Saturday evening in the flat looked exactly the way it always did.
Music from the old speakers.
Beer bottles on the floor.
Old Monk on the table.
Three glasses that never matched.
The kitchen was alive.
Sudharma stood near the stove, fully focused. With a glass of Old Monk mixed with Thums Up.
Bangda marinating on one side.
The first batch had gone into a proper marinade with an ounce of Old Monk, ginger-garlic paste, chilli, turmeric, and lime—just enough to deepen the flavour without overpowering the fish.
Chicken kabab marinating on the other.
Oil heating.
Masala ready.
Viraj sat near the kitchen entrance with a beer.
Useful only when specifically instructed.
Utsav was moving around loudly with complete confidence and zero contribution.
“You are overcooking that.”
Sudharma didn’t look up.
“No.”
“It is black.”
“It is masala.”
Viraj laughed.
“Please don’t help.”
“I am observing.”
“That is not helping.”
The first batch came out.
Crisp.
Perfect.
Sudharma started the second batch.
Then paused.
The fish stayed on too long.
Viraj noticed first.
“You forgot.”
Sudharma looked down.
“Damn.”
He turned the pieces quickly.
Too late.
Not ruined.
But close.
Utsav stared.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You never mess up fish.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
They let it go.
For ten minutes.
Cricket came up.
Then office gossip.
Then some useless argument about whether Bangalore traffic had permanently defeated human civilisation.
Sudharma was barely present.
He checked his phone twice.
Zoned out in the middle of a sentence.
Added salt to the chicken twice.
Viraj watched all of it.
Utsav noticed by dinner.
They sat on the floor with plates.
Bangda fry.
Chicken kabab.
Simple rice and tomato curry.
Beer had become Old Monk by then.
Viraj took a slow bite and asked casually,
“You okay?”
“Perfect.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Utsav looked up.
“Wait.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Oh.”
Viraj smiled.
“What?”
Utsav pointed his spoon.
“He’s gone.”
Sudharma rolled his eyes.
“Eat.”
Viraj leaned back.
“Do you like her?”
“Who?”
“Don’t do that.”
Sudharma kept eating.
Utsav jumped in.
“Are you checking your phone because of her?”
“No.”
“Do you look for her in office?”
“No.”
“If she doesn’t come tomorrow, will it affect you?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
Viraj said quietly, “Answer it.”
Sudharma stopped eating.
That annoyed him.
Mostly because he knew they were not going to let it go.
“It’s not like that.”
“What is it like then?” Viraj asked.
“I don’t know.”
Utsav laughed.
“That means bad.”
“That means nothing.”
“That means everything.”
Sudharma shook his head.
Neither of them spoke.
That made it worse.
Sunday morning was slow.
Nobody wanted to wake up.
Eventually routine won.
Ramanna’s Bakery.
Tea.
Cigarette.
The same familiar crowd.
Milk packets.
Newspapers.
Vegetable vendors.
Morning traffic beginning.
Utsav was halfway through his cigarette when he froze.
“Dyude.”
Nobody reacted.
“Dyude.”
Viraj frowned.
“What?”
Utsav stared across the road.
“That’s her no?”
Sudharma turned.
And froze.
Across the road, near the vegetable cart, stood Jahnavi.
Beside her was her mother.
No ID card.
No office clothes.
No notebook.
Simple churidar.
Hair tied back.
Vegetable bag in one hand.
For a second he simply stared.
Then Jahnavi looked up.
Recognition was immediate.
She smiled.
Chaos.
Sudharma dropped his cigarette.
Viraj crushed his underfoot.
Utsav nearly burnt his fingers.
Three smokers transformed into decent boys in under two seconds.
Jahnavi had seen everything.
Every single thing.
She said nothing.
She said something to her mother.
Then both crossed the road.
Viraj looked murderous.
“This is your fault.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Utsav whispered, “Act normal.”
“Stop talking.”
They reached.
Jahnavi looked suspiciously calm.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
She turned slightly.
“This is my mother.”
All three straightened instinctively.
“Namaste.”
Her mother smiled politely.
“Office friends?”
Jahnavi nodded.
“Same team.”
Her mother looked at Sudharma.
“You are nearby?”
Before he could answer, Utsav spoke.
“Yes aunty. Very nearby. Extremely nearby.”
Sudharma closed his eyes.
Viraj looked like he wanted to disappear.
Jahnavi’s expression did not change.
Her mother looked amused.
“Oh.”
Sudharma recovered.
“Few crosses away.”
“That’s nice.”
Simple questions followed.
Office?
Shift?
Nearby?
Normal conversation.
Jahnavi was completely at ease.
She answered calmly.
Introduced everyone naturally.
Handled Utsav without even trying.
Grounded.
Comfortable.
After a few minutes her mother said they had to leave.
Jahnavi looked at them.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
She gave the faintest glance toward the crushed cigarette near Sudharma’s shoe.
Then looked back at him.
A tiny smile.
Then she left.
The three stood there in silence.
Utsav spoke first.
“Well.”
Viraj exhaled slowly.
“Well.”
Sudharma said nothing.
They walked back toward the flat.
Halfway there, Viraj stopped.
“No more confusion.”
Sudharma looked at him.
Viraj continued.
“Office is one thing.”
“Commute is another.”
“This?”
He gestured behind them.
“Same locality. Same roads. Same life.”
Utsav nodded.
“This is different.”
Nobody joked now.
Utsav looked at him.
“Tell properly.”
Sudharma stared ahead.
“What?”
“Do you look for her?”
Silence.
Viraj waited.
This time Sudharma didn’t dodge.
A few seconds passed.
Then he said quietly,
“Yes.”
Neither spoke.
He continued.
“I notice when she isn’t around.”
The words came slowly.
As though he was hearing them himself for the first time.
He looked down at the road.
“And I think about what she says.”
Viraj nodded once.
Utsav was unusually quiet.
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