RECOMMEND
I lay sprawled on the floor, rolling from one side to the other, a paintbrush clutched in my hand like a weapon I had no idea how to use. I dipped it into a random colour and dragged it across the white paper without any plan, without any skill. Just chaos. Just colours crashing into each other.
I am a terrible artist.
But this is what I do all day.
Every single day. He gets ready, leaves the house without a word, and returns only in the evening-or sometimes the night. Midnight, even. And I stay back, trapped inside his small nest, filling the silence with nonsense like this.
Today, while wandering around the house like a bored ghost, I stumbled upon a paint box. And just like that, I decided to become an artist.
A very bad one.
The paper stared back at me, unimpressed. Blotches of blue, yellow, and some unnamed shade of sadness spread across it, like my thoughts-messy, directionless. I tilted my head, trying to see meaning in it. Maybe this was modern art. Or maybe this was just boredom painted loud.
The house was too quiet. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that presses against your ears and reminds you that you are alone. The ticking clock. The ceiling fan whining. My own breath counting seconds I didn't know how to spend.
I dipped the brush again, this time in red. I slowed my hand, letting the colour bloom on the paper. It didn't look like sunshine. It looked tired.
I sighed and let my back hit the cold floor. Staring at the ceiling, I wondered when my life had shrunk into waiting, for one year to end.
Outside, the world was moving. Inside this house, time was just... sitting with me.
The sun burned like it had mistaken the earth for an enemy, pouring down light so fierce it shoved people away in waves of sweat. Even the air felt offended.
Inside, I dragged my paintbrush slowly across the paper. Red spilled over white - bold, restless, unapologetic. It looked like a wound blooming on silence.
Knock. Knock.
The sound snapped through the room.
I flinched.
Who was it?
He wouldn't come this early... would he?
Another knock. Sharper. Impatient.
Fear crawled over my skin like a tiny army of doubts. What if it was a thief? Or someone trying to sell insurance in this heat?
I tried to peer through the window, but I couldn't see his face.
Only his legs.
Definitely a man.
And men are dangerous.
What if he was a thief?
What if he was a rapist who came here knowing I was alone?
My imagination, being the overachiever it is, immediately began writing a thriller script.
I slowly turned my head toward the corner of the room.
There it was.
A cricket bat.
I hurried toward it, grabbed it like a warrior choosing her weapon, and marched back to the door. My heart thudded dramatically.
With one hand gripping the bat, I unlocked the door with the other - ready to smash first and apologize later.
The door creaked open.
I raised the bat high.
"HEY-!"
The shout exploded right in front of me.
The voice.
Familiar.
Annoyed.
I lowered the bat slowly, my courage evaporating like water on hot pavement.
Adithya stood there, staring at me with wide eyes - half shocked, half annoyed.
"What is wrong with you?!" he snapped, irritation dripping from every syllable. "Are you insane?"
I blinked at him.
Still holding the bat.
"Well," I muttered defensively, "you looked suspicious."
He ran a hand over his face, already exhausted, as if he had arrived to visit a friend but instead found himself auditioning for a survival show.
"And why," he continued, glaring at the bat, "were you about to break my skull?"
I shrugged.
"Safety first."
His jaw tightened.
"My head is not a practice pitch."
Silence stretched between us.
Then he glanced at the bat again.
"...Are you at least good at batting?"
I smirked sweetly.
"Do you want to find out?" I said , raising the bat near his head.
He clicked his tongue - sharp, irritated - and tried to step inside as if this was his house and I was merely decorative furniture.
Before he could cross the threshold, I stepped right in front of him.
He flinched.
Actually flinched.
That alone healed 30% of my ego.
He stepped back, glaring at me. "What the hell is your problem?"
I crossed my arms, the cricket bat still firmly in my hand like a very aggressive handbag.
I tilted my head. "My brother kicked you out of our hospital. And because of our oh-so-powerful influence, you can't get a job anywhere in this state."
I leaned slightly forward.
"So where," I narrowed my eyes, "are you going every single day?"
It wasn't concern or mockery.
It was genuine curiosity wrapped in attitude.
He looked at me for a long second. His jaw tightened, but his eyes didn't.
"Definitely not killing people like your brother," he replied coolly.
Ouch.
I rolled my eyes as if his words hadn't landed somewhere uncomfortable.
"Please," I scoffed. "Since you're a poor ass-"
I stopped for half a second.
-but arrogance won.
"Since you're broke, you obviously need money to survive. Food. Rent. Electricity. You know... basic human activities."
I tapped the bat lightly against the doorframe.
"And unless you've suddenly discovered hidden treasure, I'm just wondering how you're managing."
"For someone who lived in a big house," he continued, "you're surprisingly small-minded."
I scoffed, though my grip on the bat tightened.
"Oh please. Don't start your moral lecture."
He exhaled through his nose.
"I work," he said simply.
"Where?" I shot back immediately.
He looked at me - that frustrating, unreadable look.
"Somewhere that doesn't need your brother's approval."
Silence fell between us.
I tilted my chin up.
"Must be exhausting," I muttered. "Pretending to have dignity."
"No," he said softly. "What's exhausting is standing in front of you every day and pretending like I am not feeling disgusted."
My breath hitched for a fraction of a second.
Annoying man.
"If you do me a favour," I said casually, twirling the cricket bat like I was negotiating a business merger instead of someone's dignity, "I might help you get a job."
He looked at me instantly.
There it was.
The flicker.
I knew it. I was very sure he couldn't get hired in any hospital here. Not after my brother publicly threw him out like yesterday's trash. No hospital in the state would dare go against our family.
Which meant-
He must be working somewhere random. Somewhere beneath his qualifications. Somewhere that didn't even match his profession.
The thought gave me a strange, sharp satisfaction.
"I don't need any of your help," he said.
His eyes dropped to the floor for half a second.
I stepped closer, lowering the bat, my voice laced with arrogance.
"Oh please. Don't act proud now. Pride doesn't pay bills."
He clenched his jaw.
"I don't want your help," I said, each word sharp enough to cut. I looked straight into her eyes, anger rising like heat off burning asphalt.
Anyone else in my position would've taken it.
Swallowed their pride.
Bent a little.
But the idea of her helping me?
It felt worse than unemployment.
Worse than humiliation.
And the worst part? I knew she was right.
With her family's influence, I could walk back into a well-paying hospital job tomorrow. Clean coat. Respectable title. Stable income.
Instead-
I was working at my friend's café.
Wiping tables.
Making cappuccinos with foam hearts that people took pictures of but never noticed who made them.
I exhaled slowly.
How long could I keep this up?
"Think twice, Mr. Justice Saviour," she said, that wicked little smile playing on her lips.
I hated that smile.
Just as I opened my mouth to refuse again, my phone rang.
The screen lit up.
My chest tightened.
I stepped back from the woman standing in front of me - crude, arrogant, infuriating - and turned away, pressing the phone to my ear.
"Adithya," my sister's soft voice came through.
I hummed in response.
I didn't know how much longer I could keep lying to them. I had told my family I got hired at a private hospital in another part of the city. They were proud.
Too proud.
"Where are you?" she asked gently.
"Work," I replied.
The lie came too easily now.
"Oh... okay." She sounded relieved.
A pause.
"Why did you call?" I asked, already knowing it wouldn't be small talk.
Another pause.
Then, quieter-
"I need to pay my semester exam fees."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
Of course she did.
Of course it was today.
"How much?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady.
She told me the amount.
It wasn't small. Not café-salary small. My eyes drifted up unwillingly.
She was still there.
Leaning against the doorframe.
Watching.
Observing.
Judging.
I looked away quickly.
"I'll transfer it," I said to Aarushi.
"But-"
"I said I'll handle it."
Silence on the other end.
Then softly, "Okay...bye."
The call ended.
I lowered the phone slowly.
For a second, I just stood there.
The weight of responsibility pressing down harder than any insult she could throw.
I turned back around.
She was still watching me, arms crossed, curiosity dancing in her eyes.
Rent.
Groceries.
Fees.
Medicine for mom.
“What do you want from me?” I asked finally. My voice came out tired, not angry.
“Take me somewhere out,” she said casually. “I’m tired of sitting inside these four walls.”
That’s it?
Relief hit me before I could stop it. I had prepared myself for humiliation, for something that would shred whatever dignity I had left. This… this was almost ridiculous.
“And in return?” I asked, just to be sure.
“As I told you before,” she said, crossing her arms. “A job. I’ll recommend you.”
Recommend.
The word burned.
I never thought I’d stand here, considering an offer like this. Being recommended by this inhumane creature.
But reality didn’t care about pride.
Semester fees. Rent. Groceries. Amma’s medicines.
I forced my face to remain unreadable.
“You don’t look grateful,” she said with a faint smirk.
“I’m trying not to faint from the honour,” I replied dryly.
She rolled her eyes.
I exhaled slowly.
This was a simple deal.
One outing.
One recommendation.
That’s all.
So why did it feel like I had just signed something far more dangerous than an employment contract?