Chapter 2: After Hours and Aftermath

2

Her teasing gaze left me speechless, and for a second I couldn’t respond. Just then, Old Prakash stumbled over, his breath thick with smoke and whisky. “Kya re, interest aaya kya? College boy ke saath mast baatein ho rahi hain?”

He swayed, his faded shirt half unbuttoned, laughter creaking like an old bicycle. The girls around him giggled, some rolling their eyes at his drama. His cheap cologne mixed with the beedi smoke, almost making my eyes water.

“I was interested, but college boy doesn’t seem interested in me,” 25 said, flashing a sly smile.

She glanced at me sideways, lips curving in mischief. I looked away, tracing patterns on the tablecloth with my finger.

“Arrey, feelings grow with time. Dekh, tu dhyaan rakh uska. Apna banda padhe-likhe type ka hai.”

Old Prakash raised his glass like a toast, sloshing beer everywhere. He gave me a look, eyes twinkling. “Who knows, maybe you’ll fall in love, yaar!”

“Feelings grow? It’s only the first meeting.” 25 started cracking peanuts again.

She shrugged and slid me a peanut, as if to say, "Chill, baba." For a split second, I saw something sad flicker behind her smile, before it vanished.

“Kya bolta hai tu, Prakash?” she said, half-laughing. “Pehla time—anjaan, dusra time—jaan-pehchaan. Ho jayega aadat…”

Old Prakash winked, sharing some uncle-level wisdom straight from a tea stall.

I couldn’t take the atmosphere any longer. The beer, the noise—it all got to me. I got up, mumbled a goodbye, and stepped outside. The Pune breeze hit me like a splash of cold water, and I felt my soul come back to my body.

I breathed deep, letting the cool air fill my lungs. The street was mostly empty, save for a stray dog chasing a scooter and the distant clang of a temple bell. The city’s hush was a relief after the chaos inside.

Back at the company hostel, just as I was about to make my bed, the hostel phone rang. I stared at it, heart thumping, before picking up.

“Pohcha kya?” A woman’s voice came through the receiver.

Her voice was softer, more real, the mischief gone. The empty hostel room suddenly felt too bright.

“Who’s this?” I asked, trying to sound confident, but it came out awkward and thin.

“Bas tu. Pehchana nahi? Abhi toh sath baithkar drink kiya tha.” Her laughter tinkled down the line.

I hesitated, mind racing. The laughter was familiar, but I still wasn’t sure.

“Sach mein nahi pehchana. Kaun hai?”

My voice cracked, betraying my nerves. I twisted the phone cord around my finger.

“Kya yaar, kitna bhoolakkad hai. Abhi baithkar baatein ki, aur turant bhool gaya?” Her words had a teasing scold, like a cousin pulling my leg. I couldn’t help but smile.

I blurted out, “25?”

“Heh… Sahi pehchana.”

She sounded genuinely pleased, like I’d passed some secret test. A warmth spread through my chest.

I asked, “How did you get the hostel number?”

She replied, “Tera woh Prakash—usne diya. Bola, call karke pooch le, hostel pohcha ya nahi. Dekh, kitna concern hai tere liye. Aaj zyada pi liya tha na.”

I could picture Old Prakash, grinning as he handed out my number without a thought. Typical him—nosy, but with a good heart.

“Hmm… thanks.” I didn’t know if I was thanking her or Old Prakash.

There was a pause, awkward but not uncomfortable.

“Kis baat ka thank you? Kuch nahi hai. Ja, so ja. Waise, tu sach mein virgin hai kya?”

She slipped it in like extra sugar in chai.

“Uh…” I hesitated, then quickly changed the topic. “Waise, business kaisa tha aaj? Kitne quick trick hue?”

I cleared my throat, desperate to steer the conversation away. My heart was pounding.

“Chhod na. Business kharab tha. Socha tha tu pehla customer banega.”

Her voice was light, but I caught a hint of disappointment. The reality of her world—a world measured in customers—hit me.

“Sorry,” I said, meaning it, though I wasn’t sure why. A strange guilt sat heavy in my stomach, as if I’d let her down.

“Heh, chalta hai. Ja, so ja. Mera toh midnight tak kaam hai—raat ko hi zyada customer milte hain. Kabhi aana, time mile toh. Aur agar tu virgin hai, pehli baar free, dusri baar half price.” Her goodbye was sweet, but practical. She hung up.

I set the phone down, staring at the slow-turning ceiling fan, her voice echoing in my ears. I lay on my bed, eyes open, replaying every word. The hum of distant autorickshaws drifted in, and somewhere in the hostel corridor, the warden’s slippers slapped the floor. I pulled the thin sheet up to my chin, feeling both embarrassed and exhilarated, her words looping in my mind like a song I couldn’t turn off.

I closed my eyes, but her voice lingered in the dark, softer than the whir of the fan. I didn’t know it then, but that night, something had changed.