Chapter 4: Riya Sharma, Samosas, and Status

A cool, poised female voice broke my thoughts.

“Sorry, I’m late.”

“I’m Riya Sharma.”

She stood before me in a crisp white pantsuit, her hair smooth as silk, features gentle, apology sincere. A gold bracelet glinted as she tucked her hair behind her ear. The way she carried herself, I knew she’d never been crushed in a Metro crowd or haggled with sabziwalas at the colony gate.

Riya slid a delicately wrapped perfume box from her designer bag—its brand tag peeking out—and handed it to me.

“A small gift. Thank you for waiting.”

The ribbon was so perfect, I almost didn’t want to untie it. I glanced at the label—ten thousand rupees for 30ml. My simple kolhapuris and plain kurta suddenly felt shabby next to her manicured nails and that bag. The contrast stung, sharp and unmissable.

I was about to refuse when Riya’s best friend breezed in.

“Arjun already left. He left a message: the wedding budget is thirty lakh, and it’s fine if you go a little over.”

“He said do whatever you like.”

“He doesn’t even have time to meet the wedding planner with you—how much can he possibly love you?”

Riya pressed the perfume into my hand, voice casual but eyes distant.

“Love or not, it’s just a family alliance.”

She smiled, a little sad, a little amused, as if she’d already accepted the deal. “I don’t care what he does before marriage, as long as he settles down after.”

“Even if he cheats after marriage, I’ll order a round of jalebis to celebrate.”

“All I’d lose is a rotten kheera, but the Arora family will owe me at least thirty percent profit. It’s a good deal.”

I hesitated, the truth burning on my tongue, but swallowed it back.

Is this what rich people’s lives are?

I suddenly felt my kurta too plain, my shoes too worn. Love meant nothing—interests were everything.

Riya called the waiter and ordered some light snacks and mithai, finally turning her attention to me.

“Priya, right? I’ve seen your work—bahut inspired hai.”

“That’s the style I like.”

She handed over a document with her wedding requirements. The Taj Palace, booked entirely for the day. Banquet: Rs 25,000 per table, 50 tables. Theme: white lilies.

My head spun at the scale. I skimmed the list, then offered gently, “If we set up a week in advance, the hotel will charge extra. Three days is enough—I can manage.”

“From a cost perspective…”

Riya’s lips curled in amusement, as if watching a child bargain for extra barfi. I realised—‘cost-effective’ isn’t in their vocabulary.

I corrected myself quickly. “That was a slip—let’s set up a week in advance.”

The waiter brought over steaming samosas and syrupy rasgullas. I instinctively shifted my bag to make space, but Riya nudged the plate toward me.

“Kha lo.”

I looked up, surprised.

Riya lifted her chin, telling me not to be shy.

“You look pale. Low blood sugar? Eat something first.”

The spicy, sweet aroma filled the air, grounding me for a moment in the present.