Chapter 4: The Old Days, Mumbai Style

Back when Arjun was struggling in Mumbai, I worked three jobs a day.

Our flat was a single room in Andheri East, the window stuck shut from the last monsoon. The only breeze came from a broken table fan and the whistle of the pressure cooker from a neighbour’s kitchen.

I’d get up at 3:30, help at a poha stall by 4:00, finish the first shift by 10:30 in the morning.

Sometimes, the stall uncle would slip me an extra jalebi, saying, “Beta, eat. You’ll faint with this hard work!” I always accepted, thinking of Arjun’s favourite breakfast—the one I could only afford on festival days.

I’d go home for an hour’s nap, then at noon put on a mascot suit and hand out flyers.

Handing out flyers in the summer was torture. The suit was stuffy and hot, and I had to watch out for mischievous kids who’d kick me for fun.

Sometimes, I’d curse the Mumbai sun and that cursed mascot head, but the moment I saw Arjun’s text—‘audition went well, will come late’—my heart did a little dance.

After two hours, I’d be drenched in sweat, as if I’d been dunked in water.

Even the sweat tasted of salt and something like hope, or maybe just desperation. I’d sometimes peel off the mascot head, catch my breath, and laugh at myself for what my mother would have said: "Beta, what are you doing in that Bandar suit?"

At 2:30 in the afternoon, I’d head to a chai shop for my third job.

It was a bit far from our rented apartment, so I’d usually shower at a nearby gym first. Fifty rupees a visit, and after getting to know the owner, I could shower for a month for a thousand rupees.

That gym, with its rusty dumbbells and mildew smell, was my only luxury. In those five stolen minutes under cold water, I almost felt human again.

I got off work at 10:00 pm. After an hour’s break and meal, I’d stay behind to clean up for another half hour.

Around 11:00, I’d pick up Arjun after his acting gigs and bring him home.

A whole day of non-stop work wore me out completely.

My feet would ache, my back would scream. Yet every night, as I walked past the paan shop and saw Arjun’s silhouette waiting, all that pain seemed to melt away.

The documentary guy tried following me twice but couldn’t keep up—he needed two days to recover, and only on the third try did he manage to film a full day.

He collapsed on the curb, gasping, "Arre, ladki, how do you manage all this? Thak nahi jaati kya?"

"Of course I’m tired."

But I had no choice.

Even with three jobs a day, plus Arjun’s meagre acting pay, we barely scraped by each month.

And most importantly—

In the video, I leaned against the wall, eyes closed, resting as the man rambled on.

The dark circles under my eyes nearly swallowed half my face, my whole body radiating exhaustion.

But the next second, as if I heard something, my eyes snapped open in surprise.

A sudden light banished all my fatigue. Like a flower blooming, I ran into Arjun’s arms.

—Because I loved Arjun. No matter how hard or tiring it was, it didn’t matter to me.

For him, I was willing to fight with my family, give up everything they’d arranged for me, and follow him to a strange city to struggle together.

Love makes people blind like that.

My mother would have called it junoon, my father, pagalpan. But to me, it was simply Arjun—his dreams, our dreams—worth every bit of sweat and every scolding I got from home.