downstairs from my office.

The place was always crowded, the smell of adrak chai mingling with frying samosas. Looking like that, he naturally attracted attention—girls lining up to ask for his number.

Arjun always turned them down, saying he already liked someone.

I’d overheard it once, while pretending to scroll through Instagram. The girls giggled, one even whispering, "Must be some rich madam." Arjun always smiled politely, but there was a sadness in his eyes.

Before, I would’ve confidently assumed that person was me.

After all, I’m beautiful, rich, and generous.

And let’s be honest, the last part is what really matters.

The world runs on money, and in Mumbai, it’s the ultimate aphrodisiac. If someone doesn’t like me, isn’t that just not liking money?

It’s not like I expect him to be madly in love with me. We’re all adults here. After taking so much from me, can’t he at least show a little affection? Otherwise, isn’t that just hypocrisy?

I walked in and picked a seat at random.

The bell above the door jingled, and the sharp aroma of chai hit me. I found a spot by the window, watching Arjun’s reflection in the glass as he worked behind the counter. Arjun didn’t notice me. After he fumbled the tea strainer, I caught him wiping his palms on his jeans, eyes darting away from the counter, sneaking a quick glance at the girl’s reflection in the glass display.

Just then, a girl walked in—dressed to the nines.

Even the way she entered was dramatic—heels clicking, dupatta artfully draped, a faint whiff of imported perfume trailing behind her. She could have walked straight off a Karan Johar set.

Arjun saw her immediately and stiffened, nervous.

His fingers fumbled with the tea strainer, nearly spilling hot chai. She was wearing a Sabyasachi-style suit, a Swarovski hair clip—the whole rich-girl package.

Last time at the university, I hadn’t gotten a good look at her.

This time, I saw her face clearly.

She was striking—sharp jaw, almond-shaped eyes, that air of being used to getting her way. I ran through the list of Mumbai’s socialites in my head, but couldn’t place her.

While I was lost in thought, Arjun’s face had turned bright red.

His cheeks were almost the colour of the sindoor packets sold at the temple down the lane. I heard him ask, a little tentative:

"Did you come here to see me?"

He stammered slightly, voice softer than usual. The girl lifted her chin and said:

"No, I just heard the chai here is good."

Her voice was cool, almost bored, but her eyes lingered on Arjun’s hands as he wiped down the counter. If Arjun had a tail, it would’ve drooped right then.

"Why don’t you recommend something?"

Arjun immediately launched into a detailed explanation of every chai and coffee on the menu, describing the origin and flavour of each blend.

He spoke with so much enthusiasm, even describing how the ginger for the adrak chai was bought fresh from the bazaar every morning. People waiting behind them got impatient and left.

But the girl didn’t seem to listen at all; she just ordered the signature drink offhand.

Arjun carefully explained how to drink it, warning her it might be a little kadak.

He even offered a glass of water on the side, just in case. In front of her, he was nothing like the person I knew—completely humble, almost fawning.

I wasn’t angry.

Maybe I should have been, but instead I felt a strange sort of pride—like watching your little brother do well in his first interview. Just confused.

Why isn’t he like this with me?

I’m his sponsor, after all.

A moment later, it hit me, and I actually laughed out loud.

He must think—

His youth, my thirty thousand a month, the 2BHK flat I gave him, all those gifts—it’s an equal trade.

The men in my family have a long tradition of keeping people.

It’s practically an open secret. I’ve seen them with college girls, TV actresses, and even some professionals.

Not long ago, my uncle nearly got a girl pregnant and paid her thirty lakhs as a breakup fee.

These things don’t even make the family WhatsApp group anymore. A sponsor like me—generous and easy on the eyes—isn’t exactly common.

Mutual consent doesn’t mean you’re not taking advantage.

It’s a fine line, isn’t it? You tell yourself everyone wins, but deep down, someone always loses a little more. Before, when I spoiled Arjun, I didn’t even care about the money.

He took it, but still stood me up again and again.

Excuses: tuition, part-time work, college fest, lab assignments.

The usual. I never got angry. I even had the maid make dal and send it to him in a Tupperware dabba.

Once, my dad caught me at it and thought I was dating. He warned me, "Don’t get too attached."

I rolled my eyes, remembering how the elders used to nod sagely and say, “Boys will be boys.” I’d just shrugged, pretending it was for a friend. My indulgence of Arjun made everyone think I had feelings for him.

Funny, really.

I used to think that, too.

Before I shipped my brother off to Australia and took over as GM, I’d never dated anyone.

Not that I ever wanted to.

I got bored watching, got up, and left the café.

The bell over the door jingled again, and I felt the moist air brush against my cheeks as I stepped into the street. Someone behind the counter seemed to glance my way.

A flicker of recognition, maybe. But I didn’t turn around. Mumbai’s noise swallowed me up again.