Chapter 4: Dosti, DMs, and Airport Surveillance

During all this, she acted totally normal in front of me. We were even talking about marriage: how much for the shagun, which banquet hall to book, which lehenga brand, where to honeymoon—never slipped up once.

My mother had already started calling relatives for auspicious dates, and half the wedding was sorted in our WhatsApp group chat. She’d even sent me screenshots of Sabyasachi lehengas, half-joking about breaking the bank. She was so cool, making chai and humming old Bollywood songs as if nothing was wrong.

I didn’t sleep all night. The next day, I asked a friend to check out that guy for me.

I remembered my girlfriend saying he was about to get married, so I wanted to verify.

That day, her business trip was supposed to end. She messaged me, saying she was still super busy and wouldn’t have time to reply.

By noon, I saw her alt Instagram update: a landscape photo, location set at Aga Khan Palace in Pune.

Just then, my friend’s message came through.

Bro, what a scene—my friend started bombarding me with rapid-fire WhatsApps, even sent a voice note: "Bro, full info mil gaya. The guy’s working at XYZ Insurance, fiancée is from Kothrud, teacher types, pakka engagement."

He sent over the guy’s phone number and WhatsApp too. So yeah, they really were about to get married. Both of them cheating. What a pair.

At this point, I thought it was just another cliché—old classmates meet at a reunion, old flames rekindled.

The guy was definitely a scumbag, but one thing I still wasn’t sure of: did he know my girlfriend wasn’t single?

Yaar, what else was left for me to do? Time to take the initiative.

All those crime serials my father watches suddenly felt useful. The plot was unfolding like those sting operations on news channels. My stomach felt tight, like after eating too much pani puri at a wedding.