Chapter 2: Recalled Messages and Restaurant Recon

When she went on a business trip to Pune, she sent me a message—then immediately deleted it.

Just like that. Like when you accidentally send a WhatsApp forward to the wrong family group and recall it before your chachi starts grilling you. My sixth sense tingled right away; my heart thudded so loud I was sure even the watchman could hear. I shot a nervous glance at my mother’s closed door, suddenly conscious of my pacing in the tiny hallway.

I waited a few minutes on purpose before casually asking her what she’d recalled. She said she sent it by mistake.

But I’d seen it.

She wrote: "I don’t even know if it’s right to go out with him, just think of it as making up for old regrets."

My heart skipped a beat. I tried to video call her on the spot, but she hung up, claiming she was eating with colleagues and it wasn’t convenient.

The way she said it—voice a bit distracted, like she was scanning the menu for paneer tikka—made me imagine her in a noisy restaurant, plates clinking and laughter all around. But inside, I knew something was off. Call it gut feeling, call it classic Indian suspicion, but it was there.

I said I wanted to see what she was eating.

She sent a few food pics. The restaurant name was on the plate. I googled it—one of those famous joints trending on Zomato. The kind of place where influencers hover over their plates, and the waiter rolls his eyes if you ask for extra chutney.

I stared at my phone for a while, then opened up the errands app and placed an order, location set to that restaurant.

I wiped my palms on my shorts, half-expecting my mother to walk in and ask why I was acting so shifty. My hands were sweating as I typed, feeling like some discount detective from a Bollywood B-movie. Outside, the ceiling fan rattled, and from the next flat, I heard pooja bells—distant chants mixing with my paranoia.

I added the errand runner on WhatsApp and told him I was looking for someone—she was right there, could he sneak a photo or video for me?

I sent him two thousand rupees straight. The guy saw I wasn’t joking and agreed.

I quickly described my girlfriend to him, then waited. In those few minutes, I was torn—I wanted him to find her, but I also hoped he’d fail.

The errand runner sent a thumbs-up: "Don’t worry, bhaiya, I’ll manage." The kind of street-smart confidence only a true Mumbaikar has. Those minutes stretched like the last over of an IPL match. I paced around, pretending to search for my charger.

After three or four minutes, he sent a photo and asked if it was her.

My mouth went dry, thumb trembling as I zoomed in. There was no mistaking her smile. Even though I thought I was ready, I still went cold all over when I saw it.

She was eating alone with a man. No sign of the female colleagues she claimed to be with.

Then he sent a few more shots—blurry but clear enough for me to recognise the guy.

Her high school classmate.

For a second, it felt like someone had flipped the main light off in my room—just me, my buzzing phone, and the shadow of suspicion growing thicker.