Chapter 2: Banquet Halls and Old Hierarchies

The ceiling fan above whirred lazily, barely stirring the thick, curry-scented air of the banquet hall. Someone’s phone vibrated on the table, lighting up with a WhatsApp forward, adding to the hum of laughter and the scent of butter chicken and paneer tikka. Waiters in starched uniforms glided by with kebab platters, but not a single glass was raised in my direction. I caught my reflection in a mirrored pillar—just my plain FabIndia jacket, the only one in the room not bearing a designer logo. The loneliness crept in, just as it used to during school picnics, when everyone else was busy forming groups and I’d be left picking at cold samosas.

Priya, ever the study committee’s calm anchor, slid into the seat beside me. She glanced around, then leaned closer, lowering her voice as she handed me a packet of saunf. 'Ignore them, na. Same old show-off gang. You want to step out for some fresh air?' Her eyes were gentle, her bindi perfectly placed, and her solidarity felt like an old friendship rekindled. I clutched the saunf, grateful for her presence.

I managed a faint smile. 'You’re right, but my car isn’t just any ordinary local car. It’s actually an inspector’s car.' My tone was playful but serious underneath. For a moment, Priya’s eyes widened, catching the layered meaning. I sipped my nimbu paani, the tartness clearing some of the heaviness in my chest. 'Who knows,' I said softly, 'sometimes the simplest things hide the biggest stories.'

He remembered his father’s words—'Beta, izzat gaadi se nahi, kaam se milti hai'—echoing in his mind as the laughter grew. Yet even as the group toasted Rohan, I sat quietly at the edge, feeling the divide widen. The room buzzed with whispers, but Amit’s mind was already on the ticking clock—one more minute here and he’d miss the meeting that could change everything.