Mornings began early now. By six, Avinash was already up, bucket in hand, standing in line near the community tap at the corner of the lane. Water supply lasted only till seven, and if you missed it, you missed the day. No negotiations.
Half-asleep neighbours stood around him with similar plastic buckets and steel containers, some chatting lazily, others staring blankly into the air. By now, he’d grown used to the brief chaos of elbows brushing, arguments over who came first, and the rhythmic clatter of tin buckets filling under sputtering pipes.
Once home, it was a quick bath — more cold than comfortable — followed by scrubbing his clothes with detergent that always promised better results than it delivered. His small corner of the apartment resembled a chaotic blend of hostel and storage room, but he'd learned to navigate it without complaint.
Breakfast was whatever he could manage — poha, sometimes bread rolled into dry bhurji, and on rare days, leftovers from the food truck that somehow tasted better at home. No TV, no radio. Just silence, and the occasional honking from outside.
By 9:30, he was at the food truck.
The city had started recognising him — not as someone, but someone familiar. A college girl in blue jeans and oversized headphones waved a regular “Good morning, sir!” while biting into a vada pav. An office-goer with a perpetually unbuttoned cuff nodded at him every day as he passed, always in a hurry, always with the same nod.
Customers were no longer just customers — they were characters in his day. The food truck stood outside a metro station near a commercial junction, so the waves came in two distinct bursts: first, the college crowd, hungry and late, throwing jokes and change; then the office crowd, grumbling about deadlines, staring into their phones while their orders fried.
Avinash managed it all — orders, timing, the occasional missing ketchup packet, even the music speaker that acted up every now and then. He wasn’t the owner, but nobody really noticed that. The way he called out orders, handled cash, threw in extra chutney — it was his show for most people.
And thankfully, Mumbai was being kind. The weather had shifted; the sticky monsoon had washed away the heat, and mornings now came with a sea breeze and occasional overcast skies. He'd learned to be grateful for small things.
Evenings were the toughest. The 6 PM train was an unspoken war. But unlike his early days, Avinash no longer stood clueless and pushed around. He now knew how to place his feet, angle his elbows, and claim that precious spot near the door without actually offending anyone. Survival was an art here — and he was getting better.
By the time the day wound down, it was already 10 PM when Avinash would finally make it to the beach. The shore at that hour felt like a different city altogether—no squealing kids, no tea stalls yelling for customers, just a few scattered people lost in their own worlds. A couple sitting close but not touching, someone watching the sea while talking on the phone, one or two loners staring blankly at the waves. The air smelled of salt and silence. It was the only hour of the day that felt like it belonged to him.
Prachi would join him most days, usually ten or fifteen minutes later. She’d walk over, drop her bag on the sand with a sigh, and flop down beside him like she had carried the weight of the entire city on her shoulders.
“Long day?” he’d ask.
“The usual. Students being dumb. Boss being dumber,” she’d reply, eyes still on her phone, thumbs still typing something ridiculous.
They’d talk. Nothing profound—just whatever came to mind. Bitching about their days, complaining about the city, laughing about something absurd that happened at work, or making wild plans about quitting everything and opening a bookstore in the mountains.
Avinash would open his laptop, eyes fixed on lines of code. Prachi, stretched beside him, would scroll through reels and memes, occasionally nudging his arm to show him a video.
“Look at this,” she’d giggle, and Avinash would stop to have a laugh. Then they'd go back to their own little tasks.
It wasn’t anything dramatic. But it was enough. And like that, the day would end—quietly, comfortably, with the sea whispering nearby and the weight of the city fading into the background. Around midnight, they’d get up, dust off the sand, and head back home.
One morning, while the city was still shaking off its sleep and the breakfast rush had begun to trickle in, Avinash stood by the counter of the food truck, scribbling down an order for a group of college students. His movements were sharp, practised—like someone who had turned a temporary job into second nature.
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Just then, a familiar yet unexpected figure appeared beside him—the owner of the food truck. Dressed in his usual faded polo shirt and jeans, but today with a tight, weary expression.
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“Morning,” the owner greeted, attempting a smile. Before Avinash could reply, he pulled an envelope from his side bag and handed it over. “Your salary.”
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Avinash blinked, took it with a grateful nod, and gestured toward the tiny bench set up nearby. “Sit for a minute, I’ll just wrap this up.”
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Once the orders were handed off and the grill was under control, Avinash walked over and sat across from him. The owner was staring off, lost in thought, legs bouncing, lips pressed into a line.
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“You look stressed,” Avinash said, cracking open the envelope absently. “Everything alright?”
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The owner hesitated, then sighed heavily. “Not really.”
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Avinash straightened. “Something happened?”
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“Yeah.” He rubbed his face. “This truck’s doing good. Really good. Thanks to you, actually. But… the others? They’re bleeding money. No matter what I try, they just aren't picking up. Rent, supplies, wages—it’s all piling up. So, I’m kind of thinking of shutting this whole business”
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“But this truck is profitable,” Avinash said, confused, brows furrowed. “Why shut everything down?”
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“I don’t want to,” the owner said, shaking his head. “But running just one food truck doesn’t cover the losses of the others. And honestly, I’m burnt out. I’m thinking of shutting down the entire operation and maybe starting another business.”
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Avinash stared at him, a weight settling in his chest.
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“Don’t worry, though,” the owner added quickly, trying to reassure him. “I spoke to a friend of mine. He’s opening a café—proper sit-down place. Looking for someone to manage it. I recommended you.”
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Avinash opened his mouth to protest, but the owner patted his shoulder lightly. “You’ve done a great job here. You’ll be perfect for it.”
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With that, he stood, muttered something about checking the stock at another truck, and walked off, shoulders still heavy with uncertainty—leaving Avinash staring after him, salary envelope still in hand, and a hundred thoughts suddenly fighting for space in his head.
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That evening, as Avinash walked back to his room, the clouds cracked open without warning. Rain fell in sheets, drenching the road within seconds. He broke into a jog and ducked under the shutter of a general store for cover.
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Wiping his face with his sleeve, he pulled out his phone and tapped open a delivery app. A few swipes later, he added a digital blood pressure monitor to his cart. As the rain hissed against the tin roof above, he started filling out the delivery details.
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Midway through typing his address, he felt a wet chill on his foot. He looked down.
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Water had seeped into his right shoe. A thin tear had opened up near the toe, letting the rain in. He bent down and pressed it with his finger, testing how far it had split. Then he stood up, looked at the shopkeeper behind the counter and asked, “Do you have any superglue?”
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The shopkeeper slid one across.
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Avinash nodded in thanks, took it, and went back to his phone. The tear in his shoe still leaking, the rain still falling, he completed filling his home address and confirmed the order.
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Just another night.
Avinash sat cross-legged on the sand, laptop balanced on a folded jacket, the blue light of his screen catching faintly in the salt-smeared air. Code ran down the editor window in blocks—he paused now and then, adjusted a line, rewrote a function.
Beside him, Prachi sat with her legs stretched out, phone tilted at an angle that caught the glow of her grin. Her thumbs moved rapidly, typing replies, pausing, and smiling again.
Avinash leaned slightly to peek at her screen.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYOqg3Ahynh
“Why are you so addicted to that app, ‘Spillr’?” he asked, returning to his keyboard. “What’s so great about it? Just another social media?”
She didn’t look up. “Spice. Unfiltered takes. Pure chaos.”
He exhaled through his nose and gave a half shake of the head, eyes already back on his code.
Thirty minutes later, a sharp, frustrated groan broke the silence.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPcu0Xxb9K9
“Oh come on!” Prachi glared at her phone. “The server's down? Now? What kind of garbage backend is this?”
Avinash didn’t react.
“Avinash.”
No response.
She reached over and shut his laptop.
“Excuse me?” he looked up, half amused.
“You can either give me attention or give me entertainment. Your choice.”
“Both sound like unpaid overtime.”
She threw a pebble at his arm.
“What were you doing anyway?” she asked, now poking into his bag.
“Trying to write a data parser for—never mind, you won’t care.”
“I might,” she said with mock seriousness.
“You once asked me if JavaScript and Java were cousins.”
“Well, aren’t they?”
Avinash sighed, “That’s like saying burger and burglar are related.”
Prachi laughed, leaned back on her elbows, then turned toward the waves.
“Sometimes I feel bored, y’know?” she said after a pause. “Like nothing’s thrilling anymore. No real risk, no challenge. Just routine.”
Avinash looked up. “Wanna switch places?”
She raised a brow. “You mean, I code endlessly, and you scroll reels all day?”
“No, no—I'll take your unlimited sarcasm and mood swings, and you take my existential dread and overdue bills.”
Prachi chuckled. “Deal. I’ll last a week.”
“You’ll last a night.”
A moment passed. The tide hissed against the rocks. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then went quiet.
Prachi threw another pebble into the dark water.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHkCP8xbDxF
“Still think Spillr is trash?”
Avinash grinned. “Not worse than real life.”
The next morning at work felt heavier than usual. The clangs from the pan, the smell of burnt garlic, and the faint sound of oil crackling couldn’t hide the tension that lingered in Avinash’s mind. Between noting down delivery orders and helping pack boxes, he found himself glancing over at the two young cooks more than once—watching them laugh over some meme, unaware of the ground slipping beneath their feet.
He waited for a quieter moment and called them over.
“Listen,” he began, his voice low, “I think it’s only fair I tell you both—this place might not stay open much longer.”
Their laughter died instantly.
“What do you mean?” one of them asked, his brow furrowed.
“I overheard the owner on the phone. He’s talking about shutting it down. Something about losses, something about time. It’s not final yet—but it’s close.”
Silence. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the hiss of something frying on the unattended stove.
The younger one looked visibly shaken. “But—what about us?”
Avinash didn’t have an answer.
They returned to their tasks, now slower, more distracted, like people stirring soup inside a sinking boat.
A couple of hours later, just as the sun turned the street golden and sweat started to settle under their collars, a tall man walked up to the food truck. Tan linen shirt, round glasses, and a smile that hinted he was sizing the place up.
“One plate of manchurian noodles,” he said, looking around curiously. “You must be Avinash?”
“I am.”
“I’m Vidyut. Friend of the owner.”
Ah. The café guy.
As the cooks got to work, Vidyut leaned casually against the counter and began talking. He told Avinash about his upcoming café project, how he wanted it to be young, raw, a little noisy—something with soul. He was still figuring out the team, the interiors, and the menu. But he had a space. And he had a name.
“That’s half the battle, isn’t it?” he grinned. “A name that doesn’t suck.”
Before Avinash could respond, Vidyut’s phone rang.
He answered, listening in silence for a few seconds, then paced a few steps away. His face had changed when he returned—brows slightly furrowed, mouth set tighter.
“You okay?” Avinash asked.
Vidyut nodded, then exhaled. “Friend of mine. He’s got an engagement at home. Tomorrow. Apparently, the caterer for the starters just backed out at the last minute. Big problem.”
Avinash blinked, and it hit him like a spark catching dry paper.
“Give me a minute,” he said.
He turned to the cooks, who were wiping down the counter.
“What if,” Avinash said, eyes brightening, “we step in?”
They stared at him.
“The engagement. The starters. We offer to cater. Just the starters section, that's all. We pitch in, prep like mad, serve good food—if people like it, Vidyut’s not just impressed with me, he sees what you two can do. He might even consider you both for his café.”
The idea dangled in the air for a moment, then one of them grinned. “You’re insane.”
The other added, “Let’s do it.”
Avinash returned to Vidyut, who was almost done with his noodles.
“What if we handle the starters for the function?” he asked. “You don’t have to worry about hiring new caterers or last-minute drama. We’ll take care of it—me and the two cooks here.”
Vidyut raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting this.
He didn’t answer immediately. He finished his last bite, wiped his hands, and said, “Let me call my friend.”
He stepped aside. Spoke. Listened.
When he returned, he smiled. “Alright. Let’s give it a shot. But this is big, if anything goes wrong, I’ll be the one at fault.”
That night, at the beach, Prachi waited a few minutes, then texted him.
“You’re not here.”
“Can’t make it tonight,” Avinash replied, rushing through voices in the background. “Got something important.”
He didn’t type more, and she didn’t press.
Back at the food truck, he was a man possessed. Planning the menu, dialling people for resources, arranging transport, writing checklists, working with the cooks on quantities, pricing, and prep work. It was chaos—but it was focused chaos. The kind that tasted like purpose.
The next day, the engagement function lit up with fairy lights and laughter. The venue buzzed with music and guests, but in one corner, the starters section quietly stole hearts. Crisp, flavorful, aromatic. People returned for seconds. Then thirds.
Vidyut watched from the side. His friend couldn’t stop thanking them.
And as Avinash finally exhaled, exhausted and smiling under the warm lights, Vidyut clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“You just saved a lot of face today,” he said. “Not just mine.”
Even the food truck owner was there, congratulating Avinash.
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Next day:
The evening breeze had begun to settle in when Prachi arrived at the food truck. The crowd was mellow, a mix of college students lounging around in casuals and office-goers unwinding after a long day. She quietly pulled a chair and sat near one of the tables, just far enough to observe but close enough to feel the life of the place.
Avinash was in his element—dressed in a simple T-shirt, a pen tucked behind his ear, moving around with a notepad, joking with the group of college boys who came every other day, recommending his usual favourites to a couple from a nearby office. The kind of easy banter and comfort that came only when someone had done this a hundred times before.
Prachi watched silently, her chin resting on her hand, eyes following his every move. There was a smile on her face—not quite joy, not quite concern. Just a quiet smile, sitting somewhere in between.
Avinash didn’t even notice her at first, so engrossed in the rhythm of his work. But when he finally did, his eyes lit up. He excused himself from a conversation and walked over to her, smiling wide as he pulled a chair opposite her.
“Look who’s here. The ghost of customers past,” he grinned, flipping his notepad shut. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing,” she shook her head, her smile still lingering. “Just came casually.”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Are you okay? You’re smiling like you just watched a baby fall and get up again.”
Prachi let out a soft chuckle. “You’re reading too much into it.”
“I’m not. You’re thinking something and not saying it.”
“Not really,” she shrugged. “Anyway, how did the engagement catering go?”
Avinash sat up straighter, eyes sparking with excitement. “Oh, that—it was perfect! Everything worked out. The guests loved the food. Vidyut and his friend were super impressed. You should’ve seen the cooks beaming after the function. They killed it. I think Vidyut might actually hire them.”
“Nice,” Prachi said, nodding, the same smile still on her face. She looked at him as he spoke—animated, satisfied, proud.
Just then, her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it, then stood up, brushing invisible dust off her jeans. “I should go. Mom must be waiting.”
Avinash stood too. “You sure you don’t want anything? We’ve got chilli paneer today. Your favourite.”
“I’m good,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Some other time.”
“Alright. Take care.”
She gave him a nod and walked off, disappearing into the gentle hush of the evening. Avinash stood there for a moment, watching her go, then turned around as a new group approached the counter.
Back to work.
The days slipped by in a quiet rhythm. Mornings to evenings were spent in the fast-paced food truck hustle — orders, prep, cleaning, repeat. But every night, like muscle memory, they returned to the beach.
No setup, no props. Just the two of them, sitting cross-legged in the sand, laptops sometimes open, sometimes not.
Avinash would be locked into his screen, fingers flying across the keyboard, lost in lines of code. Prachi sat beside him with her own laptop, but lately, it stayed untouched. She was more drawn to her phone, endlessly scrolling through Spillr — the opinion-sharing app that was half soap opera, half chaos.
She’d giggle at absurd takes, frown at bad ones, and occasionally mumble sarcastic comments under her breath.
“You’re seriously addicted to that thing,” Avinash would say, eyes still on his screen.
“It’s my guilty pleasure,” she’d reply without looking up. “At least people there are honest and brutal.”
“You call doomscrolling honesty?”
She ignored him.
Almost like clockwork, the app would crash around the same time each night. Server issues. Overload. Poor maintenance. Whatever the reason, it never survived beyond midnight.
And every time, Prachi would lose it.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTR4YG3U3YA
She’d stare at the screen, refresh, refresh again — then start cursing the developers, the app, the universe. Loudly.
Avinash would laugh, enjoying her meltdown far too much.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzIsfNl7Uv4
“You really need better hobbies,” he’d say.
But it always settled down. The phone would be tossed aside. Silence would take over. They’d talk — aimless chatter, nothing urgent. Observations about the day. People. Life. Stupid theories. Imagined futures. Things that only made sense under an open sky with the sea in the background.
And somehow, that way it would be a peaceful end to the day.
But lately, something was different. Prachi was distracted — not by the app, but by something else. Something unspoken. And though Avinash hadn’t caught it yet, the shift was already there.
It was like any other night. Quiet waves, the distant city hum, and the usual ritual — Avinash typing, Prachi scrolling. But tonight, she wasn't really scrolling. She kept locking and unlocking her phone, eyes scanning the dark horizon, mind clearly elsewhere.
Avinash noticed. “You okay?”
She looked at him for a moment, then shut her laptop. “I need to tell you something.”
His fingers paused mid-keystroke. “What?”
“This is important,” she said, her voice flatter than usual.
He closed his laptop, sensing the shift.
“I’ve made up my mind,” she continued. “I’m quitting my job.”
Silence.
“What?”
“I’ve thought about it for weeks. It’s not impulsive—”
“Wait, wait—” he cut her off, straightening up. “You’ve made up your mind? Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Did you resign already?”
“No. But I will. Soon.”
There was disbelief on his face — not the shocked kind, the furious kind that simmered right below the surface. “And what exactly do you plan to do after that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know?!” he snapped, louder now. “So you’re just going to throw away a well-paying, secure job because... what? You’re bored?”
She sat up straighter, defensive. “It’s not just boredom. I’m tired. Tired of the monotony. Of doing something that doesn’t matter to me. I don’t feel like I belong there.”
“Wow,” he said, letting out a half-laugh. “Must be nice. To not feel thrilled and still get paid every month.”
She clenched her jaw. “You’re twisting this.”
“No, I’m just being real. While you’re out here talking about purpose and thrill, I’m trying to figure out how to stretch twenty thousand rupees through a month. I’ve been wearing the same damn sneakers for two years because I can’t afford a new pair. And you want to quit because it doesn’t excite you enough?”
“That’s not fair,” she said, her voice sharp now. “I thought if anyone would get it, it would be you. I thought you, of all people, would understand.”
“Well, clearly, I don’t,” he said, standing up. “Because this? This just sounds like a privileged tantrum.”
Prachi stood too, eyes burning. “I came to you with something personal. Something I’ve been carrying for weeks. And you made it about you. About your struggle. You didn’t even ask how I was feeling. You just snapped.”
“I snapped because you dropped a bomb out of nowhere. You didn’t come to discuss. You came to announce.”
“I didn’t expect support,” she said, voice trembling. “But I expected understanding. And you gave me the exact opposite.”
Neither of them spoke after that. Just heavy breaths and even heavier silence.
Then Prachi turned, picked up her bag, and walked away without another word.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyp9WeXAErY
Avinash didn’t stop her. He didn’t call out.
He stood there for a second, then kicked the sand hard and walked off in the opposite direction.
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It had been a week.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4z2pIveUQO
No messages. No calls.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡditFUwXuLl
No Prachi on the beach, no familiar smile waiting at the far end of the railing. Nothing.
Avinash moved through days like they were dust-laden pages of a book he didn’t want to read. The routine was intact, but the rhythm had vanished.
That night, as Avinash walked down a quiet alley on his way back to the rented room, the phone in his pocket buzzed. His mother’s name lit up on the screen.
He picked up with a half-hearted smile.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRhkQ1P3GR1
“Hello, Maa.”
Her voice, warm as always, came through.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpr6DSeMOxV
“How are you, beta? You sound tired. Are they overloading you again at work?”
Avinash, like every other time, put on his well-rehearsed act.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrMjSTdcFfm
“No, no, Maa. All good. I just had a long day. These international projects keep us on our toes.”14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0VnFtcZAfA
He chuckled faintly, hoping to sound convincing.
She asked him if he was eating well, taking care of his health, and if the office cafeteria still served that horrible paneer. Avinash replied with the usual half-truths and made-up complaints.
Then she began telling him about the Diwali preparations back home — new curtains, sweets ordered in advance, and how the entire colony seemed more festive this year.
“It’ll be so good to have you back this Diwali,” she added fondly.
Avinash smiled to himself.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPigOR1WqXb
“Yes, Maa, I’m really looking forward to it too.”
Then, almost as if it were a passing thought, she said:14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkNINBbf49M
“By the way, your papa and I went to see Dr. Sinha a couple of days ago. About his knee pain, remember?”
Avinash’s voice turned attentive.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxf8fSNkH0U
“Hmm, what did he say?”
“He said it’s high time we get the surgery done. We’ve already waited too long. But now that you’ve started earning well, we thought we’d finally go ahead with it— maybe right after Diwali, when you’ll also be home.”14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeDi2QGY4NE
She said it with such innocence, such hope, like it was the most natural and reasonable plan.
Avinash’s feet slowed down. His expression froze.
“How much will it cost?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Around 60-70 thousand, give or take. But Dr. Sinha is a family friend, so he said he’ll do his best with the charges.”
There was a pause. For a second, Avinash’s breath hitched.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQBivBWd8Zq
That amount would’ve been barely a hiccup for the life his mother thought he was living — a software developer at a reputed MNC in Mumbai, commuting in cabs, watching weekend movies, dining at cool cafés, and recently buying himself expensive sneakers.
After all, this was the fantasy he had been feeding her for months now. The fantasy she wholeheartedly believed.
But the truth was far from it. He wasn’t in a glass office tower sipping cappuccinos. He was managing lunch orders and washing plates at a beachside food truck, barely making ends meet.
Still, he gathered himself and replied:14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTXCkQamfcm
“That’s great, Maa. You should definitely go ahead with it. Papa’s waited long enough. Don’t worry about the money, I’ll handle it.”
They spoke for a few more minutes — about relatives, neighbours, random gossip from the lane — and then she hung up with a hopeful,14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlEgjYooBp9
“Can’t wait to see you, beta. It’ll be such a happy Diwali this year.”
Avinash slowly put the phone back in his pocket, his fingers slightly trembling. He stood still for a moment in the middle of the dimly lit road, his heart heavy with the weight of his own lies.
The irony couldn’t have been sharper — in her eyes, he had made it.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtk09kG9umL
But in reality, he couldn’t even afford his father’s surgery without borrowing money.
Back in his room, he opened his bank app. ₹8,143 in his account.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB7ImHeLC5P
He rubbed his forehead. And then remembered—the ₹40,000 he had received for the engagement gig.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf2Th2gPTra
Almost ₹48,000 in total.
Still short by ₹30,000.
At work the next day, he wore the pressure on his face like a second skin. Orders came in, he fulfilled them mechanically. No jokes. No light moments.
When the day slowed, he stepped aside and made the call. The food truck owner picked up.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHczv2ZPl8R
“I need a loan,” Avinash said plainly.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1ruWtDWBM5
The man paused, then said he could manage it—on one condition.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8wrSFm3NEX
Avinash would only get a Diwali day off. Nothing more.
Avinash didn’t even argue. “Done,” he said.
That evening, he returned to the beach. Not looking for anyone. Just the ocean, just some air. He stretched on the cool sand, took out his phone, and called home again.
His mother picked up, cheerful. He cut that mood down quickly.
“I won’t be coming this Diwali, Maa,” he said.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzJbzHkpRHc
A pause. Then an eruption. Disbelief. Questions. Frustration.
He took it all in, patiently. Then explained—fabricating a story about an important US client visiting right after Diwali. “They’ve handed the responsibility to me,” he added. “I can’t skip this. I’m really sorry.”
It took time, but she eventually sighed and gave in.
“I’ve transferred money into your account,” he added softly. “Just make sure Baba gets the surgery done. Don’t think about anything else.”
They spoke for a few more minutes. He kept his voice level, but the tightness in his throat didn’t go away.
After the call, he sat still for a while. The beach was quiet. The waves kept folding in and out, like a lullaby for no one.
He opened his call history.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ41n9go7ea
Scrolled.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnwdUUovKB1
Stopped at Prachi’s name.
Thumb hovered.
But he didn’t press it.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwCfRhWPfeJ
He locked the screen, dropped the phone beside him, and stared at the orange-pink edge of the sea.
The sunset didn’t ask him anything. It just kept lowering itself quietly, like it knew not every return home was possible.
“Sometimes, being the version of yourself the world believes in costs more than the truth ever would.
And still, we choose the lie—because that’s what keeps the ones we love warm, even as we stay out in the cold.”
—Anonymous14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIU5nBMRcaP
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