Chapter 6: The Reunion and Reinvention

Five years later.

College reunion.

The WhatsApp group had been buzzing for weeks—old inside jokes, badly compressed college photos, debates over what to wear, and last-minute cancellations. I hesitated till the last day, then decided to go, more out of curiosity than nostalgia.

About half the class turned up.

The venue was a familiar banquet hall, with the faint smell of agarbatti and samosas lingering from some earlier function.

Classmates who hadn’t seen me in years quietly eyed my scooty.

Some nodded, some looked away quickly. I caught a few whispering, probably comparing me to what I used to be—or maybe just to each other.

“Isn’t that Neha?” someone said.

The voice was familiar, but distant. I forced a cheerful smile, reminding myself I had nothing to prove.

I greeted him, “Long time no see…”

My voice sounded steadier than I felt. The small talk was awkward, interrupted by someone’s phone ringing the theme song from an old Shah Rukh Khan film.

Before I could finish, a Mercedes pulled up. A glamorous woman stepped out of the passenger seat, dressed in a designer suit, looking younger than the rest of us.

All eyes turned. Her shoes alone probably cost more than my monthly rent. She moved with the confidence of someone who belonged everywhere she went.

It took me a moment to recognise her—Rohan’s wife, Sneha. She was four or five years younger than us, her skin flawless, even her toenails perfectly manicured, a Chanel bag on her arm.

Her laugh tinkled as she greeted the group, tossing her hair just so. For a second, I was back in college, worrying about split ends and last-minute assignments.

“Rohan insisted I come, but I don’t know anyone here. So awkward,” she pouted.

Her accent was a strange mix of Pune and Instagram reels. Some classmates rushed to reassure her, eager to be in her orbit.

Someone quickly tried to smooth things over. “Just come a few more times, you’ll get to know everyone.”

A guy from our old gang piped up, "Arrey, Sneha, you’ll love the crowd—next time, bring Rohan’s golden retriever too!" Everyone laughed, eager to please.

Everyone gathered around her as they walked inside. The male classmate who’d greeted me didn’t look at me again.

I watched them go, feeling more invisible than ever. But I squared my shoulders, reminding myself I belonged here too.

After we sat down, the best seats were saved for Sneha and Rohan, who was still parking the car. I found a spot in the corner.

The AC was too strong in my corner, but at least I could observe without interruption. I sipped my Frooti quietly, phone in hand.

Before long, the conversation shifted to me.

I braced myself, used to being the topic of curiosity at such gatherings.

Sneha looked at me. “You’re Didi Neha?”

The way she said "Didi" was both respectful and slightly mocking, as if I’d crossed some invisible line.

Didi Neha?

I blinked, caught off guard. In my office, it was always "Ma’am Neha," crisp and impersonal. This "Didi" felt strangely intimate—and oddly distant.

I was stunned. Almost no one calls me that—usually it’s Ma’am Neha at work.

My cheeks burned. I managed a polite nod, eyes fixed on my glass.

“Rohan’s told me about you,” she said. “I’m here to apologise for him.”

She smiled, but her eyes were calculating, as if she was enjoying a private joke.

She said “sorry,” but her face showed no regret.

The word hung in the air, empty as a used teacup at the end of a long train journey.

“You were all too young back then, and he really didn’t know that girls like you can’t afford to waste time. You had nothing but youth to offer.”

Her words were like lemon squeezed on a fresh wound. A few classmates looked away, embarrassed, but nobody spoke up. I glanced at my own reflection in the water glass, searching for the girl I used to be, but finding someone stronger instead.

Her words were sharp, but no one stopped her. Everyone watched, some with pity, some with glee.

There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the clink of spoons on plates.

Sneha glanced at my bare ring finger and laughed. “Could it be you’re still not married?”

I looked down, twirling my ringless finger. She didn’t wait for my answer, already sure of her victory.

“Rohan’s company just hired a new guy, also in his thirties and single. He’s a bit short and balding, but a good person. I can introduce you if you’d like.”

Her matchmaking offer, wrapped in fake concern, landed like a slap. I bit back a retort, choosing silence over drama.

Just then, Rohan walked in. Maybe work wasn’t too stressful—at thirty-three, he still had a youthful vibe. He wore a branded jacket, carried a black LV bag, as sharp as those influencers you see on Instagram.

He looked almost exactly as he did years ago, only a little more polished. I wondered if he ever thought of the old us.

He spotted me right away. His gaze paused for a second, then quickly shifted away.

Our eyes met briefly. His expression flickered—recognition, then discomfort. He pretended to adjust his watch, as if he hadn’t noticed me at all.

He sat beside Sneha, affectionately pinched her cheek, and said, “Arrey, don’t talk nonsense. That colleague already has a girlfriend.”

His voice was softer now, gentle, as if making up for old mistakes with his new life.

Sneha pouted, “Oh, what a shame.”

She fake-pouted, then flashed another dazzling smile for the cameras.

Watching Rohan dote on Sneha, I felt a little dazed. Memories I’d buried for years flashed before my eyes. In the early years, Rohan liked to hold me like that—never wanting to let go.

For a heartbeat, I was back in college—his arm around me, his jokes, our silly dreams. Then the memory faded, leaving only a dull ache.

Listening to their chatter, it seemed they’d had a good life these years—travelling together, raising a golden retriever.

Their stories—honeymoon in Greece, puppy mischief, Sunday brunches—felt like the script of an ad for the perfect urban marriage.

Back in college, my roommate once said, after hearing how I met Rohan, “He’s so chivalrous—he’ll definitely make a good husband.” I’d looked forward to the future, never realising he never wanted to be my husband at all.

I remembered that night, her words echoing in my ears as I fell asleep hugging my pillow, thinking the world was ours to shape.

Everyone praised Rohan for being young and successful—an HR manager at a big company, a real winner in life.

"Arrey, Rohan ka toh jawab nahi—look at him now!" someone gushed, as if his achievements belonged to all of us.

A female classmate interjected, “Speaking of winners, did you see the finance magazine cover last week? Aryan Mehra from Vistara Tech, only twenty-seven, already financially free. He’s going to ring the bell at the Bombay Stock Exchange for the company.”

The group leaned in, everyone eager to compare Rohan to this new star. Aryan Mehra—the name already legend in our alumni WhatsApp group.

She showed us a photo on her phone—a young man in a suit, sharp features, looking like a model. He was so handsome, everyone gasped.

There was collective envy, but also admiration. For a second, all eyes were glued to the screen.

If Rohan was the kind of classmate you’d envy for being born lucky, this guy was on another level—so far ahead, you couldn’t even feel jealous.

Some laughed, others sighed. The gap between them and us suddenly felt cosmic—what could anyone say?

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was Kunal messaging me:

His message popped up, his name flashing like a secret signal in the crowd.

[Reporting in, Boss—arrived in New York.]

He sent a photo from the airport, but most of the frame was taken up by his own figure. Despite the chilly weather, he’d already taken off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his collar. He looked even better than in the stern magazine photo.

I smiled quietly, remembering the countless nights we’d worked late, ordering vada pav and brainstorming on whiteboards, never imagining we’d come so far.

Suddenly, someone piped up, “Sneha’s so eager to introduce people, but hasn’t asked if Neha has a boyfriend?”

The question hung in the air. All eyes turned to me, some curious, others waiting for me to stumble.

Without thinking, I replied, “I’m married.”

The words slipped out, steady and calm, like a card finally played at the right moment.

The room fell silent. Rohan paused, midway through peeling prawns for Sneha.

Even the clatter of cutlery stopped. Sneha’s eyebrows shot up, and a few classmates exchanged surprised glances.

“Neha, don’t joke around. We’ve never heard you got married. So why isn’t your husband here today?”

Someone snickered, waiting for my answer, expecting me to fumble or blush.

I smiled. “He’s off ringing the bell at the Bombay Stock Exchange.”

I looked them in the eye, voice light, as if I’d just shared a private joke with the universe. The others fell silent, then slowly, laughter bubbled up—some genuine, some uneasy. For the first time in years, I felt the weight lift from my chest. In that moment, I belonged to myself. As the laughter faded, I caught my own reflection in the window—smiling, unburdened, ready for whatever came next.