Chapter 1: The First Meeting

People ask about my first love. I tell them: her name was 25. Not a date—just a number, and the first woman who ever changed my life.

I never tried to persuade her to leave that world.

1

The year I graduated from college, I found myself working at a logistics company in Pune. One of my colleagues, Old Prakash—a true Pune ka chava—loved taking us out for karaoke nights. On one such evening, as we were belting out songs, a group of young women suddenly strolled in, lining up by the door, waiting for us to pick.

The karaoke joint was one of those faded, dimly lit places hidden in a lane behind the main market, where the aroma of fried samosas and incense mixed with the stale whiff of cheap air freshener. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, and the distant honking of rickshaws seeped through the closed windows. As the girls entered, their bright kurtis and clinking bangles looked out of place in the shadowy, air-conditioned gloom. Some giggled, some stared at their sandals, nervously adjusting their dupattas. It was a moment that felt at once unreal and embarrassingly familiar—a scene that would hardly surprise any Pune bachelor, but one that made my heart hammer in my chest.

I was stunned. At that point, I hadn’t even gone on a single date.

My mind whirled, thinking of all the times my mother scolded me for being too shy around girls. Now here I was, expected to pick one as casually as if I were choosing a pack of Parle-G biscuits. My ears felt hot, and I tried to look anywhere except at the women. I scratched at the label on my shirt, wishing I could disappear.

Old Prakash nudged me, so I pointed at random. A girl came over and sat next to me, but when I stayed silent, she just calmly started cracking open peanuts.

The soft click of peanut shells breaking filled the awkward silence between us. Her bangles jingled as she flicked shells into a steel plate. I caught the scent of coconut oil from her hair—familiar, oddly comforting. I fiddled with my glass, pretending to be engrossed in the condensation.

My palms were slick with sweat. Old Prakash patted my back and said to the girl, “This is the college graduate from our office. Sambhal ke rakhna isko.”

Old Prakash’s tone was part-joke, part-pride, as if he was showing off a rare find. The others at the table snickered. I tried to smile, but my mouth felt like sandpaper.

“Oh, college student?” The girl looked at me and smiled. “Wah, bada scholar lagta hai.”

Her voice had a teasing sing-song, the kind you hear on a crowded local when friends pull each other’s leg. Her Maharashtrian accent was crisp but warm. Her eyes lingered on me, and I suddenly felt like a frog in a science class.

“N-no, nothing like that.” I stumbled over my words. “Naam kya bolun?”

I barely heard my own voice, it was so soft. Old Prakash was shaking with silent laughter next to me.

She burst out laughing, bending over the table. “Arey, kya bol raha hai? Naam kya bolun? Bas, 25 bol de.”

Her laughter rang out, head thrown back as if I’d cracked the joke of the year. She wiped a tear, then looked at me, amused. “Baba, itna formal kyun ho raha hai? Koi sarkari madam nahi hoon main.”

I blushed at her teasing, lost for words. Old Prakash swooped in, wanting to drag me into a duet of ‘Ae Mere Watan Ke Logon’. I thought it was totally out of place for this kind of setting, so I quickly said I’d had too much beer and my head was pounding.

Unfazed, Old Prakash started anyway, belting out the lyrics—half of them wrong—his voice as loud as a rickshaw horn. The girls clapped out of sync, some rolling their eyes. I tried to join in, but stumbled over the words, and one of the girls giggled, making my cheeks burn even hotter. I glanced at the flickering wall-mounted TV, which was showing a muted cricket match, wishing I could melt into it.

“Want to do a quick trick?” 25 suddenly leaned in and whispered into my ear.

Her breath was warm, tinged with the smell of paan and peanuts. I stiffened, unsure if I’d heard her right.

“Kya hota hai quick trick?”

She said something, but the room was so noisy I missed it. Old Prakash was clutching a girl, singing with all his might. 25 pointed to the next room, and I got the message.

A waiter squeezed past, balancing a tray of Thums Up and masala papad. The room pulsed with off-key old film songs and the clatter of Ludo dice in a corner. 25’s eyes locked on mine, steady and challenging. The invitation hung between us, as heavy as the city air before the rains.

Someone couldn’t wait and was already pulling a girl into the next room—this kind of fast, off-the-books arrangement skipped the usual drama. They called it a “quick trick.”

The door banged shut, muffling giggles and hurried footsteps. A few girls exchanged glances, while the auntie at the counter pretended to be busy with her phone.

25 held up three fingers, waving them in front of me. The meaning was clear: one quick trick, three thousand rupees.

She winked, her nails chipped red, head cocked as if to say, “Bole toh?” Her hand hovered a moment before she grabbed another peanut. The offer felt both tempting and terrifying.

Back then, I was still on probation, earning just over ten thousand a month. Three thousand in one go was a big deal. To save face, I laughed it off: “Aaj rehne de, paisa nahi laya.”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked. Inside, I prayed she wouldn’t call my bluff. My heart thudded so loudly I thought everyone could hear.

“Who comes for masti without paisa, yaar?” She scoffed.

She raised her eyebrows, giving me a look straight out of Tulshibaug, like a vendor hearing a silly bargain. “Bhai, phone dead ho gaya toh? Auto ka paisa bhi nahi hai?”

“Arrey, kuch nahi hoga. Yeh Pune hai, safe hai. Din ka time hai.”

I gestured at the windows, even though it was evening and the world outside was anything but safe.

“Heh… College students know how to talk. Bata, tu virgin hai kya?” 25 laughed and mischievously patted me between the legs.

Her fingers brushed my jeans just enough to make me jump, my cheeks blazing. She grinned, enjoying my awkwardness. For a moment, her smile slipped, and I wondered if anyone ever teased her back.

“Arrey, woh zamana gaya. Kaun virgin rehta hai ab?” I crossed my legs, feeling embarrassed.

I forced a laugh, too loud, and bent down to pretend to tie my shoe. The table glanced over; they probably guessed what was happening.

“Drama mat kar. Main toh pehchan gayi thi jab andar aaya.” 25 tilted her head, meeting my eyes. “Chal, didi check kar leti hai. Is baar free mein, agla half price.”

She winked again, her voice playful but with a strange gentleness—like she wanted to rescue me from my own shame.