Chapter 2: Lines in the Dust

Separated by the jaali screen, I couldn’t see Arjun’s expression clearly. But from his tone—completely lacking any apology—it wasn’t hard to guess. He was still the same cold and aloof person, as if nothing could shake his composure.

The jaali cast lacy shadows on the marble floor. I could just make out the outline of his kurta, crisp and starched, standing at attention. Not even a cough or shuffle—he had perfected this indifferent manner. Sometimes I wondered if even a cyclone would fail to ruffle his hair.

I once thought I was special to him. After all, our fathers were close friends, and we could be considered childhood companions. On Eid, our families would share sheer khurma, and I’d watch Arjun sneak extra seviyan into his bowl when he thought no one was looking. Those were simpler days—summer afternoons spent flying kites from the rooftop, our laughter mixing with the cries of the kite sellers in Aminabad. My father and his would sip chai together, comparing old stories from university, sometimes glancing at us and saying, ‘Dekho, maybe these two will become dulha-dulhan someday!’ The elders always laughed, and we pretended not to hear, though my cheeks would flush.

But it wasn’t until Meera arrived in Mumbai that I understood what it meant to distinguish between near and distant.

Everything changed with her arrival, like a new player introduced in the last over. Meera’s presence was gentle yet insistent—a soft wind that found its way into every room. Suddenly, I was aware of the boundaries in our lives, invisible lines that left me standing on the periphery, watching the two of them from afar.

Arjun, who always kept people at arm’s length, would accompany her to Diwali melas, buy her jhumkas, personally teach her the customs of the city, and even worry that she might be mistreated by her Chacha ji and Mausi, so he brought her into the family bungalow to take care of her.

I would watch from the kitchen, kneading dough while they laughed over firecrackers, Arjun carefully choosing the least spicy chaat for Meera at the fair. The other women in the family would nudge each other, whispering, ‘Such a responsible boy, that Arjun. Any girl would be lucky!’ But it was always Meera at his side—her hands full of sweets and her hair newly adorned with the jhumkas he selected.

All this, only because Mr. Sharma, before his death, had entrusted him with his only daughter.

‘Guru dakshina’—the old ladies murmured approvingly. In our circle, a guru’s last wish was not a trivial matter. To break that trust would bring not just personal shame, but the risk of society’s wagging tongues.

In our community, gurus are highly respected, so Arjun’s actions did not draw criticism. On the contrary, people praised him for his gentlemanly conduct.

At every gathering—whether Holi or the Ganesh visarjan—there were always whispers: ‘Arjun beta is fulfilling his dharma.’ My mother once told me, ‘Beta, such respect for one’s teacher is rare these days. We should be proud.’ But the words never brought me comfort; if anything, they tightened the knot in my chest.

Last winter, the three of us went to the mandir to light diyas. It suddenly began to rain outside. Arjun was worried the slippery road would be dangerous, so he took the only umbrella and escorted Meera down the steps first. As expected, the heavy rain blocked the main road, and I waited in the mandir for a whole day and night before my father came to fetch me.

I remember sitting on the cold stone steps, rain dripping from the temple eaves, my wet dupatta clinging to my back. The priest offered me a cup of steaming chai as the night deepened. My phone had no signal; the city seemed vast and indifferent. The diyas flickered out one by one, just as my hope did. By midnight, the temple bell tolled and my dupatta was so soaked it clung to my legs like a second skin. By morning, my father’s white Ambassador finally appeared, headlights cutting through the mist.

At the spring Holi party this March, Meera accidentally picked the marigold most beloved by the MLA’s daughter. She was so frightened that her face turned pale. Arjun immediately placed the flower in my hair, saying that Meera was new to Mumbai and had no family background. If she were reprimanded by a big shot, she would hardly be able to establish herself in the city. Fortunately, the MLA’s daughter and my mother were close friends, so she wasn’t angry. Instead, she praised me for having the spirit of “grabbing life while it blooms.”

The party was in full swing, with colours staining the air, laughter echoing from the garden. The smell of wet earth and rang filled the air, and I could taste sugar from the gujiya still on my tongue. I had just finished applying gulal to Sneha’s cheeks when I saw Meera, hands trembling, the marigold dangling between her fingers. Before I could speak, Arjun stepped forward, his words smooth as silk: ‘Priya, this suits you much better, hai na?’ He tucked the flower behind my ear, his hand cold against my skin. Everyone clapped, but inside, I felt strangely hollow, as if I was a prop in someone else’s play.

I am not without a temper. But whenever I got angry, Arjun would always say, “Taking care of Meera was entrusted to me by my guru—I dare not disobey.”

His words felt like a brick wall—impenetrable, leaving no room for argument. In front of others, I would force a smile, hiding my disappointment behind a veil of poise. Later, alone in my room, I would tear at my pillow, biting my lip to stifle the sobs.

Those secret feelings of mine would suddenly get stuck in my throat—bitter and hard to express. I could only put on a dignified and generous appearance, treating Meera as a younger sister.

Society expected nothing less. ‘Arey, Priya is so mature, such a samajhdar girl!’ aunties would say. I would braid Meera’s hair, choose her bangles, and act the perfect elder sister, even as my heart twisted with every sacrifice.

The prayer beads from Siddhivinayak, the hair accessories from the Gold Plaza, the paintings from famous artists—as long as she asked, I would hand them over. Each time I gave away something of mine, I told myself it was only a thing—yet it felt like losing a little piece of myself. But the two of them took my efforts for granted.

It became a routine—Meera’s requests, my silent compliance, Arjun’s approving nods. Sometimes I wondered if they even noticed the pattern. Maybe, for them, my generosity was simply a given, something as ordinary as the evening news or the hum of the fridge.

That day on the polo field, Meera knew very well that the prize was my Bua ji’s keepsake, yet she still begged me to win it for her. I refused, and she looked so aggrieved, as if I had bullied her. Those around me all advised me to give in to Meera, the orphaned girl. Arjun also looked at me with dissatisfaction, blaming me for not being generous enough. Seeing that I was determined to refuse, he simply entered the field himself, intent on winning the hairpin for Meera.

I saw it all—the way her lower lip trembled, the way Arjun’s gaze sharpened when I said no. The crowd murmured, ‘Bas, Priya, let her have it, na? She’s suffered so much already.’ But for once, I stood my ground. The look Arjun gave me was one I will never forget—a mix of annoyance and disappointment, as though I had failed some unspoken test. He didn’t hesitate before picking up his mallet and charging onto the field, all for Meera’s sake.

In the midst of the sharp pain, I suddenly understood. The person Mr. Sharma entrusted was Arjun. Why should I get myself entangled in this mess?

The pain was a revelation—blunt, undeniable, and somehow freeing. That day, as I limped off the field, I realised I was not the one owed anything. The threads tying me to Arjun snapped quietly, like the beads of my broken anklet.