Chapter 3: Ma’s Blessings and Mumbai Stairs

"Beta Rohan, if things don’t work out, just come home."

Ma’s voice crackled over the cheap mobile, full of love and worry. I balanced the phone between my ear and shoulder, shifting my luggage from one hand to the other to give my sore arms a break.

The auto driver looked at me, eyebrows raised, as if wondering why I was dragging two suitcases by myself on such a hot day. Sweat pooled at my temples. I wondered if Ma could sense it from so far away.

"It’s fine, Ma. I found a place—it’s really spacious."

It was a small lie, but Ma always worried. I could almost see her on the verandah, dupatta pulled tight, eyes fixed on the temple calendar as she prayed for me.

"It’s not easy being out there on your own."

Her sigh said more than her words—a mother’s way of reminding you to eat on time, sleep well, and not let the world harden you.

"But I can’t come home. If the neighbours find out I graduated and am just sitting at home mooching off you, who knows what gossip they’ll spread behind our backs."

In our colony, tongues wag faster than the fans. I remembered last year, when the Sharma boy failed his CA exams—his poor mother still doesn’t hear the end of it.

"Let them talk."

That’s what Ma said, but I knew even she hated the stares and whispers at the temple.

"Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later."

I tried to sound cheerful, so she wouldn’t hear the exhaustion. After I hung up, the rental agent beside me gave me a sympathetic look.

"Just graduated, huh? It’s tough for everyone at first, but it gets better. When I first graduated..."

His tone was the same as those retired uncles in parks, eager to share their struggles. I waved him off, not in the mood for his motivational speech.

"Still got more stairs to climb?"

"Seventh floor. Just two more."

"Arrey yaar."

I muttered, half-cursing my fate, as if the entire building was conspiring to make my legs give up. My shirt stuck to my back. Old building, seventh floor was the top, no lift, shared flat. All the drawbacks stacked together—that’s how the legend of ₹2,000 a month rent was born.

In my head, I pictured my father’s shocked face: "Seventh floor? No lift? Paagal hai kya?"

After finally making it up, the agent politely knocked on the door.

Each knock echoed like a tabla in the empty corridor. I wiped my brow with a gamcha and tried not to look too desperate.

A moment later, a pretty, quiet-looking woman cracked the door open a bit.

Her eyes flicked from the agent to me, suspicion clouding her face, as if she was calculating if I was a decent type or the kind you warn your daughters about.

"Who are you?"

"Oh, Priya, remember? I’m the agent. Here’s someone new coming to share the flat."

The girl—Priya—opened the door wider, adjusted her dupatta nervously, and hurried inside. Her eyes flicked to my luggage, sizing me up, maybe judging if I was trustworthy.

Her footsteps were quick, her eyes downcast—typical of someone used to avoiding unnecessary conversation in the city.

"Um, can we come in?"

"Sure."

Her answer was soft, almost drowned out by the hum of the ceiling fan. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and looked around. The flat was actually quite spacious: three bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom—over 160 square metres.

In my mind, I calculated: if only Ma could see this place, she’d say, “Beta, itna bada ghar mil gaya? Koi chakkar toh nahi hai?”

"Rohan, let me introduce you."

My gaze followed the agent’s finger as if he were a general pointing out territory on a map.