Chapter 3: Old Flames and Tube Lights

5

After that night, I didn’t contact Kabir.

Until the weekend rolled around again.

The reality show used a rotation system.

This week, couples would switch back.

“Director,” Priya said, all sweet understanding, “Arjun-bhaiya and I are too popular. If you switch us now, the audience will troll you.”

The director hesitated. “But—”

“Arjun-bhaiya,” Priya turned, “who will you choose tonight?”

She’d waited for this, wanting to be picked in front of everyone.

Arjun caught her drift.

He glanced at me, leaned back.

“Is there even a choice?”

“The audience doesn’t want her.”

Priya got her answer, then looked at me.

“Meera-didi, you don’t mind, right?”

“You’ve been a housewife too long, maybe you don’t know—audience preference is everything, think of the big picture…”

“Okay.”

I answered sharply.

Arjun glanced up, surprised.

They expected a scene, something for the editors to milk.

But I agreed without fuss.

Priya, lines memorised, faltered, then forced a smile:

“That’s good, just don’t regret it.”

I said, “Let’s do this from now on.”

Her smile stiffened, then she tucked her hair behind her ear and whispered:

“Trying to make Arjun jealous?”

“Everyone knows you’re here to win him back.”

“What to do, not only is he not jealous, you have to watch him go into my room.”

The director called out.

They kept last week’s setup.

Before leaving, Arjun teased Priya:

“Aren’t you scared about her and Kabir in one room?”

At Kabir’s name, Priya burst out laughing.

“I’ve never seen him like anyone.”

“With her?”

“Locked together for a year, still nothing.”

They shared a knowing look.

Arjun, right in front of me, took off his coat and draped it over Priya’s shoulders.

“Meera, if you want to win me back, these tricks aren’t enough.”

He wanted to provoke me—make me break on camera, so he’d look like the victim.

Arjun and Priya were whisked to a luxury villa.

All glass and marble, fairy lights in the trees, a chef garnishing food with gold leaf.

Priya posted their candlelit dinner on Instagram.

Comments all shipped them.

I saw it scrolling in the show’s car, my cousin from Surat forwarding memes: “Yeh kya ho raha hai, yaar?”

Our car rolled into the old city district.

[If these two don’t get their heart rate up, they’re out, right?]

[They won’t eliminate Kabir, he’s too big. They’ll just switch partners.]

[So boring, why’s Kabir even on this show?]

[The weirder, the more I ship it. Something will happen.]

[If anything happens, I’ll eat my chappal!]

I pocketed my phone and asked the staff:

“Where are Kabir and I staying?”

“You two had the lowest heart rate, so you’re punished. Tonight—”

The car stopped. He pointed at an old chawl.

“There, a rented flat.”

I stepped out.

Just the in-car livestream camera filming me from behind. No audio.

I paused at the door. The corridor smelled of drying laundry, turmeric, and the distant sizzle of onions. A kid ran past, chasing a rubber ball.

I called my old boss—my best friend.

“Kabir told me, long time no see.”

I needed her to bring me back down.

“So what?”

“What else will he say?”

She was blunt.

“To be honest, who doesn’t have an ex?”

“He has so many choices—why would he want a divorced woman like you?”

“Those months you helped each other? That was his lowest point. Who misses that?”

She was right.

I hung up.

I opened the door.

Kabir was on a ladder, fixing the tube light.

His muscles tensed, lines clean and strong.

Just like before.

When shooting with a harness, his waist always bandaged.

That old tube light—

Off, then on again.

So familiar, I froze in the doorway.

“Dinner.”

He saw me.

Just a word, no emotion.

Making my nerves feel extra strange.

I was overthinking.

Maybe, for him, this show was just a safe exit from marriage.

Outside, rain drummed down.

He cooked paneer tikka, humming an old Kishore Kumar song.

I snapped a photo for Instagram.

Show’s task, done.

After dinner, he washed up fast, then made my bed.

There was only one bed.

He said he’d sleep on the floor.

“Does your waist need new bandaging?”

“I can manage.”

After showering, I found a thin blanket on the floor. He was taking out a crepe bandage.

I avoided his gaze, pulling out my phone.

Arjun sent a voice note.

My hands were wet, and I played it aloud by accident.

He’d seen my Instagram post.

“Can you eat paneer tikka?”

“Last time, you wanted black forest cake for your birthday—I bought it this time.”

He never got it for me last year.

Waited so long, now he buys it for the cameras.

I stared at my phone.

The light overhead was blocked by Kabir.

“Can you help?”

He held out the bandage.

Didn’t he just say he’d manage?

I wrapped it around him, arms not quite meeting.

In this old Mumbai flat, the fan whined, rain snuck in through cracks.

It was cold.

But we kept our distance.

My fingertips only brushed the bandage.

He looked away, face turned aside.

Not like that year in the tiny Andheri flat.

Hot, airless.

Back then, we held each other like we’d never get another chance.

“Click.”

The tube light flickered on.

We stood beneath it.

In those poorest, most hopeless years, we never replaced that old tube light.

If it worked, we kept it. If it flickered, it meant he was thinking of me.

Back then, eighteen-year-old Kabir told me:

“If it flickers, it means I’m thinking of you.”

Back then, I believed him. Maybe I still do.

Tonight,

Older, having everything, the tube light flickered again and again.

I looked up at Kabir. “Didn’t you fix it?”

He stilled, eyes meeting mine.

“Yeah.”

“I did it on purpose.”

He met my eyes, and for a second, the years between us vanished.

“Why?”

“If I fix it, you won’t see it again.”

I stared.

He took the bandage, finished wrapping it himself.

“Meera.”

“Hmm?”

“Paneer tikka or cake?”

When it comes to food, honesty wins.

“Paneer tikka.”