Chapter 1: Spiteful Lovers and Second Chances

Rohan and I were a pair of spiteful lovers—shouting at each other over the rattle of the ceiling fan, hurling insults and slippers alike. In our Mumbai flat, the air always seemed thick with the smells of frying onions and city dust, our voices rising above the traffic outside.

If someone overheard us on the road, they’d probably mutter, “Yeh toh saara drama hai! Real-life Saas-Bahu serial!” But for us, this was serious business. In our building, aunty from 401 would peep from behind her half-closed door just to watch the tamasha. “Arrey, Priya beta, phir se jhagda? Bas karo, yaar,” she’d sigh, adjusting her dupatta and giving me the look only Mumbai aunties can give.

On our way to the family court, we hurled the nastiest words we could think of, cursing each other up and down as the auto swerved through potholes and the city’s chaos followed us.

The auto-wala who dropped us off at the gate shook his head, muttering as he wiped sweat from his brow, “Bhaiya-behen se zyada ladte hain yeh dono.” Nearby, a group of paan-chewing uncles paused their adda to watch, elbows resting on the rusted railing, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Our voices echoed up the courthouse steps, as loud as a fish market at closing time.

But when that oil tanker came barreling towards us on the Mumbai-Pune highway, Rohan suddenly yanked the steering wheel, using his own body to take the hit—just so I could live 0.01 seconds longer!

That moment stretched out like a slow-motion scene from a film. The world blurred; the sound of the horn, the screech of brakes, the city’s never-ending honking—everything got washed away in a single heartbeat. My hand flew up to shield my face, but Rohan was already there, shielding me with his whole body, as if some Bollywood hero had suddenly taken his place. What madness!

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the summer after my second year of junior college.

The sticky heat of May, the distant clang of the kulfi-wala’s bell, sunlight filtering through the mosquito net in my old room—everything was achingly familiar. The faint smell of sambhar from the neighbour’s kitchen made me blink in confusion. Hadn’t I just died?

And there was Rohan, holding a bouquet of flowers, asking me if I wanted to give it a shot!

He looked exactly like his old self—awkward, in a faded t-shirt, hair flopping over his forehead, clutching those flowers as if they were a lifeline. I almost burst out laughing. Past and present collided in the weirdest possible way.

A second later, his deadpan face lifted, shadowed and gloomy, the city’s yellow light falling across his features.

The boy I remembered—always quick to sulk, never quick to smile. Even the dimple on his right cheek, which only appeared when he was truly happy, was missing. For a moment, I wondered if this was some big cosmic prank. Typical!

The instant our eyes met, I knew—he’d come back too!

That recognition—half shock, half resignation—passed between us like a secret code. Our eyes said everything our mouths refused to: Not again, yaar!