Chapter 5: Proposals and Peeling Paint

That must’ve been the first time Arjun met the documentary guy. He instinctively shielded me, eyeing the man warily.

He had that North Indian protective instinct—standing a little ahead, as if ready to tell the man off. In Mumbai, you learn quickly who means trouble.

I quickly explained the situation.

After listening, he helplessly pinched my cheek, smiling.

"How many times have I told you—not to be so trusting with strangers? Wasn’t losing seven hundred rupees to that old aunty enough?"

I grinned, playfully begging for mercy, promising it wouldn’t happen again.

He rolled his eyes, but there was real warmth in his touch—a silent promise that whatever happened, we were in it together.

The man stood quietly by, filming. Finally, he couldn’t hold it in and cleared his throat. The camera shook with the movement.

Once Arjun showed up, the man acted like a real director, making us stand together for an interview.

The first few questions were harmless—about the future, work, the industry. Arjun and I answered perfunctorily, skirting the real issues.

Until suddenly, the man looked at Arjun and made a strange comment:

"Really handsome."

While I was still confused, he turned to me and suddenly asked:

"With such a good-looking boyfriend, Miss Ritu, aren’t you worried about the temptations in the industry? Are you sure he’ll always love you?"

The question was pointed and blunt.

I was stunned for a second, then, as if hearing a joke, grabbed Arjun’s arm, my eyes curving with confident laughter.

"Not worried at all. I’m sure Arjun will love me forever."

I looked at Arjun, coughed dramatically, raised my chin, and held out my hand.

"Come on, future movie star Arjun—someone’s doubting your love. Shouldn’t you prove him wrong?"

Arjun was used to my occasional theatrics. He gazed at me with gentle eyes, full of affection.

He bent forward, almost shy, and slipped a silver ring onto my finger, his thumb brushing my knuckles the way he always did when he was nervous.

In that tiny room with peeling paint, it felt grander than a five-star proposal. I heard the distant honk of a rickshaw, the whistle of a pressure cooker—real Mumbai blessings.

"That’s right. Arjun will love Ritu for a lifetime."

"So, Miss Ritu, will you marry me?"

I covered my mouth in disbelief, glancing at the man behind the camera, who just smiled like he’d expected this all along.

Only then did I realise this was their pre-arranged surprise.

Overwhelmed, I bit my lip, eyes instantly reddening, and choked out, "I will—"

I closed the video and went to wash up.

The tap coughed, spitting rusty water for a moment—like the city itself, never letting you forget its scars.

When I checked the comments again, the mood had shifted—two camps were now locked in a fierce argument.

[Who are these people shipping them? Arjun is doing great with Meera now, and you’re here shipping him with his ex? Are you mad or what? The new couple doesn’t deserve this drama.]

[Ship, ship, ship! Where were you all when Ritu got dragged through the mud as his girlfriend? Now you’re here crying at the grave, acting like you care.]

[Am I the only one who remembers? Why are people calling for them to get back together? Did you forget Ritu was caught sneaking into some director’s bed? That breakup was a total mess—she was called every name in the book.]

[Finally someone said it—Ritu the bitch, stop buying trending topics. Don’t you know what you did? Stop trying to leech off our man; he’s happy with Meera now. If you need money or attention, go sell yourself—you’re good at that.]

As the debate got more heated, the documentary’s popularity kept climbing.

This was the first time I’d stayed at the top of the trending list for so long—longer than five years ago.

Just then, Meera posted on Instagram.

No caption, just a photo.

In the picture, she was smiling in Arjun’s arms, flashing the diamond ring on her finger at the camera.

After five years together, Arjun had proposed to her.

The ring sparkled almost obscenely, making my cheap silver band from a decade ago feel like a relic dug up from the ground. My phone buzzed again, this time with forwarded memes—‘True love wins’, ‘ArMeera forever’. I didn’t even open them.