Chapter 4: The Corridor and the Dog

I live in Shanti Nagar Apartments.

It sounds nice, but really, it’s just a crumbling resettlement colony in the dusty outskirts of Lucknow. The name is painted in peeling blue on a cement archway, half the bulbs missing from the sign. Chai stalls and mechanic shops line the muddy approach road.

But to Meera, it was already decent.

Her gaze took in the small balconies crammed with drying clothes, the sound of pressure cookers whistling from open windows, children’s laughter echoing in the courtyard. She looked relieved, almost grateful.

Truth is, aside from my fake identity as a social volunteer, I’m just a loser at the bottom of society.

No government job, no inheritance—just odd gigs and schemes that barely keep me afloat. In my wallet, even the notes seem tired.

No money, too lazy to work. The only thing of value I own is my ancient Maruti 800, almost as old as I am.

The car coughs and rattles every morning, its paint faded to the colour of stale paan. The seats are patched with cheap rexine, but it’s my only real asset.

Short, ugly—no chance of finding a girlfriend the normal way.

My mother used to joke, "Arrey, tera toh ladkiyon ke liye market kharab hai." I’m used to being ignored at weddings and family functions, always relegated to the corner with the kids or the cooks.

But with this trick, I’ve slept with plenty of pretty women with great bodies.

I don’t need good looks or money. Just patience, and a little understanding of loneliness.

If Meera hadn’t been to jail, she’d never have given me a second glance on the street.

The pretty ones, the ones with their heads held high, they cross the road to avoid men like me. But luck and society’s cruelty have pushed her to my door.

But now, not only had she gotten into my beat-up car, she’d even followed me home to this shabby flat.

I tried not to grin as I led her up the stairs, the metal railing sticky with years of dust. My heart beat faster with every step.

I had ways to make her crawl into my bed on her own, wagging her tail like a dog, begging for my attention.

It’s always the same—gentle words, a little comfort, and they melt. I thought of the lines I would use, the mood I would create, the stories of kindness I’d tell her till she believed I was her saviour.

The corridor was dirty and dim, the old tube light casting a sickly yellow glow.

A puddle of muddy water had collected by the stairs, and someone’s chappals floated in it. On the walls, paan stains bloomed like red flowers.

Just as I was about to unlock my door, a shadow lunged at Meera from the corner.

She shrieked—a brown street dog had torn her salwar.

Its teeth flashed, snapping at her ankles. The thin cloth ripped with a sharp sound. Meera staggered back, almost falling.

She hid behind me. I kicked the dog away and shouted at it.

My slipper connected with its ribs. I shouted, "Chal, bhag yahan se!" But the dog only growled, circling, foam at the corners of its mouth.

The dog wasn’t scared at all; it bared its teeth and barked even louder.

Its bark echoed down the corridor, making Meera press her back to the wall. Someone upstairs opened a door and peeked out, muttering curses.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. An old woman with a mess of dyed hair rushed up.

She wore a faded nightie with cartoon bears, her feet jammed into cracked slippers. Bangles clinked on her thick wrists, and a gold chain gleamed at her throat.

She gave me a sideways glare, then opened her bright red lips and snapped:

"Arrey, mere Sheru ko maar raha hai? Dimag kharab ho gaya kya! I’ll throw you out right now if you try that again!"

A neighbour peeked out, adjusting her mangalsutra, whispering to her son to stay inside. Her voice echoed like a police siren, drawing more faces to the doors. She brandished a rolling pin, pointing it at me.

Her name is Aunty Radha—my landlady.

Everyone in the building called her "Red-lips Radha" behind her back. She was known for her temper and for defending her dog more fiercely than her own grandchildren.

I didn’t dare talk back. If I lost this place, I’d never find a cheaper one.

In Lucknow, rents were rising every month, and the police always sided with the landlord. I pasted on a sheepish grin.

I forced a smile and apologised.

"Aunty Radha, I wouldn’t dare hurt your Sheru. But you really should keep him leashed—if he bites someone, that’ll be trouble..."

I tried to sound respectful, hands folded in front of my chest. I even took off my chappals at her door, hoping to pacify her.

Aunty Radha jabbed a finger at me, spittle flying.

"If he bites someone, I’ll pay! But if you so much as touch my precious son, I’ll show you!"

Her bangles jingled as she gestured wildly. The neighbours chuckled behind their doors, enjoying the drama.

Her eyes slid over Meera, then she spat hard on the ground.

"Don’t bring this kind of woman back again. I don’t want my house dirtied. Just look at her—she reeks of it..."

She made a show of sniffing the air, then spat noisily onto the floor, muttering, "Bad character, these jail-returned types."

She scooped up Sheru and stomped off, hips swaying.

Sheru whimpered in her arms, shooting one last hateful glance at us. Aunty Radha’s nightie billowed behind her like a cape as she disappeared down the corridor.

I gave Meera an awkward smile and led her inside.

I said, "Ignore her, yaar. Old hag’s like this with everyone." Meera smiled weakly, clutching her torn salwar. I opened the door, ushering her in as quickly as possible.

Though the building was old, I’d fixed up the flat: wallpaper, ambient lights, even a cheap carpet.

I’d stuck Bollywood movie posters on the walls, put fairy lights around the window, and covered the stains with bright bedsheets. The fridge hummed noisily in the corner, a constant reminder of my struggle to make things look presentable.

I found her a set of pyjamas and pointed to the guest room.

She held the borrowed pyjamas to her chest, eyes flickering with doubt, before slipping quietly into the bathroom. They were a little tight, leftovers from an ex, but they’d have to do. "Yeh lo, change kar lo. Washroom wahaan hai," I said, pointing down the narrow hallway.

"Take a shower and wash away the bad luck. You’ll sleep there tonight."

I said it lightly, but my tone was meant to comfort. The guest room was barely bigger than a store room, but at least the bedsheet was clean.

Meera thanked me, took the clothes, and went to the bathroom.

She shut the door softly behind her. I heard the shower start, the pipes groaning with effort. I used the time to straighten up the hall, fluff the pillows, and clear away any evidence of previous guests.

I lit an agarbatti, dimmed the lights, and put on a sentimental Hindi song.

I chose an old Lata Mangeshkar number, letting her voice fill the room. The agarbatti’s sandalwood scent curled into every corner, covering up the mustiness. Outside, the sounds of utensils clashing and children shouting faded into the background.

Poured two glasses of cheap sparkling wine, and waited for her to come out.

The bottle popped open with a fizz, splashing a little on the carpet. I poured the drink into two steel tumblers—no fancy glasses in my house, but it would do. The fizzing wine in steel tumblers tasted sharp, nothing like the sweet Rooh Afza she’d sipped earlier. My palms were sweaty with anticipation.

Everyone has needs.

Even the most innocent, after years of deprivation, will look for comfort, for escape. I told myself this as I rehearsed my lines one more time.

After years in jail, most women can’t resist this kind of atmosphere. Once they’re a little tipsy, they throw themselves at me.

I’d seen it happen. The glow of the lights, the music, the promise of a new beginning—who could say no?

This trick has never failed, and I was sure it would work on Meera too.

I grinned, picturing the look on her face when she stepped out, vulnerable and trusting. My heart pounded with anticipation.

Soon, the bathroom door opened.

Steam billowed out, and Meera stepped into the light. She hesitated at the doorway, adjusting the pyjama waistband, her hair wet and loose around her shoulders.

Meera, fresh from the shower, made me stare.

Water droplets clung to her cheeks. Her skin glowed in the dim light, and she looked almost ethereal, like a heroine from a black-and-white film. She wiped her feet on the mat, careful not to slip.

The pyjamas were carefully chosen—tight, silky, perfectly showing off her figure.

The shirt hugged her curves, the pants riding low on her waist. I congratulated myself on the choice—just enough to tempt, just enough to keep her off-balance.

In the dim light, her skin looked dazzlingly fair.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, blushing as she caught me staring. The room felt hot, the air thick with expectation.

She sat beside me, giving a shy smile.

Her knees barely touched mine, but the contact sent a jolt up my spine. She looked at the glass in my hand, hesitating.

The scents of incense, shampoo, and her own fragrance mixed together, making me feel like I was about to combust.

It was intoxicating—a blend of all the things I desired. Even the agarbatti seemed to burn faster, the smoke curling around her like a veil.

I raised my glass to her:

"Congratulations on starting a new life."

I tried to make my voice sound sincere, but there was a tremor of excitement I couldn’t hide.

Her eyes sparkled as she downed her drink in one go.

She finished it with a single gulp, coughing a little, then giggling in embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

After a few rounds, I slid closer to her. When our arms touched, I trembled all over.

The wine worked its magic. Her shoulders relaxed, her laughter grew louder. I watched the way her lips parted, the way she glanced at me through her lashes.

I put my arm around her shoulders, gazed into her eyes, and leaned in for a kiss.

She froze, startled. For a moment, I thought she would give in, but instead she tensed, her body rigid beneath my arm.

But to my surprise, Meera pushed me away.

Her hands pressed against my chest, gentle but firm. I could feel her heartbeat through the thin fabric.

Her cheeks flushed red, and she dashed into the bedroom, covering her face.

She didn’t slam the door, but the sound of it closing was final. For a moment, only the ceiling fan’s slow creak filled the room. I stared after her, stunned.

I cursed under my breath, punching the sofa.

My fist left a dent in the cheap cushion. "Saala!" I muttered. The agarbatti burned down to a stub.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Mosquitoes buzzed around my head. I tossed and turned, the bedsheet sticking to my back with sweat. I heard the fridge click on and off, the ceiling fan squeaking in rhythm with my restless thoughts.

Meera’s face, her body, her scent—they played over and over in my mind.

I pressed the pillow over my face, trying to banish the images. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw her standing in the bathroom doorway, hair wet, eyes downcast.

This delicacy—Meera—I had to taste it for myself.

I made a promise to myself. Tomorrow, one way or another, she would be mine. I drifted into a restless sleep, dreams haunted by her laughter and the scent of sandalwood.