Mulshi Pattern – Chapter 3

Janardan

(Continued from Chapter 2)

After Vishu and I had decided that we must tell our parents about our decision to get married, I told my mother one Wednesday evening. "Aai, we are having a special guest tomorrow evening.

"Who is that?" Aai asked.

"Your future daughter-in-law."

As expected, Aai was shocked. For a while she said nothing, and then she said, "Don't make fun of an old woman. Tell me the truth."

I told her I was speaking in all seriousness. I told her Vishakha's name, about our friendship of so many years, what she was doing now, about her family — everything I knew.

Aai was extremely pleased, but she also grew anxious. "Janu, how can we receive her in this poor family's room? What will she think of me?"

I told Aai that Vishakha knew everything already and had great respect for her. She should not worry at all.

The next day, Aai cleaned up our room as best she could. The single steel chair was folded away, and the mattresses were spread out with a new bedcover. She also cooked something sweet, and asked me to bring a few paper plates and cups. I had no idea why these were needed, but I got them anyway.

The following evening, I went to Vishakha's work site, and we rode back together on our vehicles to Navi Peth. After parking, Vishakha adjusted her dress. That day she was wearing a long kurta and salwar, not the tight churidars or jeans she usually wore. She had wrapped her dupatta across her chest, its ends hanging from her shoulders. She looked, to me, like the perfect would-be daughter-in-law.

We came up to our room. Vishakha slipped off her sandals and walked in. Aai was dressed in a new saree we had bought the previous Diwali.

I introduced Vishakha to Aai. She moved forward at once and touched Aai's feet. Aai told her to sit on the mattress, and Vishakha sat with both knees folded, very gracefully. I could not stop looking at her.

After the pleasantries, my mother wanted to know many things about her, and Vishakha answered everything most beautifully. Then Aai got up and served us shira and coffee in paper plates and cups. When we finished, Vishakha rose and asked Aai where she should put the used plates and cups. Aai simply produced a garbage bag, and everything went into it. Only then did I understand her plan — we had no water tap inside the room, and Vishakha would have had to go out to the common tap to wash the dishes, which Aai had wanted to avoid.

After a little more conversation, it was time to leave. Aai pressed red kunku onto Vishakha's forehead and handed her an envelope. I learned later it held a note for five hundred rupees. Vishakha touched Aai's feet once more, and for no reason at all, both women had tears in their eyes.

When I came back into the room, I found Aai in the happiest of moods. She admitted that I had found a good wife for myself, and she was already looking forward to the wedding.

After dinner, Aai told me, "Janu, you must search for a new house for the two of you."

"What do you mean?" I said. "We are not leaving you here alone. You will have to come with us too."

"Let's see," was all she said.

The following Sunday, I rode my motorbike to Vishakha's house — a small two-room dwelling on Pune–Mulshi Road. It was much like ours, except they had a kitchen platform, a single steel bed, and a water tap inside what they called their kitchen. Compared to our room, it looked like sheer luxury.

Vishakha's parents received me very warmly. Her mother had cooked several dishes, and her father was full of questions — about our family, our ancestral village, my father's and grandfather's names. He told me he knew the talathi, the local land-records clerk, and would try to find out about my ancestral land. After that, I came back home.

With both visits behind us, I began, in earnest, my search for at least a two-room house that would suit us both.

We kept meeting on Thursdays and Sundays, Vishakha always waiting for good news, and week after week I had only disappointment to bring her. I soon realised it was almost impossible to find a two-room dwelling in Pune within our budget. Nothing of the sort existed unless we looked nearly forty kilometres outside the city, which was simply not practical. Landlords wanted enormous deposits — money we did not have. For a young couple like us, the reality was harsh, and hardest of all for Vishakha.

After two months, I told her there was no point searching any longer — it was impossible. Both of us, and Vishakha's parents too, were deeply disappointed.

Strangely, Aai showed no reaction at all. I assumed she was simply more realistic than the rest of us, and had expected this outcome all along.

Another blow came from Vishakha's father. The family's land records had been so thoroughly falsified after my father's death that undoing them would have meant a long and costly legal battle.

We were both completely down in the dumps, not knowing what to do. Those were dark, dejected days for me.

The following Thursday, after I met Vishakha, she suggested we go to a nearby park to talk — in the coffee house, with eavesdroppers always listening, it was hard to speak freely. We went and sat close together in a quiet corner. Vishakha told me that flat or no flat, her father insisted our marriage take place after Diwali that year.

I wanted to say something, but one look at her face silenced me. Then she said she thought that, to begin with, we would have to live in her family's Bhukum flat, since there was no other way.

I had to agree, setting my pride aside, though it was a hard decision to make. Just then, a thought struck me. This was fate's own tit-for-tat — I had once carried Vishakha piggyback on our picnic to get past an obstacle, and now she was carrying me, in a manner of speaking, past another one. I burst out laughing. Vishakha looked puzzled, so I told her what had crossed my mind, and she began laughing too. We gave this small, out-of-the-box arrangement a name that day — "Mulshi Pattern." It became a favourite phrase among all our friends.

I brought the subject up with Aai. She had watched all my efforts over those two months and seen how disappointed we both were. She said nothing at first, only asked when Vishakha could come to our house again, preferably mid-morning.

"Is it important?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

Within the week, I arranged for Vishakha to visit. When she arrived, Aai was already dressed and ready. The three of us walked to the end of our lane, then further along another, about half a kilometre from our house, and stopped beside a new building that was just about ready for occupation.

We went into the builder's office and sat down. After a while, the builder appeared — he seemed to know Aai, and welcomed her warmly. Aai told him we wanted to see a flat. Vishakha and I were utterly bewildered by then, but we kept quiet and followed. We climbed two floors and entered a flat — two bedrooms, a hall, a kitchen, the whole arrangement complete. Aai asked Vishakha to walk through it and tell us whether she liked it. We went around together, and Vishakha said she loved it. There was nothing about it not to love.

We went back downstairs and sat again in the builder's office. He turned to my mother. "So, Girijabai, what have you decided?"

"Yes," my mother said, "we like it. I have brought one lakh in cash with me. Give me a receipt and complete the paperwork — I will pay the full price at the time of registration."

"Okay," the builder said. He took the cash and handed Aai a receipt.

Then my mother turned to Vishakha and called her "Sunbai" — respected daughter-in-law. "I may be poor now," she said, "but I want my daughter-in-law to enter a proper Shinde family household as a bride, after her marriage. Remember — I too am a daughter-in-law of the Shinde family, and a daughter of the Mane family. I cannot have it any other way, come what may."

We went nearby afterward and had lunch, Vishakha still speechless from the turn of events. Before she left, my mother told her, "Ask your father to arrange a proper sakharpuda, an engagement ceremony. From our side, only four of us will come — the two of us, Nana Joag, and Vahini." Then Aai smiled, a smile I had not seen on her face in many, many years.

Once home, I asked her, "What is all this about? Where did you get the money? I must know — why didn't you tell me before?"

Aai promised to tell me everything, the whole story. She had kept quiet, she said, only so that Vishakha and I could see for ourselves how hard it truly was to find a house.

Then she took me back to the time of my father's death. My father had suffered from cancer, and he knew that his brothers would never allow his widow and son to remain in the family home after he was gone. He had an old, close friend from his school days, Nana Joag — a man I knew well, and who had helped us many times over the years. When my father learned of his illness, he wrote to Nana, telling him that after his death, his widow would most likely come to Pune, and asking his oldest friend to look after her. Nana had agreed without hesitation.

After my father died, one night my Aaji — his mother — came into my mother's room past midnight and woke her. She warned her that the brothers, who had already turned against her, would likely drive her out of the house the next day. She handed my mother a cloth-wrapped parcel and said it held all her jewellery, including what she had brought from her own parents' home. "Keep this hidden," she said, "and take it with you. I will take you to my brother's place myself, and from there we will decide what to do next."

Just as predicted, my uncles picked a bitter fight with Aaji the next day and told her plainly — either my mother stayed, or they would. Aaji answered that Girija would go, but on one condition only: she would not walk out like a beggar, but leave in their own bullock cart, and Aaji herself would take her to her brother's house to decide what came next. So the two of them left together.

Once there, my mother made it clear she had no intention of staying at her parents' place in her present condition — she wanted to go to Pune instead. My Aaji's brother agreed, and accompanied her there a day or two later, to Nana Joag's house.

Nana lived in a large wada in Shaniwar Peth. He welcomed Aai and found her temporary lodging, and helped her with some money besides. Later, when my mother asked him about keeping her jewellery safe, he took her to his bank, opened a savings account in her name, and rented a vault for her. He also deposited some cash into the account. Slowly, he helped settle her into our room in Navi Peth and introduced her to the work of rolling incense sticks. Over the next twenty-two-odd years, Aai had to sell a few pieces of jewelry to cover my school fees and other expenses, but most of it remained untouched. She had decided long ago that when I married, she would use that gold to buy us a proper house.

I could not say a word. I cried that day like a small child.

Afterward, Aai said, "I have given you a proper house. Now it is your duty, the two of you, to make it a home."

I could only agree. The following Sunday, when I told all of this to Vishakha in the park, she too fell silent. All she said, finally, was that she would try to be as good a daughter-in-law to the Shinde family as Aai herself had been.

Aai, however, would not be moved on one point — when I raised the idea of her moving in with us to the new house, she put her foot down firmly. She told me that under no circumstances would she leave Navi Peth. That was her world, and there she would stay. No amount of persuading, from either Vishakha or me, could change her mind.

I sometimes wonder if women possess some special intuitive power that we do not. Perhaps that is why Vishakha had, from the very beginning, been suggesting the exact arrangement I had once opposed so strongly.

With our final agreement given, Vishakha's parents began preparations for the engagement ceremony. It was planned as a simple function — Vishakha's family, a few relatives, friends, and members of the Mulshi Club were invited. From our side, only four attended: my mother, Nana, Vahini, and I.

My mother had one more surprise in store. Since we could not afford gold rings, we had planned to exchange silver ones instead. But at the ceremony, Aai produced two gold rings — a smaller one for me, and one for Vishakha — and asked us to exchange them. From her bag she also drew out a saree, which she gave to Vishakha to drape right then. Vishakha looked so lovely and so happy that day. Vishakha's father presented me with new clothes in turn. Afterward, we shared some snacks, and the function came to a close.

That evening, I met Vishakha again. She suggested we go for a ride, and once we had started, she asked — why not go to Bhukum and see her flat? I told her we did not have the keys. She only said, "Let's go," and I had to turn the bike toward Bhukum. Vishakha loved riding pillion, her arms wrapped around me, her head resting against my back.

When we reached the flat, we went in and closed the latch behind us. Vishakha crossed the room almost running toward me, and neither of us could hold back any longer. I opened my arms, and she came into them. We stood like that for a long time before we kissed, on the mouth, again and again.

After months — perhaps years — of holding back everything we felt, we finally talked, and talked, and talked.

After one more round of parting kisses, we left for Vishakha's home in the happiest of moods. All our troubles seemed gone. After such a long stretch of hardship, fortune, at last, was smiling on us. It need not be mentioned that we paid many more visits to Bhukum flat later, quite often. 

(Concluded)

(All characters places except for geographical names events actions of people are fictional. Any similarity found is purely accidental. All images AI generated)

Mulshi Pattern – Chapter 2

 

Vishakha

(Continued from Chapter 1)

It was past nine in the morning when I finally made my appearance in the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from my eyes. My father was already at breakfast, and he looked up, surprised. "Don't you have to go to work? It's past nine already."

"Come on, Baba, today is Sunday — my weekly off."

"Oh! I forgot," he said, chuckling at himself.

My mother chipped in from the stove. "Vishu, I've made hot thalipeeth — want some?"

"I'll be back in five minutes," I said, and hurried off to freshen up.

After breakfast and tea, Baba turned serious. "So, what have you decided? Should we start looking for a suitable boy for you? You have a job, you have your own flat — why wait any longer?"

"Baba! I told you to wait."

"No, beta. Our deadline ends in another week. You asked us for six months, and even that is nearly over. Your mother feels it's high time we got you married." His tone left no room for argument.

Now it was Aai's turn. "No more waiting, Vishu. What Baba says is right. If you like someone, either settle things with him, or we start looking for a proposal ourselves."

I frowned, but she was in no mood to be swayed.

"Okay, Aai, I'll give you my decision by next Sunday," I said, closing the discussion before it could go further.

After lunch, I casually asked my mother, "When do you plan to move into the new flat in Bhukum?"

"Who's moving there? We can't — your father's workplace would be too far, and how would your brother manage school from there? We're going to rent it out instead."

"Then how am I supposed to move into my flat after I marry, when my workplace is in Pune?" I asked.

"Who says you'll be moving there? Won't you be going to your husband's house? Isn't that how it works?" Mother said it so plainly, as if stating the obvious. I turned instantly to my father. He simply nodded, offering no objection.

Good God, what a fool I have been! A wave of relief washed over me so suddenly it left me almost breathless. For weeks, this very question — where we would live — had been the sticking point tearing at my relationship with Janardan, stretching it to its limit.

I told my mother I was tired and wanted to rest. Once I lay down, my mind raced back through the events of the last few weeks.

Until then, everything with Janardan had been smooth sailing. Then one day, Father came home with big news — their family land near Poud Road was being acquired by the government to build a new road. In return, the family would receive compensation, either in cash or in alternate land elsewhere. Since there were several beneficiaries, Father struck a private deal among them, trading his share of the land for cash outright. With the generous sum he received, he bought two flats in Bhukum — one for himself, and one for me, an investment, a father's gift. And foolishly, I had begun dreaming of a life there.

My first instinct was to run and tell Janardan everything. But then I stopped myself — handing him this news would be like putting a loaded gun in the hands of a child. He would never let me live it down; he'd tease me about it for the rest of our lives. Instead, I sent him a WhatsApp message: Urgent. Come by the earlier bus and meet me in Deccan at our usual place by 5 PM.

Janardan never carried his phone onto the shop floor at the factory — it distracted him from his work — so he only checked his messages during lunch. That day, just as he was heading back to the floor after lunch, my message flashed across his screen. He gave nothing away. Calmly, he told his boss that something urgent had come up and that he needed to leave early, then caught the first shift bus out, reaching Deccan just before five.

When he walked into our usual coffee house, I was already there, practically buzzing, my eyes bright with excitement.

"What's happened? Why the message?" Janardan asked, his voice deliberately cool. But I knew him well enough by now to see through it — that composure was just a mask. He was every bit as anxious about us as I was.

I told him I had wonderful news — that I had managed to convince my parents that a bride's true home is wherever the groom lives, which meant I would go to my husband's house, wherever that might be.

He looked at me, suddenly alert. "What do you mean, your husband's house?"

"It's simple, Janu. My husband is the man who proposes to me — and to whom I say yes."

Understanding dawned on his face. Then, in a gesture entirely unlike him, he moved closer and whispered in my ear, "Will you marry me, dear Vishakha?"

My face must have lit up like a lamp. "Yes, of course," I said. I think he wanted to tell me, too, that he'd been on the verge of giving in about the Bhukum flat — that he'd finally realized he simply couldn't imagine life without me. But he said nothing. Some things are better left unsaid.

With every misunderstanding swept away, we slipped back into the closeness that had been suspended for last few weeks. Janardan's priority now was to find at least a two-room tenement and move in — enough to get us through until the wedding, after which we could look for something bigger. I, meanwhile, would announce at home that I had found my future husband, and would soon bring Janardan to meet Aai and Baba. He, in turn, would say nothing to his mother until they had shifted to the new place.

We stepped out of the coffee house into the gathering dusk and stood close together beside my scooter. Without warning, Janardan placed his hand on the small of my back, drawing me firmly against him. A strange, unfamiliar pleasure surged through me, and my throat went dry. "Hmm," I breathed — the very same sound I had made the day we crossed the stream together, that same electric current passing between us. Then, quietly, we said our goodbyes, and I rode home.

Even after I reached home, my hands were still trembling faintly, and it took real effort to steady myself. That night, sleep wouldn't come. I could still feel the ghost of Janu's hand on my back. Memory after memory surfaced — his shy introduction all those years ago, his help in the carpentry and smithy workshops, the picnic at Ancole. The day we girls couldn't cross the torrent, and how coolly Janu had turned back for us, calling us his sisters — and my own sudden, fierce reaction: No — I am not your sister. The piggyback ride that followed, when I wasn't quite myself anymore. And afterward, the way he had looked at me — that single moment that bound our hearts together for good.

I remembered, too, how we had come to know each other's families. How deep a respect I had developed for his mother — how, after being driven out of their joint family home following his father's death, she had raised Janu single-handedly and made an engineer of him. We knew each other's hopes and ambitions as if they were our own.

By the end of our second year, a kind of quiet possessiveness had grown between us. And then, almost simultaneously, we both realized we were standing at the edge of a precipice — that the smallest push might send us both tumbling down, wrecking our futures and our careers alike.

Janu was the one who suggested we freeze things between us and focus on our studies instead. I agreed. We cut off contact entirely. In time, both of us were picked up through campus placements — Janu as a supervisor at a large engineering firm, and I as a site engineer with a major construction company building housing projects across Pune.

We both passed our diplomas with flying colours and started our jobs. Yet somehow, through all of it, our relationship stayed frozen. We lost touch with each other almost completely.

Then, one of the boys from our Mulshi group invited us all to his house for a puja. There, nearly two years later, I saw Janu again. Gone was every trace of the boy I remembered — before me now stood a strong, capable, self-assured man. The old flame caught instantly, burning fiercer than before. Gone, too, was his old shyness, that self-pitying edge that had once come from years of financial hardship.

After the puja, we all stepped outside. I wore a yellow Tussar silk saree that evening — I had always known yellow suited me well. I had filled out a little over the past few years, my figure fuller now than it had been. I noticed, even before he said a word, that Janu was staring — transfixed, as though seeing me for the very first time. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Just to torment him a little, I kept toying with the pallu of my saree, which only seemed to fascinate him further.

As everyone drifted off on their bikes, I realized only Janu had come by rickshaw — and only my scooter remained parked there. We were, quite suddenly, alone.

After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "Vishu, how are you?" It wasn't a simple question — not between the two of us. I answered as I knew I should, aware that letting this moment slip away might mean losing it forever. I took his hand in mine, pressed it gently, and said, "Janu, I've been waiting for your call. You never called."

He confessed, quietly, that he'd been afraid to call — afraid he might already have lost me. When he saw the tears gathering in my eyes, he understood everything at once. I asked if I could drop him somewhere. "Let's go to Deccan," he said, "and sit in the coffee house."

As if by magic, our relationship began to bloom again from that evening on. Every Thursday, he would come to my site in the evening, and we would go out together. On Sundays, I would wait for him at the coffee house, and off we'd go.

I began waiting, quietly, for the question I knew was coming. He wanted to ask it too — desperately — but first he had to solve the problem of where we would live. Marriage was unthinkable as long as he remained in his cramped one-room dwelling. By then, my father had bought the  flat for me, and I thought — foolishly, as it turned out — that it was the perfect solution to his problem.

There was a complication, though. I worried that his mother, having lived her whole life amid the crowded lanes of Navi Peth, would struggle to adjust to a flat in Bhukum. So I insisted she remain behind in Navi Peth, alone. I never imagined how deeply this idea would wound Janu — to him, his mother was nothing short of a goddess. Both of us dug in, each certain our own solution was the right one. It was my mother's offhand remark that finally opened my eyes: a woman must learn to respect the pride of her man, the way we accept so many other unspoken truths as natural, rather than trying to force her will upon him. What a wife wants, I realized, can be won far more gently — through a little feminine charm.

Once that small storm in a teacup had passed, it felt as though every obstacle between us had finally cleared, and I found the courage to tell my parents about Janu. Naturally, they wanted to meet him. I explained our scheduling problem — his weekly off fell on Thursdays, mine on Sundays — and promised that on our next common holiday, he would come to meet them properly.

My dreams, at last, were beginning to take shape. Everything, it seemed, had fallen neatly into place. Then, the following Thursday, Janu told me he needed to buy a motorcycle — without one, he said, searching for a flat in Pune would be next to impossible. I agreed wholeheartedly, and we spent the evening happily debating brands, prices, and preferences. He told me he had his eye on a particular one but would defer entirely to my wishes. Since our schedules made it impossible to visit the showroom together, I simply told him which colour I liked and what accessories he'd need to carry me on the pillion seat.

About a fortnight later, he sent me a photograph of his new bike, then rode it all the way to my site to show it off in person. It was a beautiful machine, and he looked remarkably sharp astride it. I had already begun dreaming, in earnest, of our married life together.

While we sat dreaming about the future, Janu suddenly remembered something. "Vishu, I think I'll have to tell Aai about you."

"Why?" I asked.

"She's already suspicious about the motorbike. If I start hunting for a flat next, she'll never let me hear the end of it. I think it's best I tell her now."

I considered his words, then told him that the following Thursday, I would come with him to meet her. So the day before, he was to break the news to his mother and prepare her for my visit. I suggested, too, that the coming Sunday, we should meet my parents. He liked the idea at once.

Both meetings went beautifully. His mother and my parents welcomed us with open warmth. We were certain, now, that we were on the right path — the only thing left standing between us and the wedding was a flat, one we needed to find before we could tie the knot.

But how little any of us truly know of what the future holds. We were about to find out.

(To be continued in Chapter 3)

(All characters places except for geographical names events actions of people are fictional. Any similarity found is purely accidental. All images AI generated)

Mulshi Pattern – Chapter 1

 Janardan

"After I had returned from my work on that day, I sat absent-mindedly on the only chair in our one-room dwelling, in our chawl in Navi Peth. My mother, draped in a nine-yard saree, was busy with her daily evening chores. She glanced at me now and then but could not figure out why I was sulking, or for what reason. Finally she decided to ask me why I had not even asked for my evening tea. I did not answer at first, then said at last, 'Don't feel like it, Aai.'

As evening shadows darkened, Mother told me to switch on the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the middle of our room. I got up and switched it on. The room filled with the dim yellow light of the old filament bulb. 'Aai, I got a promotion today,' I told her. 'I have become a Chargeman now. My salary will increase by three thousand rupees.' She looked at me in surprise. 'That's very good news — why are you sulking as if your mother has died?' she scolded me, in her blunt village manner. 'Go and get some pedhas and offer them to Ganesha.' She pointed to a small, framed, printed image of the god hanging on the wall.

I got up, slipped my feet into my chappals and left the room. On the way I met one of my co-workers, the only person from my factory who lived nearby. 'Congratulations on becoming a Chargeman. Your life is set now. You can marry now. In another seven or eight years, you'll surely become a foreman. You'll retire as an Assistant Engineer,' he said. 'That is where the problem is — m-marriage,' I muttered.

I bought four pedhas from the halwai on the street corner and returned. 'Why four pedhas?' Mother asked. 'One for Ganesha, one for you, one for me, and one for Chimi, the three-year-old girl from the family living next door,' I told her. Mother found the perfect occasion to needle me. 'How long are you going to dote on the neighbour's child? You should have children of your own. It is high time you got married.' 'Mother, please stop playing the same record. I will tell you when I want to marry. If you're finding it hard to cook, tell me — we will start taking tiffin from Janata Tiffin House from tomorrow.' Mother grew angry. To pacify her, I said, 'If you're all right with it, let's eat. I am hungry.'

We both had our dinner. I rested for a while and later unrolled my thin mattress to lie down. Normally I would not have lain down so early on a Wednesday night, since Thursday was my weekly off. But that day, somehow, I had no wish to talk or chat with anyone. I just wanted to lie down and think.

Mother watched me silently, much troubled. Finally she came near my mattress and sat down. 'Janu, why are you so disturbed? Will you tell me?' I stayed silent. I very much wanted to talk to her, but I simply could not. I just closed my eyes. At last Mother gave up and rose to lie down on her own mattress. Neither of us could sleep — I, because of this strange turn my life had taken, standing as I was at a crossroads before a major decision; she, worrying about me.

As happened every night these days, the moment I closed my eyes to sleep, Vishakha's smiling image rose before me — tormenting rather than comforting my restless mind.

'Vishakha Subhedar' the girl I still remembered from my very first day at the Government Polytechnic, where I had enrolled for a diploma in mechanical engineering. Vishakha too had enrolled there, but for Civil Engineering. In the first year we had a subject called Communication Skills, where students from all streams came together for a single lecture. On the first day, the teacher asked every student to stand up and introduce themselves in four or five sentences of English. Most of us, having come from vernacular schools, found ourselves stuttering and stumbling. I was no exception — my self-introduction was a complete disaster. It was so pathetic that the girl sitting on the next bench prompted me, even though I had not asked for help. As my luck would have it, her turn came right after mine. She introduced herself with such polish and grace that I knew at once she was from an English-medium school.

I had my revenge the very next week. I found the same girl placed in my group for workshop practicals, since our surnames — mine 'Shinde', hers 'Subhedar' — both began with 'S'. Our first practicals were in the Carpentry trade. For me, having studied technical subjects through the eleventh standard, carpentry was easy, almost trivial. Vishakha, however, found it a tough assignment. She watched the fineness with which I finished my work, with open awe, and asked me for help. As a courtesy, I taught her the basics so she could complete her own job.

That was the starting point of our friendship. Still, it took a long time even to break the ice. I wanted to talk to her, but she was always surrounded by other girls. Only once, when I was standing outside the main building, she passed in front of me with her friends and looked at me from the corner of her eye. That single look nearly melted my resolve never to look at her. But another chance did not come for a long while.

My great chance came in the second term, when we had to do blacksmithy in workshop practicals. The smithy instructor, knowing from experience that the girls found smithy work difficult, had paired each girl with a boy from an earlier technical course. Because our surnames both began with 'S', I was paired with Vishakha again, and we were assigned to do the smithy jobs together. Both of us seized the chance to become friends, and by the time the work was done, we had exchanged mobile numbers and added each other to our WhatsApp groups. Photos, jokes, and the usual gossip followed. We soon discovered that both our families had come to Pune from villages around the town of Poud, on the Pune–Mulshi road.

Vishakha's father worked as a car mechanic in the garage of a car distribution company; I, though from the same area, had lost my father at an early age. Vishakha had a younger brother still in school; I was an only child. Early in our friendship I had told Vishakha that I came from a very low-income, almost poor family, with my mother as the sole breadwinner — she rolled incense sticks for a living — and that if she wished to end our friendship on knowing this, I would not mind. Vishakha had told me in return that her family was not well-off either; they too just about managed to survive. We knew almost everything about each other's families, but neither of us truly knew what was in the other's mind.

Perhaps the most important milestone in our friendship came at the start of the second year. In our batch there were four or five boys and three or four girls who had all come from villages in the Mulshi area, from similar farming backgrounds, to study at the Polytechnic. Some of them still had uncles and other relatives living in those villages, though I knew of none of my own. Together we formed a Mulshi Club, to help one another through our difficulties.

In June, soon after classes began, one of the boys proposed a picnic to his village for the members of the Mulshi Club. I was reluctant at first, but when Vishakha asked me to come, I agreed. Most of the girls' parents knew the other boys and gave permission without much fuss. Four boys and three girls finally set out that day by local bus for the village of Ancole. We got down on the main road and walked the half kilometre to the village, where our friend's family lived. Since the rains had not yet begun, the fields were still dry and easy to cross. We played a few games, sang the songs we knew, and enjoyed a simple but hot lunch served by our friend's family. As we ate, black clouds gathered suddenly and rain came pouring down. It rained cats and dogs for the next forty-five minutes, then the clouds vanished as quickly as they had come, and the bright sun reappeared.

This sudden change left the weather wonderfully pleasant, and we were delighted. We started back for home around half past three in the afternoon. The village road was wet but not muddy, and gave us no trouble. Then, beyond a sharp turn, we ran into a major obstacle and stopped in our tracks. Ahead lay a ford — a low water crossing where the road dipped a foot or two — and a furious stream, swollen with the sudden rain, roared across it carrying muddy water. The boys and I saw no real problem; we simply rolled up our trousers and waded across. But the three girls stood frozen with fright on the other bank. No one knew what to do. If we waited too long, we would be late reaching Pune, and everyone at home would worry.

Then, on the spur of the moment, I decided to act — I still do not know why I did it, or whether I would do it again. I crossed back through the roaring stream and stood before the girls. 'Don't worry, my sisters,' I told them. 'I will carry you across piggyback. Just follow my instructions.' The moment I called them 'sisters', I noticed Vishakha step back instinctively. I paid her no attention and turned to the other girls. 'Look — I will bend down in front of you, my back towards you. Put your hands around my neck and hold on. As I rise, wrap your legs around my waist, and I will hold them steady. I will have you across in ten seconds.' The first girl saw that this was the only way across, put her hands around my neck, and her legs around my waist as I rose. I held her by the knees and had her across within ten seconds. I went back and carried the second girl the same way.

Then I turned and came back for Vishakha, and bent before her with my back turned. She put her hands around my neck and her legs around my waist, just as I had instructed. I held her steady by the knees. But then she did something I had not told any of them to do — she embraced me tightly from behind and rested her face against my neck, whispering, 'Hmm.' Since she was on my back, no one else saw what she was doing. I said nothing, but felt an electric wave pass through my entire body. Without a word, I carried Vishakha across and set her down. I looked at her for a second — a look that said far more than words, one that only the two of us understood. A mischievous, naughty smile flickered across her face before she lowered her eyes.

The boys asked me where I had learned this trick. I told them that as young boys we used to play a game called 'Sinbad's Old', in which one boy — usually the smallest — was made king. He would sit on the backs of his teammates in turns and try to touch the boys on the other team; when his carrier tired, he would be shifted to another boy's back. This way of carrying someone is also known as a piggyback in the Boy Scouts, of which I had once been a member.

Everyone gave a clap of appreciation at that.For the rest of the trip Vishakha was unusually quiet, though the others had already forgotten the incident. When we reached Pune, the other two girls thanked me profusely. Vishakha said nothing — only when the other girls prodded her did she offer a quiet thank you. But I alone understood what she was really saying.

That night, for the first time, Vishakha sent me a red heart. When I asked her why she had been so quiet on the way back, there was no reply at all."

(To be continued in Chapter 2)

(All characters places except for geographical names events actions of people are fictional. Any similarity found is purely accidental. All images AI generated)

We Three – Chapter 9

 

A Farewell of sorts

(Continued from Chapter 8)

The next day, after breakfast, Srini told Shripad that she and Kshipra were going out to see Kshipra's house near Pune University. If they found it good enough, they were thinking of shifting there before the fifteenth of August.

Hearing this, Shripad felt relieved, for he had been feeling somewhat guilty that the 'We Three' arrangement was being disturbed because of him. "That should be a good thing," he said. "If you decide to shift there, I'll take full responsibility for moving your things."

"Certainly, why not?" said Srini.

Around ten-thirty in the morning, Kshipra and Srini left for Kshipra's house on her scooter. Srini found it a little difficult to ride pillion at first, but after a few minutes, she settled into it comfortably. After a fairly long ride, they reached a medium-sized bungalow with a small garden surrounding it. Kshipra's maid had already cleaned the house and was waiting for them.

On entering, they found a medium-sized living room furnished with sofas and a few chairs. At one end of the hall was a well-equipped kitchen and a dining room. There were four bedrooms, arranged in pairs, each pair connected by a door. Old-fashioned beds stood in all the bedrooms except one, which was empty. This, Kshipra told Srini, was to be her own bedroom, where she would place her large king-size bed. There was also a storeroom.

Srini was thoroughly pleased and told Kshipra she saw no problem at all in moving in. Both agreed they could easily shift their things whenever Shripad had time, well before the deadline of vacating 'We Three' on the fifteenth of August. As they discussed the arrangement, Srini said she would prefer the bedroom next to Kshipra's. She had little furniture of her own besides her television, so she could simply use the existing bed and cupboards and place her TV somewhere convenient.

The other pair of bedrooms could be left vacant, so that whenever Kshipra's sons or other guests came to visit, they could be easily accommodated. Kshipra liked the idea.

When they explained the arrangement to Shripad, he agreed it was a good plan and said he would manage the shifting accordingly. He had another suggestion too. Moving and arranging everything, he felt, could take a couple of days, so the two of them could stay at his flat during that time. Once Kshipra's house was in order, they could move in properly. Both women accepted the suggestion.

Sometime in the first week of August, Kshipra and Srini moved into Shripad's flat and settled in comfortably. As promised, Shripad took charge of the move himself. He called in movers he knew and had all of Kshipra's belongings shifted to her house, and his own things moved to his flat. The two women had nothing to do but sit and chat.

One afternoon, Kshipra remarked to the others that she had been thinking, lately, about the three of them, and had found a strange similarity in their life stories. All three of them had faced painful hardships in their youth, yet each had eventually found a partner with whom they had shared many happy years. All three had then lost that partner to tragedy. And in the aftermath of those individual sorrows, they had found one another again. That meeting, she said, had steadied all their lives.

"Very true, though the similarities are strange," Shripad and Srini agreed together.

By the first week of August, Kshipra and Srini had moved into Shripad's flat and made themselves comfortable there. True to his word, Shripad took the move entirely upon himself. He called in movers he knew and had all of Kshipra's belongings carried to her house, and his own things shifted to his flat. The two women had nothing left to do but chat.

One afternoon, Kshipra reminded Srini that she still hadn't heard the story of how she had met Jaswant.

"All right," said Srini, "here we go — though I'll have to start from Pen town itself."

"Kshipra, my parents were living in a chawl in Girgaon, Mumbai, when I was born. Sometime after my younger brother arrived, my father lost his well-paying job. Finding it too difficult to support the family in Mumbai, he moved us to Pen, where he took up one odd temporary job after another just to keep us going. That's how we lived, in those days.

"By the time I was in the eighth or ninth standard, he finally found another good job, and we moved back to Mumbai. I started school there and passed my eleventh-grade examinations with good marks. I wanted to go to college, and I completed my first two years. Then a proposal came, through one of our acquaintances, for a boy with a Class Three government job. He came to see me in Mumbai. I disliked him at once — he was very fat, and carried a peculiar air of treating everyone else as beneath him. My parents went to Pune to see his house, an old tenement in a wada in Shaniwar Peth. He lived there with his mother; they had no other relatives in the city. My mother didn't like the boy either, but my father was adamant. Because of that government job, he overruled everyone.

"I was married to this boy, Vidyadhar Dabke, in a simple ceremony. The only guests were our neighbours from the chawl — no one came from the bridegroom's side. The marriage was never registered, which turned out to be a great blessing for me later.

"After I moved to Pune, I found both mother and son to be deeply orthodox and traditional, full of the most absurd customs you could imagine. Would you believe, Kshipra, that after I arrived, I was made to sleep in my mother-in-law's room for eight or ten days, because the auspicious hour for a certain pooja hadn't yet come? When that day finally arrived, a ceremony called 'Garbhadan' — which literally means the giving of a foetus — was performed by a priest for Vidyadhar and me. Only that night was I allowed into Vidyadhar's room.

"Every dream I had of a beautiful married life was crushed, because Vidyadhar was a fool. In that room, I wasn't a person at all — only an object for satisfying his lust. There was one mattress, and it was his. I was made to sleep on a duree, wrapped in a few old sarees for blankets.

"The next day brought another surprise. Vidyadhar's office began at eleven, so like many Class Three government servants, he ate his full lunch at ten in the morning — which meant no breakfast was ever cooked in the Dabke house. Imagine it, Kshipra — a girl of twenty, with nothing at all to eat in the morning. But the real shock came after Vidyadhar finished his lunch and left for the office. I noticed a good deal of food still left on his plate, and I asked my mother-in-law whether I should throw it away. She looked at me as if I'd said something absurd. 'Then what would you eat?' she asked. I didn't understand at all — until she explained that in their family, a married woman ate only what her husband left behind on his own plate, and from that very plate too. So she told me to keep Vidyadhar's plate carefully covered until I could eat from it. From that day on, for as long as I lived in that house, I never once ate a hot meal.

"Somehow I bore all of it — the cruelty, the humiliation in that room — thinking only of my mother. But my breaking point came about three weeks later, when my periods began. That morning, Vidyadhar announced to his mother that from that day I was 'Baherchi' — an outsider. My mother-in-law dug up some old, unwashed duree and told me to sit outside the door with it. She handed me an old water pot and a cup, since I wasn't allowed to touch water meant for others. And then, as the final insult, she gave me a metal lota, telling me to keep it turned upside down for as long as I sat outside. When I asked her why, her answer was the last straw: it was a flag, she said, to let people know I was 'Baherchi' for those few days. I even had to sit in a particular way. My food — Vidyadhar's leftovers — was passed to me outside the door. I was allowed in only at night to sleep, and even then only near the door, since the washroom in our wada was shared and outside the house anyway.

"That night, I decided I would leave. When I had left Mumbai for Pune, my mother had secretly slipped me a fifty-rupee note, telling me to keep it hidden and use it only in a real emergency. I decided the time had come.

"Every day, once Vidyadhar left for office, my mother-in-law went to a temple to pray, usually returning by lunchtime. That day she left as always, telling me to keep the door shut. I waited ten minutes after she'd gone, then went in, picked up my bag, shut the door, and walked out. Vidyadhar had never given me a cupboard or anything of the sort, so all my clothes were already in my bag, lying on the floor.

"Once I reached the main road, I took a rickshaw straight to Pune station, bought a ticket to Mumbai, and caught the earliest train. I was home by late afternoon.

"When I reached the house, I nearly wept with relief to find my mother there. She was stunned at the sight of me and knew at once that something was terribly wrong. 'Aai, give me something to eat first,' I told her. 'I haven't had a grain of food since last night.' She gave me whatever there was in the house. I ate, and then I looked at her and broke down completely. After a while I composed myself and told her everything — and finally said that if she didn't let me stay, I would go and throw myself before a train.

"'Don't talk nonsense,' my mother said. 'You are not leaving this house. I'll speak to your father.'

"That evening, when Baba came home, he already knew of my arrival — nothing stays secret for long in a Mumbai chawl. He was furious with me at first, but once he learned the truth, his anger turned entirely on Vidyadhar. 'I've never seen a bigger fool than this moron,' was all he said.

"Within a couple of days, the Dabke mother and son duo showed up, as expected. By then, the whole chawl knew what had been done to me, and everyone was seething at the inhuman treatment given to one of the chawl's own daughters.

"When they arrived, four tough young men from our chawl came along and simply stood in the doorway.

"My father turned to Vidyadhar. 'Good, you've come. We were expecting you. Let's go.'

"Vidyadhar looked baffled. 'Where? Why?'

"'To the police chowki, where else?' my father said. 'I've already filed an FIR against you for the inhuman treatment of my daughter.'

"The Dabkes had no choice — the four chawl men were blocking their way out. As it happened, the inspector knew my father well and had already asked him to bring the Dabkes to the chowki. Once there, both mother and son were reduced almost to pulp. Vidyadhar, terrified of losing his job, finally admitted — after a stern lecture from the inspector — that their treatment of me had been entirely wrong and inhuman. They agreed to go back to Pune, forget the whole matter, and stay quiet, on the understanding that any trouble from their side would mean the end of his government job.

"That, Kshipra, was the end of my first marriage. Since it was never registered, there was no question of a divorce."

"I went on to complete my BA over the next two years. I was tall, and thought rather good-looking, and it was because of this that one of our neighbours mentioned he'd heard a fountain-pen factory in Dadar was looking for a receptionist. If I was interested, he'd find out the details. I spoke to my parents, who had no objection.

"After the interview, I got the job. I was trained by a Parsee lady who served as PA to the managing director. She told me there were three kinds of visitors: suppliers, who came for their money; buyers, who came for wholesale purchases; and complainants. Of these, only the buyers were VIPs and deserved top priority. Suppliers came next. Complainants always came last. The receptionist's main task, she said, was to identify each visitor's class and treat them accordingly.

"A female receptionist, she told me, carries one powerful tool: her feminine charm, to be used in dealing with every visitor. People with complaints were to be sent away as quickly as possible; suppliers asking for payment were to be given lower priority still.

"She taught me how to dress, how to drape a saree — a receptionist should never expose her body, only hint at her figure. She taught me how to move, how to sit, how to speak to a visitor, how to style my hair, how not to look overdone. How to be courteous yet firm. A thousand little things.

"I think that job and I were made for each other. Then, one day, Jaswant walked in. He was a major supplier to our factory. None of my usual tricks worked on him — if anything, it was I who fell headlong for him. He was far too clever for me. After a few meetings, he came straight to our home, spoke to my father, gave both my parents expensive gifts, and thoroughly won them over before he ever asked the big question.

"Kshipra, I found out later that he may have given me false information about his marital status, may even have deceived me in some ways — but I know, without a doubt, that he loved me truly, with his whole heart. He made me rich too, and fashion-conscious. The rest, you already know."

Kshipra, after hearing Srini's story, seemed to fall into a kind of trance. At last she said, "Srini, hearing your story, I'm amazed at the sheer range of human nature that exists. There may be impotent men, lustful men — but most men, I think, are loving and caring at heart. I used to believe my own life story was the most extraordinary one there was. Now I find that yours, and Shripad's, are stranger still."

Just then, Shripad walked in and announced, in his usual dramatic style, "Ladies, your house is ready for occupation. You may move in whenever you like. One more thing — as a reward for all my back-breaking labour, I have invited myself as PDG, or Permanent Dinner Guest, at Kshipra's house, until I leave for the US."

"Tathastu," said Srini and Kshipra together, in one voice.

And so the 'We Three' experiment came to its official end that day. It had been, till the very last, as good as it could possibly be.

(Concluded)

(All characters places except for geographical names events actions of people are fictional. Any similarity found is purely accidental. All images AI generated)

The Trust - Chapter 5

A Big Brother?

(Continued from chapter 4)

Vrinda couldn't sleep well that night after receiving the appointment letter from Sandip in the afternoon. On one hand, she felt extremely happy about the money and the other fringe benefits she would earn from this job. Yet she was also acutely aware of the challenges that were to come. She had one week to plan and prepare for this new assignment.

She then thought of meeting her parents, her brother, and her most favourite person — her sister-in-law, her brother's wife. It was she who had given Vrinda the most support after Vinit's departure, having pushed her to appear for her BA and helped her through it. The decision to go to Kolhapur exhilarated her, and she felt much better.

The next day, she first exchanged the coupons for cash and then went shopping — sarees for her mother and sister-in-law, sweets for her father, Bakarwadis for her brother, and some gifts for the kids. She also sent a message to her sister-in-law that she would be coming to Kolhapur the next day.

The next day, she caught the morning luxury bus and reached Kolhapur by 11 a.m. She met everyone at home and handed over the gifts. Her parents, brother, and sister-in-law were all delighted to see her looking like her old self again — laughing and happy. She then broke the news of her new assignment, the nature of the work, and her designation, though she said nothing about the salary.

Her brother didn't ask about the money either. Instead, he asked, "Where's the office? How will you get there every day?" When she told him about the car, he was genuinely pleased.

Her mother insisted that she pay her respects at the 'Ambabai' temple in Kolhapur before starting the new job. Vrinda agreed and went there with her sister-in-law.

She was back in Pune after two days. Over those two days, she had been thinking about what kind of sarees and hairstyle she should adopt for her new job. She felt that her present hairstyle was fine and needed no change. As for sarees, she decided it was time to move away from them. Once people got used to seeing her in kurta-salwar, she wouldn't feel odd about it any more — and it would be easier to make the change now, at the start of something new. So, for the first time in her life, she decided to change her attire. This meant a change of shopping plans too, but she still had enough time on hand.

By Thursday, she was ready, dressed in a kurta. She looked in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Would Sandip approve? she wondered for a moment.

The driver arrived on time, and she reached the hotel around 1 p.m. This time, surprisingly, Sandip himself was waiting for her. "Welcome to the Trust," he said, and accompanied her to the lobby, where three more people were seated — one of them Jayantiben. Sandip introduced her to all of them. One was a manager who would liaise with all the project in-charges, another lady would look after administration, and Jayantiben, as usual, would handle accounts. Each of them gave her a rose to welcome her. Then they all left for the office.

Sandip said he wanted to brief her on a few things — if she hadn't eaten yet, could she join him for lunch? "Only if it's a simple veg meal," Vrinda said, and Sandip laughed.

Vrinda felt that Sandip wasn't quite himself today, not the way she had seen him last week. He seemed hesitant, uncertain about almost everything, and careless about his clothes too. As they walked towards the restaurant, Sandip suddenly paused and turned towards her, giving her a quick, appreciative glance. Vrinda thought he must have liked her dress, but she showed no emotion, only looking down for a few moments.

They sat at the same table as the week before and ordered their food. Sandip then opened up. "Vrinda, now that you're one of us, I want to give you some important pointers. First, always remember — the Trust is not human. For it, everything is yes or no, black or white. Phrases like 'maybe,' 'we shall see,' or 'I feel' are strictly off-limits. If you want to say no to something, that's perfectly fine — the Trust will simply find another way to get the job done. It doesn't understand sarcasm, satire, or praise. And most important of all — it never forgets, and it never forgives."

"By the way, this hairstyle looks very nice on you," Sandip commented, all of a sudden, then added, quickly, that he shouldn't have said that.

"Sir, does the Trust notice my hairstyle too?" Vrinda asked, purposely.

"No! Only Trust directors notice that," Sandip smiled.

"Then I must report the directors," Vrinda said, and added, "I've been wanting to ask you since last week — why does the Trust want to remember my blouse measurements?"

Sandip frowned. "Oh, nothing of that sort. That tailor is a liar — he's got that imported machine now, so he keeps telling stories to customers. Though that does bring up something important. I myself haven't been able to figure out exactly what relationship these traders — the ones who gave you cash, or the tailor — have with the Trust. My guess is that they're part of a large list of donors who contribute to the Trust and probably do odd jobs like this for it. But it's only a guess. In any case, your blouse measurements are not with the Trust."

Sandip continued. "There have been some changes, which I'll tell you about in the office. But remember, no chit-chat there — only formal business. If you want to tell me how good I look, you'll have to take me out for that." He gave a hearty laugh. "Now, if you've finished eating, one small request — can we have a scoop of ice cream? What flavour do you like? I like tutti-frutti."

Vrinda didn't actually care for ice cream, but for some reason didn't feel like refusing him. "I'll have vanilla," she said.

After they had enjoyed their little indulgence, Sandip said, "Let's go to the office."

"Let me pay the bill today," Vrinda said.

"Okay, go ahead," Sandip said.

After lunch, they walked to the office, just as they had the week before, both of them carrying their backpacks. At the office, all four of them took Vrinda to her cabin. She saw her nameplate on the door — 'Vrinda Patil, CEO, Pune Chapter.' For a second, she remembered Vinit.

Sandip asked her to sit in the executive chair first. Then all four of them shook her hand and congratulated her. Somehow, she felt that Sandip had held her hand a little longer than the customary handshake called for. Why was that? Vrinda wondered to herself.

Then the other staff members left, and the cabin door clicked shut. Sandip said, "Vrinda, there's been some rethinking about the strategy for the Pune Chapter. Last week I told you about aggregation, but the Trust now feels this strategy shouldn't be implemented at this stage — not until we grow to be the largest NGO in this area. So for now, you'll need to focus only on growth — starting new projects, new ideas. Open your laptop and you'll find a working paper prepared by the board of directors; that will be your basic plan. We expect you to use your own mind and come up with fresh ideas. There's a GOI portal on NGOs working in the field — you'll find a goldmine of information on social work ideas on your laptop. So go ahead, and give us some good results. Do you have any questions?"

Vrinda replied, "I don't have any right now. I've understood the change in strategy, and I'll come up with workable proposals."

Sandip continued. "There are some changes to my schedule this week. I'll be leaving for Delhi today itself, right now. Goodbye, Vrinda, and all the best for your future. I must go — I have a flight to catch."

Somehow, Vrinda felt a tinge of sadness in his voice, but she kept quiet.

After he left, Vrinda called all the staff members for a meeting, to understand the day-to-day functioning and office procedures from them.

By the time the meeting was over, it was time to leave. Before going home, she thought of opening her laptop to look at the Trust's home page. In the right-hand column, there was the customary section of news from the Trust. Surprisingly, right at the top was news about the Pune Chapter — Mr. Subbu Rajgopal was being appointed as director in charge of the Pune Chapter, effective the very next day. This meant that from tomorrow, she would have a new boss.

She called the staff and gave them the news. They weren't surprised at all, being old hands at this.

On the way home, Vrinda kept thinking. Sandip must have known this news earlier — that's why his behaviour had been a little strange today, and why he had simply said goodbye and wished her well. Was he being punished? Was it punishment for their restaurant lunches together? She would never know. Or was it meant to teach her a lesson — behave, or quit?

Orwell's Big Brother watched everyone, all the time. This AI Big Brother seemed even more oppressive.

She told herself, "Vrinda, don't be surprised if tomorrow the Trust says that, as per its records, no Mr. Sandipan Mulick was ever a director here — or if it even denies that any person by that name ever existed."

For her own part, though, things had improved. Her workload had become much easier now — instead of more liaisoning work with other NGOs, she would have to make more field trips. That was easier to manage, she thought.

This Sandip was a strange character. In the office, he was completely formal; outside, exactly the opposite. It was good that he had cleared up the mystery about the tailor and the shopkeepers who had given her cash. She had learned, to some extent, how to deal — or not deal — with the Trust, she thought.

She would now meet the new director only next Thursday, if there was no change in schedule. Sandip, she was certain, was not a bad person — good company too. It might have been fun to spend an evening with him sometime. Now she didn't know if she would ever meet him again.

For now, she had her work cut out for her. Sandip had disappeared from her life as suddenly as he had appeared a week before. She let out a long sigh.

(Concluded)

(All characters places except for geographical names events actions of people are fictional. Any similarity found is purely accidental. All images AI generated)