Chapter 2: New Faces and Old Gold

After I got home, I called Rohan a few more times, but still couldn’t get through. His phone just rang and rang. I started to worry—had something happened to him? Or was he just avoiding everyone?

Gradually, I stopped thinking about the company. Time has a way of dulling even the biggest shocks. The city around me started preparing for Diwali—shops selling crackers, mithai boxes piling up, and the air filled with that sweet, smoky scent of the festival. I put the gold in a box and locked it in a drawer—not my bank locker, just an old metal box with my childhood cricket medals and some useless receipts. I wrapped the gold in a piece of newspaper, just to be safe.

I didn’t tell anyone, and since I still had plenty of money, I wasn’t in any rush to sell it. I figured, chhodo yaar, let’s see what happens after Diwali. Maybe by then, things would be normal again.

With Diwali coming up, I decided to wait until after the festival to look for a new job, and just chilled at home. My mother nagged me to help with the house cleaning, and I spent lazy afternoons watching old Shah Rukh movies with my dad. Every evening, someone would set off a few crackers, and kids would run around shouting, “Phatake leke aa!”

But after a few days, I started feeling something was off. It began as a nagging unease—like someone had left the gas on or forgotten to lock the gate. I’d check all the doors twice at night, for no reason.

I kept getting the sense that someone was watching me. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I’d wake up to the sound of footsteps outside, but when I peeped out, the lane was empty except for the glowing eyes of a stray cat.

My hometown is a small district, and since the Diwali travel rush hadn’t started, there weren’t many people around. The streets felt emptier than usual—shops shut early, and only the old streetlight flickered at the chowk. I knew almost everyone in the colony by face, but lately, I’d spot unfamiliar figures loitering at the paan shop.

So whenever I went out, especially onto the street, the feeling got even stronger. On some days, even the sabziwala looked at me a little too long, as if he knew something I didn’t. My nerves were stretched thin.

One day, I went downstairs to buy coffee, and that creepy feeling of being watched came back. As I reached the kirana store, I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. It was mid-afternoon, hardly anyone around, but I could swear someone’s eyes were boring into me.

I’ve always had sharp instincts. From the moment I left home, it felt like someone’s eyes were glued to my back. Maybe it’s the years of living in PGs, always alert to thieves and nosy landlords. Still, this was something else—something colder.

So I deliberately circled the street twice, but the feeling never left. I even ducked into the temple lane and doubled back. Still, the sensation only got stronger. A chill ran down my spine despite the warm sun.

Back at the coffee shop, I suddenly turned around—and finally spotted the person watching me.

She was standing under the neem tree, one hand fiddling with her phone, but her gaze never left me. My heart skipped a beat.

To my surprise, it was actually a beautiful girl. I’d seen pretty girls in movies, but this one was straight out of a Lakme ad. Even the uncle selling chai stared at her with open admiration.

She was tall, with long, straight legs, and even under her winter coat, her killer figure was obvious. Her shoes were spotless white—definitely not local brands. She moved with the confidence of someone used to big city malls, not our sleepy streets. Long, curly hair, trendy clothes—she was definitely a city girl. There was a whiff of expensive perfume as she walked closer, the kind you’d never find in our local stores.

Her face looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. I tried to recall—had I seen her at some office party? Was she a friend’s cousin? I stared, debating whether to go over and ask. For a second, I wondered if she was lost. Then I checked my own hair in the glass door, just to be sure I looked presentable.

Just then, the girl walked straight up to me. She didn’t hesitate, her steps firm. I could hear the clack of her heels even over the distant shouts of street kids.

“Excuse me, are you Kabir from the project company’s marketing department?”

Her voice was soft, but there was a sharpness to it, as if she already knew the answer.

I was stunned. “Uh, and you are…?” I stammered, suddenly conscious of the dust on my shirt. Had I forgotten her birthday or something?

“Arrey, sach mein tum ho! Pata nahi tha, do gali tak follow kiya.”

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way girls do in every college canteen. She smiled, but there was something teasing in her eyes. A couple of old aunties walked past, giving us curious looks. I felt oddly exposed.

I was even more confused. “You know me?” I tried to laugh it off, but my voice came out shaky. Why would someone like her follow someone like me?

“I’m Priya, from property management. Don’t you remember?” She pouted dramatically, and I finally recalled—I’d seen her before.

I suddenly remembered her standing at the registration desk during project launches, directing customers with a crisp efficiency. She always wore a smile, but never made small talk. She worked directly for headquarters and would come help out during project sales. She’d always arrived in a white company car, laptop bag slung over her shoulder. The sales guys said she was a rising star, destined for bigger things.

Since our development pace was slow, we’d only met a couple of times, so we’d never really talked. Her visits were rare—just a day or two at a time. I’d always been too busy to do more than wave hello.

I quickly apologised, feeling embarrassed, and bought her a coffee. "Sorry, yaar, memory thoda weak ho gaya hai after all this stress," I joked, hoping to lighten the mood. She laughed, and I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I ordered two strong filter coffees, and we settled into a corner table, away from prying eyes.

Once the misunderstanding was cleared up, I relaxed a lot. She smiled easily, chatting about little things—the traffic, the cost of groceries, her childhood in our city. She had a way of making even the dullest topics sound interesting. And honestly, sitting across from such a stunner, I couldn’t help feeling a little excited.

My phone buzzed with a WhatsApp notification, but I ignored it. For once, the world could wait.

We chatted, and I learnt she was also a local, living not far from me. She told me stories of cycling down these same lanes, her old school just a few streets away. For a second, it felt like we’d grown up together. But earlier, she only came home for Diwali, when everyone was busy, so we’d never run into each other.

Her parents had moved to Mumbai, but every year, she’d come back to help with the puja and distribute sweets in the neighbourhood. Still, our paths had never really crossed.

At this point, I remembered something and asked why she’d come back so early this year—shouldn’t the company still be working? I realised my question was nosy, but the curiosity got the better of me. She didn’t seem to mind.

“I got laid off,” Priya replied, super calm. She said it as if she was telling me the weather. No drama, just facts.

“Didn’t your project have some incident? The whole company’s shut down now. For people like me, there’s no reason to keep us.” She shrugged, as if layoffs were just another part of life. I admired her poise. Most people would be moaning or blaming someone else.

I was surprised. I didn’t expect our project’s mess to have such a wide impact. I blinked, thinking, “Accha, toh yeh baat hai.” Maybe I wasn’t the only unlucky one after all.

I gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that, but it’s not my fault, I swear.” She rolled her eyes, then grinned, her mood light. “Don’t worry, I know you’re innocent. The big shots always decide these things, not us.” She covered her mouth and laughed, then asked,

“So what really happened at your project? The notice just vaguely said ‘engineering accident.’ Do you know what really went down?”

Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. I felt my pulse quicken, remembering the NDA and the weight of that gold chunk in my drawer.

“Oh, just some rumours…”

I hesitated, torn between wanting to impress her and wanting to stay out of trouble. She leaned in, waiting. I was about to spill more, but looking at her big, blinking eyes, I suddenly remembered: We’d signed a non-disclosure agreement—if we blabbed, we’d have to pay back triple the severance. The penalty clause flashed before my eyes—triple the money, and I’d be broke for life. My dad would never forgive me. And the gold? No way I could mention that. Not to her, not to anyone. You never know how news travels in small towns.

Even though I wouldn’t report myself, it was safer to keep quiet in public. My dad always said, “Zubaan sambhal ke, beta.” I followed his advice now.

“Who knows what really happened? We never went to the site. Maybe they just used the bad market as an excuse to fire us all.” I tried to sound casual, even bored. Priya didn’t seem convinced, but let it go.

I brushed it off, and Priya blinked. She sipped her coffee, then smiled. “Chalo, leave it. Who wants to talk about work during Diwali anyway?”

“No one at your project knows?” She looked at me sideways. For a second, I thought she’d seen right through me.

“I don’t, anyway. Let’s not talk about it—it’s almost Diwali, layoffs are a buzzkill.” She agreed, “Sabka time kharab chal raha hai. Let’s just enjoy the holiday.”

Priya laughed and didn’t press further. She told me a silly story about her school principal and a missing tiffin, and soon, we were both laughing.

We chatted a bit more, then she said she had something to do, so we said our goodbyes. She stood up, brushing an imaginary speck from her kurta, and promised to meet again soon. For the first time in days, I felt hopeful.

Before leaving, we added each other on WhatsApp and promised to hang out next time. We exchanged numbers, and her contact popped up with a selfie and a string of heart emojis. I grinned like an idiot.

She glanced back at me before leaving, her eyes full of meaning, making my heart pound. Aunty at the cash counter noticed and gave me a knowing smile. “Beta, acchi ladki hai,” she whispered as Priya left. I nodded, cheeks burning.

Maybe my bad luck was finally turning around. I hoped, with everything in me, that things were finally going my way. I even said a silent prayer to Lakshmi Maa.

In the days that followed, Priya and I went from casual chatting to something much hotter. Our WhatsApp chats turned into late-night calls, then coffee dates, then walks by the river. We even swapped silly memes, inside jokes, and one evening she called me “kabootar”—my old school nickname.

Life in a small town is pretty dull, but with Priya around, everything changed. Suddenly, I had someone to complain to, someone to share my dreams with. Even my old friends started teasing me: “Arrey, Kabir ka toh scene set hai!”

With over half a month until Diwali, we met up almost every day, and things heated up fast. We went to watch a horrible movie, ate too many samosas, and even tried our luck at the local funfair. With Priya, even the ordinary felt special.

We even agreed to find jobs in the same city after the festival—it was almost time to make it official. We started planning—“Should we try Mumbai or Bangalore?” Priya said she wanted to stay close to family, I said I’d go wherever she went. Cheesy, but true.

That’s when my childhood buddy Amit came back. He’d been working in Hyderabad for years, but every Diwali, he came home, loaded with stories and sweets. This year, I had something to show off too.

His first day home, he called me out for late-night snacks. “Bhai, Chinese khana khayega? Chalo, jaldi aaja!” Amit never took no for an answer.

I figured I’d use the chance to show off, so I invited Priya too. My heart thudded. What if she said no? But she replied with a laughing emoji and “Done!”

Luckily, she said yes. I did a little dance in my room. Even my mother noticed, “Aaj toh mood mein lag rahe ho, Kabir!”