Chapter 1: The Arrangement

At thirty-two, I was supporting a broke male college student.

Some people might call this a midlife crisis, but in Mumbai, it just means you have enough money and a bit of boredom. A distant train horn echoed, and the sticky scent of pav bhaji drifted from the next stall. The local gossip aunties would probably say, "Beta, men become fools after thirty," but I knew exactly what I was doing. The city’s muggy air pressed down as I watched the university gates, my sunglasses reflecting the neon mess of hoardings and chaiwalas on the footpath.

Passing by the university, I saw Arjun with a girl in his arms.

For a split second, the din of the autos, rickshaws, and vendors seemed to fade away. Arjun’s frame stood out against the crowd—shoulders tense, jaw set like a hero from an old Doordarshan drama. The girl by his side looked out of place, as if she belonged in a Bandra salon, not here. Something inside me twisted, but I kept my face blank, adjusting my dupatta as if it was just another dusty evening.

His eyes were red, full of grievance and barely concealed restraint. "Don’t think less of me just because I’m not clean, okay?"

It wasn’t just the redness. There was a rawness, a kind of wounded pride in the way he spoke. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, like a boy caught sneaking jalebis before dinner, but still refusing to bow down. I felt a familiar pang—half amusement, half annoyance.

A classic sugar baby arrangement, really.

It’s the sort of setup the society pages whisper about, but pretend not to see. There’s always someone younger, hungrier, who needs your money more than your affection. I leaned against the railing, watching as the evening crowd jostled past, some glancing at us, some pretending not to notice. India has its own rules for these things: everyone knows, but nobody says anything openly.

So how did it end up looking like I was the one who corrupted Arjun?

It’s strange, isn’t it? In all those WhatsApp forwards, women like me are always the villain, while the poor boy is innocent, corrupted by temptation. My phone buzzed with a family group forward: "Good girls don’t pay for love." I muted it and slid the phone away. If you listen to my chachi, she’d tell you this is how family honour gets destroyed. I almost laughed at the thought—me, the big bad wolf, and Arjun, the lost lamb.

He thinks he’s tainted, but honestly, plenty of people wouldn’t mind a bit of dirt.

Let’s be real, in a city where every hand is dirty from holding on to the next rung up, Arjun’s so-called shame is almost cute. I watched his fingers tremble, remembered his long WhatsApp rants about dignity, about not being a sellout, and thought: If only he knew how little all this matters to most people.

I exhaled a puff of smoke, turned my head to the fair-skinned student swaggering past in head-to-toe fake brands, and said:

"Ask him if he’s willing to call someone ‘Mummy.’"

The smoke curled around me, catching the light from a flickering streetlamp. The words came out with a dry chuckle—half a dare, half a warning. The students nearby snickered, but I just shrugged. Let them whisper. Let them guess. But tonight, only Arjun’s silence mattered.