Chapter 17: The Last Roti and a Summer Storm

Under Anjali’s haath, the dough became little balls, then gol rotis, which she flipped on the tawa. Quick flip, done.

These too for Jitendra—rotis with mirchi, his favourite. Mirchi with rice was too teekha, but wrapped in roti, perfect.

Log ignore what they can’t see, even if they know andar hi andar.

As the last roti came off, Anjali felt a wave of udaasi. Tears welled up, and as she bent for the roti, a tear dropped on the tawa—sizzled, smoke puffed.

She stared at the dhuan, lost, till it faded. Then she wiped her aansu, hurried to wash the kadhai.

Outside, temple bell rang again; duniya carried on. Inside, her dil ached, chupke se.

“She was a good aurat—every time I left, she would cry chupke se.”

“But later, I found out she was just acting.”

First line, Jitendra said paanch saal pehle.

Second, he said paanch saal baad.

When he said the second, Jitendra bowed his head and wept.

Even now, his aansu fell like baarish in the garmi. No one in the thana could meet his eyes. In Indian gaon, sometimes one kahani breaks your dil twice.

Outside, the summer wind rattled the windowpanes. Somewhere, a phone buzzed—a new clue, or just another afwaah?