Chapter 3: Of Delivery Boys and Divides

Turning around, I saw Rohan staring at me, his expression dark.

His jaw was clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. The room felt colder, suddenly, as if the monsoon breeze had found a way inside.

"Why were you so polite to her?"

He sounded suspicious, almost accusing. I raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

Me: "Isn’t she your colleague?"

I shrugged, playing dumb, trying to lighten the mood. The tension hung between us, thick and suffocating.

"How do you know?"

His eyes narrowed, searching my face for answers. I held up the file, flashing him a triumphant smile.

I waved the file in my hand. Rohan’s eyelids twitched, and he mocked:

"Didn’t expect you could even understand this."

He smirked, but I saw the fondness lurking in his eyes. For a moment, I felt like we were back in college, teasing each other before exams.

Fine, in the past, all I cared about was branded bags. My mind was always on dressing up, and even exams were crammed for at the last minute.

I couldn’t deny it. I remembered borrowing notes from friends, bribing them with chocolates just to get through another test.

Finally, Rohan raised his eyes and said, "You can leave now."

His tone was flat, but something in his posture screamed reluctance. He avoided my gaze, pretending to be busy with the file.

Leave now? Remembering how I was locked in the servant quarters by Kabir in the novel, I shivered involuntarily.

A chill ran down my spine, memories of cramped spaces and broken promises haunting me. I hugged my arms around myself, willing the fear away.

"I’m not leaving. Kabir always waits downstairs at my hostel. I want to stay here."

I mustered all my courage, staring him down. The distant sound of a pressure cooker whistle signaled dinnertime for half the building.

"Are you sure you can get used to living here? Go stay at a hotel."

He sounded almost concerned, as if he didn’t want to see me suffer. I bit my lip, refusing to give in.

"I have no money. I can’t afford a hotel."

I made my voice small, a hint of desperation creeping in. The reality of my situation pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating.

"Don’t tell me you spent seventy thousand rupees in just seven days."

He stared at me, eyes wide with disbelief. I looked away, cheeks burning with shame.

I stared at him in silence. At that moment, someone knocked on the door.

The sound was urgent, a man’s voice calling out from the corridor, breaking the tension in the room.

"Is this Mr. Rohan’s house? The air conditioner you ordered has arrived."

I rushed to the door, heart pounding. The delivery man stood there, clipboard in hand, flanked by two assistants carrying a large cardboard box.

I went to open the door. The worker confirmed the details with me and quickly brought the air conditioner in to install it.

He grinned, showing a gap-toothed smile, and asked for the way to the window. I pointed, watching as they expertly set about their work, drilling and hammering without a care for the noise.

Rohan: "...You bought this?"

He stared at the box, mouth open in shock. Before he could finish his sentence, another voice called out from the stairwell.

Before he finished speaking, another person poked their head in: "Did you order a bed?"

This time, it was a young boy, barely sixteen, wheeling in a brand-new wooden bedframe, wrapped in plastic.

In less than an hour, more delivery people arrived one after another with a fridge, sofa, geyser.

The hallway became a circus, neighbours peeking out to gawk at the parade of goods. Someone even joked, "Shaadi ho rahi hai kya, bhaiya?" I smiled sheepishly, knowing the gossip would spread like wildfire.

Rohan had given up, sitting on his single cot (which had been cleared by the workers), smoking.

He sat there like a raja whose palace had been invaded by delivery boys and nosy neighbours. The workers took selfies in the new room, promising to tag the company on Instagram for good luck.

When all the workers finished installing, one said to Rohan, "Bhaiya, please stand up."

He got up, confused, watching as they dismantled the old cot with practiced ease. His face was a mixture of annoyance and resignation.

Rohan stood up, confused. The workers quickly dismantled the single cot and carried it away.

One of them saluted Rohan before leaving, saying, "Aapke yahan kaam karne mein maza aa gaya, bhaiya!"

Before leaving, they sincerely said, "This is our new trash disposal service. Please give us a good review on Google."

The leader handed him a flyer, grinning from ear to ear. Rohan just glared, too stunned to respond.

Rohan’s face turned even darker.

He muttered something under his breath, but I caught the word "pagal" before he could swallow it. I bit back a laugh, hiding my smile behind my hand.

I was too tired to explain, so I just grabbed some clothes from a box at the foot of the cot and went to the bathroom.

The new geyser gurgled to life, filling the bathroom with steam. I changed quickly, relishing the feel of soft cotton after a long, sticky day.

When I came out, Rohan was sitting on the sofa reading files.

He looked up, his eyes lingering for a second before darting away. The air conditioner hummed in the background, a luxury in this part of the city.

Rohan’s T-shirt was a bit big on me. The standard collar became a low neckline on my body.

I tugged at the hem, feeling self-conscious. My hair, still damp, clung to my neck, and I shivered in the cool air.

There was no hair dryer at Rohan’s place, so I towel-dried my hair and let it drape over my shoulders, dampening the fabric on my chest.

I glanced at my reflection in the window, cheeks flushed, hair curling at the ends. I wondered what Rohan thought of this new version of me.

Rohan glanced at me and immediately turned away, his ears suspiciously red. He frowned and said impatiently:

"I’m going out to buy something."

He grabbed his wallet and stormed out, leaving the door swinging in his wake. I smiled to myself, knowing he wasn’t as immune as he pretended.

A dozen minutes later, he came back carrying two tiffin boxes.

The smell of masala and fried onions filled the room. He handed me one box without looking me in the eye, his cheeks still tinged pink.

He opened one and ate in big mouthfuls, then pulled a pink hair dryer from his pocket and tossed it in front of me.

"Found it in a dustbin by the road. Go dry your hair. Don’t get my bed wet."

His words were gruff, but I saw the softness in his eyes. He cared, even if he’d never admit it. I giggled, shaking my head.

Me: "..."

I snatched up the hair dryer, plugging it in. The old wires sparked for a second, but the machine roared to life. I dried my hair, feeling a little silly, a little cherished.

Hmph, a man whose words never match his heart.

I watched him eat, the lines of worry on his face easing with every bite. The city outside was loud, but inside, it felt peaceful—almost like home.

After I finished drying my hair, Rohan had gone to the bathroom to shower. There was a prawn biryani on the table.

The aroma was irresistible, reminding me of Eid feasts at my friend’s house. I opened the box, steam rising in fragrant waves. My stomach growled in anticipation.

Each grain of rice was coated in masala, fried golden, with a layer of prawns on top.

I savoured the first bite, letting the spices dance on my tongue. It was better than anything I’d eaten in days.

But the meal he ate just now was clearly just plain jeera rice.

The taste of prawn biryani lingered on my tongue, but it was the thought behind it that truly filled me.

When Rohan came out, I was eating. I looked up at the sound and froze.

He stepped out, towel draped around his neck, water droplets tracing lines down his chest. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

His hair wasn’t dried, just covered with a towel. His upper body was bare, water running down his chest and abs, tracing the V-line into his athletic shorts.

The sight would’ve made any girl swoon, but I pretended not to notice, focusing on my food.

Rohan’s lips curled up, "You’re drooling."

He smirked, one eyebrow raised, teasing me. I scowled, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

I reflexively wiped my mouth.

I checked my reflection in the lid of the biryani box, cheeks flaming. There was no drool, only embarrassment.

...There was no drool.

I glared at him, but he just laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. For a moment, everything felt easy.

At night, I slept on the bed, while Rohan, at 6 feet tall, curled up on the sofa, looking extremely uncomfortable.

He tossed and turned, muttering under his breath about his aching back. I pulled the new quilt over my head, trying not to laugh too loudly.

He volunteered to sleep on the sofa himself.

I’d offered, half-heartedly, to switch, but he waved me off. “Tu ladki hai, tu bed pe hi soyegi,” he grumbled, settling in with a pillow that was too small for his broad shoulders.

Hmph, serves him right. I turned over and faced away from him.

I hugged my pillow, listening to the sounds of the chawl—dogs barking, pressure cookers hissing, someone playing a late-night cricket commentary on the radio. For the first time in ages, I felt safe.