Chapter 2: The Box Returned

When I saw the comments, I wasn’t surprised at all.

They scrolled through my mind like the local trains rumbling past, full of faces and stories and unsolicited advice. I almost smiled—Indians, after all, always have something to say. But I didn’t look back.

Nor did I bother to check if there was any trace of me in Arjun’s eyes.

[Why doesn’t the heroine look back? Please, just look back!]

[His eyes are red—he’s about to cry.]

Let them say what they want. I remained unmoved.

I even felt a bit relieved—thankfully, he hadn’t agreed yet.

Thank God, I thought, for the weight that slipped off my shoulders. I could already imagine my mother’s relieved sigh when she’d hear I’d finally stopped chasing after the boy. Thankfully, it was only the ninth confession.

But I never expected that someone as proud as Arjun would come looking for me himself.

He stood at the gate of my family’s bungalow in Pune.

The gate creaked as the security guard peeked out, clearly curious. A scooter sputtered past, its horn blaring, but Arjun didn’t flinch. Our bungalow—yellow walls, bougainvillea spilling over the compound, the faint aroma of sambhar wafting from the neighbour’s kitchen. His tall, cool figure under the blazing summer sun was impossible to ignore.

When he saw me, Arjun handed me the box in his hands.

"Yeh sab tumne mujhe diya tha na… I thought, maybe it’s time I return them."

The June weather was unbearably hot. Even just wearing a sleeveless kurti, I felt sticky all over.

My dupatta clung to my neck, and the ceiling fan inside offered no relief from the power cuts. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, so I just glanced at the box and took it from him. My fingers brushed his for a second—warm, familiar. I quickly pulled away, pretending to fix my dupatta.

His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something more.

At that moment, the comments exploded again.

[The heroine did it on purpose—what a little schemer, coming out in a sleeveless kurti!]

No way. Who would wrap themselves up at home?

In this heat? Please. My mother would throw chappal at me if I asked for a shawl. [The hero had to muster so much courage to come see her. She should be satisfied.]

[Isn’t it just a bit of a status gap now? In a few years, he’ll be the rising star of Mumbai.]

[By then, even the heroine’s family will have to rely on him, right?]

[……]

Yes, yes, yes—the comments are right about everything.

But that’s only because Arjun’s start-up capital came from me.

And my dad was the one who pointed out the investment direction.

Typical, isn’t it? Every hero’s meteoric rise has a silent patron, a family friend’s tip, a chaacha’s handshake. But the world only sees the winner at the finish line.