Chapter 4: Maggi and Masala Dreams

That night.

The street dogs were barking at the moon as the city slowly fell asleep. Kunal showed up at my bungalow.

Unexpectedly.

The security guard called to check before letting him in, and I could hear the sound of his Bajaj Pulsar idling at the gate. His medical report was spotless—not even a shadow on his scan.

Gone were the head-to-toe knockoffs; this time, he wore a simple white T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

It suited him better. There was something about the way he looked tonight—less pretense, more raw. The carefully styled hair from before now hung loose, half covering his eyes.

Secretary Meera must have told him to dress like Arjun.

I frowned, about to speak, when he stripped off his T-shirt without warning.

Just like that, as if he was in a Bigg Boss episode. Eight-pack abs, neat and tidy.

No idea if they were real or not.

He chuckled, "Madam, you don’t like me dressed like this?"

He looked almost boyish, scratching the back of his head. "I don’t really like it either."

As he spoke, he strolled over and touched my hand.

There was a boldness, a kind of filmi hero confidence. I froze for a second.

It felt like some Delhi boy with highlighted hair was getting handsy with me.

I almost laughed at the ridiculousness. Until he took the hair tie from my wrist, tying his half-long hair into a little ponytail—like a college senior getting ready for exams.

I let out a breath, relieved.

There was a sudden familiarity in that gesture—like watching my brother tie his shoelaces before leaving for tuition. Then I heard him say:

"Madam, are you hungry? I can make you Maggi."

The breath I’d just exhaled nearly caught in my throat.

Of all things, Maggi! The default meal of every Indian student and broke bachelor. The spicy masala steam curled up, making my mouth water even though I wasn’t hungry. He watched the maid walk out of the kitchen with the trash, a little disappointed: "Guess you’ve already eaten."

Catching the hint, I hesitated and asked:

"You haven’t eaten? Want some—"

Before I could finish, he said, "Thank you."

He even made up an excuse for himself: "Gotta eat well so I can serve you later."

Me: "..."

He proceeded to cook himself three bowls of Maggi and wolfed them down like he hadn’t eaten in days.

I watched him slurp the noodles, lips smacking, not caring one bit about etiquette. According to his background, it’s not like he can’t afford food.

I said, "There’s chicken curry in the fridge."

Kunal shook his head. "No need. Got to work before I get paid."

He winked, making it sound like a joke, but there was something honest in his refusal. I understood.

For a second, I actually felt kind of pleased with myself—once again sure I’d made the right choice.

A strange warmth crept in. I should pick someone who really wants this gig.

Half an hour later, I regretted it.

The scent of fresh shower gel lingered around me.

Kunal had borrowed my Dove body wash, singing a Kishore Kumar song in the bathroom. Any awkwardness quickly gave way to heat, leaving no time for second thoughts.

Kunal even remembered to provide some emotional value.

"Madam, you’re gorgeous. I really lucked out."

He said it with such sincerity, I almost believed him. "Madam, this feels amazing."

I felt like I’d hit rock bottom.

Like I’d just hired a long-term labourer from the village—like the ones who show up at the mandi before sunrise, waiting for work.

He even massaged my feet after, grinning like a boy who just got extra marks in board exams. Stayed low all the way till morning.

In despair, I asked, "Did you take something?"

My voice was hoarse, a little incredulous. "What?"

Kunal looked genuinely confused.

He blinked, scratching his head. "Yeah, yeah, took ten tablets, madam. Full energy, promise."

Sure you did.

He hadn’t taken anything. Just putting on a show of being extra attentive.

Finally, at two in the afternoon, I managed to get up, holding my aching back.

The sun was high, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. There was a meeting I couldn’t reschedule—even if I had to crawl to the office.

As I was getting dressed, I heard Kunal ask:

"Madam, can you get me into the entertainment industry?"

He said it almost shyly, but with that familiar glint of ambition—like every boy who comes to Mumbai with a suitcase and a dream. I paused, adjusting my earrings, and wondered if I was about to become yet another stepping stone for someone else’s Bollywood story.

He was already dreaming of the big screen. And me? I wasn’t sure if I was the producer or just another extra.