Chapter 2: Chawl Shadows and New Rivals

In a rented room in a crowded Mumbai chawl.

The moment the door opened, a musty smell wafted out. The room was dark and damp, with only a simple single cot and not even an extra plastic stool.

The bulb overhead blinked with every power fluctuation, throwing shadows on the cracked walls. From the neighbour’s kitchen, the smell of frying onions drifted in, mixing with the scent of agarbatti and damp cement. Outside, the sound of children playing gilli-danda echoed through the thin windows, mingling with the calls of the sabziwala in the alley below.

Rohan sat on the cot, lit a cigarette, and didn’t even bother to lift his eyelids.

He took a long drag, the tip glowing red in the semi-darkness, his eyes fixed on the stains dotting the floor. The air thickened with the scent of stale smoke and cheap incense from the neighbour’s puja.

"Sit."

He gestured vaguely at the cot, the only space in the cramped room. His voice was flat, hiding something bitter beneath. I felt the uneven floor under my sandals, cold and gritty.

The only place to sit was the cot against the wall, but he sat right in the middle, taking up all the space.

He spread his legs just enough to make it awkward, challenging me to either sit uncomfortably at the edge or do something bold. A half-empty steel water bottle rolled under the bed, clinking against a suitcase.

I glanced around, then walked over without hesitation.

I paused for a second, adjusted my dupatta, and marched forward—deciding not to play the helpless heroine today. My reflection winked at me from the cracked mirror on the wall.

...and sat directly on his lap.

He stiffened, cigarette dangling from his lips, his hand awkwardly hovering mid-air. My perfume clashed with the smell of tobacco, creating a heady mix.

Rohan’s body went rigid, not knowing what to do with the hand holding the cigarette. In the end, he casually tossed it at his feet and stubbed it out.

The stub hissed as it met a patch of spilled chai on the floor. For a second, neither of us moved—a challenge, a dare, hanging between us.

"What do you want now? I’ve already given you all my salary this month."

He tried to sound annoyed, but his eyes kept darting to my face, as if searching for the old Ananya he knew. A ceiling fan overhead creaked, barely stirring the heavy air.

In the novel, at this point, Rohan already knew the original Ananya didn’t love him. He came to the college just to confirm it one last time, and finally witnessed her accepting the rich heir’s confession.

My mind spun with the memory of those lines. In that moment, I felt the weight of someone else’s mistakes pressing against my ribs. The muffled sounds from the neighbouring room—someone arguing, the clang of utensils—brought me back to reality.

It was at this moment that I transmigrated over.

Everything felt both new and preordained, like standing in the middle of a monsoon downpour and not knowing whether to run for cover or dance in the rain. The lines of fate had twisted, but the city outside remained the same—relentless, uncaring.

He had secretly partnered with someone to start a tech company. Although it was just getting off the ground, he definitely wasn’t broke.

I recalled the late-night phone calls, the piles of computer parts under the bed, the way he’d sneak out for meetings with his co-founder, always pretending he was just going to get vada pav.

He just didn’t want to spend any more money on me, this shameless woman.

I couldn’t blame him. I looked down at my carefully manicured nails, the result of hours at the beauty parlour, and felt a pang of guilt.

"I don’t want money. What I want is something else."

I let my voice drop to a whisper, eyes wide, hoping to pierce his armour. In the street below, a dog barked, and a pressure cooker whistled from another flat, reminding me how close the city’s heartbeat was to ours.

Rohan raised an eyebrow. "Don’t tell me you want my body?"

He said it with a half-smile, the kind that could melt ice if he tried. I noticed a tiny scar near his jaw—a battle wound from childhood cricket matches, he once said.

He really was handsome—tall, well-built, and with looks that could make any girl swoon.

If we were in a movie, the camera would have zoomed in on his features: the strong jaw, the intense gaze, the little dimple that appeared when he smiled for real. Even the girls from the next building sometimes called him Hrithik behind his back.

"I don’t like Kabir, the guy who gave me flowers today. He keeps pestering me."

I twisted a lock of hair around my finger, feigning irritation, but inside, I was calculating my next move. The city taught you to play the long game, after all.

"Didn’t you always want to marry rich?"

His tone was sarcastic, but his eyes betrayed hurt. I looked away, staring at the peeling paint on the wall, tracing the cracks with my eyes.

Liking money is one thing, but you have to live long enough to spend it. In the novel, after I got together with the rich heir, he cheated on me and abused me. When I asked for a divorce, he locked me up in the servant quarters.

The memory of that cruel twist in the plot made me shiver. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, refusing to let that fate become mine.

I needed someone to help me get rid of him, and Rohan was the best candidate.

He was the only one who’d ever stood up for me, no matter how much I pushed him away. I remembered the time he fought with the landlord when the water stopped, or when he stood in the rain waiting for me outside tuition, umbrella held high.

"Why do you think I’d help you again? Because of your face?"

His words were cold, but his voice shook just enough to give him away. I shrugged, playing along, letting the silence stretch between us.

I crouched down in front of him, looking up. I didn’t have any other advantages, but I was confident in my looks.

I adjusted my dupatta, lifting my chin defiantly. The floor beneath my knees was cold, grounding me in the here and now.

After all, in the novel, I relied on this face to make countless men fall for me. Even in the end, it was Rohan who saved me from the rich heir.

I recalled the author’s words: “A beauty that could launch a thousand disasters.” But in this Mumbai chawl, all it got me was a little dignity and a little hope.

Wasn’t it all because of this face?

I studied his expression, looking for that flicker of longing I’d seen before. He looked away, refusing to meet my eyes.

"I’ll graduate in a year. I can start interning and working now to pay you back."

I offered, my voice trembling. In the next room, someone began playing an old Kishore Kumar song on the radio, the melody drifting through the paper-thin walls.

"I don’t need that. Leave my place now."

He said it sharply, like slamming a door. I swallowed hard, struggling to hide the sting. The smell of cigarette smoke lingered, harsh and unforgiving.

As he spoke, there was a sudden knock at the door.

The sound was polite but insistent, as if the visitor knew exactly what was happening inside. I froze, the memory of a hundred movie scenes running through my mind.

A gentle female voice called out, "Rohan sir, are you there?"

Her tone was soft, tinged with respect and something else—hope, maybe. I recognized it instantly; this was the kind of voice reserved for heroes in all the novels I’d ever read.

Rohan’s eyes instantly turned cold, even showing a trace of disgust. He sat there as if he hadn’t heard anything at all.

He stiffened, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. I saw the way his hand balled into a fist, knuckles white against his skin.

Then his phone rang, persistently, hanging up automatically and then ringing again.

The shrill ringtone filled the cramped room, echoing off the walls. It was a cheap phone—no fancy features, but loyal to a fault. I wondered who would call him so many times, so late in the evening.

The person outside must have heard it too, but still stubbornly kept calling.

Her patience was impressive, even admirable. I remembered standing outside his door once, too proud to knock, too stubborn to leave.

I directly hung up the call, walked over, and yanked open the door.

My heart pounded as I twisted the rusty latch, bracing myself for the confrontation.

A girl was standing outside. When she saw me, she was stunned.

She stood under the flickering tube light, clutching a file to her chest. Her eyes widened in shock, mouth opening just a fraction as she took in my presence.

I looked her up and down. This was the female lead, Priya, who would later be cherished by Rohan.

Priya’s dupatta was creased, and her sandals looked a size too big, as if she’d borrowed them in a hurry. She had an air of quiet strength, a simplicity in the way she wore her dupatta slung over one shoulder. Her eyes were kind but wary, taking in every detail of the scene before her.

She wore a simple kurti and jeans, with light makeup that made her look fresh and lively. But because she’d been waiting outside for so long, her forehead was covered in sweat from the Mumbai heat.

A droplet of sweat traced a line down her temple, smudging her kajal slightly. The monsoon humidity clung to her clothes, and I felt a pang of sympathy.

Her makeup was even a little smudged...

Her lipstick had faded, her hair stuck to her neck, but she held herself together, dignity intact. The way she pressed her lips together told me she wasn’t used to being kept waiting.

And I was wearing a designer dress bought with Rohan’s salary, my hair carefully styled, my face exquisitely made up. The contrast made her falter and unconsciously press her lips together.

I felt suddenly self-conscious, wishing I’d worn something simpler. Even my gold anklet felt too loud in that narrow corridor. The difference between us felt stark, like the line between two worlds.

But her eyes still shone with a determined light.

I couldn’t help but admire her spirit. Despite everything, she didn’t look away, her gaze steady, her spine straight.

"Who are you?"

Her voice was polite but edged with suspicion. She glanced behind me, as if searching for Rohan’s shadow.

"I’m Rohan’s girlfriend. Didn’t he tell you?"

I said it with a smile, masking my nerves. My words hung in the air, daring her to challenge them.

Of course Rohan had mentioned it, but she’d never seen us together. Even on Valentine’s Day, Ananya hadn’t shown up.

I saw the realization dawn in her eyes—the stories she’d heard, the rumors whispered in the office. Everything suddenly became painfully real for her.

Priya thought it was just an excuse from Rohan. Who knew he really had a girlfriend?

She bit her lip, trying to process it all. The file in her hand trembled slightly.

Priya’s face went pale, looking as if she might faint at any moment. At this point, Rohan finally came out from inside.

He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene—the tension, the unshed tears. His shoulders slumped just a little.

"Priya, what are you doing here?"

His voice was softer, more concerned. He stepped past me, standing between us, a silent wall of protection.

Priya’s eyes were red as she handed over a file, saying, "There’s an urgent matter at the company. I couldn’t reach you by phone, so I came over."

Her voice cracked, betraying her exhaustion. She kept her eyes on the ground, refusing to meet his gaze.

"I understand. I’ll go right away. You head back first."

Rohan’s words were gentle, but final. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and she flinched, then nodded, shoulders sagging with defeat.

Priya finally couldn’t hold back her tears. Sweat mixed with tears ran down her neck, making her look rather pitiful.

Her breathing hitched, and she turned away, wiping her face with the edge of her dupatta. I felt a pang of guilt, but stayed silent.

I took out a pack of wet wipes from my bag and handed it to her, comforting her, "Don’t cry, your makeup is smudged."

I pressed the packet into her hand, wishing for once I could take back my own words. My voice was gentle, but the gesture came out wrong—a queen bestowing pity on a rival. Still, I couldn’t help myself; old habits die hard.

Unexpectedly, she shoved me away, snapping, "Who needs your fake kindness?"

She glared at me, eyes blazing with anger and pain. Her words stung, but I didn’t blame her.

With that, she turned and ran off, crying.

Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading into the distant sounds of the chawl. Someone peeked out from behind a half-closed door, watching the drama unfold.

Me: "..."

I stood there awkwardly, clutching the wet wipes, unsure of what to do next. The world seemed to pause, just for a moment.

Considering she’ll be Rohan’s sweetheart and the future wife of a business tycoon, I let it go.

I exhaled slowly, telling myself not to get caught up in jealousy or pride. The story had only just begun.