“I don’t think you should comment at all -”

“Just answer the question!”

He rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know. The first one,” he said, unconvinced, unimpressed, and unsure.

She did not care. She finally went with:

She does not treat them well! Those dogs are always outdoors, even during the harsh sunny afternoon hours, and they’re always barking. Through the night. Through the day. Even if she did rescue them, she has no idea how to care for them.

She did not show him the final draft before hitting send.

She felt a kind of rage only she could understand when she saw the post praising popular actress and now also her neighbour, Siddhima Thakur, of her benevolence. The headline hailed her as ‘The Dogmother’ in the same stylized font as ‘The Godfather’. The post went on to say how amazing and wonderful Mrs. Thakur had been to rescue not one, not two, but three dogs, and given them a happy home and life. It conveniently omitted where they’d been rescued from. It also did not say why they needed rescuing: just that three dogs, all purebreds – a German shepherd, a black lab, and a husky – had been rescued.

When she first learnt that Siddhima was her neighbour, right next door, in the largest mansion in her new neighbourhood, Aditi was thrilled. She had grown up watching Siddhima’s films and was excited at the prospect of spotting her and her other celebrity friends, right from her window. She was going to live the Mumbai stereotype, finally!

But now? Now she was pissed. She hated Siddhima, the dogs, and what Siddhima was doing to them. Aditi had several issues with the Thakur family in the three months since she moved in next door to the Thakurs – how they occupied two full lanes of the public road by parking their many expensive cars, how their staff was always chilling and talking loudly right outside her building, how, on several occasions, the road would be clogged because of the paparazzi – but her biggest issue was with the dogs. Not the dogs themselves, not really, but how she thought they were treated.

She noticed, in less than two weeks, that the dogs were always off leash and roaming around the street. They were there when she left for work, there when she came back, there over weekends, through the day. She had heard from the other residents of her building that there had been incidents involving the dogs. They alluded to all sorts of things – biting, damage to cars, scary brawls with street dogs and cats, etc. At nights, she could hear them barking from the Thakurs’ backyard. She wondered when they went home, when they ate, if they ate well, and hoped to dear god that they did. The last straw was when she realized that she had never once seen any member of the Thakur family walk any of them. Of course they didn’t. They were always out. Why would they need to be walked?

So, she commented. She told herself that she was not being a troll. She was telling the truth. She was sharing her lived experience for the world to see. Fact checking, actually. Noble, really.

A few hours after she commented it, she saw that her comment had received eight likes.

“Babe, people are liking my comment! Look!” she said handing him the phone.

He took it from her and read it, finally realizing what she had done.

“THAT is what you wrote? Babe, what are you doing? She is our neighbour. What if they trace it back to you?” he said.

“Come on. She has millions of followers. This page has hundreds of thousands of followers. You think anyone’s going to notice one comment with eight likes?”

He sighed, loudly and dramatically, fluttering his lips for extra effect.

“Aditi - ” he started, when she cut him off.

“What?! Eight likes means nothing to them. I thought it was pretty cool because that is a lot for me for a random comment.”

“I was just saying – your comment is a bit harsh don’t you think?”

“Why? You’re also complaining about what a menace they are and how they’re barking all the time,” she asked him, thinking she won.

“Yes – but how does this help?”

“It helps with my rage,” she said, only half joking.

“Oh, stop it - ” he started but decided against trying to reason with her. “Nevermind.”

A few more hours later, the likes had risen to thirty-five, and there were two comments agreeing with Aditi. One even identified themselves as someone who lived in the same area and called the dogs ‘wild’. Unfortunately, this meant that she was both right and wrong. Right because other people had noticed it too, and wrong because this meant the comment could end up on Siddhima’s radar now. She’d wanted someone to agree with her, sure, but she just hadn’t wanted the comment to travel. Validation was nice. Visibility, she realized, was terrifying.

“Hey, babe…?” she called out to him, nervously.

“What now?”

“Look - ” she said, handing him the phone once again.

He took a minute to read through it all and handed her the phone.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know – seems to be snowballing a bit, no?”

“Why does this feel like a trap?”

“No, no. Really tell me what you think.”

“Yes.”

“Yes – it could be a problem or yes – you’ll tell me.”

“Ptch… Aditi…”

“Yeah – okay. What am I worried about anyway? I haven’t done anything wrong, right?”

She looked at him. He shrugged. She left the room.

She checked the post every hour that first day. Then every few hours. Then every morning for the rest of the week. She stopped when it plateaued at fifty-two likes and six replies, only three of which meaningfully agreed with her.

Her mental peace finally returned, but it was short lived.

She was walking back home one day when she saw the dogs. Off leash, as usual, but this time quietly sitting near the house. She was looking at them, suspiciously, wondering if they would attack her and she’d spill the coffee she was holding, when she noticed her – Siddhima. Outside, with the dogs, holding what looked like a squeeze toy.

“Are you scared of them?” Siddhima looked at Aditi and asked, pointedly but politely.

“No – sorry. I mean... no.” Aditi managed, and picked up pace.

She all but ran home and rang the bell at least nine times. When her boyfriend opened the door, she narrated the occurrence without letting him convey his annoyance at the bell-ringing.

“Oh – that sounds… nice?”, he said, not fully sure if this was real or if he was dreaming.

“NICE? Yes, it was perfectly nice, but that is the problem. My comment, remember?!”

“Oh, yeah – the comment! Hah! How could I forget!”

“What do I do?” she yelled at his unhelpfulness.

“I don’t know, delete it?”

“Why?”

“Or don’t. Didn’t it die down?”

“Yes.”

“Okay – then forget about it, Aditi.”

“Okay.”

“Seriously, forget about it. You didn’t say anything wrong – they do bark all the time. They were barking all afternoon. I could barely nap. It was super irritating.”

“I also said she doesn’t know how to care for them,” she said.

“Didn’t someone agree with that?” he asked her.

“Yeah, I think. I can check…”

“No, don’t. Just forget about it,” he said.

“Okay, you’re right. I doubt anybody of relevance saw it,” she said, and boy was she wrong.

It was a few weeks before Aditi finally saw the video by a mildly famous animal activist, but by then, it had collected hundreds of likes, comments, and shares, and had also been picked up by a prominent animal welfare organization. The video called Siddhima a fraud and an animal abuser. The activist visited the neighbourhood herself. In the video, she stood outside the Thakur residence while the barking echoed behind the gates.

“Listen to that,” the activist said over the video of the Thakur residence closed gates. “These dogs have been barking for fifteen minutes straight.”

She claimed that that kind of incessant barking could only come from an unhappy animal. In this case, unhappy animals in an unloving home, as she put it. And so, the animal welfare organization had decided to take matters into its own hands, it said in a ‘statement’.

She watched the video a few times, checking to see if her comment or username had been mentioned. She read and re-read the statement several times. Her name and comment had not made it into either, not even in the comments. The activist did say a comment under a post made her feel like she should visit the Thakur mansion, and so she did, but she didn’t want to give the post – or the comment – any more attention.

She was terrified of bringing any of this to her boyfriend’s attention, but she had to.

“Listen…” she said quietly opening the door to his study.

“You look like you broke something,” he said, with a smirk.

“Look at this - ” she said handing him the phone.

“Oh god, what now?” he said taking the phone and reviewing the welfare organization’s statement.

“What? What video? What is going on?”

“Here look - ” she said, taking the phone back to show him the video.

He saw the video.

“No way! Good job, babe! Your comment helped!”

“What? No. I mean… Will I get in trouble?”

“I don’t know – not too much talk of your original comment, no?”

“None that I could see…”

“Then?”

“I don’t know. What if they take the dogs away?”

“Well, is that not a good thing?”

“Not for the dogs!”

“Why, they’re not keeping them well!”

She stood, motionless. She was not so sure anymore. Who was she to decide? No one, apparently. But that activist sure seemed confident. The animal welfare organization had taken ‘cognizance’ of the matter.

Cognizance, she later found out, meant a notice and a visit by two representatives from the organization, in matching jackets.

After hours of scouring the internet instead of doing the laundry, she discovered that they couldn’t remove the dogs – a fact which cracked something open in Aditi: an unusual mix of relief and disappointment. Instead, she learnt, the organization offered behavioural training, veterinary guidance, and a ‘care plan’. The Thakurs, gracious as ever, accepted. Who knew if this was the organization’s plan or the Thakurs’ PR clean up? Either way, the barking stopped.

A week later, Siddhima posted a photograph of the German shepherd sitting, actually sitting, beside a woman in a lanyard holding a leash. Siddhima’s caption thanked the trainers for helping her become a better pet parent, with three heart emojis. The comments were all positive.

It was finally quiet, but somewhere on the internet, Siddhima had been convicted. Not of neglect, but of the much harder crime to defend: looking like someone who only cared because people were watching.

“Not again!” she said out loud, in the apartment that now felt too quite without the barking BGM.

“What now?”

She looked at him and gestured to look out the window.

They quietly saw as another batch of protestors arrived, then, the inevitably, the paps, who seemed to multiply out of nowhere the way they always had for Siddhima, except now they weren’t just clogging the Thakurs’ end of the street – they were parked outside Aditi’s building too, because apparently “outside the Dogmother’s mansion” now included, in every wide shot, her own front gate.

It had been a few days of this, in all its traffic-y, loud, and chaotic glory. Her once pristine street, but for some harmless dogs barking, was now only a few notches below a circus. She stood at her window, watching a reporter interview a woman holding a sign that read JUSTICE FOR THE THAKUR THREE, and thought: This is so much worse than the barking ever was.

“Do you think anyone in this crowd knows you caused this?”, her boyfriend asked her, snapping her back to their living room.

“Nah!” she said, confidently.

“Right.”

“That’s good, right?” she asked him.

“Yep.”

“Right?”

He didn’t answer.

“I guess the dogs are happy?” she added.

“Is Siddhima?”

She looked at him, not quite sure how to respond. She picked up her phone almost instinctively. The video was still there. So was her comment under the post that started it all.

For a long moment, her fingers hovered over “Delete.”

Then she locked her phone.

BUT! I have been great, despite the super trying circumstances. (Please don’t put nazar. I am very tired already. Thanks in advance.)

So, as a worthy sequel (I hope), here’s why it wasn’t all terrible:

1) I tried something, and it didn’t work out for me. I didn’t fail – I just figured out that it wasn’t for me and then moved on. The reason that is great is because I was able to leave without fear. Some called it foolish, some called me naïve, some also said I was not “resilient” – which is a lot of adjectives for someone who simply quit a job. I said “okay,” and did what made sense to me.

I genuinely believe that I cannot exist in the big sea full of big sharks, because only I seem to be aware that that makes them all small. Small fish in small pond, with the full awareness of size, takes away the ego battles and personality clashes that come with fighting to be the king of the jungle. (Yes, we’ve now left the sea and entered a jungle. Please keep up.)

Also, I just want to say – don’t be resilient if it means putting up with bad behaviour. Asking someone to be resilient is like asking someone to “adjust” and “compromise”, and I hate both those words. “Be resilient” is often just “could you please continue tolerating this quietly?”

The reason this is wonderful is because the realisation was freeing. Stressful and scary, but glorious.

2) I moved to a beautiful area in a lovely neighbourhood, and the cherry on the cake – all my closest friends are within a twenty-minute radius from my house (thirty, if the city is angry). I live two minutes away from my best friend and life couldn’t be better! I have my most favourite cat and the cutest, sweetest dog who can all be available to me for some animal therapy literally whenever I need it.

Literally as I am typing this:

3) I got a nice forty-five-day break, in which I read and chilled and slept (a lot!) and occasionally remembered I was unemployed. I also worked, but that was to pay rent, mainly. Turns out, I can be productive even when I have nowhere to be.

4) I realized that I am confident enough to be okay to be proven wrong. However, I will not lose sleep over your contrary opinions.

If I think ABC, you can tell me all about XYZ, by all means. Try to take me with you to your side, but do it with respect, and most importantly, manners. If you cannot listen to what I have to say, please go away. I do not find anything less compelling than a debate where the person arguing the contrary point of view does not have ears that work. And the moment voices rise, my convictions quietly leave the room. But it is okay. You know why? Because none of this casts a doubt over what I hold to be true. I have not lost to your conviction. You have. I just feel no urgent need to be engaging with it.

5) Seriously, the cat I mentioned? She deserves like three more spots of her own! Just look at her!!!

She has never once been asked to be resilient. Honestly? That’s the dream.

6) I got another restart! Who gets two career reboots in under a year? Me. Apparently, I’m collecting them – like some not so kind recruiters and interviewers informed me.

This time, I think it is going to work out. So far, looks promising. Also, so what if it doesn’t, right?

7) I surprised myself with how quickly I can recover. Take that, Mr. You’re-Not-Resilient! What do you know?

Seven seems to be a weird number to end this list. So, I will.

She was at the parlour near her house to get a mani and a pedi. She carried her book with her to keep herself entertained while also getting pampered, but what was going on at the parlour was far more entertaining than any novel could ever be.

The moment she saw her enter the parlour, she knew, this was going to be good. Madhura, as she would later learn her name was, entered the parlour with the authority of someone who ran the place. Madhura walked in and yelled, “Is Piyali here?” Everyone, including the beautician working on her feet, turned to provide Madhura with the attention that she demanded – no – deserved. She could feel the shivers, in the air and on her feet.

“Madhura Ma’am! Please come. Piyali will be here any minute,” said one of the beauticians.

“Where is she? She said she was running late, so I planned accordingly,” said Madhura.

“You should call her,” said the beautician.

Who was this Piyali? Why could the parlour staff not call her? Who was Madhura and why did everyone seem to be so afraid of her? Did she actually own the place? Or did Piyali? When will her nail tech stop shivering? Will her nails look funny?

In all her confused wonderment, she didn’t realize she was staring right at Madhura. She looked away awkwardly, and turned a page, for effect. Fortunately, in walked Piyali, at the right time, cutting some of the tension in the room.

“Hi hi hi! Sorry, I was running late,” she told Madhura. “Wait, a second, I’ll just be out,” she continued, and walked towards a room marked ‘STAFF ONLY’.

“No worries… no wait! Here, I got these for you,” said Madhura, handing her a bag from a bakery close to the parlour, perfectly pleasant, reducing the tension further.

Piyali took the bag from her and said, “Oh! Thank you!” and peeked into the bag, “Cupcakes! How lovely! You shouldn’t have – I have put on so much weight!”

“No, stop. You look radiant as ever.”

“Radiant? Are you saying I look pregnant?”

“No, what, of course not! I just mean you look great.”

And just like that, the uncomfortable air returned.

Piyali made a face, set the bag down on the reception table, as if to say that she had refused the present.

“Hang on a minute, I’ll be right back,” said Piyali before disappearing into the room.

She could see Madhura getting increasingly antsy with each passing minute. She walked in and out of the parlour about seven times. She tapped furiously on her phone. She sat on the salon chair and swung her legs like an annoying thirteen-year-old boy. Piyali finally returned a solid ten minutes later, wearing an apron.

“Okay, shall we?” she asked Madhura.

“Yes – here, everything is in this,” Madhura told Piyali, handing her a brown paper bag.

“Okay, thanks, let me see,” said Piyali examining the contents of the bag.

“It appears that you have not got number 43 this time also,” she told Madhura.

“What do you mean? No, I couldn’t have. I got everything I had at home,” said Madhura, looking extremely distressed.

“Nope – look,” said Piyali, offering Madhura a one-second glimpse of the bag.

“Let me see -” said Madhura, trying to take the bag from Piyali.

“Nope, not here,” Piyali said, snatching it back, without allowing Madhura a clear look.

“Let me take a look,” Madhura protested.

“No, and we really need to begin. I have another client in an hour,” said Piyali, firmly.

Thus, they began. It finally became clear that Madhura was here to get her hair coloured, and Piyali was her… stylist? She was the stylist? She had never seen Piyali at this parlour, so she could not be too sure. Maybe she was the owner who only came for elite and special clients.

This time, Piyali caught her staring. She turned another page, this time, with a silent vow to keep her eyes fixed on the book and turn a page every few minutes.

“Okay – I use very little of 43, so I will just use from what we have in stock. It will be a small added cost,” Piyali informed Madhura.

“Oh… ok… I guess. You can avoid it if it won’t make a difference,” said Madhura, sounding dejected, and very unlike her usual authoritative self.

“What do you mean? It will make a big difference. Be serious, Madhura,” said Piyali.

All because she called her ‘radiant’? Wow, this Piyali is a real number. The woman got you cupcakes!

She was thinking to herself, when a man entered the salon.

“Hi, ladies!” he said, addressing both Piyali and Madhura.

“I got him also today,” said Madhura to Piyali, “otherwise he would have just sulked at home.”

“Good, good. Hi, Sid. How are you?” asked Piyali.

“Good ya, what about you?”

“All good! You guys have started also. How long will you take?” he said to no one in particular, planting himself on another salon chair next to Madhura.

“It takes the time it takes,” said Piyali, with a weird chuckle-snort.

“You know, Sid. It seems I forgot a tube today as well. Number 43. Did you happen to see it when we were leaving?” Madhura asked Sid.

She looked up from her book right in time to catch Piyali roll her eyes.

“Madhura, you’re acting weird about the tube. Get over it,” said Piyali, and turned to Sid, a whole section of Madhura’s hair in her hand, “What are you up to, Sid? Other than dancing to Madhura’s tunes,” she asked him.

She had to look up once again. She had to! Who says that? She had to see Madhura’s expression, who… didn’t seem to care? She didn’t even bother looking up from her phone.

“Oh, nothing you know… just the usual… here and there,” said Sid, abruptly getting up and walking towards Piyali.

Oh my god! Is he going to hit her? What on earth is going on!

She shut her book without realizing and just watched on. The dynamic of this group was unclear as the plot of a soap opera she’d missed forty episodes of and she had to get to the bottom of it.

“Tell me!” said Piyali.

She could swear Piyali was batting her eyes.

“Oh! I watched this show,” he said. He was standing right next to Piyali. He was showing her something on his phone.

“Oh yeah! Don’t tell me, don’t tell me! I am just two episodes in. So far, I think the wife did it, but IDK,” she said, shrugging a full shrug, definitely tugging at Madhura’s hair, who still, just didn’t seem to care.

“I won’t spoil it for you, but man how hot is the wife? Kinda like you, actually. Looks wise, I mean,” he said casually.

With that line, she was convinced – Piyali and Sid were flirting with each other. There was no other reason Sid had to stand that close to Piyali. Hair colouring is a gross and smelly affair, and no one other than the client and the beautician would ever willingly expose themselves to it unless they must. She wanted to scream at Madhura. Could she really not see what was happening less than a foot away? And then she thought – maybe Madhura knows? Maybe they’re a new open modern couple?

“Haha, really?”

“Yeah! And look – she is also half British, just like you,” he told her, showing her proof of this fun fact on his phone.

“Oh yeah! Maybe we’re sisters!”

“Maybe,” he said, winking at her.

If they were flirting, they were both terrible at it.

Right then, the beautician working on her feet was done, and instructed her to move to another section, away from the three chaos monsters, to get started on her nails. She protested the move, a little too eagerly, and said she’d like to have a cup of coffee right here, before moving on. The nervous beautician agreed, possibly because this was more conversation than she was prepared to have on the subject.

The beautician got her a cup of coffee. She drank the coffee at a pace usually reserved for expensive whisky. By now, she felt invisible to the trio. They continued, discussing other salons and hairstylists, their kids, Piyali’s neighbour who eloped and then got divorced and was now involved with a much younger man. Most of the talking was done by Piyali and Sid, with Madhura offering the occasional oohs and aahs.

Her beautician returned, this time gesturing her to move to the next section. She hated that she couldn’t decipher what was going on, but she had no choice but to comply. She could hear bits and pieces of their conversation from her new location, but visual cues were critical and missing.

By the time her manicure was done, Madhura’s hair had been washed, dried, and styled. The three of them were standing at the reception desk discussing something about a dog that had eaten a whole birthday cake. It was disappointingly mundane for this particular trio.

She paid for her services and lingered for a respectable amount of time, looking at their displays of shampoos and conditioners. She took the third sigh from her beautician as her cue to leave, the mystery remaining unsolved.

She stepped outside the parlour and began the short walk home. Then she heard voices. The unmistakable and beautiful voices of Once-Again-Authoritative Madhura and Flirty Sid. It was music to her ears. She slowed down.

“See?” said Madhura.

She turned around and saw Madhura waving a black tube in Sid’s face, triumphantly. Fortunately, they were walking in the same direction as her.

“Man! She is despicable!” he said.

“She really is! I bet it was right there in the bag last time also.”

“So, what do you want to do? Do you want to go back in and fight for your money back?”

“No! What? Are you crazy? I want her to go crazy looking for it. Also, don’t you want her to enjoy the feeling of you flirting with her? Mr. Gosh-Piyali-You-Look-Just-Like-A-Hot-Actress!?”

“Madhura, stop. You asked me to do this. It was so embarrassing.”

“Yeah – only because I knew it would work. I was right! She’s so full of herself!”

“Right. Okay.”

And just like that, the mystery vaporized.

No affair. No love triangle. No open marriage. No forbidden salon romance conducted through coded discussions about television shows and British actresses.

Just a woman engaged in a long-running dispute about hair colour inventory and her supportive husband scheming againstthe real villain of this story: a tube of hair dye.

For almost three hours, she had watched three perfectly ordinary adults and transformed them into characters in a scandalous drama. There was a scandal, of course, just of a different variety.

The famous goose, she thought, had company.

“Stop screaming at me! I don’t know!” said her husband.

Obviously, she didn’t tell him how much Priyanka’s lack of regard to the pettiness baffled Anjana. Instead, she provided him with a carefully curated selection of words that suggested that Anjana was not being petty. She was, in fact, merely trying to close all open loops to ensure a clean break. She did not want a reaction, no, no.

“Anjana, you’re being petty,” he told her.

“Petty? How can you say that to me!” she gawked at her husband.

He said nothing, and rolled his eyes away, but from Anjana, lest he be subjected to the same treatment.

It had all started a couple of weeks ago when Priyanka took away Anjana’s slot with their common gym trainer. Of course, she discussed it with Anjana first, but she took it despite Anjana’s refusal. Anjana only refused because she had planned to return to the gym, to her rightful slot, after a short break.

“Three months is not a short break,” Priyanka had pointed out in response.

What does she know? Priyanka’s offer to give Anjana the slot back when she was ready to resume, Anjana knew, was meaningless. 8AM to 9AM is prime time. Anjana knew that once this was gone, it was gone forever. Priyanka just went ahead… and took it. She took Anjana’s slot from right under her nose, and Anjana could do nothing about it. The gym got new equipment, and she didn’t like the smell of it. She was waiting for it to air out.

To indicate how Anjana felt about this betrayal, she didn’t invite Priyanka to a dinner party she hosted at her house the following week. What she didn’t know was that Priyanka was not in town the night of the dinner party. Unfortunately, her show of acceptance of Priyanka’s invite to a cold war went unnoticed. This just meant she had to make another attempt. Next, she ignored Priyanka’s message asking Anjana if she wanted to attend a dance recital being hosted by one of the moms in their apartment complex for the children in the complex.

“I am not going to respond to her. How can she even ask me this question?” she mused, at the dinner table.

“Mom, I have no idea what you are talking about,” said her son.

“Priyanka! Does she think we’re still friends after what she did to me?”

“What did she do to you?” asked her son.

“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now… but she –”

“Good heavens, don’t tell me this is about the gym slot!” interrupted her husband.

“Why do I have to live in a house with two men?”

“No, really! Is that what this is about?” said her husband, sounding more shocked than necessary.

“YES! And please don’t say that like it is not a big deal!”

“Anjana, it is not a big deal!”

“You both just never understand me. My own family is never on my side!” she wailed, more dramatic than necessary.

She held on to her resolve and went without Priyanka. She reached early and snagged a front row seat. Her victory didn’t feel like one, however, when she noticed Priyanka walk in with a few other girls from the apartment complex. Her plan to ignore Priyanka pinched a little, because now it looked less like a stance and more like an administrative oversight.

However, she maintained her composure. She went out of her way to make sure that the girls knew she was okay. She clapped too hard, laughed too loudly, and socialized with an enthusiasm that suggested both growth and instability. She even spoke to residents she had previously categorized as “not worth the energy.” By the end of the performance, carried away by a sense of public magnanimity, she made her way onto the stage to personally congratulate the performers the moment the show was over, only to be gently but super awkwardly steered back down by a fourteen-year-old volunteer.

She hoped, deeply, that Priyanka had missed this. She had not. Priyanka was looking right at her, wearing the unmistakable expression of someone caught between secondhand embarrassment and delighted curiosity. A small smile. Raised eyebrows. The quiet question: what are you doing?

“You should have seen her face. She was enjoying it!” she told her husband later that evening.

“But Anjana – why did you climb onto the stage?”

“Stop victim blaming me! I only went up to congratulate them!”

“I am not victim blaming… exactly what are you a victim of?”

“I am a victim of Priyanka’s cruelty! They deliberately excluded me! I had to show them I was okay and their plan didn’t work!”

“But Anjana – you didn’t reply…”

“Wow. WOW! I am going to bed.”

She left the conversation and brought her husband a moment of relief. It would last exactly two days, which is how long the silent treatment would continue.

It was after this that Anjana decided to turn up the heat. She did everything she felt would “Send a Clear Message” –

(a) She changed the group icon of a group with all the girls from the complex to a photo without Priyanka. Priyanka didn’t seem to notice and sent a recipe for a salad over a week later, with a message to no one in particular: “Get Fit Friday?”

(b) She then removed Priyanka from the group. This was less satisfying than expected, as there was no reliable way of measuring impact.

(c) She pulled her son out of Priyanka’s tennis coaching. When asked why, she told the coach, in a tone that suggested deep principle rather than immediate pettiness, that they were “re-evaluating priorities as a family.” Her son, who had just learned how to serve without hitting himself in the face, was less convinced about this pivot.

None of it seemed to have landed. Not in any measurable, meaningful way.

Surely, Anjana thought, at least one of the other girls would have brought it up with Priyanka by now. There would be whispers. Questions. A careful, sympathetic “Hey… is everything okay between you two?”

An opening, an invitation, a platform for Anjana’s side of the story. There was nothing. No whispers. No questions. No platform. Just… salad recipes.

“Yes, I think you’re being petty. That idiot child was just beginning to get good at tennis,” her husband told her.

“HEY!” shouted her son from the other room, in protest to being called an idiot.

“You don’t understand,” she wailed.

“Yes – I don’t! Explain to me why pulling him out of tennis has anything to do with this cold war – which I think is only in your head?”

“Oh, it absolutely does not exist only in my head,” she said, with misplaced confidence. “I know she has noticed. She’s just very good at this. I’m sure she’s already poisoned the well. Turned everyone against me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I can feel it,” she told him, the best argument there is.

“I don’t know what you feel, because I saw Priyanka and Shelby in the lift the other day. They were perfectly normal and pleasant. Asked about you.”

Anjana froze.

“What?”

“The other day,” he said cautiously.

“When exactly is the other day?”

“I don’t know—Tuesday?”

“Tuesday?” she repeated, standing up so abruptly she knocked into the coffee table. “What did they say? Exactly. Word for word.”

“They said, ‘How’s Anjana?’ I said, ‘She’s good.’ That was it.”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”

“Because there was nothing to tell.”

“There was everything to tell! That was reconnaissance. They were gathering information.”

“Or,” he said, knowing he will regret it, “they were being normal human beings in a lift.”

He stared at her, fearfully.

“Darling, you have to calm down.”

“Don’t call me darling. And I HAVE TO CALM DOWN?”

“Anjana, I…”

“Just stop talking,” she said and left the room.

This time, the silent treatment lasted five whole days.

Anjana was at a loss for words – and moves – so decided to try one last trick. She sent her son down to Priyanka’s house to ask Priyanka to return some of Anjana’s Tupperware. She knew that would prompt, at the very least, a sorry and thank you, from Priyanka. When that apology and thank you came, that was when Anjana would truly have her upper hand back. She didn’t know yet how, or why, or what she would do with it, but she figured, that was a problem for later.

Her son returned in fifteen minutes with the Tupperware, filled with samosas.

“What did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’? You went and rang her bell and asked her for the boxes and then what?”

“Then nothing. She called me in. Asked how you were, said she cannot give the boxes back empty, so filled some samosas into it from the plate in front of Shelby Aunty, and handed me the boxes.”

“Shelby? Shelby was there? What did you say to her about me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what, Aman?”

“Yes, Shelby Aunty was there.”

“Okay and what did you say about me?”

“Nothing. Just that you are good.”

“And Shelby? What was she doing there?”

“Sitting.”

“Sitting where?”

“On the sofa.”

“Was she there when you walked in or did she come out from somewhere?”

“She was just there, mom.”

“Did she say anything? About me?”

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

“She said hi to me.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“And how did she seem?”

Aman stared at her. “...Normal?”

“Normal how? Happy normal or pretending-to-be-normal normal?”

He shrugged and said nothing. He reached into the box, took a samosa, and began to eat.

Anjana watched him for a moment. Clearly Priyanka and Shelby and probably the others had formed a group without her. There was nothing to be done.

Aman took another samosa.

Anjana decided to drop it. She suffered quietly on becoming the outcast, while being the victim. She didn’t mention the Tupperware Samosa incident to her husband. She started leaving her flat only when she knew for sure that the other girls would not be flittering about. She saw some of the other girls around the complex a few times, despite her best efforts. She was met with nothing but pleasant small talk. They all pretended to care about her very well. She didn’t buy it for a minute. It was just becoming a routine that she was learning to live with when it happened, a few weeks later.

Hey! Just checking in – it has been almost three months. Let me know when you want your slot with the trainer back.

Anjana received this message from Priyanka. She stared at it as if it contained a portal to another dimension. She couldn’t believe her eyes.

“What do you think this message means?” she asked her husband.

He sighed and took the phone from her hand.

“I think it means she wants to know when you want the slot back.”

“Very funny! Be serious! Do you think it is genuine? Or is she being petty and passive aggressive or is she trying to wave a white flag because I cut her out.”

Her husband handed the phone back.

“I think it means exactly what it says. And I think you should NOT overthink it, okay, Anjana?”

Anjana looked at the message again. She stared at the message for a long time after her husband left the room. She read it forwards. She read it backwards, almost. She considered the exclamation mark after Hey. She considered the absence of an exclamation mark after back. She thought about what it meant that Priyanka had texted and not called. She thought about what it meant that she had called it your slot and not the slot. Eleven words. No tone, no subtext she could pin down, no tells.

Priyanka, as usual, spectacularly, aggressively unbothered - just enough to end things. And just enough to begin them again.

The universe, however, had other plans. The moment she sat down, her doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she was in half a mind to ignore it. She should have just followed that instinct, but her good manners didn’t let her.

She opened the door to an unfamiliar looking dude.

“Hi, I am Chandru…” he offered.

“Okay?” she asked, looking as puzzled as she sounded.

“I was just down, and I noticed you shut your curtains,” he said.

“Okay?... Sorry… what?”

“No, no… I just – I wanted you to know, I was not looking into your house, if that is what you thought. I am not some creep.”

“Uh… what?” she asked once again, unsure about what Chandru wanted.

“I just wanted you to know. That is all. You can keep your curtains open. Or closed. I don’t care,” continued Chandru.

“Okay, thanks!” she said, unsure, and now a little bit surprised. At herself. And embarrassed.

Thanks? Why are you thanking this very clearly creepy person?

She quickly shut the door before Chandru could see her face flush with embarrassment.

She looked through the peephole to see if he was gone. To her relief, he was. She ran to the window to see if he was still down. She opened the curtain, just a little bit. She saw him, but unfortunately, he also saw her. She quickly shut the curtain again.

Shit, shit, shit! Did he see me? I hope not! Ugh! Who the hell is this person? I just wanted to watch Too Hot To Handle.

She carefully opened the curtain once again to check if he was still there. Sure enough, he was. Staring up at her.

OH GOD! This time he surely saw me! Who is this and what does he want? Maybe I should call the watchman and ask?

She picked up her phone and dialled her building’s watchman, who thankfully, picked up, right when the first verse of “Oonchi Hai Building” began. It was never not funny to her that this watchman, the not-so-watchful security guard of a four-storey apartment complex, had set this particular song as his caller tune. Except today, today it was not so funny. Today it was just annoying. And a little funny.

“Yes, madam!”

“That man, who just left. Is he still -”

“Yes, yes, hold on! I’ll call him!” he said, as he ran after him.

She could see him run after him from her window.

“No, no, wait! Prasad! Wait, don’t go after him… can you hear me? Prasad? Hello?”

She could also see that Prasad’s hands were no longer holding his phone to his ear. They were stretched out, flailing after Chandru.

“Prasad! Listen to me! Don’t call him!” she said, to the plants in her room.

She continued watching, as Prasad dragged Chandru back to the building. And then into the building, and then out of her sight, likely towards the lift. She ran to the peephole, and there they were again, thirty seconds later.

She opened the door again.

“Here he is, madam!”

“Thanks, Prasad,” she said drily.

Wow, you sure are feeling grateful today.

She turned to Chandru and said, “This is a mistake. I was not calling you.”

“Okay,” said Chandru.

“No, really. I was not,” she continued.

Oh god, I hope this creep does not think I am interested in him! First, he caught me looking at him through the curtain, now this. This idiot, Prasad!

Chandru just continued standing there, awkwardly, waiting to be dismissed? Or invited in? There was no way of knowing.

“Sir, I am sorry – this is some confusion. I was just wondering why you came up to tell me that you weren’t looking at me, when you clearly were, and you saw me draw my curtains. I called Prasad to ask -” she could feel herself over-explain to the creep, when he fortunately cut her off.

“I was not looking, ma’am. I just noticed. I did not want you to think I am some creep if you saw me looking up. I was not looking at your house,” Chandru said.

“Okay, noted. I did not close the curtain because I saw you looking up. I was also not looking at you later nor did I call you. You can carry on with your day now,” she said, hoping to close this now, and return to her wine.

“Okay. Bye, bye!” said Chandru.

“Bye, bye!” said Prasad, to Chandru, cheerfully. “Can I also leave now, madam?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said, and shut her door.

HOW RANDOM!!!

She huffed and paced around her room, feeling unsettled. Her glass of wine was becoming stale by the minute.

Wait, what did he mean by “I was not looking at your house?” This feels damn odd.

She went back to the window, but this time she turned off her lights, to make sure she’d avoid another awkward eye-contact with Chandru. She opened the curtain and looked down, and she could still see him – just not near her building. Two buildings down.

What is his deal? Should I call the cops?

***

Hmm. I think I can climb up. It is just one floor.

Chandru was considering a house on the first floor of a small apartment building. He could see clearly inside the flat. He could see a TV, a big Godrej cupboard – surely one with a locker inside – a bar cabinet which definitely held some bottles of alcohol. Most importantly, he could tell the window was open. But he wasn’t able to tell if there were people inside, so he moved back a little, to get a broader view of the flat.

I think it is empty. Doesn’t look like it has a lot of security. I can definitely climb in and at least pick up a few bottles. I can come back later tonight to check out the stuff in the locker.

That was when he noticed her. She came to the window, and swiftly shut her curtains.

Wait, what was that? Did she think I was looking at her? Why did she shut the curtain like that? I was not looking at her or her house. It is on the second floor, and a little out of reach with my bad knee this week anyway.

Chandru was concerned.

Oh god! What if she saw my face? Or worse, what if she thought I was some creep! A common eve-teaser? No, no, no. I must do something. Should I? I should. I don’t know. Should I? Yeah… I should.

He walked into the building with the confidence of a delivery boy.

“Food delivery?” Chandru heard someone call after him, as he headed towards the stairs. He turned around to see the watchman of the building, in a crisp uniform, holding a phone still playing a video out loud.

“Err… yes,” he offered.

“Okay. Deliver and come back to fill the register,” said Prasad, and went back to his phone.

Thank god, I am not a creep. This man would have done nothing to stop me!

He decided to use the stairs and keep his ear to the door of the flat on the first floor. Can’t lose sight of the mission over his morals now, can he? The flat was definitely empty. He could tell because the flat next door sounded like it was extremely occupied. This one had the crisp and desperate vibe of a house waiting to be robbed. He continued on to the next floor and reached the door of the woman with the misunderstanding. He took note of the flat numbers on the floor for the watchman’s register and rang her bell.

She opened the door. He waited for a greeting, or at least a “Yes?”, but none came.

“Hi, I am Chandru…” he said.

Shit! Why did I give her my real name!

“Okay?” she asked.

“I was just down, and I noticed you shut your curtains,” he said.

“Okay?... Sorry… what?”

“No, no… I just – I wanted you to know, I was not looking into your house, if that is what you thought. I am not some creep.”

“Uh… what?” she asked once again.

What is so difficult to understand?

“I just wanted you to know. That is all. You can keep your curtains open. Or closed. I don’t care,” continued Chandru.

Just say thanks, woman. I know I am putting all your worries to rest!

“Okay, thanks!” she said, and slammed the door.

Wow, maybe no one taught her manners!

He went back down, made an entry in the watchman’s register and left the building. The watchman and the woman have seen his face. He will come back later, maybe even after a few days, once this whole incident is behind them, and see what can be done with the flat on the first floor, if anything.

He longingly looked back up at the first floor flat.

So close, yet so far. Hopefully they stay out for at least a week!

He carried on, scouting for more targets. He knew it would be difficult to find such an easy target twice in the same day, but he held on to the hope.

He had not reached too far when the watchman came running behind him.

“Wait! Wait, Madam has called you. Come,” he said.

Madam? Who madam? Second floor woman?

The watchman looked significantly more alert than he was a few minutes ago. Chandru wasn’t sure if he should be worried. He decided it will be best to not make a scene and do as directed.

He went with the watchman back to the building. The watchman rang her bell.

“Here he is, madam!”

What does that mean?

“Thanks, Prasad.”

What is going on? Why has she summoned me?

“This is a mistake. I was not calling you,” she said finally, addressing Chandru.

Oh, thank god!

“Okay,” said Chandru, overwhelmed with relief.

“No, really. I was not,” she continued.

I already said okay. Now what does she want? I don’t know if I should say anything. Should I? I don’t know -

“Sir, I am sorry – this is some confusion. I was just wondering why you came up to tell me that you weren’t looking at me, when you clearly were, and you saw me draw my curtains. I called Prasad to ask -”

Oh hell no! Is she accusing me?

“I was not looking, ma’am. I just noticed. I did not want you to think I am some creep if you saw me looking up. I was not looking at your house,” Chandru said.

“Okay, noted. I did not close the curtain because I saw you looking up. I was also not looking at you later nor did I call you. You can carry on with your day now,” she said.

What a frustrating woman! I should just leave before she registers my face.

“Okay. Bye, bye!” said Chandru, sarcastically.

“Bye, bye!” said Prasad, to Chandru, cheerfully. “Can I also leave now, madam?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said, and slammed her door, once again.

I bet she thinks I am a creep, despite my express clarification. I wouldn’t have said anything if I knew it would make no difference. I could have been drinking some expensive vodka right now.

***

Chandru was just two buildings away from the building when the cops arrived. The woman came down to take them to where she saw Chandru standing.

“Oh god, this woman! She got the cops?” Chandru thought to himself, as he noticed them walk towards him. He knew he couldn’t run. That would make matters worse.

“This is the man! He has been loitering around,” she informed the cops.

“Excuse me, madam! I am not loitering!” Chandru defended himself.

“Ma’am, this is Chandru -” a policewoman started explaining.

“What? Yes, I know his name! He wrote Rakesh in the register, by the way! Arrest him!”

“Ma’am, as I was saying he is Chandru. He is a petty thief. Has he stolen something from you?” said the policewoman.

“What?!”

The woman stared at her.

“I told you I was not a creep!” said Chandru.

The trip to Chennai was also less than horrible – but only because it was quick. I was asleep for most of it, and a good book kept me awake for the parts that I wasn’t asleep. Oh, and IndiGo gave me a sandwich which was… good? Maybe I was dreaming. I don’t know. It was a cold cucumber tomato and cheese sandwich with pesto and bocconcini cheese. Yeah, maybe I was dreaming. I am quite sure that I ate it though. I am also 90% sure that it was not a croissant. It was croissant shaped, just not a croissant. I am also fairly certain that it was not bocconcini cheese. It was good – both the not croissant and not bocconcini cheese. If anyone else has also had this sandwich on IndiGo, please let me know, and also tell me, is this a regular on their flights? How can I order it again? Asking, because I did not get this on the flight back, and I think I ordered the same thing while booking the ticket.

Anyway, back to the return journey. It was okay, because it was entertaining, and I had all kinds of feelings – happy, sad, angry, confused. Everyone seemed to have consumed something. Something a lot stronger than the two cups of coffee and black tea I had consumed before leaving for the airport at 6 PM.

I reached VERY early. I am the type who wants to reach early, but that is usually because I want my travel experience to be as calm as possible, because, as I have already mentioned, I hate travelling. Travelling, especially via flights, is so much. There is so much walking, so much human interaction, so much waiting, and so much stress and panic – of long lines, luggage mix ups, turbulence, and also, the inexplicable stress of impressing fellow travelers.

So, with all this in mind, I like to reach the airport early, and when I say early, I mean exactly the recommended number of hours before a flight plus thirty minutes, if I’m taking an IndiGo flight (because of huge lines), but by some stroke of massive luck, on this particular day in the Chennai airport, there was NO line at the check-in counter. The staff at the IndiGo counter were chilling like this was just another Wednesday, completely unaware of the chaos I had prepped for. They were chit-chatting when I arrived at the counter (without any queue, just like that – I walked all the way down the snake line, and I was next!) and were not upset when I interrupted them! There was also not a very heavy crowd – the kind I was ready for anyway – at security check. I made it from the cab to the gate in twenty minutes. Unreal!

I know none of this is entertaining. This story is not just about how amazing my luck is (wasn’t it amazing though, first the sandwich, then the private airport experience?), it is about the people I encountered from the moment I reached the gate.

I usually like to find a place to sit that is completely empty in the immediate seats next to it, or by an old couple, or by an old woman. I don’t know why, but this, in order of preference, is what I am scanning for. Unlike the experience at the check-in counters and security check, the gate was crowded. No place to walk, no place to sit, barely enough place to exist. Horrendous. I spotted an old couple who were seated at a three-seater beam seating near the gate. They had also occupied the three seats that were facing them right in front of them with their bags. I decided not to disturb the bags (on account of the couple’s age and because the bags had a confident and expensive look about them, like they deserved their own seats) and took the third vacant one next to them. Immediately after I sat, they both started panicked gesticulation to get my attention (I had my earphones on). Apparently, they were saving the seat. I know age and respect and all, but I was already respecting them by not insisting they move their bags that were occupying three whole seats right in front of them – so I pointed it out. I said, with my eyes and hands: your company can sit there, and your bags can go on the floor. Fortunately, they didn’t push further and dropped the matter, and I had to utter zero words and keep down the urge to give the older folks of our country a lesson on social etiquette, per my usual state of ready to fight.

Like ten minutes after this, the flight that was boarding before mine commenced boarding (a SpiceJet flight, also to Mumbai – this is important), and a lot of the people at the gate emptied the space, and I was able to move to another completely emptied row. Bliss. I noticed later that the oldies were saving the seats for their adult kids. They occupied four corner seats of the six, bags on the remaining two, a suitcase placed in the middle, and were enjoying pizza off boxes kept on top of it. Fun, I guess. It made sense why it was such an issue for them that I sat down next to them. I threw off the dynamics of their quadrant. Usually, I would have been furious on seeing this. Their entitlement would have prompted me to call my sister and bitch, just a little. But that day, I just watched.

Shortly after the SpiceJet flight had left, an IndiGo staff member arrived at our gate and announced that the gate for boarding was changed from 5 to 2 (a short walk, thankfully, another stroke of good luck.)

I, and the few other idiots like me who had arrived super early, walked over to the other gate. I managed to find an empty beam-seating row, and sat there for the rest of the thirty-minute wait. I saw the pizza family again at the new gate, right before boarding. This time though, they were fighting with the staff at the gate. I took off my earphones to listen in to their fight. Turns out, in their seat saving and pizza eating airport extravaganza, they forgot they were to be on the SpiceJet flight to Mumbai. SpiceJet. Not IndiGo. This was extremely entertaining for a few reasons:

1) They were not late;

2) They spoke Hindi, English, and Tamil – the exact languages in which the SpiceJet staff had been announcing boarding;

3) They were clearly well off (I could tell by their luggage and general entitled demeanour).

It was fun. I had fun watching this. Maybe I am cold and heartless, but they seemed like the kind of people who had assistants and staff telling them how to do everything – the kind of people who don’t have to pay a lot of attention.

I was wondering what had happened to them for the entire five-minute journey from the gate to my seat in the aircraft. My concern evaporated the moment I heard an argument between a man seated in one of the business-class seats and an airhostess, just one row of audacity away from mine. The heart of the argument was that the airhostess believed (correctly) that he did not have a business-class ticket. Simple, factual, logical, and backed by evidence in the form of the manifest she held in her hand. The man, though – he was… fascinating. Something about the way he was eating his Subway sandwich, before the flight even completed boarding, told me he was fascinating.

When I walked into the flight, I saw him. I walked past him while trying to get to my own seat. I am eternally grateful for the seat I got, because that was the only way I could have witnessed the negotiation masterclass that was underway before me.

The airhostess approached him and asked him if he would like help finding his seat. Subtle. Big mistake. He said, “No, I am all set.” I wish I was exaggerating, but this is exactly what he said before reaching into his bag and fishing out another sandwich. The airhostess tried another polite method to get him to move.

“Glad you are comfortable, sir, but unfortunately this is business-class. We are only welcoming three guests in this section on today’s flight.”

“Are they all here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone on this seat?”

“No, sir. We were informed that this seat will remain empty and we can offer it -”

“Okay, so you are welcoming four today then!”

“No, sir. I am afraid I cannot allow changing seats -”

I was losing patience. Truly, kudos to the airhostess. I still don’t know why she was skirting around the issue though, because either he genuinely did not understand how seats work on planes or he understood them perfectly and chose anarchy:

“No, I am not changing seats. I bought a ticket for this seat.”

Just like that. His vibe went from: oh, come on just let me sit here to I actually have a right to sit here, without missing a bite.

I don’t know how the airhostess did not start screaming at this point.

“No, sir. As per my records, this seat – 3B, has not been purchased or allotted.”

“No no, I bought a ticket online, and when I web-checked in, I selected this seat.”

“That cannot be, Sir. This seat is to be empty. We will be offering it for sale soon,” said the airhostess, finally taking a firm tone.

“You have three more business-class seats you can sell. Do you really need this one?”

Again, just like that. Back to oh, come on just let me sit here. I would have screamed.

The airhostess could not indulge him any further because the plane was still boarding, and she was getting in the way.

“Okay, sir. We can discuss payment options once boarding completes.”

Great last word. Love that airhostess. She didn’t even wait long enough to hear the man yelling behind her that he will not be paying.

Unfortunately, she didn’t come back. I get it, though. I was tired just listening to this interaction. The man won, and he sat at the business-class seat till we landed in Mumbai. However, I think the airhostess took the moral victory. She will forever be my hero. The epitome of patience and grace. She let him sit there, and in doing so, she lost nothing.

I assume. I was fast asleep before take-off, so I am assuming that is how that story ends. Maybe she went back and he paid. But isn’t it nicer to think she didn’t want to deal and let an airline take a small loss?

I woke up when the flight touched down in Mumbai. For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming – until I checked the time and realized we had landed a full forty minutes early. Forty. Minutes. Early. A stroke of absurdly brilliant luck. Unheard of. And no, I am not making this up. I looked around to make sure I hadn’t read the time wrong, but snippets of conversation floated through the cabin – “early,” “Ramesh bhai won’t reach for another hour,” “are we sure this is Mumbai?” – and I concluded that yes, against all odds, we had arrived early. What convinced me was the guy next to me – tapping his non-smart watch to see if it was working fine. He even put it next to his ear.

The joy, however, was short-lived.

Once the cabin lights came back on, the airhostess announced that the drive to the terminal would take thirty-five minutes. Thirty-five. Which meant that the forty minutes we had gained would be immediately lost to a bus ride. This made no sense. The terminal can’t be that far, can it? How slow are these buses? What route are they taking? Are we sightseeing? I just – it made absolutely no sense. One particular gentleman was very upset on hearing this. He urgently pressed the call button and also called for the airhostess – out loud, and demanded that we (yes, he was speaking for us all now, apparently) be allowed to deplane and collect our luggage immediately. Yes. That was his demand. To deplane and collect our luggage. He was missing a few steps in the process, no?

Now, see, as much as I hate travelling, I would like to come off as a cool traveler. Part of the act is not getting exasperated at these little dramas. Somehow, I was also aware that we were technically arriving when we were told we would, so the thirty-five minutes lost was actually five minutes gained. A win is a win! Who is she?

Cool travelers also don’t get up the moment the plane parks. So, I didn’t. My co-passengers, however, had no such aspirations. They stood up immediately – before the door had even opened. I was on the aisle seat, and the man in the middle seat very awkwardly stepped over me to get to the ramp, opened the overhead compartment, lightly knocked me on the head with his bag, and then… waited. I don’t understand this behaviour. I don’t judge it. But I truly do not understand it. The man on the window seat, now visibly irritated by my commitment to stillness, asked me, “Are you going to go?”

No, sir. I am not going to go. This plane is my house now. You are in my house. Can’t you tell by how comfortably I am planted on this seat?

“Are you going to go?”

Buddy, the door has not opened. Neither of us is going anywhere. Please sit down.

I didn’t say any of that. I wish I had. I just said, “Yes.”

Not sure about cool traveler, but definitely loser.

Anyway, once the doors opened, we left the plane and got onto the bus. I plugged in my earphones, mentally preparing for a thirty-five minute ride, and…

…we arrived at the terminal.

The bus ride lasted maybe thirty seconds. Thirty-five, max. I’m now unsure if I misheard the airhostess entirely, because I distinctly remember audible gasps when she announced the drive time.

That was the end of my lucky streak, because I waited a solid ten minutes for my luggage. Not bad by usual standards, but I had grown spoilt by then.

I don’t know if it was the high I was on after watching one of my best friends marry the love of his life, or the fact that I hadn’t slept properly in over a week, or simply that I’ve become so bitter that even the most mundane positives now surprise me – but this was a trip that made me hate travelling a little less.

I wasn’t overcome by anger at the entitled family for their entitlement. I didn’t feel secondhand rage or embarrassment on behalf of the people arguing over a business-class seat. I didn’t even feel the need to intervene. I wasn’t even upset by my co-passengers’ overenthusiasm or the threat of a delayed ride home, despite landing early.

I was just in for the ride. For once, I became a passive character, and it served me well. Maybe the universe rewards patience. Or maybe I was just too happy and tired to care – which, honestly, might be the same thing.

But I still have these things festering in me, so here you go. This can just be entertaining, I guess (hope), for you? Some of it will have back stories. Not promising anything.

A little preface, though – 2025 was a great year (sorry, bear with me, I am just having happy days *nazar emoji x 100*). I finally got out of a job that made me feel like an irrelevant dinosaur. I know dinosaurs are the farthest from irrelevant (how are they always so wildly relevant? they died like a million years ago. This should tell you everything you need to know about my old job, but if you don’t, too bad.) I will not elaborate, except to say that it was both good and not so good. This was also the year of a lot of personal growth and achievements. Again, I will not elaborate. On this, you will have to take my word for it.

So anyway, this list is basically just a release. If I had said these things out loud, maybe my year would have been better. Or maybe it would have been a gross pathetic mess. Or maybe it would have been insignificant and I am just giving myself and my words far too much importance. You see why I never said them out loud?

I am going to say them out loud now, to no one in particular. Also, in no particular order:

1) To the manchild – You are a manchild. You are an adult man who behaves like a sixteen-year-old who won a ‘President for a Day’ contest. How you have any power, without actually winning a contest, still baffles me.

2) To the one who thinks they are better than everybody (read: me) – You are not. You are so transparent it is almost ridiculous. What is funny is that you don’t think that you are. You think you’re being so tactful and discreet when, in fact, you let your actual intentions and selfish desires slip through too frequently. A little pathetic.

3) To the perpetual victim: When you ask for help, be okay to be told no. When you expect people to make adjustments and sacrifices for your convenience, and then throw a hissy fit when they don’t, you’re being extremely entitled and bratty.

4) To the person who puts “job” in “jobless” – How do you have a job? Seriously, how? It must be illegal to be this bad at what you do and still be paid for it.

5) To the know-it-all – We can have a conversation again when you stop aggressively believing you are always right. Actually, merely believing would also be okay. Why do you need to convince me (and others) that you are right? Some things need to just be opinions, and that needs to be okay. Google “agree to disagree”, please.

6) To the queen of the world – Your money impresses no one.

Now I know a lot of this is negative, but that is because I have said the nice things out loud. Hmmm… interesting resolution idea for you folks, perhaps? Anyway, back to the list:

7) To the heir of other people’s convictions – Must be tough being an invertebrate. Slither away from my life, please.

This one. Ugh. This one bugged me to no bounds. This is for someone who is young, cosmopolitan, and woke (I never thought I will use this term in a derogatory sense, but in this context, it applies). But alas, they were not young or contemporary or woke when it meant they could lose access to their family money. I cannot think of any other reason they would put up with some of their family’s really inane opinions and actions, without even attempting to correct or challenge them. Quietly nod and agree, or lose access to the fortunes and lifestyle. Makes sense, no?

8) To the perpetual victim (runner-up) – Everyone has a tough life. Chill.

This applies to far too many people. You are not the first person to get married, have kids, change jobs, etc. Yes, these things are hard, but you will be fine. You are allowed to complain. I do too. A lot! But do not turn it into the end of the world, and do not expect me to make my life about it. Come to me, whine, ask for advice or don’t – either is fine. What is not fine is outsourcing your adulthood. I will help. I will listen. But I will not reorganize my life around your existential crisis. Thanks for understanding!

9) To the transactional helper – Don’t do anyone a favour (least of all, me) if you are expecting more than gratitude in return.

10) To the buffoon – You are confused and we can all see it. You can pretend you have it all together, but we know you don’t. We had to bear the brunt of the confusion in some not so nice ways, despite repeated warnings, and even being called out on your confusion. Yet, you have the audacity to be upset with us? No no, you have the audacity to be upset with me? Guts!

You know, as I write this, I realize that some of these people really pissed me off, some even did things that changed my life when I didn’t want any changing. As a change averse person, please know – this really sucks. BUT! In spite of this, I had a good year. Not trying to teach you anything here (except maybe to be petty and hold on to that rage. Just saying.)

For now, that is all. Feels important to clarify though that I didn’t say these things when I had a chance and I have said them now, when they no longer have any power over me. I didn’t say any of this because I “forgave” anyone nor because I had to or wanted to. Just because I can. I’m not sharing this to heal or evolve or close a chapter. I already did all of that quietly. This is just what was left over. None of this made me kinder (obviously). It just made me clearer.

In simple words – what I learnt from 2025: holding on to anger doesn’t make you small or wrong. Sometimes it just keeps you alert long enough to leave.

It turned out that in adulthood, no one lined up for her attention anymore. They barely looked up from their screens. Which is why, when adult twenty-six year old Vinnie received these messages from her best friend, at 2:33 AM on a Saturday night, she was sent spiraling into a mental breakdown.

Koyal: Awake? Free to talk? I just got home from Poonam’s birthday party. I think I noticed something, and I am feeling a little weird about Parthav. I need you to tell me I am not overthinking this.

Koyal: (if you agree, obviously).

It had been gnawing at her all day, that Koyal’s colleague, Poonam, who Vinnie not only knew but also considered a friend, had not invited Vinnie to her birthday party, but Parthav, Koyal’s new boyfriend of less than six months had made the cut.

She tried desperately to make other plans and have more fun than Koyal and the gang would have at the birthday party, but all her other friends either replied too late or already had other plans. How had this happened? Back in school, Vinnie managed to get majority support to be made captain for whatever game was being played in recess, regardless of whether she actually played. Now, at twenty-six, she had effectively been replaced by a man whose only interesting quality was running a Virat Kohli fan page with some one hundred followers. Evolution had failed her.

It is not pathetic that I am sitting at home and obsessively refreshing Koyal, Poonam, and Parthav’s Instagram to see their stories on a Saturday night, she told herself, unconvincingly. She told herself that she was just interested in checking the outfits and the vibe of the place they had picked, as research for the party she would have to throw for her own birthday, eight months later. She was already near tears when she received Koyal’s messages, after which: cue full-fledged crying – the kind where she had to turn up the volume of her TV playing Modern Family in the background, just to drown herself out.

Vinnie didn’t want to be upset about not being invited to the party. She didn’t want to be upset that Parthav was invited either. And most importantly, she didn’t want to be upset that somehow, it left like over the last ten years, she’d gone from being the IT Girl to the she-will-do-it-girl – dependable, always available, and conveniently responsible, but often forgotten. She felt like she had spent years being there for Koyal and everyone else, and yet here she was – all alone on a Saturday night, clutching her phone like emergency life support. In about three hours, she’d gone from how could Poonam not invite me to the party, but that bloody troll gets to go to how could Koyal not even ask me what happened after I told my boss I am quitting last week?

A solid two minutes of ugly crying later, she decided she would let these messages go unanswered. A problem for later, for future Vinnie who could hold herself together.

She went to sleep, and woke up next morning, and opened Instagram before her eyes were fully open. The first post on her feed was Parthav’s with the caption ‘MY GANGSTAS’ with about ten people tagged, including Koyal, Poonam, and an account with the handle ‘_schezwan.chuntney_’.

Great. These ‘GANGSTAS’ now also have inside jokes, it looks like.

She remembered she had to reply to Koyal. Something about the previous night’s mental breakdown prompted her to take on a more cold and ruthless stance.

Vinnie: No reassurance needed, babe. Trust your gut!

Koyal replied almost immediately.

Koyal: Huh?

Koyal: Okay, thanks, I guess. LOL!

Vinnie left her on read and felt triumphant for about ten minutes. She wondered if she had been too cold and risked ending a fifteen-year friendship. She thought back to some highlights of her friendship with Koyal, where Vinnie had:

· Taken a flight to go see Koyal in Jaipur after Koyal had a fallout with her boss on a work trip.

· Sat outside Koyal’s ex’s house in her car at midnight, just so Koyal could “get closure from a distance.”

· Spent hours helping Koyal pick a caption for stories (that expired in twenty-four hours), multiple times.

· Faked a fever so she could skip a date and stay home to proofread Koyal’s SOP for her college applications.

· Pretended to like that disgusting quinoa and kale salad that Koyal was obsessed with.

· Always remembered the names of Koyal’s enemies, even when Koyal forgot why she hated them.

In sharp contrast, Koyal had:

· Forgotten her birthday three years in a row.

· Forgotten the name of the company Vinnie worked for, on two separate occasions.

· Referred to Vinnie’s most recent ex-boyfriend as “Rohit… or Rahul? Something R.”

· Once used Vinnie’s therapist’s name as a punchline in a group chat.

· Gave a five-word reply when Vinnie sent her a four-paragraph vent about the last horrible date she went on four days ago, where she spilled wine on herself.

· And of course, not asked Vinnie about the aftermath of her quitting her job.

When did Koyal become so jaded? Or was she always so? Vinnie was confused, but also convinced. If she couldn’t be main character, she sure as hell wouldn’t be a tertiary character in Koyal’s life. It was just 9:30 AM on this bright Sunday morning, and she decided she would have a lovely productive day – alone. But she got a message from Koyal as she was making her coffee.

Koyal: What are you doing today?

Remember, Vinaya. Cold and ruthless. Cold. And Ruthless.

Vinnie: IDK yet.

Koyal: Okay, wanna hang?

Vinnie: Will let you know.

Koyal: Okay? Why are you being weird?

Vinnie left her on read. But now that she had done this, she wasn’t sure what was next. Should she really be punishing Koyal for something Koyal doesn’t know she did? Or is this the correct attitude for someone who, as an adult, should know how to treat other people? She hated that the only person she could ask this was Koyal herself.

She typed out a few replies:

Vinnie: No, what? I am not being weird.

No, not this.

Vinnie: Excuse me? You are weird.

Nope.

Vinnie: What do you mean? I said I’ll let you know if I wanna hang. How can I be more clear?

I cannot be gaslighting her. I AM being weird.

Vinnie: Oh, like you really care LOL!

Do I really want to have this fight?

She considered that for a minute.

Yes.

And hit send.

Koyal: You have been typing for 15 mins. This is what you were sending?

Wow, stalker.

Koyal: I am coming over, you dumb strange girl.

Vinnie was not sure how to feel.

Maybe it is good that she cares and wants to come over and give me some attention? But is this about care or attention? What is this about?

It was too early and she had started drama without fully being committed to the cause – or even knowing what the cause was. She decided she would have her coffee and be a muted version of herself, and show no excitement or enthusiasm on seeing Koyal, as she normally would have. She did as planned when Koyal finally arrived – nearly two hours later.

Koyal walked in like a tornado. It was as if the lighting in the house shifted – a glowing spotlight on Koyal, while Vinnie sat somewhere behind, in the audience. The Koyal Show began with highlights from the party, then moved on to her small inkling that Parthav had been flirting with someone from Poonam’s office – the reason for her late-night messages. But, as Koyal clarified, Parthav informed her that the woman was actually Parthav’s third cousin. They figured this out then and there, at the party. She hadn’t overheard a single word of their conversation, of course. She’d just seen them talking. A lot.

Vinnie offered the occasional “oh,” “haha,” and “hmm,” without any follow-up questions or reactions. She was mid–emotional experiment: calm detachment. But as Koyal kept going, oblivious to the quiet storm of Vinnie’s restraint, irritation began to replace her discipline. Vinnie was at the precipice of concluding her experiment, with the simple conclusion that she was right and Koyal was an awful friend, when Koyal finally clapped her hands to draw Vinnie’s attention.

“Bro, Vinnie. You listening? What is going on with you? Are you sick?” asked Koyal, sounding sincerely concerned.

“Yeah, yeah – I am listening. As always. I am not sick,” responded Vinnie, fully aware that a fight was brewing, that she had started, but no longer sure what it was about.

“What? What was that? What is going on?”

“Nothing. Go on, tell me more! I am dying to hear more about how much fun you all had and what Poonam’s colleague’s dog eats for breakfast. Continue, please!”

“What the hell, Vinnie? Are you going to tell me what happened or not? Are you salty because Poonam didn’t invite you?”

Am I? Am I upset that Poonam didn’t invite me?

“No! But aren’t you happy Parthav was there to find his cousin!” said Vinnie.

“Vinnie, Parthav is friends with Poonam’s husband. It is a total crazy small-world coincidence. Which is why the cousin thing was so much freakier! Why did you want to come anyway?”

“I didn’t want to come.”

Vinnie realized she meant it when she said it. She did not want to go per se. She just wanted to be invited. Maybe she would have gone, but she wanted to have had the option.

“Okay, then? Do you not like Parthav?” asked an exasperated Koyal. “You’re driving me crazy! Just tell me why you’re upset – which you clearly are!” snapped Koyal, when Vinnie offered no response.

“It is not about Parthav. I actually think he is fun and cool,” admitted Vinnie, once again surprising herself with her honesty.

Koyal just stared, expressionless, almost, waiting for Vinnie to make some sense.

“Nothing Koyal… I know you won’t agree,” said Vinnie.

Koyal continued staring at her in silence, allowing Vinnie another chance to tell her what the matter was.

“I just feel like you don’t care about me enough,” said Vinnie finally, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“What? Are you on crack?”, asked Koyal, making Vinnie chuckle involuntarily.

“Told you. You wont agree.”

“Yes – because you’re being ridiculous. You cannot actually believe that. What do you even mean?”

“Why didn’t you follow up or check in after I told you I had the ‘I’m quitting’ conversation at work?”

“Wait, what? Hold on – what happened at work? Sorry, let’s discuss that first. Are they being difficult?”

“No, nothing happened. I mean – yeah, they are being difficult, but it is done now. Another month to go,” offered Vinnie, rather unceremoniously.

“Okay… I am not sure… sorry – what?” said Koyal, more confused than when they started the riff.

“Why didn’t you ask?”

“I… what’s there to ask? Also, when has that ever stopped you from talking about something you wanted to talk above?”

Now, it was Vinnie’s turn to stare back.

“Vinnie!”

“Yeah, but you’ve also not been paying a lot of attention to the stuff I say. Look at this –”

She pulled out her phone, opened their chat, and scrolled up to the portion where Vinnie told her about the horrible date and Koyal gave a seemingly uninterested reply.

“Vinnie, I was about to take a flight and just quickly responded. When I didn’t see a reply from you I thought you were over it. I didn’t want to reignite any embarrassment for you by talking about it more. We could have discussed it more – did you want to? Are you okay? Did the loser call you?”

“Ok… no… it is not that.”

“Okay, then what is it?”

Vinnie could not properly remember anymore. Everything felt super lame and trivial. Her brain, which had produced a 17-slide presentation last night, now offered a loading icon. As Koyal waited, Vinnie felt something annoyingly familiar – embarrassment. She was overcome with the realization that none of her reasons sounded as big out loud as they had in her head, post mental breakdown, pre-coffee. Here she was, having spiralled flawlessly on a lonely Saturday night, and apparently, that is all it was – a lonely Saturday night.

“Vinnie – are you here?” said Koyal, snapping her fingers before Vinnie.

“Of course, I care about you – you idiot. Do you want to tell me what you are feeling or not?”

“I don’t know. I cannot seem to remember.”

“Okay… so then…” said Koyal, shrugging.

“So, then nothing, I guess. I need you to be better with remembering names and birthdays and other important life events. Treat me like a main character.”

“Done. I thought I already do all that – but done! Anything else my queen?”

“That is all for now.”

“Oh! Pfft – easy peasy! I wouldn’t spend a whole day standing in line to get an autograph from an author I don’t even like for just anyone, you know. I did that for you, and you think I don’t care – silly girl!”

“Oh my god, yeah! That was so cool and thoughtful. You also drove through the night to be with me in Pune after I flunked that interview. Fine, sorry – I don’t know why I was spiralling or about what.”

“YES! And that car didn’t even have AC,” Koyal reminded Vinnie. “It is fine. Happens. Now go make me some coffee. But also, if you have something to get of your chest – do it. Now or later. Whatever. But coffee, please?”

“Black or with milk?”

“Surprise me, main character.”

“I don’t know, Preeti. There is a lot of nasty stuff being said about you… you know… speculation about your… transformation. I –”

“Why are you saying it like that – transformation – like it is not real. It is real! I don’t need judgement from you, Chinmayi.” said Preeti, finally glancing over at Chinmayi and noticing that Chinmayi was also not looking at Preeti. She was looking at her computer. “What are you looking at? Pay attention!” she said, slamming her hand on the table.

“I am paying attention and I am not judging you. I am just saying – people are on to the fact that you have not lost weight in the traditional and conventional, you know, healthy, way,” said Chinmayi, in an insincere attempt to sound sincere and concerned. What she really wanted to say was that Preeti had disappeared for six months, returned after getting some surgeries and taking some less than advisable medication, and for as long as the internet speculations on her sudden lean reappearance ran wild, she should stay far away from making any claims that might result in her being caught in a lie, or worse, being cancelled.

“Okay, so? It is just speculation, right? I have ironclad NDAs with all the doctors.”

“Just speculation? That is a very reductive way of looking at it, Preeti. People are saying – with a lot of logical arguments – why they think you, you know…”

“I know what? Why are you being so coy and weird about this? Chinmayi, I am trying to do a rebrand here. Ignore the trolls, will you?”

“Cool, I guess. I can ignore the trolls, but the brand you want to mention in your video has made no claims about their products supporting weight loss. Anywhere. That is what I was just checking, by the way.”

“Okay, so?” asked Preeti, ignorant as ever.

“So, Preeti, I am not sure if it is a good idea to mention them, or more specifically, say anything about how they “helped” your weight loss journey. I am sure they will have some rules about making such claims.”

“You worry too much. I am saying that this is not a paid post. I am just saying good things about a brand. I have almost a million followers. I am sure the brand will be thrilled.”

“Okay. For the record, I don’t think this is a good idea. I think you should slowly get back into the feed with some general and maybe mundane stuff, be active online in the same way that you were before your… break… you know generally relatable and funny, and then once the conversation about your freaking arms dies down a little, and some brands start reaching out once again, you can consider talking about being fit, overall. Maybe also do it, you know, before saying anything.”

“Do what? Oh, shut up, Chinmayi, what a buzzkill! I have lost 7.5 full KGs, and I am eating clean. That is enough. I am posting this. Do I need to teach you what rebranding is? I cannot believe you’re asking me to stick to the same tired stuff I used to do before.”

And so, a short week after her “return” to the internet, Preeti posted a video – unceremoniously, highly edited, and a little too confident. In the video, she said that for the last six months, she’d been super regular with her workouts and steps, and focused on eating clean – especially with the help of Clēn, because their products kept her full, helped her feel lighter, and really feel the loss of inches around her waist, arms, and thighs. Then came a giggle, “maybe this brand should pay me for how much I love their products – especially their sourdough and gochujang dip!” A pause. Then, the clarification – of course they haven’t paid her. This is not an ad. This is from her heart, which is now healthier, all thanks to Clēn.

In the days that followed, Chinmayi grew increasingly nervous. The internet was alive with threads dissecting Preeti’s claims – and somehow, Clēn was now part of it, in spirit more than as an active participant. Once an unremarkable D2C brand, it was suddenly being hailed as “good for you,” “gut-friendly,” and “life-changing.” None of it sanctioned by Clēn, of course. What truly unsettled Chinmayi was that Clēn’s products were now sold out across every quick-commerce app.

Preeti on the other hand was basking in her engagement. She was receiving love and support like never before. She was also receiving hate and distrust like never before, but she ignored all that. What was not coming in though, was brand inquiries for work that paid her, much to Preeti’s utter and complete disappointment.

“What do you need to do your actual job, babe?” Preeti barked through the phone, at 8AM on Sunday morning, two whole weeks later.

“Wow, okay. Calm down, I –”

“Calm down? I had a 100k views on a story yesterday. A story! In less than twenty four hours the Clēn video had almost two million views and currently has almost 10k comments. Comments, Chinmayi. Organically. Do I need to tell you how insane that is?”

“Yes, yes, it’s amazing. But the stuff online –”

“What stuff online? I don’t care. You’re my manager. Manage it.”

“The stuff about –”

“I said I don’t care. Get me work, Chinmayi!”

Chinmayi was not able to tell Preeti that brands were not interested in Preeti nor did they view her as a health… anything. She was a funny girl on the internet, and this sudden “transformation” meant nothing to them, but everything to Preeti. No one was interested in hiring a now irrelevant ex-famous person, who was also the centre of some controversy about her methods. Preeti, on the other hand, was not interested in returning to her previous relatable online persona. Chinmayi did not know how to balance it or tell Preeti that her “rebrand” was failing.

A few days later, Chinmayi managed to get a hosting gig for Preeti, after much grovelling. It was for a well-paying corporate gig at an intra-company multi-branch offsite at Goa. Preeti’s problem with this gig – it was a private event. It did not count if no one could see it. Chinmayi convinced her that it was still work. A big part of Chinmayi’s pitch to Preeti was that Preeti could dress up and take several photos for Instagram at a sexy location in Goa. It worked, and they went.

“Did you try contacting Clēn?” Preeti asked Chinmayi, on the flight to Goa.

“No, I –”

“No? Chinmayi! How can you be so chill? The reel in which I mention them has more five million views now! They OUGHT to be interested. Make them be! Why do I need to tell you this?”

“I mean, sure – I could reach out to them. I just worry –”

“Finally, you got one thing right! Yeah, you just worry. It makes no sense. I have made your work so much easier with that video that I made on my own! All you need to do it find a way to capitalize on it. Come on, Chinmayi. You’re beginning to really make me wonder who you work for these days. You make money if I make money. You do know that right? Honestly, I can’t believe Clēn hasn’t reached out already, but whatever, these marketing teams are such buffoons.”

“Yes. Ok. I’ll reach out to them after the show.”

The show went okay but Preeti was unhappy because a lot of people didn’t seem to know who she was. Chinmayi knew she would have to deal with this later, so she decided to reach out to Clēn and hopefully receive some positive response to be able to manage the incoming hellfire. She rubbed her temples, the way she did before every new disaster, and typed out an email to someone she knew at the parent company of Clēn. She introduced herself and Preeti, attached a link to the video, and wrote that Preeti had been on a “clean journey,” that everything she now stood for aligned with the Clēn philosophy. She knew as she typed that it was complete crap. The email sounded synthetic and desperate. She hit send anyway, inwardly acknowledging the irony.

Chinmayi woke up the next morning to a missed call from the acquaintance she wrote the email to, and called her back. For a fleeting second, she allowed herself to hope.

“Hi Himanshi! How are you? So good to hear from you – sorry I missed your call, but I assume you called after seeing my email?”

“Yes – I am good. How are you?”

“All well! So, tell me, I am dying to know! You think you’ll be able to get me a meeting with Clēn’s marketing team?” said Chinmayi, with an almost pathetic enthusiasm she hoped was not evident through the phone.

“I... uh... I was a little surprised to receive the email, Chinmayi. The management hasn’t been too happy with the video. The marketing head was… let’s just say, not thrilled. Clēn doesn’t identify as a “good for you” brand, and now it has been branded as that.”

Chinmayi froze.

“Hello, Chinmayi? Are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry – I just… I didn’t know, I guess? I am just wondering what the issue is though? Isn’t your whole philosophy that you are clean?”

“Yeah – but not in the way that it is being made out to be now. There are “weight loss” recipes featuring our products now, which was never part of the plan. We’re getting tagged in them non-stop. It might become a problem, you know, if people start expecting to lose weight by eating our stuff.”

“Oh… I… you know but Preeti never said it helped her lose weight…”

“Yes, she did. Don’t bullshit me, Chinmayi. She has properly implied it, with some feeling lighter and healthier heart and all that,” said Himanshi. Curt, rude, and almost yelling.

“Okay, woah. Sorry… I just… can we be civil, please? I am sure we can figure something out. If you need her to make another video more in line with your principles… you know… we can work it out,” said Chinmayi, naively believing still, that the situation was at all salvageable.

“Chinmayi, Clēn has been civil, to be honest. The marketing teams had been advised to seek a retraction. I haven’t forwarded your email internally yet. I worry that it’ll tip them over the edge, if they see it.”

“Wait, hold on. Advised by whom? Slow down – what is happening here? What do you mean tip them over the edge?” Chinmayi’s head was spinning.

“Advised by legal, Chinmayi. Keep up! Everyone is upset. I was calling you to tell you that I will not be forwarding the email internally, and that is the best I can do for you. But I saw that you have also marked the central ‘Contact Us’ email. So, if someone takes it from there and decides to do something, I don’t know if I will be able to help you,” said Himanshi – the most friendly thing she had said in the entire conversation.

“Oh… uhh... okay. Thanks… I –”

“Sorry, Chinmayi, I have to go. Bye, take care,” said Himanshi, and hung up.

Chinmayi stared at her phone in horror. She’d known the video was a bad idea – for the same reasons Himanshi had not-so-kindly articulated. Now, she didn’t know what to do. Should she tell Preeti about this, or stay silent, like Clēn had, until there was actually something to tell? She was certain that if she said anything now, Preeti would somehow twist it into being her fault – that she didn’t know how to charm a brand into seeing the silver lining or whatever. So, she decided to keep quiet and look for other opportunities. For now, she’d call someone from the management team at the current gig and beg them to butter Preeti up as damage control for the lack of appropriate fanfare around her celebrity.

The next few days went by, uneventful. Fortunately for Chinmayi. Unfortunately for Preeti. Chinmayi had conjured a timeline of three months – if nothing happens for three months, Clēn can stop being a worry. A completely illogical and self-invented timeline of three months – a number plucked from thin air, comforting enough for Chinmayi’s nerves but meaningless in reality. A timeline, unfortunately, that reality did refuse to honour. She woke up one day to the news that Clēn had issued a statement, naming and shaming Preeti.

“Clēn has been made aware of public claims made by an individual on social media regarding our products and their purported effects on weight loss and personal health. Clēn would like to clarify that our products are not designed or intended to support weight loss, and any suggestion otherwise is inaccurate and unauthorized.

Any statements implying health benefits beyond those clearly communicated on our packaging and official communications are not endorsed by Clēn and may be misleading to consumers.

We request that all parties, and specifically, Ms. Preeti Priyal Shah (Instagram: @OopsItsPreeti), refrain from making claims about Clēn products that have not been explicitly verified by our brand. Misrepresentation of our products can cause confusion and is not consistent with our commitment to transparency and responsible communication.

Clēn remains dedicated to providing quality, clean, and convenient products that support a balanced lifestyle and encourages all consumers and influencers to share experiences responsibly.

Sincerely,
Team Clēn

P.S.: Eat like you care, or don’t. Whatever.”

Chinmayi read the statement and felt an overwhelming urge to quit. She called Preeti, not knowing what she will say.

“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE HELL, CHINMAYI?” Preeti screamed into the phone.

“So, you have seen the statement?”

“Are you on drugs? Of course, I have. Did you not speak to them?”

“I did,” admitted Chinmayi and finally filled Preeti in about her conversation with Himanshi – knowing that this will not go well for her, but at this point, Chinmayi had run out of the energy to care.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“For what? Exactly what would you have done? Would you have taken it down?” retorted Chinmayi.

“Watch your tone. And maybe.”

“Oh, shut up!”

“What did you say?”

“I said SHUT UP!”

“Listen, Chinmayi –”

“No, you listen, Preeti! I knew this would happen. Be glad they haven’t sent a notice or something and all they have done is issue a bloody statement. Also –”

“Chinmayi,” interrupted Preeti.

“LET ME FINISH, FOR ONCE!” yelled Chinmayi, happy with herself.

Taking the silence at the other end as her cue to finally say what she wanted to, she went on.

“Look, Preeti. It is fine that you did what you did to lose weight. You wanted to look a certain way and now you do, that is great. I am thrilled for you. Tickled, honestly! You went from an S to size XS. Wow. What an amazing incredible unimaginable feat! You look amazing. I don’t know how you ever look away from the mirror. But it is your responsibility to not mislead your followers – you have them because you were relatable. Don’t cheat them now.”

More silence on the other end.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes,” said Preeti, sounding unsure.

“Okay, good. I will not be able to support your “rebrand” if it is centred around lies. Let me know if you want to take my advice, and perhaps also consult a lawyer, and I will stick with you. If not, find another manager.”

“Okay,” said Preeti, still unsure and maybe also nervous.

“Okay, good. Give me a few hours, and I will let you know what to do,” said Chinmayi and hung up.

Chinmayi went over Clēn’s statement a few more times. Eat like you care, or don’t. Whatever. She didn’t know if this was a joke, a threat, or a cosmic intervention, but it gave her an idea. She called Preeti back and coerced her to execute a simple plan: a video acknowledging the mix-up, clarifying the brand’s position, and poking fun at her own overconfidence. Preeti balked at first, but Chinmayi reminded her that authenticity was what had won her followers in the first place. All she had to say was that she did not intend for her initial video to be taken to mean that Clēn assisted her weight loss in anyway, and all should, hopefully, be good in the world.

Preeti did as told. Her engagement and followers fell by a lot. She was irritated and confused but under Chinmayi’s command, she agreed to live with it, at least for a little while. As for Chinmayi, for now, all she could do was be happy with her small victory, breathe, sip her coffee, and hope the next disaster didn’t land on her desk before lunch.

“Also, they’ll send us these cute clothes! Look,” said Soma, passing her phone to Marisha to take a look.

“Oh, yeah! This stuff is cute!” she offered, reviewing the website of an athleisure brand that can best be described as a Lululemon wannabe ,with Kardashian aesthetics.

“Right? I am sure the class’s cost includes the fee for this – it is more expensive than a usual spin class – but I like the clothes, so I don’t mind,” said Soma.

“Expensive? What do you mean? How much is it? I don’t really care for the clothes so much – I have enough workout clothes,” said Marisha handing Soma’s phone back to her.

“Three thousand five hundred, but don’t say no! It will be fun, also who cares if you have enough! They’re so cute. Come on, Marisha, don’t you NEED these?”

“Soma, what! No, I am not paying three thousand five hundred for a spin class! I’ll just go to my gym and do a regular workout. My gym membership for a whole month is cheaper.”

“No, NO! Just come, it will be fun,” pleaded Soma.

“Okay, fine, but just this one time. Don’t make it a habit. Do we get to pick the clothes they’ll send?” said Marisha.

“Yes, here – choose what you like,” said Soma, giving her the phone again.

They each chose a sports bra and leggings in an impractical white called “ivory tusk”. Cute, yes, but when the clothes finally arrived, Marisha was peeved for three reasons. First, they had the nerve to charge her extra for delivery, as if the ₹3,500 wasn’t already daylight robbery. Second, the clothes were of extremely subpar quality. The fabric was thin and cheap, and in “ivory tusk” white, it looked worse than it actually was. It had no ‘river like glow’, as advertised, and had more of a ‘hospital bedsheet’ look. Third, she did not look like she had ever worked out in her whole life, when she tried them on. The white made her torso and thighs look like loaves of bread. As someone on a gluten-free diet, this was more than offensive.

Marisha cursed Soma in her head. She picked up her phone to dial Soma and tell her that she was above such gimmicky aesthetics, and that she would never forgive Soma for tricking her into such gullible consumerism, but decided against it. She told herself that she was paying for the spin class – an expensive spin class, yes – but it was a workout that she would make the most of, so never mind the horrible clothes that she probably would never wear.

The next day in office, she asked Soma if she had received the clothes.

“Yeah – it looks cute, but I didn’t really like it so much. The material is a little transparent. Did you get it?”

“Yes, it sucks. I can’t believe you fell for this, and took me down with you!” said Marisha, nonchalant – as if she didn’t have a small mental breakdown about not looking like the models on the website when she tried hers on.

“I know – sorry! But we’ll still go, and it will still be fun, I hope. They also sent a message saying they’re providing some yogurt snack after.”

“I’ll pass on that, but sure,” said Marisha, rolling her eyes at sweet naïve Soma.

Ten days later, when the day of the spin class finally arrived, Marisha had forgotten about the clothes. She got ready in her usual clothes and left for the class. She remembered them when she was a few minutes away from the venue, and texted Soma.

Marisha: Did not wear the Glowcore clothes. Did you?

Soma: Yes, but that is okay. Why would that matter?

Marisha: Are you sure?

Soma: Of course. Be there in 10, Driving. C U.

But as it turned out, it mattered. A lot. The whole point of the class was for conventional hotties to show up wearing either the “ivory tusk” or the “ivory mood” (i.e., yellow) set, so that the brand could record the class and use it to promote the brand. Marisha understood this within five seconds of walking in. The room was full of girls in Glowcore clothes, with faces full of make-up, taking mirror selfies. When she walked in, it was like crashing the royal wedding in denim dungarees – every head turned to look at this commoner. She might as well have walked in with a neon sign over her head that read: Didn’t Get the Memo.

But she didn’t – she hadn’t received the memo! She stepped out of the room without saying a word, to call Soma.

“SOMA! You did not tell me this was a branding thing,” she yelled into the phone the minute Soma answered.

“What do you mean? What branding thing?”

“We were meant to be in the clothes! Did you not know this either?”

“Nope.”

“Okay? Then why are you wearing the clothes?”

“Just. It was on the top of my shelf, so I figured… you know… what is happening? Why are you shouting?”

“Where are you?” asked Marisha, Soma’s calmness pissing her off more than the situation she had landed up in.

“Just walking up. Hang on – I’ll see you in two minutes,” said Soma and cut the call.

When Marisha turned to go back in she was greeted by two girls – one who was in a baby blue and white Glowcore set, and one in an all-black Glowcore set. The one in blue and white spoke first.

“Hi! Are you here for the class?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Marisha

“Did you not get the clothes?”

“No, I got it. I just… didn’t want to wear it. Is that okay?”

She looked at Marisha head to toe – considered her outfit, including her now very embarrassing t-shirt that had a picture of a little kitten with the words “ALPHA MALE” in red printed on it.

“Did you say you had an extra top in your car?” said blue and white, now addressing the other girl.

“Yeah, I can go get it, and then she can change into it before we start,” said all-black.

“Wait, what? Are you talking about me? No, I am not changing,” said Marisha, inserting herself into a ridiculous conversation that was about her.

This was when Soma entered the scene. Blue and white was visibly overjoyed to see another girl in the Glowcore uniform.

“Hi! I am Sonali, founder of Glowcore - we’re all about community and sweat and shine! You’re here for the spin class, aren’t you? Are you ready to glow?” she said to Soma.

Soma ignored her, and looked at Marisha.

“What is going on?”

Marisha was gathering her thoughts to speak.

“Okay look, you can do the class, but take one of the bikes in the back, because you cannot be in the pictures,” said Sonali, addressing Marisha again.

“Okay – and I mean this nicely – I do not want to be in your pictures, please.”

“Of course! Don’t worry about it. Do the class and don’t worry about this,” said all-black to Marisha. Marisha could see Sonali nodding her head aggressively to this excess by all-black.

“Okay. Who are you?” asked Marisha, sounding ruder than she intended.

“Oh, I am the instructor. Kajal. Hi! Should we go in?”

They all went back in after this little awkwardness. Marisha told herself it was fine - she’d sweat it out, burn some calories, and leave with her dignity intact. Then she saw the two-camera setup and a man with an iPhone, all set to record some “content”. She looked at Soma, hoping that she was also finding this random entry into the world of fitness and lifestyle influencers bizarre, but Soma seemed to have fit right in. She had found herself a bike – and a friend – and was posing for a picture.

“Hello all you beautiful women! I am Kajal, your instructor for the day! We are waiting for a few more lovely girls to join us. We’ll start soon. Settle into your bikes, I’ll be around shortly to make sure you are locked in properly. Look around your bike and make sure you have your water and the weights for this session,” announced Kajal.

Marisha picked a bike in the back in a corner, praying that none of the cameras would capture her on it. They started half an hour later than scheduled.

“Okay, girls! The session will be for forty-five minutes. For the initial twenty to twenty-five minutes, please give me your best, and SWEAT. IT. OUT! After that I will give you all permission to shoot as much content as you like. But till, then please do not touch your phones,” said Kajal.

Marisha heard this announcement, and briefly considered walking out. But walking out meant unlocking her bike, walking across a room full of the “Glowcore tribe”, and having thirty glowing, lip-glossed faces, turn to watch her quit. So instead, she stayed put, pedalling in the shadows, trying to disappear. With every squat-pedal and arm-pump, one thought looped in her head: three thousand five hundred rupees for twenty-five minutes of actual workout and one horrible outfit. She had been scammed. Thoroughly. She was fuming – but also a little relieved that at least it would be over soon.

The initial twenty-five minutes passed quickly. After Kajal’s opening announcement, Marisha had presumed that those who did not wish to participate in this clear case of guerrilla marketing would be set free, but that was not the case. Phones were to be allowed during the rest of the workout. So now, Marisha had to spin and do all the upper body exercises, while also dodging the lens of the twenty-nine more cameras in the room – the hardest was dodging the iPhone guy who thought he was shooting for the next cover of Vogue, it appeared. The pain growing in her thighs seemed dim compared to the pain of accidentally becoming the person she swore she was not.

When the class was finally over, she practically leapt off the bike, legs trembling, pride shredded, dignity somewhere under the pedals. She ran out before Soma could suggest a selfie. She sent her a message saying she had to rush home for an emergency, and ignored her for the rest of the day. Marisha’s paranoia had finally taken over completely. She imagined a grainy clip of her, hunched, red-faced, half-dead on the bike trending as “Glowcore Reel of the Week”. The caption would read: ‘Proof anyone can do it! #NoExcuses’. Her friends would see it. Her cousins would see it. Her building watchman would see it. She would be relentlessly trolled her for being that girl. No one she knew likely knew of the existence of Glowcore, but logic had left the building when she thought she’d be able to dodge cameras while perched on a stationary bike.

Convinced that this was the one time the internet would conspire against her, she spent the next couple of days obsessively checking Glowcore, Kajal, and Saloni’s Instagram pages and Reddit, the latter for any trending workout fails. To her relief, she found nothing, except one Reel in which only she could spot herself in a corner. A blip among Glowcore goddesses, illegible but yet “ALPHA MALE”. Unrecognizable enough for her to not send the strongly worded message she had in her drafts to Sonali – detailing the flaws in her plan, the requirement of obtaining consent to record people, and the overall lack of ethics in her operations where she made people pay her to promote her brand.

Marisha was feeling many things about this episode – rage, that she had been scammed so brutally, so cleanly, it almost deserved an applause, with Sonali skipping off consequence-free like a Disney villain in baby blue leggings. It wasn’t that Marisha judged the girls who liked this stuff – the mirror selfies, the matching leggings, the content-creation cardio. If anything, she admired their stamina – both on the bike and on Instagram. Her beef was with Glowcore’s little scheme that turned paying customers into unpaid brand ambassadors.

More than anything, she felt confused. She wanted to believe that she was better, and probably fitter, than everyone in that class, but she wasn’t able to feel it. Her internal smugness was lost, and so was she. It was not like she had some secret desire to be publicly validated as gorgeous and inspirational. She did not, mainly because she already knew she was, but to Saloni and Kajal, and probably the rest of the Glowcore tribe, gorgeous and inspirational seemed to be valid only in their pastel uniform. Marisha’s internal superiority complex was not built to withstand this level of polyester-based rejection. It was sturdy, but it was never tested against spandex.

Just as Marisha was beginning to believe in the presumed preachings of the Glowcore tribe, it happened – Saloni posted a video on her Instagram, talking about the difficulty in growing a small business.

“It is so tough to arrange these classes, and get everything together. Imagine shipping thirty plus full sets, all in different sizes, in these catastrophic monsoons! It is hard, you guys! And then having to deal with this random girl who just didn’t want to wear the set? Okay? Why did you think you had a choice, you weirdo? Why would you book a spin class that gave you wonderful activewear if you didn’t plan on wearing them?” she said to her followers, complaining about Marisha, clearly.

Marisha watched the rest of the video, amused, at Sonali’s sheer audacity and guts.

“You guys, I am trying to build a brand, a lifestyle, a movement – this is not just a business for me. It is for you all! I really count on your support to make it work,” she continued, abruptly transitioning into an invite for her followers to shop from Glowcore’s limited edition ‘Slow Glow’ collection, and win a chance to receive a free water bottle.

Marisha did not know what to think or do, until she opened the comments. Apparently, the rest of the world also thought calling someone a “weirdo” for not wearing a polyester uniform was deranged. Instead, the comments called Sonali a weirdo for not being transparent about her intentions with the class. She was being dragged for everything Marisha herself had ranted about in her unsent draft.

Turns out, that was all Marisha needed to be rid of the unrest she had been feeling: sweet delicious internet backlash. A real consequence that would upset Sonali. Marisha basked in the comments like a cat under a sunbeam. She hadn’t been exposed, hadn’t been trolled, hadn’t even broken a sweat (except during the actual spin class). Marisha didn’t even need to send out her angry draft. The internet had done the work for her – line by line, meme by meme, GIF by GIF. In the end, Glowcore had promised her glow, and they delivered – not to her face, but to her soul. The smug, gloating, gluten-free soul of a woman who hadn’t been defeated by spandex after all, had returned.

Her flat mates were not concerned because they were worried that she’ll be sad and lonely. No, it was because of the threat they had faced couple of months ago – there had been an intruder.

All of them were home that day, and while they each believed that they had handled it with all the composure and resourcefulness expected of strong independent women, even though they were in the middle of a power cut, it was still worrying.

It was a weekend, and in a rare occurrence, none of them had plans. They were all just doing their own things, in their respective rooms, when the electricity got cut, and they were all forced out of their rooms.

“What the hell, man! I had about twenty minutes left in John Wick,” said Anuja as she walked out of her room, addressing no one in particular.

“Yeah – I forgot they were to do this,” said Bhavini, the only functioning adult in their house.

“They who? Do what?” asked Kanika, the more carefree one.

“The power cut! It was scheduled. It was in the newspaper,” said Bhavini.

They spent the next ten minutes ragging Bhavini for reading the newspaper, and then finally opened all windows in the house and settled down on the couch. It was a few hours before sunset. Anuja and Kanika were extremely displeased to learn that the electricity was not expected back till much later in the night – which realistically meant: till next morning.

“Should we just go out?” Kanika suggested.

“Nah! I am showered and in PJs. Not mentally prepared for a night out,” said Anuja.

“Yeah – let’s just stay in. We rarely do this! Let’s drink the beers that are in the fridge. Good excuse to!” said Bhavini.

And so they did. They chilled, had some beers, and the power cut didn’t feel so bad, until he showed up.

A little before 11PM, they heard a knock on their door. None of them were expecting anyone. Instinctively, they froze and switched to whispers. Bhavini tiptoed to the door to look through the peephole.

“I can’t tell who this is. He’s tall, wearing a cap, face down. I can’t see his face,” she whispered.

Kanika and Anuja took turns looking through the peephole. Neither of them recognized him. The knocking came again – measured and deliberate.

“Should we just…open it? Maybe with the chain on?” Kanika whispered.

“NO!” Bhavini slashed an X in the air with her arms.

The knocks grew louder, heavier. They didn’t seem very polite anymore. A slow dread spread across the room. Bhavini yanked them by the wrists and dragged them into the balcony in Anuja’s room.

“Guys. We don’t know who this is. We cannot open the door. We need to call the cops,” she whisper-screamed

“What? Relax! Maybe it’s a delivery guy. Did anyone order anything?” Anuja said, chuckling at Bhavini’s panic.

“At 10:45? No delivery guy comes at this hour. This is not funny,” Bhavini snapped, panic cracking through her voice.

More knocks, in the form of full-on bangs now. Each one echoing through the flat. They could now hear the chain rattling against the door.

“Okay. No, even I don’t like this. I’m calling Parth,” Kanika whispered, her thumbs shaking over her phone.

“I’ll call Manasvi, she lives close by,” Anuja said quickly.

“Yes, good. I’ll find backup too,” offered Bhavini

They all scattered, clutching their phones. Anuja returned moments later with “weapons”: an old tube light that had been under her bed, Kanika’s cricket bat, and a block of wood that had been propping up her bed.

“Oh my god, Anuja! You’re cracking me up. What is this John Wick: Flatmate Edition?” joked Kanika, with small giggles.

“SHUSH! Kanika! Be quite and stop laughing!” Bhavini reprimanded Kanika.

The three of them stood in the darkened living room as the stranger kept pounding on the door, unsure of what to do next. According to Anuja, they had minutes before the intruder broke in and murdered them. Dire, dramatic, and very on brand, but useless. According to Bhavini, help was already on its way, and they will be fine. Optimistic and level-headed, but also unhelpful. According to Kanika, neither option mattered as long as her phone still had battery. None of them, of course, had guessed what happened next. The intruder… left?

From their window, they heard a car start. While Bhavini rushed to check if the intruder had left, Anuja and Kanika went to Anuja’s balcony to get a look at the car to see who was in it – the intruder or their rescuers.

“Guys! He left!” exclaimed Bhavini.

“Yeah – I think that was him who drove away in that car. I don’t recognize the car either. A black Ritz – 3156. Rings a bell?” asked Anuja.

Both Kanika and Bhavini nodded ‘no’ and shrugged

About twenty minutes after the intruder had left, Parth arrived, followed by Manasvi.

“Wow, impeccable timing! Next time, come after the funeral!” said Anuja.

“What is going on? There is no one here. Is it some twisted test? I have an early morning meeting, this is not funny!” said a disgruntled Parth.

“No, no! He left. He was here. Ask Bhavini if you don’t trust me,” said Anuja, weirdly unconvincingly.

They filled Parth and Manasvi in on the events of the night. They stood in silence, Parth and Manasvi still unconvinced.

Kanika cracked open another beer, breaking the silence. “Cheers to surviving – and to friends who show up fashionably late to your murder.”

A few days later they found of that the “intruder” was actually a Tinder match of their upstairs neighbour, who knocked on the wrong door. They told her she dodged a bullet, judging by his aggressive “knocks”.

Bearing this episode in mind, Kanika and Bhavini were right in their concerns of leaving Anuja alone. Anuja, on the other hand, firmly believed that she’d handle intruders. But specifically, human intruders. She had her weapons! A rodent, though? Apparently not.

Anuja had barricaded the thin space between her bedroom door and the floor with a towel. A rat – a real, live, audacious rat – had claimed the living room. Strong independent woman or not, she was outmatched. She decided this also required a rescue mission, so she called Manasvi once again.

“Another intruder!” she said, as Manasvi answered.

“No,” said Manasvi, dryly.

“No, really! But this time, it is a rat.”

“Anuja, you cannot be serious.”

“I am! Manasvi, please, please, pretty please! Please go and buy a rat trap from a store and come over, please! I’ll owe you BIG TIME!”

“Anuja, you already do!”

“Okay, I will owe you more. Now come, and fast, before the stores close. I cannot hide in my room all weekend! My laptop is outside.”

Manasvi agreed. When Manasvi finally arrived and rang the bell, Anuja had to deal with the bigger problem – opening her room, effectively, for the rat, going out, and opening the door. Possibly walking side by side with the rat. She called Manasvi again.

“Open the door, Anuja,” her irritation evident through the phone.

“No, I cannot. I’ll drop the house keys from the balcony,” said Anuja.

“Anuja, are you actually insane? Just open the door.”

“NO! What if the rat gets into my room?! You come in and set the trap, and I’ll open my room door just enough for you to get in.”

Manasvi had no choice but to do as instructed. She set the rat trap, muttering under her breath about how she had better things to do on a Saturday evening. She slipped into Anuja’s room and glared at her while she stuffed the towel back in place. Anuja had also, once again, gathered the weapons from the last “intruder incident,” like she was in some low-budget sequel. Manasvi saw them and scoffed.

“What are you planning on doing for food and water, by the way?” asked Manasvi.

“Why do you think I will not be letting you leave?”

“Wow! What? I cannot believe this is now my Saturday. Did I mention – I hate you! Also, why are you assuming I am not afraid of the rat?”

Anuja shrugged. Manasvi accepted her fate and settled into her role of Pest Control Barbie, food delivery person, and general saviour. The rat trap was set next to the couch, and Manasvi and Anuja were, ironically, also trapped themselves: one, involuntarily, by circumstance, and the other, by her own paranoia.

Fortunately, it was not very long before they heard the rat trap snap shut, echoing through the flat like a gunshot, just a few hours later. Anuja and Manasvi finally emerged from Anuja’s room, triumphant in their survival.

Manasvi groaned, flopped onto the couch, and muttered, “Next time, I’m bringing a cat.”

“If there is a next time,” Anuja declared, “I’m moving out.”

The rat (now trapped) squeaked, indignantly.

I have been thinking about that day a lot. It feels like the last time that I stepped out of reality, for just a few hours, and really enjoyed it. Yes, one day – the same day in which I both lied in a way that should have had heavier consequences and got a few phone-free glorious hours.

Here is the setting:

It is the fourth year of law college. The year in which I had finally become mildly comfortable with the concept of proxy attendance – not brave enough to receive proxy, but definitely bold enough to give one. Our lectures that year began at 7:10 A.M., and on this day, our second lecture of the day, i.e., the lecture that students usually made it to, was with a professor who was known to be carefree – and I mean truly carefree. The man did not care if seven people were sitting in the classroom, with the attendance sheet filled out for sixty-seven students. He would stroll in, sit at the desk, and begin reading to the class from a book. Presumably, a book of the subject he was meant to teach us – we could not hear him and we also did not care. Today, I genuinely cannot remember what subject he taught – or was meant to teach, anyway. That should tell you everything about him and his lectures.

I was the typical good girl, respectful of even the really annoying professors, and I cared. A lot. About attendance, marks, and my professors liking me. As a rule, if I took one “risk”, such as with proxy, I would lay low for the rest of the lecture and be good. But not this day. On this day, I was a real daredevil (by my standards). In the first lecture (of course, I made it), I gave my attendance and proxied for my sleepyhead friends who didn’t make it, and then I slept! Right there in the classroom. There is no way the professor did not see me snoozing – there were like five people and a stray dog in the classroom. I think my courage came from the fact that I got away with two huge transgressions (again, by my usual standards). Because courageous I was, when I suggested during Professor Carefree’s lecture that the entire classroom play a game of ‘Psych!’ on our phones. Obviously, when I made the suggestion, I was expecting him to not look up from his book, as he usually didn’t.

I am getting ahead of myself – this is what happened. I woke up with the bell for the second lecture. About ten to twelve students rolled in, including two of my friends. I was sitting on the fifth desk from the front of the class and my friends sat with me. No one else sat in the desks ahead of me, so technically, I was on the first bench that day for that lecture. While we were waiting for the professor to show up, we were discussing the events of the previous night, when we all played ‘Psych!’. We had just discovered the game, and we were obsessed. We were all collectively hilarious and lame and it was a great time. Which is when the idea struck me. I asked if we should play a game now, while we waited for the professor, and my friends enthusiastically agreed – but we were just three and needed more players for it to be fun.

“Maybe we can play a classroom wide game! I’ll post the game code on the class WhatsApp group.”

“I don’t know if that is a very good idea – one, we don’t really know the others…”, said my friend. I should have heard her out.

“Two, shut up! We have been in the same class with them for over three years! What better way to get to know them – which I think we do already, enough for this game anyway. I am posting this code on the group. Here – AAW - QUP, join.”

With that, I proceeded to share the code on the class group, and to my pleasant surprise, many people joined. About eight people played the first game and the murmurs from its hilarity drew some attention and excitement that by the next round everyone wanted to play. For the next round, I, the now unofficial Games Master, decided to take a more unorthodox approach for sharing the code with the rest of the class – holding my phone up and flashing the code for everyone to see. Oh, and did I mention phones were not allowed in my college? Yeah, they weren’t.

Unfortunately, it was at this point that the murmurs turned into a proper loud racket, and while everyone did catch the code of the game for the second round, so did Professor Carefree. He caught me loudly parading my phone in a classroom of very few people who all also had their phones out, and in that very moment, he decided he would no longer be Professor Carefree but Professor Suddenly Invested. Professor Suddenly Invested called me out and it seemed he had decided that I would become the example for his new and improved demeanour. He called me out – by yelling at me. I think this was the first time that the class actually heard his voice. The class was silenced, surprised by the sheer existence of his voice, I think. I am sure no one knew what was happening – the man who had once seen a student physically jump out of the classroom window (our class was on the ground floor) and not done anything but simply lick his finger before turning the page of his book was now… shouting? Not just that, he was shouting at me – the certified Nice Girl^TM?

The professor who no one knew as being capable of it, absolutely handed it to me – and that is really putting it mildly. He confiscated my phone and declared he would be reporting me to the principal. He also said he would cancel my attendance for the entire semester and then asked me to leave the class. I tried a little pleading, but eventually walked out, as requested (read: demanded, roared), before my tears could make their grand entrance. Later, I heard he was also furious about the number of proxies marked that day and planned to report that too.

By all logic, I should have been terrified, and typically, I would have been, but like I said, that day was special – I was not me. Once I left the classroom, I walked to the college canteen. Yep, I ordered a cold coffee and sat there, calmly sipping, waiting for the lecture to end. I honestly cannot remember what I thought I was going to do about the very serious consequences hanging over me. I certainly didn’t expect what happened next – because I couldn’t have predicted that just fifteen minutes after transforming into Professor Suddenly Invested, he’d casually demote himself back to Professor Carefree. After the class was over – literally fifteen minutes after I was asked to leave – Professor Carefree forgot my phone in the desk drawer and left the classroom! My dear sweet friend had taken note of this divine negligence. She quietly grabbed the phone, switched it off, and slipped it into her bag. I think we were cosmically connected, because she somehow knew I’d be in the canteen, when I wasn’t waiting outside the class, as one would have expected. She met me on her way to the canteen, as I was walking back to the classroom, and told me of Professor Carefree’s blunder and her – our – quietly glorious heist. I was overjoyed. My friend had to shake me and ask if I was okay, because I didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the situation. Yes, I had my phone back, but the professor still had my name, my roll number, and a freshly kindled desire to cancel my attendance for the semester, in addition to the class-wide fear of losing proxy privileges forever. All I could think of though was food. I was famished, and had to eat. I asked her if she wanted to go to our favourite café for breakfast.

“We have two lectures left – so, no. Also, I really think you need to go and talk to him. If not for yourself, then at least for the class. Here, is your phone – should I switch it on?”

“Later. Let’s go eat!” I said, taking my phone from her, and not switching it on.

“Later to what? Let’s go to the staff room, I bet he is there. Also, we cannot go eat! We have two lectures left. Madam! Hello? Wake up!”

“We can bunk two lectures, come on. He cannot not give us attendance, if we are in class. This is a law school. That is likely illegal!”

“Who are you and what have you done to my friend?” wondered my sweet kind friend.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Okay, fine, let’s go to the staffroom, but if he is not there, we’ll go eat, and we can figure out what to do about him later. Deal?”

“Uh, sure?”

We went to the staffroom, and he wasn’t there. I sincerely could not bring myself to care, and I just knew that keeping my phone switched off for a while longer might be a good idea. I did not know why, and I also could not explain it, but I kept it switched off. We bunked the last two lectures and went for breakfast – my phone switched off for the entire one hour and thirty minutes that we were out. After breakfast, I begrudgingly agreed to make another attempt to meet Professor Carefree and somehow resolve the situation. My friends begged me to beg him for forgiveness, and I agreed. However, while we were on our way back to college, a batchmate of ours called on my friend’s phone and informed her that Professor Carefree was looking for me and had asked for me to go meet him in the staffroom.

I’ll admit, at this moment, I felt a little nervous. I went to meet him, obviously, but I had no idea what was coming. Had he reported me to the principal and had me suspended or expelled? Had he actually cancelled my attendance for the whole semester, meaning I’d have to repeat the year? All the possible consequences were finally making themselves known in my brain, and I was beginning to panic.

Once we reached college, I instinctively gave my still-switched-off-phone to my friend and went to the staffroom. The moment I entered and made eye contact with Professor Carefree, he stood up and started fumbling. I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying – I only caught a few words – “sorry”, “lost”, “friend”. It took a minute for me to realize that he was apologizing to me for forgetting my phone in the classroom and possibly losing it. He suspected a friend picked it up and asked if I had heard anything from anyone about it. When I finally pieced it together, and stood there, looking like I might begin bawling any second, other professors in the staffroom began chiming in:

“Was it an expensive phone?”

“Give me your number, let me try dialing it.”

“Don’t worry – you will find it.”

When I finally spoke, it was to say the words:

“It was a gift from my brother!”

It was not. I don’t know why I said that. I don’t even have a brother.

“Oh, I am so sorry, dear! I am sure you will find it. Don’t worry! Some friend must be pranking you,” said Professor Carefree.

“Do you think I should… maybe I should file a police complaint,” I asked, once again baffled by the flairs of my own drama.

“NO! No, no. Don’t worry – you’ll find it. I’ll help you. Relax, just give me your number, let me try calling it.”

I gave him my number. He called it. The number was switched off. A few seconds of silence, then the blank tone. He tried again. Same thing. He was visibly panicking now – genuinely worried that I might do something drastic. This man, who held the power to hold back my year, was worried about what I might do. How the tables had turned. At that moment, I knew attendance – mine or the whole class’s – was no longer an issue. He didn’t want to face the consequences of losing my phone, which meant he was no longer in a position to impose consequences on us for using ours.

I had managed to convince him that my parents were extremely strict (they are not) and I would suffer a brutal scolding for losing my phone. We spent ten minutes ping-ponging between his panicked apologies and my completely fabricated sob story. Finally, he said he would request the cleaning staff to do a thorough search of the campus and sent me on my way.

I left and narrated this incident to my friends who refused to believe me. Rude, but fair. To be honest, I couldn’t believe I pulled it off either. My friends were extremely stressed out, worried that once Professor Carefree finds out I have my phone back, he will return to his agenda of reporting our delinquencies and holding our attendance hostage. They worried there would be far worse consequences if he found out that I played him. But I was no longer worried. I knew that if Professor Carefree was anything at all, it was, well, carefree. The fifteen minutes I spent in that staffroom told me everything I needed to know: he didn’t want trouble. He wasn’t going to ruffle feathers if it meant dealing with any mess himself. Yes, he’d had his little moment of authority. Coincidentally, it was the exact same moment I’d decided to play rebel. But deep down, we both knew: neither of us was particularly powerful, nor particularly rebellious.
We both just wanted to go back to our regular programming, and had no plans of staying in these characters for too long.

Nothing happened the next day. In fact, nothing happened later that same day. I switched on my phone a few more hours later, and all I had were a few concerned messages and missed calls from parents and friends. The next day in his class, Professor Carefree walked in, passed along the attendance sheet. We marked our attendance and some proxies – but cautiously this time. He sat down at his desk and read from his book till the end of the lecture. This is what he did for the rest of the semester. Eventually, giving proxies stopped feeling risky, and all went back to normal. While no one will forget the day Professor Carefree lost his marbles, my theatrics of that day is now a simple story between friends.

I’ve thought about that day a lot lately. About how, just for a few hours, I completely stepped out of character – and somehow, it worked out. No plan, no backup, no overthinking. Just pure chaos and a surprising amount of luck. It feels absurd now, being this version of me that panics when the cook doesn’t show up or when I sleep in for five extra minutes. The same me who once boldly gave proxy, slept in a lecture, lied to a professor’s face, and bunked classes, all in the same day – maybe it was the hangover from the previous night, maybe it was hunger, we’ll never know. What I do know is – I cannot do it today, and honestly, I wouldn’t want to. But there’s something comforting about knowing I once could. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to this memory – not because I want to relive the chaos, but because it reminds me that I’m not just my routines. I’ve been reckless. I’ve been brave. I’ve survived worse than a missed workout or a messed-up sleep cycle – not just that day, but also generally. I decidedly don’t want to go back to that chaos. But it’s good to feel like she’s in there somewhere. Just in case.

It all started a few months ago, when they returned to their apartment after the semester break. As per usual, Rima was the first to arrive, and as per usual, the girls were extremely grateful to her for restocking the kitchen, getting the house cleaned, and generally getting it in order. However, unlike every other time, this time when the rest of them returned, Ishita first, followed by Meher and Mridula, Ishita noticed something was off. To begin with the house smelled different. Ishita was surprised it smelled at all – of anything other than maybe chai with tons of ginger. Rima welcomed them as usual, with cold coffees, but even she seemed different. Ishita was the first to point it out.

“What is different? Have you lost weight? Of course, you have – no Ishita, we already have Meher. She is the gym rat. Not you too!” she said as she went to hug Rima. Rima however, held out her hands and blocked the hug.

“No, I have not lost weight – I have just become fitter. I joined a yoga and inner healing group over the break,” Rima explained.

“Okay? Why are you pushing me away like I smell? How rude! Also, what is that smell?” asked a mildly offended Ishita.

“That is my guru, my master, Arnav Kumar’s special incense stick. Also, I can’t touch anyone till I have had my morning herbal tea,” said Rima.

“Rima, what is going on? Is this some joke? I am not understanding,” said Ishita, and looked at Meher and Mridula for some help, but they were busy taking pictures of each other with the cold coffees, possibly to announce to the internet that they had made it back to Bangalore to resume college.

“No, this is not a joke, Ishita! God, you can be so annoying,” Rima snapped, before turning to Meher and Mridula.

“Ladies! Not without me – us! Ishita, come. We can talk about all this later.”

Rima started moving towards Meher and Mridula, but paused and inhaled, rather dramatically.

“Although... doesn’t the incense smell wonderful? Like good health and vibes. But, you know… burnt,” she said, to no one in particular.

After that, the four of them took a few pictures and disappeared into their phones. Ishita was still a little offended for being called annoying. She was also extremely confused – Rima has a guru, a master, now? Fortunately, after spending a solid twenty minutes editing her post on her socials, Meher seemed to have noticed the smell.

“Hey! What is that smell? Are you baking cinnamon cookies? Do we have an oven? When did that happen?” said Meher.

“We don’t have an oven. I also don’t think that that is cinnamon,” said Mridula, quite unhelpfully.

“Yes – we don’t have an oven and that is not cinnamon, don’t you love it though? It is this new incense stick that my master has given me. It is supposed to help cleanse the room of negativity. I thought, you know, since we are coming back for the semester, and finals are just two months away, we can get rid of negativity right from the start,” said Rima, enthusiastically.

“Will you start from the start? Who master? What herbal tea and why can’t you touch people before drinking it? Also, I am NOT annoying – you are being a little weird,” responded Ishita, failing to match Rima’s enthusiasm in the slightest.

“I like it! Is it cinnamon though? That is the real question,” said Meher.

“Not now, Meher! You go, Rima. From the very start,” snapped Ishita.

Rima finally filled them in on her break. She took them through the short but eventful story of how her mother took her and sister to a yoga class. They attended the yoga class four times a week for three weeks before realizing that their yoga guru was also an energy flow therapist, and all three of them enrolled themselves into his energy alignment practice for the last ten days of the break. It was over the course of these last ten days, she claimed, that she found herself through her master (spoken without any suggestive intent – though that didn’t stop Meher, Mridula, and Ishita from giggling, until Rima shushed them with a glare). She told them all about energy alignment, and how her master had apparently “cleansed” her off her “bad habits”. Through four weeks of yoga and ten days of energy alignment, Rima was now a changed “woman” who was determined to rise above materialistic conquests and focus her energies on worldly virtues – apparently by eating clean, burning specific incense sticks based on time of day, mood, and general requirements of the day (like removing negativity). She had also been advised by her master to practice yoga and meditation at least once a day.

“So that is the story, Ishita. Happy now. I like to think of it like my new hobby that will help me live life in the most clean and proper way. Also, I am quite sure that this will bring about the kind of peace and lightness to my being, and help me with my post-graduation college applications,” she concluded.

Ishita was dumbfounded. Cleansed her bad habits? Woman? Materialistic conquests? Worldly virtues? Lightness to her being? She didn’t know what to make of any of this or where to begin. Also, no one, not even Rima, seemed to notice that many of these new habits required her to consume a solid load of the master’s own branded products. Ishita remained silent.

“Okay, all that sounds like… nice? I guess. Good, good, happy for you! Are we having cookies or not?” responded Meher.

“We can order some cookies. And it is nice! It is very nice! I mean, it is very fulfilling – do you know what I mean? I feel fresh and new, like I am living life the way it was meant to be, by keeping my body the way it was intended to. I am treating myself with so much care – I love it,” said Rima.

“That is great for you, Reems! I can live with the incense. So, cookies?” said Mridula, tactfully closing the discussion.

Ishita didn’t say anything then, and she didn’t say anything when Rima’s habits became progressively weirder by the day. First, it was the incense sticks and the herbal tea – apparently her master advised her that touching people before she drank it could contribute in any residual negativity in her being transferred to the person she touched. Thus, was the power of internal energy. She drank the tea to rid herself of any negative and harmful energy, and only then could she, in good conscience, touch others – literally and figuratively. Rima told this to Ishita when Meher and Mridula were not around. The girls refused to believe Ishita later, claiming that nobody could be that cuckoo. They were right, and Ishita was glad they agreed that nobody could be that cuckoo, but just not in the way that Ishita wanted them to.

Then came the food. Rima now wanted separate food – separate flour, salt, sugar – all from her master’s brand. Mridula, fortunately for Ishita, noted this change because, with this new habit and requirement, Rima had refused to split the grocery bills equally. For four girls who hate math, this was a big one, because it now called for sitting down with a pen and paper, figuring out who brought in and consumed which product and in what quantity, and splitting the shares on actuals. It was a task that none of them enjoyed, least of all Mridula, who had become the designated spender in the three years they lived together, and was now regretting every rupee of it. However, to Ishita’s utter disappointment, Mridula’s dissent towards Rima’s new eating habits were linked solely to the inconvenience it caused to the flat’s accounting. To Mridula, the solution was simple: she’d just eat Rima’s food too. Brand, taste, quality – none of it mattered. Meher – well Meher didn’t notice. She was happy as long as Mridula or Ishita continued telling her how much she owed whom. Any effort that Ishita took to draw Meher and Mridula’s attention to their dear flatmate who seemed to have dropped off the rails were dismissed or ignored. Apparently, Rima charging Meher for eating one biscuit from Rima’s pack of biscuits was normal.

Then came the biggest, and in Ishita’s opinion, the weirdest development in Rima’s energy alignment journey – Rima started carrying around a photo of Arnav Kumar in her wallet. This is what convinced Ishita that Rima had to be in a cult.

“What? Of course, she is not in a cult,” said Mridula.

“Maybe she has a crush on him!” said Meher, helpful as always.

“Shut up, Meher! This isn’t the 50s – one, no one has crushes anymore, do they? Two, even if she did, who carries around a photo of their crush in their wallet.”

“People have crushes, Ishita. Remember when Meher had a crush on that guy in BA? She microwaved her favourite jeans because it wasn’t dry hahahahaha…” contributed Mridula.

“Stop it! We promised to forget it,” said Meher, lightly slapping Mridula’s back.

“GUYS! FOCUS! Our flatmate – MY ROOMMATE – is carrying around a photo of an ‘energy therapist’ in her wallet! His face is plastered across most of the packets in our kitchen. She video calls him too regularly. How much more of him does she want?”

“Ishita, she doesn’t video call him. She does her virtual energy alignment sessions, with him and a big group. I have seen those screens, there are too many people on that video call,” said Mridula.

“You know what I mean! I really feel like he is everywhere! Also, why does she take the call on loud, in our common living space? I genuinely don’t want to wake up to a bunch of randos telling me why they’re grateful – and why is it always such inane reasons? I refuse to believe that Asha was shaking with joy when she heard that Priyanka’s tooth extraction was successful,” Ishita persisted.

“Ishita, if you know their names – you probably need a hobby of your own. Let it go. None of this sounds cult-y. She has just found something she seems to enjoy, seems to be helping her. Has she gotten a little hard to be around? Maybe. But give it a rest, it doesn’t really matter to – or affect – any of us, does it?” said Mridula, once again tactfully closing the discussion.

Ishita could not give it a rest. Initially, she was worried for Rima’s well-being. Now, she was just worried. When she tried to revert to some regular and herbal tea free friendship with Rima, it did not go well.

“Hey! How are the post-grad applications going?” she had asked Rima – the most non-energy-alignment-related question she could think of.

“It is going fine. The Master will provide,” responded Rima.

“Sorry, what?”

“The Master will provide. He knows I want to leave the country. It will happen. I know it,” explained Rima

“Provide what and how?”

“I don’t know his ways, Ishita, but he will provide.”

“Rima – and I am asking this with lots of love and concern – you are also actually applying, right? Last you told me, you had to finish your SOP for LSE. Is it done?”

“Obviously, Ishita. What a dumb question! He helps those who help themselves.”

Ishita couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

“You don’t have to understand. They’re going well. Thanks for checking in. Now, if you don’t mind – it is time for my daily meditation,” said Rima, already lighting incense and shutting her eyes mid-sentence, like Ishita had already left.

Ishita didn’t know what to do. Meher and Mridula had started making jokes about Rima behind her back – jokes that Ishita didn’t find funny. She couldn’t enjoy it. She wasn’t amused, she was concerned. To make matters worse, she also kept getting locked out of her own room, even on weekends, because Rima had to practice yoga or meditate. The air in their shared room now permanently smelled of smoke, thanks to the never-ending incense. The smell had crept into her cupboard, her bedsheets, even her towels. Everything she owned now carried a faint whiff of vaguely cinnamon-flavoured fire. She did not want to know what good health and vibes but burnt smelt like, but she did. She worried her mother would think she’d taken up smoking the next time she went home with her laundry. When she voiced her concerns to Meher and Mridula, they only doubled down. Now they made jokes about Ishita too – except to her face. They called her “a baby with too much free time.” Meher thought clothes that smell like smoke was a “wicked idea” and started leaving her own clothes in Ishita’s room.

Just as Ishita had begun telling herself that this less-than-ideal situation only had to be endured for another month – maybe five weeks, max – and had even started looking up PGs to move into for finals, she came home one evening to Rima, on the couch in their living room, crying – loudly, messily, and with theatric despair. Ishita dropped her bag on the floor and rushed over.

“What happened? Why are you crying?”

“He… he threw me out! He threw me out of the class!” said Rima, through ragged sobs.

“Who threw you out? The logic professor?” Ishita asked, already half-preparing a mental speech about that guy being the worst.

“NO! Arnav! My guru! He threw me out of the energy alignment group!”

“…What?” Ishita blinked. “Why?”

“He said I was ‘too much’!” Rima wailed. “What does that even mean – too much?! How can I be too much? I was doing everything he said!”

“Wait – okay, hang on. Rima, breathe. What exactly happened?”

“THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED!” Rima wailed. “He reached out today, saying he wanted to do a one-on-one session with me. At first, I was thrilled. I thought he finally recognized me as his one true follower. A believer! But no! Instead, he tells me I’m ‘too much’ and could potentially hurt his brand.” She sobbed louder. “I don’t even know where this came from. He said I can’t join the sessions anymore. And that I’ll receive no more of his time.”

“I… I’m confused,” Ishita said slowly.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“That’s all he said? He didn’t give a real reason?” Ishita asked, surprised that she was feeling sorry instead of, well, relieved. The problem had sort of… fixed itself? So why did it feel like she’s witnessing a breakup?

“Apparently,” Rima sniffled, “some bitch from today’s session reported me. I’d posted a story this morning about how much he’s helped me. I said I trust he will provide – and he didn’t like that. He said he doesn’t want to be known as a guru.”

Ishita blinked. “Wait. What do you mean? Is he not a guru?”

“I don’t know. I mean. I don’t know, Ishita! I am just… I cannot, I thought he was there to help us all through life – turns out he just wants to sell his products, I guess?”

“Oh. Oh, thank god! I thought you’d joined a cult.” Ishita exhaled, her relief unmistakable. “Sorry – I know this isn’t the time. But honestly? I’m just… really glad you haven’t.”

“You what? Ishita, stop.”

“No, I know. I know. It’s not helpful. Sorry. I just…” She paused. “It’s fine. Reems?”

“What?”

“Is this about post-graduation?”

Rima didn’t answer. She just wiped her face and muttered, “Yeah, and the expenses of going abroad. I was just scared, okay? Everyone else has a plan.”

Ishita didn’t say anything for a second. Then, gently, “You could’ve just asked for help. Instead of… you know, buying his special salt. Not sure how that helped with the expenses”

Rima gave a half-laugh, half-sob. “It was rose quartz-infused Himalayan Sea Salt, thank you very much. My mom is his distributor, so I get that stuff for free.”

“Oh! So he did, provide, I guess,” said Ishita, with a giggle. Rima swatted her arm.

They sat in silence for a while.

“This is so humiliating. I was kicked out of a self-help group. For being too… into it.”

“Yeah! Even cults have standards, apparently,” said Ishita, happy to have her friend back.

Rima chuckled.

“So,” Rima said finally, “you think I can still get into LSE?”

“Duh! You’re so smart – at least till you decided to become a yogi!” Ishita grinned. “Want to split a normal, chemical-filled, totally unenlightened pack of some cookies?”

Rima sniffled. “Yes. God, yes.”

Here’s the thing: if it’s a bad haircut, it will likely grow out badly. No amount of oiling or tight braiding will course-correct a crooked layer or an over-thinned fringe. You can inform your moms and grandmoms of this objective fact: oiling helps with texture, maybe growth, not shape. Braiding helps with hygiene and maintenance, not health.

Today, I am older and wiser. I have understood the trick to navigate the very specific brand of confidence possessed by hairstylists, with the help of an old, experienced, and unknown one, to whom I now feel eternal gratitude. Therefore, today I have the answers to my initial questions and I can answer them with authority, having also experienced full-on freeze mode on two separate occasions before two different Instagram-famous hairstylists. Call it situational mutism or salon-induced speech paralysis but I had lost the ability to articulate basic things like “just a trim” or “I don’t want face-framing layers.” It was after a year of post-traumatic hair stress, supplemented by several shampoo and conditioner changes, experimentation with clips and hair ties, and hair oiling routines, that I finally found a stylist who listened to me like I was the expert, not her.

Before I dive into my wise tips, you must first understand how important a good haircut has always been to me. Ironically, I am the least experimental with my hair – I have never coloured it, never had a short hair phase, never really ventured into treatments like keratin or the new “hair botox.” I even managed to escape the era when everyone seemed to be crimping or straightening their hair, keeping my curly hair intact and untouched. I once had a friend who believed, with the same conviction I did, that good hair – haircuts, hairstyles, the whole package – was directly proportional to confidence and self-worth. She used to joke that she’d marry a hairstylist and have good hair days for life. Not once did I find that joke outlandish, and I’m pretty sure she was only half-joking.

Anyway, when I say a good haircut has always been important to me, I mean it. As a kid, I only got the haircuts my mother wanted me to get – usually a bowl cut or trims that left it just long enough to tie into two ponytails. Functional, maybe. Flattering? Absolutely not. Once I broke free from the shackles of a hairstyle best described as “maternal convenience,” I had very simple asks. These asks were critical to me – not because I’m high-maintenance, but because I don’t like change all that much. I’m not someone who enjoys being too wild with my look. I have a very specific idea of what suits me, and 95% of that is dictated by one thing: how my already-too-wild, frizzy, and curly hair behaves. To add to my general vanilla character, once, in college, I got a haircut slightly shorter than my usual, and my sister – who I’m sure meant well – told me I’d chopped off my personality. That’s when I knew: I should never stray too far from the tried and tested. And so, for years, my haircut brief has remained the same: my hair should be long enough to pair with all kinds of outfits, and manageable enough that my curls don’t make me look like an ungroomed lion. In haircut terms, this means one, maybe two layers – with not a lot of difference between them in length. Simple, right?

I don’t know if it was my articulation of this requirement (or lack thereof), but that is not what she gave me.

Instagram famous hairstylist number 1:

I did not like her hair – that should have been my first sign that this will not end well. This girl (woman?), let’s call her Chatty Kathy, had become famous for knowing and understanding curly hair, through word-of-mouth more than through Instagram – which really made her seem legitimate to me. She is still very famous, and she is still known for her curly hair magic. Unfortunately, I just know her as – girl who was almost a lawyer, who fought with her father to become a hairstylist, and you know, sometimes she was just drawn to creative things – she was constantly experimenting with her hair, and then her friends started asking her to do theirs, and one thing led to another here she is, almost 15 years later, a partially self-taught hair stylist with a semi-successful standalone salon in the heart of Mumbai. This is a fraction of the things she told me, right after she gave me flack for being half an hour late (which, fair, I was late). Do I like having such in-depth knowledge about people I have known for less than 10 minutes? Sure, I don’t care. Do I like having such in-depth knowledge about people I have known for less than 10 minutes when I am stressed about an impending hair cut? Not even a little bit. This was the barrage of personal history that was flung at me, so I could fully appreciate the gravity of making her wait. She was in demand – and by being late, I had apparently disrespected not just her, but also her father, her friends, and her entire 15-year journey.

I apologized for being late, because I truly was sorry. I was just getting ready to switch out my “I just want a trim” speech with the “I am sorry – delay explanation version” speech, when she shrugged it off, and led me to the chair in the jam-packed salon. To this date, I don’t know if I felt relief for being forgiven so quickly or just plain confusion mixed with some misplaced guilt. I sat on the chair, opened my hair, and once again began rehearsing the carefully constructed monologue about my expectations, but… she just didn’t ask. Instead, she told me what I want. When someone tells you what you want, with confidence and conviction, it is hard to disagree, not least because you are draped in unflattering black polyester. I managed to tell her about my concerns with her suggestion – that my hair is curly and frizzy and that her suggestion may not work for my hair type. I distinctly remember the words that came from her mouth in response to my immature trust issues:

“Bro, have you forgotten who you have come to. Just relax!”

And I did. I relaxed. I will admit I was swept away by her self-assuredness. For a moment, I also believed in her psychic abilities – of course she knows what I want. I mean, she would know what she was doing, right? The curly hair expert? Wrong. In her proclamations about the fate of my hair in her hands she had neglected to inform me, till the very end – after the hair cut – that her magical styling would only work if I spent about a crap load of money on a small army of hair products, ranging from gels to serums to creams and about 30 to 45 minutes after every wash styling it in way that she had that day at the salon. In retrospect, I should have caught on – after I was done with the in-salon hair wash, she spent only about 15 minutes in cutting the hair and a full 45 minutes in styling it. She blow-dried a part of my hair (against my wishes – if she had just asked), slathered it with three different products, and then did the ‘CG’ method (I cannot be bothered to explain it), and ended it with a diffuser. And only after all that did she casually list the post-wash protocol I was now supposed to follow, after Every. Single. Wash. I was dumbstruck – not merely because I didn’t like the cut or the styling, but because now I was being told to replicate this elaborate ritual every time I washed my hair? I managed to tell her that I do not possess this kind of time. On any day. I needed hair that could survive a wash and towel-dry and still function in society. Once again, I remember with the greatest clarity what she said next:

“What! Why didn’t you tell me? No, but anyway, come on hair health is as important as body and mental health. You have to spend time and effort in making it look flawless. It is like going to the gym or eating clean.”

She really seemed to believe that. She also believed that the crunchy birds’ nest that she had plopped on my head looked ‘flawless’. To her credit, she managed to make me relax for the one hour that I was on her chair – the last time I would experience true relaxation for several months. Now, when I look at her Instagram, I realize, she is a performer, a magician, a salesperson, and I am simply not her audience or her customer. The pictures of her clients that flaunt their new hair on her page look happy, and definitely happier than they did in the before pictures. Some of them are so happy, they agree to do video modelling for her. I would be mortified if I had to feature on a public page, even with my regular hair. Another big, big, BIG difference between her usual patrons and myself – they get more than just hair cuts. They get it coloured and treated and transformed. They surrender to her completely. Good for them, and I do wish I had that variety of joie de vivre. I don’t. I am not a free spirit, I don’t want to look like I live in a movie, and that is okay. I’ve simply opted out of the illusion that looking “effortless” must come with 2 hours of preparation.

The next few months went by in aggressive oiling and determined braiding, in the hopes that my hair would find its way back to its usual look. It didn’t. About eight months later, when none of my techniques worked and I was left with overgrown bangs and awkwardly long layers, I decided it was time to fix the situation with a fresh haircut. Unfortunately, this also did not go well.

Instagram famous hairstylist number 2:

She was sweet and charming. She was no ‘curly hair expert’, but she was a senior stylist in a salon that focused on hair and nails. She did have curly hair though, so one might assume she’d know the challenges faced by us curly haired folk, and it appeared she did. She actually asked me what I wanted. She listened, patiently, as I shared a detailed ten-minute monologue that I had dusted off and rehearsed for this endeavour – outlining my expectations, concerns, and past trauma. She even asked follow-up questions. I was so pleasantly surprised, I handed over my trust. Big mistake, because while she seemed to understand the challenges and the anxieties, I could tell that she had absolutely no idea how to fix them. I am not sure if my hair had just grown out to such a ridiculous and unfixable condition or if it was that she was unskilled, but she did not know how to give me just one or two layers with no face framing bangs. To make matters worse, she was also extremely distracted. She was working on another client at the same time – someone who was getting her hair coloured. So, after slathering on colour and wrapping the other client’s head in foil, she would come back to me and resume the cut. The first two times, I resisted the urge to say anything. It was a weekend so possibly a busy time for this salon, and I didn’t want to be a diva. The third time, I spoke up, and asked her how much time it would take. Maybe she sensed I was growing impatient – or maybe I was just visibly angry – because she called over a colleague to take over the colouring client and finally focused on me for the rest of my service.

I truly genuinely just wanted to believe that she did not not know how to meet my expectations, and that she was just distracted, but I would have been a damn fool. It became clearer with every snip that she was clueless. She’d cut one side, go over to the other, cut again, then compare the two – only to realize it was uneven. Then the whole cycle would repeat. I was watching myself get a bowl cut. Again. At one point, I asked her if she thought one of the layers had become too short. She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she tried to distract me by saying I reminded her of a friend who had moved abroad years ago.

I asked, “Did she also have a bowl cut?”

She seemed mildly offended and told me to relax.

Now, I had learned a valuable lesson from my last experience: When someone tells you to relax while you are on a salon chair – SPECIFICALLY AND DECIDEDLY, DO NOT RELAX.

I told her I wished to end the cut right there. Just dry my hair – no styling, no product, no diffuser, and just to please let me go. I really was begging, I think. God forbid I came off as difficult – a woman with a boundary! Alert the church!

That’s when I knew she had messed up – because she refused. She insisted on using a diffuser “just to set the curls” so I could see the look she had given me. I tried to explain to her that the “look” would last only until my next wash, because I neither owned a diffuser nor the army of curly girl products capitalism wants me to invest in. She didn’t listen. She styled it anyway – and once again, I was sent out into the world with hair that looked crunchy like a wig, unnaturally shiny, and cut into weird short curls that would have embarrassed even Superman.

I paid and left in half tears, not having the strength or emotional capacity to fight without ugly crying. I reached home, and restarted the process of aggressive oiling and determined braiding – a ritual which would continue for fifteen months this time. I will admit though, that this time around, when it grew out, it was not all that bad. It was bad, but passable. Finally, fifteen months later, when it reached the shape that is officially called “shapeless” and had ends so frayed it could be used to sweep a room with the same efficacy as a broom, I decided it is time to get a cut, but this time, I had a plan. A strategy. A manifesto. A resolve:

1) I will not go to an Instagram famous hairstylist. I won’t even go to a popular one. I will visit a well-known multi-service parlour, that had no specialization.

2) I will be crystal clear with my demands. Yes – demands. I promoted them from being simple requests.

3) I will ask them to explain each step, show me the length of each cut, and if needed, I will get up and run if they so much as reach for a diffuser. Just because I don’t want a transformation doesn’t mean I don’t care.

4) I WILL be a diva. A loud, precise, boundary-setting diva, who WILL be taken seriously.

Fortunately, while I did convey my requirements, I did not have to unleash a diva or flee the premises. The universe had finally rewarded me for my patience and resilience with a kind, attentive, patient, and experienced hairstylist – someone who actually listened, offered gentle advice, and didn’t push when I politely declined. So now, after nearly two years, I can finally say that I am happy with my haircut. Not because of a trend but because it feels like me. The experience was fuss-free, just like the stylist, and just like my ask (I want to believe) and that’s what made it glorious. Not the first two, just this latest one. This is the experience that has allowed me to accept that while I keep saying my requests are simple, I can be high maintenance – specifically to experienced hairstylists.

I also realize now, it is not that it is difficult to tell a hairstylist what you want or that you did not like what they’ve done, it is just awkward. Also, confronting someone while they’re holding scissors near your ears feels risky. I would just say – be a diva, be demanding, live through the cringe. Odds are, your stylist will appreciate it too. After all, wouldn’t their job be easier if they knew how to make you happy? Maybe those other stylists were great – and I was just the confusing client who never explained her tangled relationship with hair, time, and the emotional weight of a blow-dry.

She rubbed her eyes and considered it a minute – was she appreciating that she was living her dreams? “Too early for this crap,” she thought to herself, and got out of bed.

She found herself still thinking about the quote while she brushed her teeth. “Am I appreciating my life enough? I think so. I am. Cool.” That should have been the end of it, but her mind wandered to her first job – to how she got it and how it was.

Almost ten years ago, when she was in the last term of college, all she wanted was a job, any job. Some people knew and had warned her that you don’t want any job, you want a job you like. But they didn’t tell her this – probably because they didn’t know her, or because she didn’t ask them, and college kids rarely take kindly to unsolicited advice. In any case, she was convinced - college is almost done, the next obvious step is to get a job. Rewind further, right to the start of final year, and the shedding of standards, slowly, one-by-one, becomes apparent. She didn’t always want any job. She had an idea of what kind of job she wanted, broadly, arguably too broadly. She wanted to work, as an associate, at a well-known law-firm, with a good intellectual property practice that paid (at least) equal to or above industry standards for a fresher with her level of internship experience, somewhere in Mumbai, preferably with weekends not working, and a couple more items that made her list significantly larger than wanting ‘a job, any job’. What she didn’t have was any meaningful experience or a worthy enough CV for the campus placement cell to have any interest in her. Neither of these were factually correct, but the evidence before her, that led her to believe this, seemed irrefutable – toppers getting all the attention, some over-achievers getting placed directly through internships, herself being snubbed by college professors at mock interviews. She did almost everything everyone did – intern at different places through college and make ‘contacts’, but she didn’t participate in extracurriculars. Did that make her an undesirable candidate and mean no job, any job, at the end of her final year? Apparently, it did. It did not help that people repeatedly said to her, spoke about around her, and in general, held to be true – lawyers have terrible work lives and no time but lots of money. This was the reality she ended up preparing for, mentally ready for sacrificing weekends for the urgent contract that was due yesterday, as she had heard many people talk.

Once, she and her friend were hanging out at a café, because being at home was no longer fun, as their flat mates, and most of their friends, had already found good, well-paying jobs or spouses or passions (the last one being reserved exclusively by rich kids).

“Have you heard the rumour about the partner at this firm?”, said her friend. They had both received emails from a somewhat well-known law firm saying that they were selected for their first round of campus recruitment interviews. This was a welcome sight, after months of either no viable options showing up through their college placement cell, or getting a rejection, or worse, no response to the applications they sent themselves.

“Apparently, he threw a duster at his junior. Legend has it that he has taped a duster right next to his name board at the door of his cabin – some sort of a twisted warning,” her friend continued “or as a nod to the rumour, but I don’t really believe it.”

Nisha, however, had decided – there is a prospect, and she intends to make the most of it, and Get. A. Job. There were only three months left, including exam month, to college being over. Cutting it so close to the deadline was not something she enjoyed. Nisha simply shrugged at her friend and continued studying the menu at the café.

“Man! You really are so irritating sometimes. But, you know, it is true that the work environment here is not the best, kind of hostile, kind of old fashioned, you know, since they’re such an old, family run firm. Working there is no picnic, it is like walking into an awkward family dinner – is what I have heard. Bhavna told me herself. She works there,” her friend went on.

Her friend was also as desperate as Nisha was about finding a job, but she seemed to be more in touch with reality. At that time, though, Nisha thought her friend was being a wet blanket, for no reason. But logically, she knew it was not for ‘no reason’. Nisha knew, in theory, all the reasons – all the good and justified reasons – for her friend’s general weary attitude, but Nisha forced herself into believing that it was a privilege, an honour, and a favour, almost, for these losers to be called in for an interview.

“Admit it. Last month, you had even applied to notably infamous RPM Associates. They were recruiting in General Corp. You don’t even want to do General Corp,” said her friend, unrelenting.

“So, then what, Indira, should we not go for this one? Who cares? Maybe all the rumours are true, and this place will be horrible to work at, but it will at least be a starting point!” Nisha said, finally giving in and snapping.

“No, we’ll go for it. But don’t get ahead of yourself, and start picking out outfits to wear on your first day. There is a possibility that you may not even like it – that you may not want to work there, or that the offer, if you get one, could be really shitty. So, calm down. It is just an interview,” said Indira, unceremoniously.

Nisha had felt Indira was being immature. Not because Nisha may not like this place to work at, but because not liking the place and turning them down, wasn’t even an option that she could exercise, in the apparently bleak chance that they even made her an offer.

And because it was not ‘just an interview’, as Nisha and Indira later found out. It was a mass recruitment drive, with group discussions, and public speaking, lots of public speaking, and on-the-spot written tests, on varied topics from ‘current affairs’. She failed to understand how anyone will decide why to pick her, and not the 57 other candidates, from an ‘interview’ like this? There was no one-on-one time between the ‘interviewers’ and the ‘interviewees’, no proper and uninterrupted chance for Nisha to show her skills or personality. There were judges and contestants, in what ended up being a talent hunt in the likes of a reality show (think Roadies, missing only a celebrity host and a camera crew). It was extremely competitive and aggressive. They gave them no food (unless you count finger sandwiches and tea as enough food to sustain a person for a whole day). She did not have it in her to do what it takes to leave a mark when placed in a situation like this. She didn’t quit though. She fought back her tears, saw it till the end, from 9 AM to 7 PM, at the interview centre, till she was asked to leave as she wasn’t selected. After leaving, she cried in peace at a café nearby for being a failure. Indira made it through the first round, and then joined Nisha at the café after not making it through to the third round.

What did she learn from this experience? Nothing, except that she was good-for-nothing and her options are negligible. Which is why when her other friend told her about someone she knew who worked for a Mumbai-based law firm, unknown at best, practicing in media and entertainment, looking to fill a junior position, she jumped at the chance, almost too quickly. It was too good to be true, she was aware of that, but she was ready to take anything.

She started working there a week after final exams were over. The firm didn’t give her any written confirmation about the fact that she works there, other than an email ID in her name with the firm’s URL. For two weeks after joining she didn’t even know what her designation was or what she’ll be paid. Her seniors were unkind, the work was confusing, the office commute was devastating, but she finally had a job. She did a little R&D on the firm, after accepting the offer over WhatsApp to join, because from asking around it appeared that no one knew what this firm was, or who those people were. They had an IMDb page, which apparently was all she needed to believe that this law firm was legit. An IMDb page. For a law firm. She was no detective – just a lawyer. Possibly an idiot.

Her seniors, all 3 of them, were toxic and abusive. Being the junior most and the least important person of a four-person team, she felt she had no option but to oblige, and to oblige meant to be available 24x7, to not ask any questions, do as instructed. But how will she learn anything like that? She won’t, but she didn’t have to. She was incompetent and was not being paid to use her brains anyway, as she was told by her seniors repeatedly. She did learn a lot though, mostly life lessons that were deemed invaluable at the time. Would she have liked her learning to have been a little less harsh, and a with a little more support? Yes. But she was still very much in denial. Also, yes. She wholeheartedly believed that this was what life is usually like, for everyone. Did anyone confirm this for her? No. Did she try to find out? Also, no.

“I will pay you 30,000 per month. It is non-negotiable.”, said the apparently very important and big-in-the industry, managing partner. Her source? Her senior who worked there. She looked down at the paper with a hand-written figure of what she was expecting, the figure her family had advised would be appropriate, the figure that would help her contribute at home, and have some left for herself to enjoy life.

“I was actually hoping…”, she started.

“Let me stop you right there. This is not a negotiation. I have been observing you for two weeks. You are not a very good lawyer. You take no initiative, and I have heard from the others that you want to pack your bags and leave at 9 PM daily?”

“I live very far away. I am okay to work from home.”

“Listen, if you want to commute, on my time, your part of the day that is rightfully mine, I should be paying you less! This is ridiculous. You should be grateful you’re getting to work here at all. And please. Leave all your hopes and dreams at home. When you’re working for me, you have none to call your own.”

“You know, Ma’am, in that case, I won’t be able to continue working here.”, she said, against every voice in her head that told her to shut up, be grateful, and suck it up.

“Is it? I don’t appreciate this blackmail. But let me think about it. Resume work till then.”

Resume work she did. Mortified at what she said to the partner, she almost walked back to her desk on muscle memory. Two days later the partner told her she would make her salary 40,000, but that is it, and she agreed. Celebrate small wins, a small voice in her head told her.

The rest of her time there? Horrible. Everything the partner, who Nisha nicknamed the Goon, told her in the “not a negotiation” conversation though, rang true. She had no life other than work, she fought with her family and friends almost daily, she lost appetite, all she ever did was work, work she wasn’t even entirely sure was correct – mechanically reviewing a document, copying and pasting where required, barely understanding what she was doing. She had no time, no money, and soon, she would have no friends. The Goon said the most deplorable things, which were just scary back then. She proudly called herself a “slave rider”, threatened to cut pay for making typos in documents, even internal documents, and the Goon’s two henchmen, her seniors at the firm, regularly berated her for pretty much everything. Some of the most common sounds from her office - “You don’t know anything.”, “You can’t seem to do anything right.”, “Who told you that you need to use your brain?”, “You want to sleep???”, and “Hahahahahahahahaha! Oh my god Aarti, look what this buffoon has written”.

It was made very clear, from the start, that priority was to be given to the super important draft (i.e., all of them) to be sent to a super important producer (who only seemed to work from 4 PM to 4 AM) for a film that no one will care if it ever got made (which, let’s be real, who would have missed another slapstick comedy film) above everything else. They told her the work was important and she was dumb. About one month in, she began to agree. Something always felt off, but she persisted. She quietened every voice that said this is wrong.

Indira, on the other hand seemed to have found a job, which, while it was slightly different from what she was looking for, seemed to be good for her. She had easier hours and spoke fondly of her seniors, sometimes even calling them mentors. She didn’t make a lot more money than Nisha, but definitely seemed to not hate her life in the way that Nisha denied she did. What Nisha did not deny was that she no longer liked speaking to or meeting Indira because talking to Indira meant having to face reality, that Nisha was in a less than ideal situation.

“Oh god! I cannot believe she said she will break the laptop on your head,” said Indira to Nisha once, over a phone call.

“Yeah! I mean, obviously she won’t, she was just pissed,” Nisha found herself defending the Goon.

“Nisha, I hope you know that just threatening with violence is also extremely bad – especially in a workplace!”

“I know, Indira. It is fine. I am used to it now. You should hear the stuff she says to the office boy. That is ridiculous, honestly,” said Nisha.

“Okay, so you haven’t lost all objectivity,” said her friend sarcastically.

“Alright, I have to go,” said Nisha fearing that she was treading too close to a reality check for comfort.

Today, looking back at that time, Nisha could not understand why she felt so compelled to put herself through that. It was not like she had to pay rent or for any utilities – she still lived with her parents then, her dad was still working, so she had no pressure of contributing anything at home. The pressure, in retrospect, was entirely self-inflicted and unnecessary. It was a result of choosing to believe a specific school of thought which glorified the grind by rendering it absolutely indispensable and ignored everyone and everything that said anything with the words ‘respect’, ‘work’, ‘life’, or ‘balance’. She became conditioned to believe, expect, and accept a life in which she had to work endlessly, joylessly, and preferably without food, sleep, or the audacity to have boundaries. She was in a funk, and it took nearly a year of enduring that life before she realized that one cannot simply become capitalism’s favourite clown without having some ambitions and hobbies, a few dreams, and some friends. The realization hit when Indira bought herself a car – a possibility that hadn’t even occurred to Nisha. Nisha couldn’t even pick what to watch without crying. It was then that she understood that she had unknowingly wound up another henchman at the Goon’s mafia, with no hopes and dreams to call her own, like the Goon had intended (i.e., instructed).

Nisha’s final tipping point came when the Goon scheduled a meeting for 8:30 AM on a Saturday, to which Nisha dutifully showed up, but the Goon did not. She also did not answer any of Nisha’s calls or texts, till 2 PM, when she finally texted her back: Meeting pushed to tomorrow at 5 PM. Being left alone for five and a half hours on a Saturday in an office space that Nisha despised brought unbelievable clarity – she vowed to quit, and she did, but not before she took the time to find herself another job – this time with time, patience, and standards. She interviewed in secret, read – and more importantly, believed – Glassdoor reviews, she observed interviewers and how they spoke to their staff, she brazenly asked them questions and politely demanded answers from them, and bravely rejected offers from places that didn’t sit right with her for any reason she deemed valid.

When she finally quit, it was not with a dramatic slam of the laptop, or the righteous monologue she used to rehearse in the shower, not even the performative throwing of ID card across a glossy conference table. Instead, it was with a simple email sent at 3 AM – which, in her world back then, was still considered midday. She even served a notice period, which was filled with exaggerated snide remarks and threats, ten times what she was used to, with quiet dignity. It wasn’t easy. It felt like failure at first, but over time, with sleep, therapy, food, and friends, she found her way back to the version of herself she did not secretly hate.

These days, Nisha still works hard, but not hysterically and not like she owes her soul to Slack. She’s ambitious, not in a soul-crushing, grind-glorifying way, but in a way that includes lunch breaks, hobbies, and the radical concept of weekends and time off, and when she sees a corny image of a beach with a quote about appreciating her life, she is happy to indulge because she has managed to build a life worth appreciating and only she knows the work that took.

“Stare at a wall?” her sister asked, concerned. In her head, though, she was already planning a trip to the dog park.

“Yes. Stare at a wall. Maybe read a book – I mean, that is doing something, but it is not doing something,” she said, emphasizing the second something with air quotes.

“You say that like I should know what you mean, but I don’t. Besides, I was thinking we can go to the dog park. It is Sunday, we can grab some coffees, and take Victor,” said her sister. Hopeful and also successful.

That was the last time, 1 year and 3 months ago, when Medha had a day on which she could do nothing and stare at a wall. But she didn’t, and she went to the dog park with her sister and Victor instead. Not today. Today, she was determined to stay in and do nothing. Maybe read a book. Such days don’t come by easily for Medha, when she genuinely had nothing to do – no chores pending to be completed at home, not even laundry, no work that leaked into the weekend, no plans with friends or her family – absolutely and beautifully, nothing. So, she sat down on her sofa and stared at the big white wall next to her television, long enough to realize that in her effort to do nothing she had forgotten to water her plants. With that reminder, unfortunately, followed the rest of her list of things she had put off doing for when she had time:

1. Clear out her cupboard,

2. Order the bracelet her mom had mentioned she liked,

3. Return her neighbour’s Tupperware,

4. Call the gardener to repot her monstera,

5. Change her bag – she bought a new one months ago! She never came around to changing it,

6. Track the order she placed a couple of weeks ago from an underwear brand based in US. International shipping takes time, but did it take this much time?

She realized she wouldn’t be able to do nothing without finishing her “tasks”, picked up a pen and paper, and made a list of all the things she would do, in order of priority:

1) Water plants – 9:45 AM to 10:00 AM,

2) Order the bracelet – 10:00 AM to 10:15 AM,

3) Read book – 10:15 AM to 12:00 PM,

4) Track the Skims order – 12 PM to 12:15 PM,

5) Return 1401 Tupperware – 12:15 PM to 12:30 PM (NOTE: DO NOT GET SUCKED INTO CONVERSATION WITH AUNTY!!!!!),

6) Call gardener for monstera, and hope he comes soon / today – 12:30 PM,

7) Change bag – 12:35 PM to 1:00 PM,

8) Lunch break,

9) Clear out cupboard – after lunch.

Clean and simple. It would have been, except the bracelet was sold out online. Trying not to get irritated that the very second thing on her list would likely be unsuccessful, she decided to call the jewelry shop in Mumbai, and ask them if they had it in store. If they had it, she would have them hold it and have it picked up using a local courier service in the evening. Clean and simple. It would have been, except the store informed her that while they had the bracelet in stock, they wouldn’t be able to hold it. The only way she could purchase the bracelet was by visiting them in person, making the payment, and collecting the parcel. Ridiculous, in the age of quick commerce.

She considered it for a minute. Did she really want to interact with people on this day, this divine gift, which she may or may not receive again, for a bracelet her mother probably forgot about? Logically, she knew that she was going to have to interact with people anyway (1401 aunty and gardener) and that her mother definitely remembered the bracelet. “It is just like the one you lost last year, Medha,” she had reminded her. Seeing no other choice, she tore up the page and decided that today, unfortunately, will have to be the day she replaced her mother’s bracelet.

She left for the store, and 30 minutes later, she spent 15 minutes looking for parking near the store. She decided she would walk into the store, do nothing more than purchase the bracelet, and leave. Clean and simple. Except she walked into a yelling match between two people at the store, one of whom she recognized – her friend from class 8, unmistakably. Here she was 15 years later, using the same loud shrill tone that made everyone around her wish they didn’t have ears. Medha pretended not to notice Mayuri or the argument between her and another employee at the store, and walked to the opposite end of the store, with her back to Mayuri. She caught the attention of another salesman who was also pretending not to notice the fight.

“Hi Ma’am! What would you like see today?” asked the salesman, over Mayuri screeching – “DID I NOT TELL YOU THIS YESTERDAY?” over and over again to the employee.

“I had called earlier. I wanted to buy the bracelet – the ‘Dolce Cuff’, in silver, please. Just that, nothing else, pack it up and I’ll pay you. I have cash,’” she pleaded, sounding desperate but also like a mob boss.

“Oh sure, let me show you -”

“No, I don’t need to see it. Just pack it please, and take me straight to billing,” begged Medha.

“Sure, ma’am. Right this way,” said the salesman, and led her in the direction of Mayuri.

Medha and Mayuri had been the best of friends, through classes 5 to 8. They sat together in class, during the lunch break, and in the school bus. All their friends would congregate near where Medha and Mayuri sat during breaks. They were not popular, no – just the best of friends in the way that children are. They even had a birthday party together, despite having birthdays one month apart. They would have remained friends but as they got promoted to class 9, two unimaginable things happened – Mayuri’s family moved to a different neighbourhood, and she was also sent to different section than Medha. Medha was sent to 9 B and Mayuri to 9 C. In the vacations before school reopened for the new term, Mayuri and Medha cried many tears that this was happening – not only will they not be in the same bus anymore, they will also not be in the same class! They heard Hannah Montana’s True Friend on loop and promised they will remain best friends forever. They spent hours on the phone planning how they would spend the short recess and long break, where they would meet, how they will pass notes between classes, and what they would do if either of them did the unthinkable – develop a crush, or worse, get a boyfriend. Their plans were carried out for the initial few days, but in the classic and non-dramatic way in which school friendships fade away, theirs did too. They became Medha from 9 B and Mayuri from 9 C before they could notice – which they never did, nor did anyone else.

Medha didn’t realize she had been daydreaming about her friendship that was with Mayuri, when the salesman started waving his hands before her.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” he said, and with that, inviting attention from Mayuri.

“Medha? Medha Ahuja? Sorry, you look just like someone I went to school with,” intervened Mayuri.

Medha flinched a little at being referred to as ‘someone Mayuri went to school with’ – it was reductive and rude. They were the best of friends, obviously Mayuri remembered that. She had to!

“No, I am Medha! Hi, Mayuri! How are you? It has been so long!” said Medha, incredulously.

“Too long! I am good! How are you? Come sit!” screeched Mayuri, her voice seemingly unchanged.

“I am good! My mom wanted this bracelet,” she said, gesturing at the bracelet the salesman held in his hand, “she saw an ad in some newspaper, I think.”

“How lovely! How is aunty doing? I can’t believe aunty organically liked and wants once of my bracelets! I could cry,” said Mayuri.

“Haha! Yeah – I lost one of her bracelets, and this one looks a little similar to that one,” said Medha, unsure of why. She could have let Mayuri have this one.

“Oh okay, sure!” she said and looked at the salesman. “Ramesh, please pack this up – with gift wrap, please. No billing! This is on me!” she announced.

“What, no, Mayuri! Don’t be silly – I’ll pay. Please!” said Medha, meaninglessly snatching the box from Ramesh. What was the plan? Theft instead of gift?

“Haha! Medha, you’ve not changed! You’re still so high strung. Just hand Ramesh the box, he’ll pack it up while we go get coffee. Come, quick! We have lots of catching up to do. I hope you don’t have plans?” said Mayuri.

Medha just stood there and stared at her, while Ramesh gently took the box away. Mayuri had just called her high strung and invaded her do nothing day, while also giving her a gift, extremely kindly. Medha saw no option but to accept the gift and the invitation for coffee, mainly to avoid being rude but also because maybe it will be nice to catchup with an old friend? They walked to a coffee shop close to the store, placed their orders, found a table, and sat down.

“So how have you been, Medha! It is so good to see you!” said Mayuri, breaking the awkward silence.

“Good! How are you? Is that your store? Looks lovely! So happy for you! But didn’t you always want to become a host on MTV?” said Medha, happy with the enthusiasm she managed to feign.

“Haha! God, stop it! How embarrassing! No, man! I actually wanted to become a pastry chef. But you know – family business. Had to get into this. Dad wouldn’t allow anything else. What are you doing these days?” said Mayuri. Medha got the sense that Mayuri did not want to discuss the store further.

“I, well, you know – I wanted to become a lawyer, and I did! Not the save-the-planet kind, though, haha!” said Medha.

“What! You’re kidding! That is amazing! Your timetables and lists have been effective, eh! You always were so focused – can’t say much has changed,” joked Mayuri.

“Haha! What do you mean? You also called me high strung! Stop. We’re meeting 15 years later, how can you possibly arrive at this conclusion,” said Medha, trying not to sound defensive and failing.

“Arrive at this conclusion!” said Mayuri, mimicking Medha, “You sound also like a lawyer! I am just kidding, don’t get offended. But I do remember you had made timetables, besides the ones that school made us follow – for time to do homework, time to go down and play, time to eat, time to write and pass notes! Haha! I used to remember this – fondly, don’t worry – in college, when I really struggled with keeping up. Hated it. MBA is not for everyone, let me tell you,” she added.

“Oh wow! I don’t remember this at all. But fine, I don’t know why I am getting offended. I do still make lists, and it really bugs me when I can’t follow it,” confessed Medha.

“Of course you do! Good, good. It is okay. The key is – and don’t take me seriously here, I am no expert – to be okay with things not working out sometimes,” said Mayuri.

They gabbed on, unaware of how much time had passed. Mayuri filled Medha in about her life – how much she hated not having the time to do anything she actually wanted to do, and how unsure she felt about everything she did do. It explained the screaming match Medha had witnessed, and why Mayuri had been so eager to get out of the store. Medha told her about her own life, and how she too never seemed to have time for anything. They traded simple jokes about how being an adult was the worst, and how they’d give anything to go back to class 6, when the biggest crisis was forgetting the history map the teacher had instructed them to bring. This was never Medha’s worry – but back then, Mayuri’s worries had been Medha’s too.

Somewhere along the way, Medha had forgotten about her task list. She felt lighter for it. She was doing nothing – nothing productive, anyway – but hadn’t noticed. Maybe that was the trick – doing nothing only felt good when it was stolen, not scheduled.

“Time is honestly such a bitch,” Medha said.

“Whoa, whoa! Weird to hear you curse!” laughed Mayuri.

“Oh yeah? Wait till you hear this – FUCK!” screamed Medha, and they both burst out laughing.

That’s when Medha got the best idea she’d had in years.

“Hey, Mayuri – this Sunday, do you want to meet up and do nothing?”

“Oh my god. Do you actually mean nothing?” Mayuri asked, visibly excited.

“Yes! I mean literally nothing. Nothing planned, at least,” Medha said.

“YES! That sounds like the best plan. For sure. We can do nothing at my house. I live alone,” said Mayuri.

“Okay, done!” said Medha.

They exchanged numbers, followed each other on Instagram, and reconnected in the way that only an empty day can make room for – neither of them realizing that what they wanted was the option to do nothing, and not the emptiness of it.

PJ joined her company right out of college, steadily climbed the ranks, year after year, with tireless hard work, relentless politics, lots of sucking up, and far too many cups of horrible coffee. She wasn’t flashy, but she was dependable. The kind of person bosses trusted to fix a crisis at the last minute – and who never said no to taking one for the team. Eight years in, she’d built a reputation for being capable and battle-tested, even if no one ever put it on a plaque. Eventually, she secured a spot in middle management at her company, when it truly started to feel like her company. Her company – that she grew and nurtured with her own hands (she didn’t), that made profits she would now be able to participate in (also, no), and that recognized her contribution as vital and remarkable (nope, not particularly anyway). Anita, on the other hand, spent a good amount of time at other companies in the past 8 years. Companies – plural. She had not stuck it out at one place for longer than 2 years, and now, she was here, freshly handed the same position as PJ, just like that, on the basis of some “qualifications”. Firstly, PJ could not understand why her team needed two managers. Secondly, PJ could not understand why Anita had to be the second manager, alongside PJ herself.

“The company is growing, PJ. Don’t you want a hand? Your work is expected to quadruple in the next quarter. You are leading a 4-person team, how will you manage?” asked her boss.

“I will manage. We will manage. My team got us through the ED investigation, and we were just 3 then. I don’t think we need another manager. The 5 of us are a unit in ourselves, and we have been working together as one for so long. We’ve gotten comfortable now,” pleaded PJ.

“No, but PJ, that is not good. You guys need to learn to work with others, with some focus on efficiency. I know the hours your team puts in. I should encourage it, but it is ridiculous. The management believes that adding one senior member to your team will have a two-fold positive impact. One, it will ease out the work for all of you – think more work-life balance. Wouldn’t that be great? Two, we find that it is important to bring in outside perspectives occasionally, to keep up with growing trends and practices. That is where Anita comes in. She has a stellar network, and a good amount of experience with different types of companies, and you know…”

“Okay fine, Neeraj, it seems like you all have decided. So fine, we will figure it out.” she quipped, immediately regretting it. “Thanks, anyway!” she added, hoping Neeraj hadn’t noticed her mild insubordination.

“You’ll be alright, don’t worry,” said Neeraj, as PJ turned to leave.

“I didn’t think I wouldn’t be. See you later, at the 11 AM,” said PJ, and left.

What Neeraj did not understand was the struggle that had been for PJ to put together a competent team – and figuring out a good way to work together. Adding a new manager to the mix was going to disrupt her harmony. She also knew that Anita would give her judgy looks if she sent her junior on a coffee run.

Unfortunately, PJ was right. Anita did come in and disrupt her harmony. Anita had the classic new employee energy of being desperate to immediately prove her worth – suggesting all kinds of changes, from the very first meeting. Anita seemed to believe that everyone was dying to try new methods of doing everything.

“Hey, Anita! I think the toilet papers used in the office washrooms are the only items left for you to switch out for allegedly better ones. Ease up, you’ve been here just a month!” PJ had snapped in one meeting, when Anita had proposed onboarding a software that automated HR functions. She was hoping for at least one person in the meeting to understand that it was a joke (it was not. It was, as far as office gossip goes, considered to be intra-team psychological warfare), but instead she was met with some shocked looks and a silence so strong it could be bottled and sold as an HR policy.

“Okay, that is enough PJ,” said Neeraj, to PJ’s horror. “Sure, we can consider this software Anita. Could you send over a proposal from them and their pitch deck, if you have it handy? I’ll take a look,” he continued.

PJ heard what Neeraj said, and understood, loud and clear, that Anita was the new favourite. She was being successful in her attempts to prove her worth, and somehow she was doing so by also making PJ look terrible. PJ’s sweet and pathetically-desperate-for-PJ’s-approval juniors no longer seemed to be that desperate for PJ’s approval. Instead, they all flittered around Anita and wanted to work on mandates assigned to Anita. They even invited Anita for team drinks on Friday evenings, each of them now eager to impress Anita. PJ took nearly eight months to finally receive an invite to Friday drinks, eight months after she found out such a routine existed, that is, so God knows how long she actually took. Anita took less than a week, and anyone who thought PJ hadn’t noticed this was clearly unfamiliar with the concept of bitter, passive-aggressive observation, fueled by one-sided feuds.

Hence, to PJ, Anita was her rival, and everyone else was being unfair and rude. She could not believe that this was how dramatically PJ could be dethroned by her team, traitors, all of them, after giving the kind of time and mentorship PJ gave them, which she believed was worthy of LinkedIn virality. Of course, PJ never said any of this out loud. Not to Neeraj, not to her team, not even the one HR person who sometimes smiled at her in the hallway. She just sulked quietly and professionally, like any respectable middle manager. These feelings existed only in her head, looping like an annoying ear worm tune of a song she couldn’t remember. Anita was great, the team was thriving, and PJ – well, PJ hadn’t expressed a single concern. Not in words, anyway. None of these feelings – of being dethroned or even having a throne to begin with – was shared by anyone else in the team. As far as the office was concerned, it was business as usual.

Work went on as usual, yes, but not for PJ, who was now finding out, that Anita will be giving the keynote at a conference that her company attended every year. Never once in the eight years that PJ had been with them had they participated, even in a panel discussion, but this year, Anita was invited to give a keynote, and her company was happy to oblige.

“Exactly what will she say? She has been here for three months,” said a visibly fuming PJ.

“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Neeraj, annoyingly calm as always.

“Everything! She is going to talk about how PR and communications operate for pharmaceutical companies. You cannot tell me she knows about this in 3 months here,” said PJ.

“More than you, you mean,” said Neeraj, finally catching on.

PJ flinched.

“What? No! I just mean, there more seasoned experts in our firm. Why is she giving this keynote?” said PJ, nimbly defending herself.

“Look, PJ – the reason we even have this opportunity is that we got the invite to participate this year through her. Also, she has worked at a pharmaceutical company before, in their PR and communications department. Even other than that she has tons of relevant experience. Also, we are a PR and communications firm. I don’t see the issue. Obviously, she will prepare before the conference too, to give a proper talk. It is a month away, you can help her, if you feel so strongly,” said Neeraj, knowing exactly the right buttons to push to close this conversation.

“Okay, if you trust her then, sure. I am sure she won’t even need my help,” said PJ, dejected, upset, holding back some tears and a punch.

In the days ahead of the conference, all everyone in the office could talk about was the keynote. To add salt to PJ’s wounds, Anita agreeing to do the keynote had also prompted the organizers inviting some of the management to some panel discussions. Some of these invitations were accepted, none by PJ, because none were addressed to her. She felt more alone than she did on her first day at this company. She decided to skip the conference this year, to spare herself the (self-inflicted) humiliation and as a way to ensure she doesn’t end up pulling Anita’s hair or something. She made up an excuse of having a family commitment and was hurtfully met with no resistance from Neeraj or the rest of her team. The only person who seemed to care? Anita.

“I heard you’re not going to the conference?” she brazenly asked PJ, a day before the conference, in the cafeteria.

“Oh, hi! Yeah. I have a family lunch thing,” lied PJ.

“Okay. Are you sure? I get the feeling that maybe I have something to do with this?” said Anita.

“What! No, of course not! What makes you say that?” PJ continued lying, and now also asking obvious rhetorics.

“I don’t know. It seems like you actively avoid me, ever since I joined – you really don’t come close to anything our team works on, if I am involved. I hope I haven’t done something to upset you.”

“Our team. Sure,” said PJ, her passive aggression, for the first time in four months, targeted at the actual target.

“Sorry?”

“No, nothing. It is just a family thing – that is all. And I am not avoiding you. Just been a busy time, that is all.”

“Okay, are you sure? I just…”

“I said it is nothing! God! Why are you being so pushy!” snapped PJ.

Anita stared at her, unsure how to respond.

“What! Okay, you know what, since you asked – you walk in here, like you own the place or whatever – you don’t. I just want you to know that. It is not our team, not by my choice anyway. It was my team, and everything was perfect. You came in and messed up everything.”

“How? How did I do that?” asked Anita.

“What do you mean “How”? You just…” said PJ, unable to find the right words. “I have been here longer than you, Anita. I gave this company eight years. More than eight years, actually!” she said, finally.

“Okay. So?” asked Anita, at once shattering PJ’s confidence, and everything she knew about the world.

“What do you mean ‘So’? So, nothing. You came and took the respect that came with spending eight years here away,” PJ went on, at this point unsure of what she was saying or why.

“PJ, I think people respect you for more than just spending eight years here,” said Anita.

PJ didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t have anything to say, but because for the first time, she wasn’t sure she was right. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing coherent came out. She realized her entire case against Anita was made of made-up vibes.

“You know what? You’re right,” PJ said finally. “I have no idea what I’m talking about.”

Anita smiled. “Okay. Well… I’ll send you a selfie from the stage.”

“Please don’t.”

“Okay,” said Anita, just like that, unknowingly ending a rivalry she didn’t know existed.

It finally made sense to PJ why people seemed to like Anita so much.

A couple of days later, she saw her again. The same girl – Zoya Puri / Zoya Puri look-alike. This time, she was in her pajamas (possibly, the outfit looked both elite and regular, and made the girl look both, put together and plain, in a way only influencers managed to – an indication that the girl was, in fact, Zoya Puri). On this day, she was collecting a parcel from the security guard of Lisa’s wing. Lisa considered asking her if she was Zoya Puri, but held back. Lisa had seen the episode of Zoya’s podcast, where she had spoken about how rude it is when people walk up to her and asked her if she is famous, or if she is Zoya Puri or someone or the other. Zoya “hated it”, as she put it, and said this was the “worst part about stepping out of the house”. This garnered a lot of support and sympathy for Zoya in the YouTube comment section, and many eye rolls from Lisa. The worst part about stepping out of the house? Has she heard of surprise rain and bird poop? Sometimes together? Lisa must have been staring, because Zoya smiled at Lisa. Lisa in response, ever so charming, looked away, without smiling back, and once again moved on with her day.

“I think it is her. I saw her twice in my building. Looked just like her anyway,” Lisa filled her friend in over the phone, a few days later. She was on the treadmill at the gym, with earphones on, blissfully unaware and unbothered by the rest of the people who were also working out, including Zoya Puri.

“No, why would I talk to her, I don’t even like her – if it is her. Have you seen how she talks on that podcast you like so much. She is so extremely full of herself. Her co-host is always warm and funny, but this one just doesn’t seem to get jokes or any subtext of anything anyone is saying,” said Lisa. While Lisa was saying these words, she was not sure if the contempt she projected for Zoya was this strong, but she went on anyway. “Do you remember that episode where she was talking about setting up her house? Her co-host… what is her name… yeah… Harini, she is so funny! No, anyway, so Harini was talking about actual real issues, about how her mom and dad refused to help out in the move, how she had to fight with packers and movers about some broken furniture, and how the move ended up being a lot more expensive than anticipated, and this Zoya could only talk about how some furniture brand promised her something and sent her something else! And some other interior decor brand asked her for money, and she paid, so she won’t post about them. I mean what kind of issues are these to have?”

“Oh yeah! That was really tone deaf! Harini even called her out and made some jokes at her expense. Zoya was also doing some privileged humble brag nonsense on that episode,” agreed her friend.

“Yes! That was so funny – Harini called her a poor baby lifestyle influencer with the life but no influence. Clearly, Zoya is privileged rich girl social climber, with no real opinions or problems. Seriously, Zoya looks at the guests they have on, the ones who are richer or more famous than the two of them, like they’re sacks of cash. That episode with the film casting director person was unwatchable. She could not stop bringing up that one web-series she was in,” said Lisa.

“Yeah, she is a little cringy, but aren’t they all. You should talk to her, maybe she is nice, who knows!” suggested her friend.

“I mean, I don’t think she will talk to me. Not that I want to, but I surely don’t think it is worth the effort or likely insult that will follow. She will probably call me ugly fat pedestrian or something, along with passing on some advice about how I need to wash my hair. No thanks,” said Lisa.

“What are you talking about? Her internet personality is hardly that mean, and that is all you know about her. And now, that she works out, I guess. She seems fine, just a little detached from reality,” her friend countered.

“No, that is just the vibe I get from her. Anyway, I am about to get off the treadmill. I’ll talk to you later. Are we on for lunch tomorrow?” said Lisa, as she got off the treadmill, and finally noticing the person she just called unfunny privileged social climber.

“Yes – at 2PM at…”

Lisa cut the call before her friend could finish. Oh my god! Did she hear everything? She has her earphones on, and she is not looking at me, so maybe not? Lisa’s legs took her towards Zoya, involuntary, but deemed necessary, looking right at Zoya, her mind and body seemingly taken over by some external force adept in damage control.

“Sorry to disturb you, I need to just take that skipping rope that is kept next to you,” said a voice that sounded like Lisa and also came from Lisa.

Zoya saw Lisa, and pulled out her earphones, “Sorry?”

“I need to take that skipping rope, it is right next to you. Sorry – I don’t mean to bother you,” said Lisa.

“Oh yeah, sure – here,” said Zoya, handing her the skipping rope.

“Thank you!” said Lisa, and walked away with the skipping rope, ignoring the 3^rd phone call from her friend since she cut the call abruptly.

Lisa did 50 skips, just to show Zoya – who did not seem to care – that she really wanted to skip, left the gym, went home, and finally called her friend back.

“Oh my god! Ahana, Zoya was at the gym and she may have heard everything I said!” Lisa screamed into the phone.

“Hahahahahahahaha…..”

“No, this is not funny! What do I do? I am not sure she heard me, but there is a chance. She had her earphones in and the gym also has music playing, plus I was a somewhat away from her. I don’t know. I went and asked her for a skipping rope that was kept next to where she was doing her squats, and she didn’t hear me the first time. She pulled out her earphones, and I had to repeat myself. What do you think?” pleaded Lisa, wanting to hear her friend’s comforting voice, informing her that Zoya may not have heard anything.

“Oh man! Hahahahahahahaha…..”

“No, stop Ahana. This is not funny! What do I do? I think – and don’t think – that she heard me. This is mortifying. What a weird way to get confirmation that she is Zoya Puri and not some lookalike,” said Lisa, embarrassed beyond words.

“Maybe don’t talk shit about people in public? I don’t know,” said her friend, helpful as always.

“Not right now, Ahana,” snapped Lisa.

“Okay anyway – it doesn’t matter if she heard you. The influencer variety is used to haters and trolls,” offered Ahana.

“No, Ahana, I am neither! I don’t know why I was being so mean! Ugh, you are no help. See you tomorrow,” said Lisa and hung up the phone. She decided that the next time she saw Zoya, she would talk to her, be pleasant neighbour, and make good on her unnecessary unkindness – regardless of whether the unkindness had reached Zoya.

Unfortunately the next time did not present itself as quickly as Lisa hoped. She did everything to ‘accidentally on purpose’ encounter Zoya again – spent longer than usual at the gym, hover near her car on impromptu phone calls, take walks in the building after dinner – but nothing. She began doubting if Zoya even lived in the building anymore. She finally approached the omnipresent being – Instagram, and found out that Zoya had been travelling. So Lisa did what any mildly insane person would do – she kept a close watch on Zoya’s Instagram and YouTube, so that she could be informed when Zoya returned, and asked the watchman of her building to let her know once she was back, under the garb of having to send her a parcel that she lied she had collected on behalf of Zoya, on Zoya’s request. Why did she bother giving the security guard such an elaborate story? She couldn’t be sure, but it felt required. She wasn’t sure if it was guilt, or shame, or just the unbearable itch of being possibly disliked by someone who looked that good in gym leggings.

Lisa finally did see Zoya, not in person, but in the new episode of Zoya and Harini’s podcast. Lisa tuned in, eagerly, too eagerly almost, like a fan of these two influencers that she hated to admit she had become. She was also surprised to find herself enjoy the conversation, including the words that came out of Zoya’s mouth. They were discussing a recent shoot they had been on, together, and Lisa found it equal parts entertaining and insightful. Harini was making jokes, Zoya spoke fondly about her experience with the crew, Harini made some more jokes, and it was a great time till Zoya said:

“Oh! By the way, there is the girl, I think she lives in my building, she was at the gym the other day, and she loves you but hates me!”

What did Zoya just say?

“What do you mean? Did she tell you this?” asked Harini.

“Oh, no. She was on the phone, and she called me a few names – privileged, social climber, rich girl, a couple more things. She also implied that I was dense. She only had good things to say about you, and called you funny like 67 times! I overheard her. I didn’t mean to, but I did. You are on fire with the jokes today, which reminded me, haha,” explained Zoya.

Lisa could not believe what she was hearing, and more than that, she could not believe the absolute calmness with which Zoya recounted this story to Harini.

“That is so awful, Zoya! Did you get back at the bitch. I hope you dropped a dumbbell on her foot!” said Harini.

“Oh, what! No, it is fine. I mean, it is good feedback for me I guess, if that is how I come off. I couldn’t hear the person on the other line, but maybe they agreed? I didn’t say anything to her, I also didn’t want to. In fact, I did not let on that I heard her at all. She came and took some equipment from me – skipping rope – later, and left. She was probably also stressed that I heard her, which is way funnier, and probably worse for her, than anything I could have said to her. Imagine her embarrassment,” said Zoya, cool as a cucumber, but also hitting the bullseye about Lisa’s plight.

“No way, I would have been this chill. I would have strangled her with the skipping rope. Let that be a hint to all my trolls. Your Thailand trip has really changed you. Which by the way, tell me – tell us – about your fancy trip!” said Harini, closing the discussion about Lisa, whose jaw was firmly set on the ground. She received a text from Ahana: ‘Who knew you’d be their next guest LOL!’

Lisa decided it was time to forget about the entire episode. To let go of the embarrassment, and graciously accept the free pass Zoya had very kindly, and also very publicly, offered her. She told herself it didn’t matter. She even told Ahana it didn’t matter. Twice.

Weeks passed. Then months. Lisa almost believed she had moved on. Until one otherwise uneventful Tuesday evening. Lisa returned from work, stepped into the lift of her building, and she pressed the button for her floor. Just as the doors began to close, there she was again. Zoya. In human form, holding a Stanley cup, hair in place, dressed to the nines, looking like a perfect angel. Lisa was 90% sure that her own t-shirt had a noticeable ink stain. She stepped in as Lisa prayed another person would enter the lift, but no one did, and the doors closed. Lisa stared at the numbers above the door like they were counting down to a nuclear detonation.

And then it happened – Zoya smiled at her. Lisa’s face, thankfully bypassing her brain, managed to return the smile. Zoya knew, not just about Lisa’s unwarranted hate but also possibly that Lisa did not mean all of it – certainly not with such intensity. Lisa knew that Zoya understood this.

“I watched the episode,” Lisa broke the silence, unable to bear the shame any longer, not knowing what to expect, and apparently, because she was choosing chaos today.

“Okay. And?” inquired Zoya.

“I thought it was nice. Thanks for not throwing a dumbbell at me,” joked Lisa.

“Of course! What good would it have done, except confirm everything you thought of me,” said Zoya.

“I don’t think that of you. I was just trying to look cool. We live in the same building! How much better than me can you possibly be?” teased Lisa.

The lift door opened onto Zoya’s floor, and she said as she walked out, “A lot better – a brand furnished my house for free, you know! See you around.” She turned slightly, just enough for Lisa to catch her wide grin.

Lisa exhaled once the doors closed. Of course, she was kidding! Probably! God, I really need to stop talking on the phone on the treadmill.

Hype restaurants. Here are a few ways I would describe hype restaurants –

1) Fool’s gold.

2) Shiny on the outside, hollow on the inside.

3) Going nowhere fast.

4) Many more proverbs about wasting time and lacking quality.

Here is why –

On my thirtieth birthday, I had decided, months in advance, that I would have a meal at this very nice restaurant, with very nice food, invite a friend or two, and have a definite good time. If I had just done this, maybe, just maybe, my birthday would not have been as underwhelming as any other milestone birthday. I even had a reservation at the restaurant to bring the birthday in at their lovely establishment. However, one cannot really trick the universe into giving one a sufficiently whelming birthday. I fell sick, was visited by Aunty Flo, and had an injured shoulder, so I didn’t end up making it to the reservation, barely made it to 10 PM, and slept early. On the day of my birthday, still very sick and in pain, I stayed in for half the day, slept a lot, and towards the evening, when I was starting to feel better, my well-meaning friend suggested we go out, visit a local book shop, and dine at this new hype restaurant that had been haunting our Instagram feeds – a small hole in the wall pizza spot, which had become famous for its authentic Italian style pizza, because it was made by a legitimate Italian chef. I agreed. I was hesitant, but I agreed.

The book shop was crowded (it was a hype shop, but it had a few redeeming qualities), filled with loud kids and teens who seemed desperate to pass off as well-read and cultured. We left as quickly as we entered, neither of us having the bandwidth to deal with the energy (read: vibe) in the shop. We decided we’d go straight to the pizza place, as it was only 6:30 at this point, and there likely won’t be a lot of wait time. We had also decided, on our way there, that if the wait time was anything more than 40 minutes (yes, extremely generous and patient), we would go to another backup restaurant. We also had a backup backup restaurant, in case the backup restaurant couldn’t accommodate us. We reached there and were pleasantly surprised to find out that the wait time was only 20-25 minutes. We gave our names, waited patiently, and were even more pleasantly surprised to be invited in, in 20-ish minutes, to place our order and wait while they readied our table. We went in, placed our order, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Our food arrived, but no table was readied for us. We could see that a table was clearing up, so we told the waiter to hold our food, as we were expecting to be seated. However, when the table was finally cleared, we were told that we could not be seated there, as that was a table for 3 to 4 people, and they can only seat us at a 2-seater. At this point, we had been waiting INSIDE the restaurant for 30 minutes, so we tried reasoning with the host. There was no big group waiting to be seated. We told him this, but it was like talking to a pigeon. He looked at us like we said the most bizarre thing on the planet and simply asked us to wait some more. So, we waited some more.

Now I’d like to make a special mention to the two women who were sitting at a table in the section of 2-seater tables. They had been sitting there for as long as we had been there – the wait time OUTSIDE the restaurant included. They seemed to think this was a regular Starbucks, a WeWork cubicle, a therapy retreat with coffee and pizza. They were unbothered by the people waiting to be seated. They were the kind of best friends who urgently needed to unpack every detail of their lives – and this six-table café, apparently, was the only venue worthy of such world-shaking reflection. Everyone else, the entire population of the earth combined, was less important than these two women. At one point, while we were waiting inside, the restaurant staff also asked them if they were good – after they had been done eating for at least 20 minutes – a polite cue to leave. The cue to leave was as effective as green tea is for weight loss. Redundant. They declared they were going to order dessert, took another 10 minutes to decide which one, and continued sitting at what should have been our table at least 20 minutes ago, oblivious to the resentment I was harbouring for them by now.

Another table was cleared up. Another table, unfortunately, which was one of the 2 “big” tables. “Big” because the table size was the same, it just had space for 1 or 2 more chairs around it. The host sat a group of three people who had only just arrived at that table, in front of us – the people who had been waiting for a total of 1 hour at this point, who had placed their order, whose food was also ready. The restraint it took me to not scream is worthy of a peace prize. Once again, in an effort to not completely ruin the day, and remain non-violent, we tried reasoning with the host who once again informed us that it would simply not be possible to seat us at the other empty “big” table. He apparently thought that holding a table for a possible bigger group, and not have them wait, is more important than feeding the people who had been waiting for over an hour.

We finally decided to give up, politely asked him to cancel our order, and informed him that we will be leaving. Much to our extreme shock – he agreed! He said that it is their fault and he referred to the two besties as “indecent people” who “just won’t leave”, guided us to the cash counter, and informed his colleagues of our decision. His colleagues did NOT appreciate this. They tried suggesting we wait some more, that the food – worth Rs. 2,000 apparently – would go to waste and have to be thrown (they clearly thought we were idiots), and that it was “really not cool” to do what we were doing. When we told them that we simply DO NOT care anymore, they laughed! They started laughing! The host, our best friend somehow in this twisted story, argued on our behalf saying this is happening because the two women from La La Land have turned squatters. His colleague shushed him! Essentially, the message we received was that existing patrons who were already seated and future patrons were more important than the two of us, so we held our ground, cancelled our order, and left.

Here’s the thing - if when we first reached, they had told us the wait time would be 1 hour or more, we would have waited, by our own volition, or left, and kept room to come back to this place at some point in the future. They could have even apologized for their miscalculation, and we might have agreed to a longer wait – having already placed our order. They could have sat us at a table reserved for future patrons, as the way we saw it, they don’t take reservations, so these future patrons could very well never arrive. They could have done so many things differently to not result in my vow to never go back there again, and the ill will that I now hold for them, irreparably. I do sincerely hope they shut down. Making me wait, in the Mumbai May heat and humidity (the spot had no ACs), on my milestone birthday, while I am sick and in pain, is a good way to make sure that I hope that your business gets a tax raid and your Italian chef gets deported.

Hype restaurants, if you are reading this (and I hope you are, through tears of self-awareness), here is some unsolicited advice –

1) Our time is not worth less than your food. It is worth more, a lot more.

2) Maybe value all your patrons equally (even if they are not Instagram obsessed Instagrammers.)

3) Apologize, especially if half of your staff agrees that you are wrong.

4) Don’t try to make your patrons care about your circumstances if you don’t know how to manage them. Your crisis is not our problem. Manage your chaos – or don’t serve people.

5) There is a chance the hype wave tides down, so maybe learn how to function as a regular restaurant.

Here is what I learnt – A hype restaurant is not worth it if you are not big on doing things for the ‘gram. A hype restaurant is definitely not worth it if you do not have endless time to spare, and therefore, are not willing to wait to have an experience that may or may not be good.

We ended up eating at the original restaurant I’d planned to bring my birthday in at – and what do you know? Great food. No drama. A good time. Proof that sometimes, Plan A wasn’t basic. It was just… right.

“How are they any different from the yoga group? They’re here, reading, chit chatting, whatever – doing their thing. Why do you care?” he had said.

“They’re smug. I don’t know how to explain it. This park is pure, free of pretension,” she tried explaining, but Suhas looked puzzled.

“Is that a word? ‘Pretension’?” said Suhas, clearly trying to change the subject.

“Don’t change the subject. And yes, it is a word, I think. But look at them. They don’t fit here. They just come to this park and sit here and read their books? It doesn’t make sense. Why would they do this if not to show the world that they’re elites, simply because they read books? They can read at home. Open a window or something, if it is about “fresh air”. It is like they’re implying that they’re better than everyone else,” explained Nandini.

Suhas just shrugged and hoped that that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t. Nandini was waiting for Suhas to respond, to agree, and since he didn’t agree, he said the words that unintentionally but extremely stupidly, struck a nerve for Nandini – “Maybe they don’t have time or peace at home to read in the quiet. Drop it, na.”

“Wait, do you think I am judging them? No! I hate that they are judging us. Me? I like to wake up early and get active, some exercise, which is what these walks are for me. Do I think I am better than them for this? - ”

“Yes, you do. But the question is why do you feel judged by people who are reading quietly in a park - ”

“No! I do not! I do not judge them for it and I definitely do not think I am better than them – maybe I am, but I don’t think it. Is it better to be active in the early hours or vegetate and read? Obviously, I personally think it is better to get active. But that is not the point. For example, look at those two,” she said, pointing at a man and a woman who looked like they were a part of the group, “they’re here for “reading” right? No, clearly they’re just here to take some pictures and post it on Instagram and look cool and intelligent.”

"Shh, Nandini! They probably heard you!" whispered a worried Suhas. The couple was staring straight at them, and, flustered, he quickly gestured an apology.

“I don’t care. When are we ever going to meet them again? My issue is that this group – and generally “readers” base their whole personality around the books they have read. That has just been my experience anyway. All these so-called book people truly believe that they are better than those who don’t read.”

Suhas finally understood. Nandini’s issue stemmed from never being able to participate in her office discussions, her colleagues – all professors in the college she worked at – always had some new tidbit to share from a book they had read, and all she could do was nod along. Nandini was in the admin department at the college, and she did not read books. Decidedly, she preferred to watch movies and tv shows, based on books or otherwise, and she was made to believe that this, made her inferior. No one said it, but she felt it was implied. Nandini did not realize this, but what she despised most about the group was that they made her feel like her colleagues did at work, in a place that had become an important safe haven for her – part of her morning routine, untouched by the issues that crept in once the day actually began.

“Sorry – I just don’t get it or feel that way. I don’t read, I have friends and colleagues who do. I genuinely don’t care, and I also think that people who do read don’t care what or how much others read,” said Suhas, and finally, ended the conversation, but unknowingly began a cold war with Nandini.

The readers group continued to meet every Sunday, and Nandini's quiet disdain for them only grew stronger. She never discussed it with Suhas again, but he knew that they bothered her. He noticed the ways in which it impacted her mood, how every Sunday, after their walk, she tried reading the newspaper, but gave up and switched to scrolling memes in 15 minutes. He saw that she set a time limit on her Instagram usage, but bypassed it at least 25 times a day. He saw that she made an account on Good Reads, browsed ‘bestsellers’ on Amazon, and even borrowed a copy of Into The Wild from her colleague and returned it a few weeks later, unread.

Nandini failed to understand (or address) why this group bothered her so much. She knew she couldn’t discuss it with Suhas, because he didn’t understand, but something about them made her feel like she was not smart enough, or intellectual enough, and those feelings were typically reserved for 9 to 5 on weekdays. It was like the world was telling her that she needed to be reading books, and that her life will never have any meaning till she did. While she tried to read and also reduce other habits that were otherwise considered “dumb”, like endless scrolling on Instagram or watching bad reality shows, she focused all her energies on myth busting – she was sure that the group was not as intellectual or cool as they appeared, and she was just waiting for the right opportunity to prove it to Suhas. She had been watching the group far too closely for it to not be considered stalking, and noticed that the two people, the same two people whom she had seen taking pictures that one time, joined the group only occasionally. They were not regular, and when they did show up, she noted them taking pictures more than actually reading. Unfortunately for Suhas, her silent myth busting efforts meant that their walks were now more silent than giggly. In fact, there was no more giggling, only regular domestic conversations about house help and groceries. Occasionally, Nandini would point at the couple and point out to Suhas that they were taking pictures again, and Suhas would shrug, unbothered, again. It became clear to Suhas that Nandini was hyper fixated on the couple. He eventually stopped going for the walks on Sunday, preferring to sleep in, instead.

A couple of months later, on their way to the park, Nandini stopped short in front of a billboard. It advertised a book reading by the author of a novel – a “bestselling” novel, the billboard practically screamed at her.

“Isn’t this the girl who we see at the reader’s group every once in a while?” she asked.

“Maybe, I don’t remember,” said Suhas, already wary.

“It is! She's an author? A bestselling author? Why don’t I believe that? And she's doing a reading here, at this park? We have to go,” Nandini said, her voice high and jittery.

“Why? Because you’re such a big fan. Don’t be silly. It is on Sunday, you know I sleep in on Sundays. Okay, come, let’s go. I need to be home by 9 today,” said Suhas, growing worried about her hyper fixation, finally.

“No, we have to go. I know her – I see her almost every Sunday, with her boyfriend, I think, taking more pictures than doing any reading. It is her, I am so sure of it,” pressed Nandini, thinking she finally had her opportunity to myth bust. She didn’t know how, but she knew she would win. She also didn’t know win what, but she knew she would win.

“We’re not going. I definitely am not waking up for this,” tried Suhas.

They went. He did not have a choice. He didn't know what to do except agree to go, with an extremely tense, wired Nandini. Nandini, on the other hand, knew exactly what she wanted – to a large extent. She wanted to catch the girl, Bidya, in an error, a flaw, and publicly shame her. She did not know how, or if there will be any flaws to catch, or if there will be any opportunity to publicly shame her. But she waited patiently. As the reading began in a cabana in the park, a small crowd had gathered – a lot of people she recognized from the reading group in attendance. Nandini and Suhas found seats somewhere in the middle, and paid attention. They heard Bidya read the first few chapters of her novel, a rom-com set in Kolkata, and found it sweet and gripping. Nandini was also surprised to find herself enjoying the book. She didn’t trust it. Maybe a ghost writer? No way someone as vain as she knew Bidya to be could write a good book, she thought. She followed that thought, and settled on calling Bidya out for being vain, and possibly, fake. She continued waiting for an opportunity, and it arrived, as if on cue. A woman who had been standing behind Bidya during the reading announced that they’ll open the floor for a Q&A session after a short break.

“I have a feeling she didn’t write the book. She is too vain. Whenever she comes to the reading group, she is taking pictures with her boyfriend, I think. I am sure if I check out her Instagram it will be flooded with photos taken at this park,” she told Suhas.

“I honestly don’t even know how to respond to that. Can we go? We don’t have to stay back for Q&A,” said Suhas, completely unaware of Nandini’s plans.

“I am going to call her out,” she finally told him.

“You’re what?” Suhas hissed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Call her out for what? For taking pictures? For existing?”

“No! I mean, maybe. But mostly for not writing the book herself,” Nandini said, casually, as if she was simply suggesting they order a coffee.

“Nandini,” Suhas said carefully, like he was speaking to someone on a ledge, “I say this with love – you’ve officially lost it. Let’s go. Right now. You’re doing no such thing,” said Suhas, trying to drag her by her arm. Nandini didn’t budge.

“Ssh! The Q&A is starting,” Nandini said, yanking him back into his chair.

“Nandini, I swear to God, don’t create a scene – you have created enough scenarios in your head as it is.”

“Quiet! I want to listen.”

Bidya started off the Q&A with a note to the audience, “First off, thanks for coming. Honestly, when the park reading group asked me to do a reading, I dismissed it. But my publisher suggested it would be a good idea. I hate public speaking almost as much as I love scrolling memes at 2 AM when I should be writing. Half of this book was written with my phone in one hand and chips in the other.”

The crowd chuckled. Suhas smirked. Nandini... froze.

Bidya continues, “It is, however, a product of love, a lot of effort, some serious trust and confidence by the folks at my publisher’s office. I do hope you will all buy copies of the book, read it, and feel the butterflies I felt when my mom told me the story of her and my dad. I also hope I have done a decent job of conveying it to the world, with some masala – guilty as charged. Over to you guys. I will try my best to be honest!”

The Q&A was fairly seamless, much to Nandini’s dismay. She no longer believed with the same passion anymore that Bidya was fake or vain. She seemed… normal? Funny, even. During the Q&A, someone asked Bidya about her process, and Bidya deadpanned, “Process? More like panic.” Nandini also saw the person with whom Bidya came to the group. A photographer, as it turned out. Nandini felt something loosen inside her - a knot she didn’t even know was tied. Maybe... she had been wrong. Maybe the readers group wasn’t a bunch of snobs.

Nandini raised her arm to ask a question, causing inexplicable terror to Suhas. All she could manage was, “What is your favourite movie?” and barely heard the answer. She was not able to call her out, and she weirdly felt okay with that.

As they walked home, Suhas asked Nandini gently, “So... still hate them?”

Nandini bumped him lightly with her shoulder and said, “I hate them slightly less now. Maybe I’ll start a club for watching movies and TV shows. An AV club,” suggested Nandini.

He nodded, impressed, and grinned. She grinned back. For the first time in a long while, they giggled again on their walk, just a little. Not everything was fixed, but it was a start.