The clinking of cutlery and muffled conversations filled the air of the sunlit café, a quiet weekday afternoon unfolding lazily around them. Akansha sat hunched over her laptop, fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard, headphones tucked loosely around her neck. Across from her, Prachi stared at nothing in particular — chin resting on her palm, coffee untouched, laptop still shut.
Akansha looked up from her screen. “You’re here, but you’re not here. Where’s your head at?”
Prachi didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes were still far off, her mind circling a truth too heavy to digest. And then, almost absently, she said, “A genius fooled me… Avinash created Spillr”
Akansha blinked. “What?”
She reached over and gently nudged Prachi’s arm. “Earth to Prachi. What are you even talking about?”
“Yeah,” Prachi said softly, as if repeating it would somehow make it more believable. “All this time. The coding every night, the server crashing, the way he hated the app while knowing everything about it…”
Akansha leaned in, skeptical but intrigued. “Wait—but what makes you so sure? I mean, creating a social media app like Spillr isn’t something just any beginner coder can pull off.”
Prachi nodded, expecting the question. “I saw it. On his laptop. That night when I got back from the trip. He had fallen asleep while working… I picked up the laptop to set it aside and saw an admin panel. It showed live traffic, user stats, server logs—backend stuff only someone managing it would have access to. There’s no doubt, Akansha. It’s him.”
Akansha sat back, eyebrows arched. “That’s… seriously impressive. But—why won’t he tell you?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Prachi said, running a hand through her hair. “We talk almost daily, we’re close enough. Why would he hide this from me?”
Akansha paused for a moment, thinking. “Maybe it’s not about you,” she said gently. “Maybe he just doesn’t want people to know. Not yet. Some people want to stay in the shadows until they’re ready. Or maybe… it’s not that big a deal to him.”
Prachi exhaled, staring into her coffee. “You think I should confront him?”
Akansha shook her head. “No. If you do, it’ll just become about that. Let him tell you when he wants to. If he wants to. You’re not owed everything immediately, Prachi.”
Prachi gave a slow nod, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her cup. “I won’t say anything,” she said. “Let’s see if he ever chooses to. But I am still upset that he kept it from me.”
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After a long, sweaty day at the food truck — the kind where the oil clung to your skin and your voice felt worn thin from repeating the same six sentences — Avinash walked back towards his room under the flickering streetlights.
He stopped by the familiar vegetable vendor, the one who always kept his weighing machine slanted and his prices exaggerated. Avinash glanced over the options with tired eyes.
“Uncle, how much for the onions?”
“Thirty-five a kilo.”
“Give me half.”
The vendor began scooping them into a bag as Avinash continued. “And what about tomatoes?”
“Hundred rupees.”
Avinash paused, visibly annoyed. “Keep the tomatoes,” he said, waving his hand. “I’m not buying gold.”
The vendor just shrugged.
As Avinash pulled out his wallet to pay, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was his mother.
He picked up instantly. “Hello, Maa?”
A burst of affection flowed from the other end. “How are you, son? Eating properly? You sound so thin on the phone these days!”
Avinash chuckled. “Sounding thin is new, Maa. I’m eating fine — lots of fruits, salads, healthy home food types.”
“Oh really? Since when did you start liking Cauliflower and Ladyfinger?”
“I’ve evolved,” he said with a laugh, handing cash to the vendor. “New me.”
His mother laughed, then launched into a comically detailed story about how Aisha had spilled an entire bottle of mustard oil in the kitchen that morning and blamed me for not closing the bottle tightly.
“—and your father slipped near the sink and almost scolded her, but then Aisha said she was conducting an experiment to check slipperiness of oils. Can you believe this girl?”
Avinash burst out laughing. “I should’ve patented that logic back in school.”
Then his voice softened. “How’s papa? His knee alright?”
A pause, followed by her softer tone. “ Yeah, his knees are fine. Worried about you. Always. But he won’t say it. You know how he is. He keeps asking me about your meals, your sleep… but doesn’t call you. Says fathers aren’t supposed to ask such things — it’s a mother’s department.”
Avinash went silent for a moment.
“You should call him one of these days, son. He’ll like it. Won’t say it, but he will.”
“Hmm,” Avinash murmured, the weight of those words settling somewhere deeper than his shoulders. “I will.”
She didn’t press further. Just reminded him to buy curd if he hadn’t, and not to skip dinner.
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One day—
The evening crowd was steady, the way it always was on a weekday around 6:30 — office workers winding down, college students hunting for cheap thrills in spicy noodles and greasy burgers. Avinash was at his usual best, grinning as he handed over a tray to a group of engineering boys, exchanging some playful banter.
“Extra mayo, as ordered. Don’t blame me when your cholesterol shoots through the roof.”
The boys laughed, already digging in.
Just then, a familiar voice came from behind. “You really know how to charm your way through mayo and chaos, don’t you?”
Avinash turned to find the food truck owner walking up, hands in his pockets, smiling lazy as ever.
“Sir!” Avinash greeted, surprised.
“Everything going well?” the man asked casually. “Customers look happy. The truck looks cleaner than ever. You’ve been running it like a damn five-star kitchen.”
Avinash smiled faintly, still wiping his hands. “Trying my best.”
The owner’s smile lingered for a second too long before it dulled. He looked down, sighed once, then placed a hand on Avinash’s shoulder.
“Listen… next week is going to be the last.”
Avinash blinked. “Sorry… the last what?”
“The last week of operation,” the owner said. “I’m shutting it down.”
Silence. Not the kind that hums quietly, but the kind that feels like someone pulled the air out of your lungs.
Avinash didn’t move, didn’t even ask for clarification. He just stared.
The owner exhaled. “The other food trucks already shut down, and this one was only surviving because of you. But… I need to move on. Try something else. Can’t keep pumping money into something that’s constantly on the edge.”
“What about the café?” Avinash finally asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“That’s still happening,” the man said, “but not right away. Legal stuff’s still in the air — space isn’t finalised, and paperwork could take two, maybe three months. I’ll keep you posted.”
He gave a weak smile, turned to leave — but halfway through, stopped and looked back. “Also, about the loan. If you could start returning some of it soon, that’d be great. Need some funds for the new venture.”
Avinash just nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll arrange it. Soon.”
The man gave him a pat on the shoulder, then walked away.
Avinash turned back toward the food truck, the same place he’d poured himself into for months — now suddenly reduced to a countdown. His body felt numb, hands suddenly too heavy to carry trays. He finished the evening somehow, the laughter around him muted, movements robotic.
Later that night, just as he began his walk home, his phone buzzed.
Prachi: Back in town. Coming to the beach tonight?
He stared at the message for a moment, then replied:
Something important has come up. Can’t make it today.
He didn’t explain. Didn’t want to. Not now.
When Avinash reached his room, the rusty gate creaked as usual. But this time, someone was waiting.
The landlord stood by the staircase, arms folded, his face stiff with irritation.
“Avinash,” he called out sharply, “do you need a written reminder that your rent’s been pending for two months?”
Avinash stopped in his tracks. He had expected this conversation — just not tonight.
“I know,” he replied quietly. “Just give me three or four more days. I’ll pay at least one month’s rent.”
The landlord’s eyebrows shot up. “One month? Are you serious? Do you think I run this building for charity? Electricity, water, maintenance — everything needs to be paid on time.”
“I understand. I really do. I’m just in a tight spot right now,” Avinash said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I swear I’ll pay the rest next week.”
The landlord took a few steps forward. “You told me the same thing three weeks ago, remember? Look I don’t have any personal grudges with you, but I have waited too long. ”
Avinash’s jaw tightened, embarrassment swallowing his words.
The landlord didn’t stop. “Listen carefully. I’ll give you four days. Not a minute more. I want the full two months’ rent by then. If not, you start packing and find yourself another place.”
He turned without waiting for a reply and stormed up the stairs, leaving Avinash frozen by the gate, still gripping the keys he hadn’t yet used.
The days that followed moved slowly, almost stubbornly. Avinash still showed up at the food truck, still boarded the same crowded trains back to the room, still walked to the beach at night. But something had shifted.
Even as he sat next to Prachi on the sand, watching the waves curl in the moonlight, his eyes would stay blank — body present, mind elsewhere. His laughter didn’t quite land, and his usual sarcastic comebacks came with a noticeable delay.
Prachi caught on quickly.
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One evening, as he stared blankly into the distance, she asked, “What’s going on in that dramatic mind of yours?”
Avinash blinked like he’d just returned from another planet. “Nothing,” he said.
She didn’t respond. Just gave him that long, wordless death stare — the kind that didn’t break until the truth spilled out.
Avinash sighed. “The loan. I need to repay the food truck owner. It’s been sitting like a stone on my chest.”
She frowned. “Then just give it back.”
“I will,” he said quickly.
“Then take the money from me and give it to him already. You can pay me back whenever — I’m not going anywhere. But that guy clearly won’t wait.”
He shook his head. “No. I’ll figure something out. Just... not like that.”
Prachi didn’t argue further. She just leaned back on her arms and said, “Fine. But if you don’t find a way, remember — I’m right here. You don’t need to sprint in a storm to find shelter.”
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A few days later, they sat by the beach again — the waves louder tonight, the wind a little colder. Avinash was, as usual, quieter than usual.
Without saying much, Prachi pulled out a folded cheque and placed it beside him.
He looked at it, then at her. “What is this?”
Her tone was dry, borderline annoyed. “Peace offering. For my mental peace, not yours. You’re ruining my fun beach time with your overthinking. So here’s the deal — take this, pay the loan, and get back to being your usual irritating self.”
He hesitated.
She added, “No arguments. You’ll return it whenever. I’m not running a charity, but I’m also not running away.”
He finally let out a small smile and took the cheque. “I’ll repay soon.”
She grinned. “No pressure. Just don’t disappear one night. I don’t want to chase you down with a stick.”
They both laughed, the tension deflating between them.
As the night unfolded, she started telling him about the business — the pitching struggles, unanswered emails, failed follow-ups. The frustration was real, but her voice still carried that determined undertone, the kind that believed this phase was only temporary. And Avinash listened to her with his full attention.
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The final day at the food truck arrived — quieter than usual, as if the universe knew something was ending. Avinash handed out orders with a forced smile, cleaned the counter with an unfamiliar slowness, and lingered longer than necessary after closing.
When it was time to leave, he walked with heavy legs and no destination in mind. The city noise blurred into the background. On his way back, he slumped onto a rusted park bench, the kind people usually ignored. The sky was a pale orange, neither bright nor dark — just stuck in between, much like him.
He stared at his shoes. The same old pair, slightly frayed at the edges, like his plans.
Maybe it was time. Maybe he should go back, come clean — tell his parents everything: the lies, the food truck, the beach nights, the truth. But the thought hovered — undecided, unresolved. He stayed on the bench long enough for the city lights to come on.
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The next morning, at a café not too far away, Akansha tapped her fingers anxiously on a table while Prachi stirred her coffee, half-listening.
“We’ve got a chance,” Akansha said, leaning forward. “A real one. There’s a big investor in town — someone serious. He’s here for only four days. I pulled some strings and locked in a meeting.”
Prachi perked up. “That’s amazing.”
Akansha didn’t look relieved. “Not entirely. There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“We don’t have anything to show for. No app. No website. Nothing that makes us look real.”
Prachi frowned. “Yeah, because so far we were just pitching the idea to investors…”
“I know,” Akansha said. “But this guy’s a benchmark investor. If he says no, we’ll never get in front of anyone else. His ‘no’ will echo through the ecosystem. We’ll be branded as not invest-worthy. It’s harsh, but that’s how it works. And at this moment we need an investor on board more than anything.”
Prachi looked at her, processing the weight of it. “Even if we wanted to, who’s going to build it? In three days?”
Akansha sighed. “Hiring someone now is risky. They’ll charge a bomb and we won’t get control over what’s built. We’d just have to accept whatever they deliver. The website or app is the face of our company, it has to reflect what we do. We can’t risk it in any freelancer’s hands.”
Prachi stayed quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “I have someone.”
An hour later, Avinash arrived at the café, visibly unsure why he was summoned.
“What’s this about?” he asked, glancing between the two.
Prachi slid her phone aside and looked directly at him. “We need help. A favour. Can you make a basic website or app for our company? Just something presentable. Even if it's bare-bones.”
Avinash didn’t blink. “Prachi, I’m not a software engineer. I’m not even a professional developer. I’m just a basic—”
She didn’t let him finish.
“Stop it,” she said, her voice firm. “Drop the act. I know.”
He looked confused. “Know what?”
“I know you created Spillr.”
For a moment, everything went still — like someone had hit pause.
Akansha’s eyes widened. Avinash’s expression froze.
Prachi didn’t blink. “So don’t you dare tell me you can’t build a simple prototype. You owe me that much. Please, Avinash.”
The next three days passed in a blur of wires, whiteboards, and way too much coffee. Avinash was practically living in the corner of the café, laptop glowing. His fingers moved fast, but his mind moved faster — coding layouts, debugging screens, sketching out flowcharts on tissue paper when the Wi-Fi dropped.
Beside him, Prachi sat through most of it — guiding, suggesting, sometimes bossing him around over button placements and colour palettes. She had a very particular vision for Stratagrow, and Avinash was the closest thing she had to a full-stack army.
Meanwhile, Akansha prepped for the big pitch — rehearsing data points, polishing the deck, and pulling out analytics reports that would make their business model look bulletproof.
On the third night, as the site finally went live and the homepage loaded without a glitch, Akansha clapped once and let out a breath. “That’s it. We’re real now.”
Prachi gave Avinash a quiet look, then said, “You don’t owe me a rupee anymore.”
Avinash let out a smile — tired, grateful. “That’s a relief.”
Just as he tucked his laptop back into the bag, his phone buzzed. The landlord.
“I hope you have either arranged the rent or a new place to live,” the message read.
He put the phone face down and stood up, brushing the tension off his face like dust. “All the best for tomorrow,” he said, looking at both of them. “Go get that funding.”
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While Akansha and Prachi sat in a high-rise boardroom the next day, making their case in front of a man who didn’t smile even once through the pitch, Avinash was out under the sun — a backpack on one shoulder, shirt sticking to his back.
From one end of the city to the other, he asked. From small-time food stalls to event vendors. From sales roles in fashion stores to hotel catering companies. They all gave the same look — “We’ll call you.” None did.
It wasn’t just the rejection. It was the realisation of how his survival in the city was no longer certain.
By late afternoon, he found a small bench outside a mall’s service entrance, sat down, wiped his forehead, and dialed Prachi.
She picked up with a tired hello.
“So…?” he asked.
“He was impressed,” she said. “Asked a ton of questions, said our pitch was solid. But…”
“But?”
“But he won’t come on board yet. He gave us a target — we’ve to deliver services to clients worth five lakhs in twenty days. If we manage that, he’ll invest.”
Avinash didn’t respond immediately. She filled the silence herself.
“We’re not doing it. Akansha and I spoke — it’s too much, too soon. We don’t even have clients yet.”
“Don’t drop it already,” he said finally. “You’ve built the rocket. Don’t cancel the launch because the weather looks rough.”
She was quiet for a second.
“Anyways, how was the food truck today?” she asked. “Did those college guys pay their dues finally?”
He looked down at his empty wallet, smiled faintly, and replied, “Nope. In fact, they’ve added more to it.”
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For days, Avinash kept chasing job leads across the city — from cramped cafés to overlit malls, from food trucks to event stalls, one rejection folding into another. Some days, he ran on just glucose biscuits and tap water. Some nights, he returned too tired to even open his laptop.
But today felt different. His body had begun to give up. His head throbbed, legs sore, breath short.
He dragged himself back to his room — or what used to be his room.
His heart sank when he saw his suitcase and bags lying outside the locked door. The landlord stood there with a key and a face full of irritation.
“Please… just one more week,” Avinash begged.
But the landlord didn’t even reply. Just turned the key with a cold clack and walked away, muttering something under his breath.
Avinash sat by his bags, staring at the closed door for a long second. Then, quietly, he picked up his things, hoisted them onto his shoulder, and walked out.
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By 10 PM, he was at the railway station with a ticket of general compartment to Lucknow in his right hand.
The platform was nearly deserted. One flickering light buzzed overhead. His body ached, and his throat burned.
He sat on an iron bench, staring blankly at the empty tracks, when his phone buzzed.
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“Are you coming to the beach tonight? I’ve got something important to tell you.”
He read it. Smiled faintly. But didn’t reply.
He couldn’t.
The time crawled to 11:30 PM. Still no sign of the train.
Then his phone rang.
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Papa.
He hesitated before answering. Wiped his face. Cleared his throat.
“Hello?”
“Why aren’t you asleep yet?” his father’s voice came, half-scolding, half-concerned. “Do you always stay up this late?”
Avinash chuckled, trying to sound normal. “Just got back from work. Had a long day.”
They talked — light, mundane things. His mother’s obsession with soap operas. A neighbour’s daughter who eloped. His own health — Avinash lied smoothly, said he was eating well, taking cabs, and working hard.
Then, after a pause, his father said softly, “You’ve made this old man proud, son. I know I don’t say it enough, but... I am proud of you, very much.”
Something in Avinash broke.
The phone trembled in his hand. He pulled it away, covered his face with his other hand, lips clenched, sobbing silently.
“I— I should let you sleep,” he finally whispered. “Got an early meeting tomorrow.”
He hung up before his voice cracked.
That’s when it started to rain. Out of nowhere. A heavy, hammering kind of rain that soaked the platform in seconds.
Five minutes later, the train horned loud in the distance, approaching with a long, screeching cry.
Avinash stood. Picked up his bag. Walked to the train.
He reached for the cold metal bar of the door — rain trickling down his forehead, mixing with tears.
And at that moment, his father’s voice came back again.
"I am proud of you, son. You've made this old man happy."
His hand froze.
He stood there, rain slicing down like glass sheets. Then slowly… he let go of the handle.
And turned around.
He didn’t run. He just walked — away from the train, away from the platform, into the rain, weeping silently.
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and then Add to home screen.