Chapter 6
The leather strap of her bag dug into Divya’s shoulder like a reminder.
Fourteen hours on her feet, running between set locations, makeup trailers, and production offices. Her glasses slipped down her nose for the hundredth time. She pushed them up.
Andheri West met her with its familiar evening chaos.
Honking rickshaws. Vendors shouting last prices. The smell of cumin and garlic hitting hot oil from open kitchen windows. A pressure cooker whistling somewhere above street level. News anchors arguing through thin walls.
It was loud. Comforting. Real.
Her building came into view. Shanti Niwas Cooperative Housing Society, seven stories of peeling paint and practical living. Not pretty, but solid.
The watchman straightened slightly when he saw her. “Late today, Divya didi.”
“Shoot went long.” The fewest words possible. Her energy had limits.
The ground floor aunties sat in their usual formation. Four women sat on the bench by the entrance, sharp eyes missing nothing. Their conversation stopped when they saw her. Standard procedure. They’d resume the moment she passed, adding her to whatever they were dissecting.
“How is the job going, beta?” Mrs. Deshmukh called out.
What she meant: Tell us everything about Vikram Khanna so we can discuss it for days.
“Fine, Aunty. Very busy.”
What Divya meant: Not now. Maybe not ever.
The stairs loomed. Three flights, no elevator today. Again. The “Out of Order” sign had become a permanent décor. Her calves protested each step.
First floor.
Second floor.
The building’s yellow lights flickered overhead.
Third floor finally.
Home.
The smell of frying onions hit her first. Then her mother, Asha’s voice: “Is that you, Divya? Wash your hands, food is almost ready.”
She slipped off her chappals at the door and stepped inside.
The warmth wrapped around her instantly.
Two and a half rooms that held her entire childhood.
Living room that doubled as her father’s domain.
Kitchen that was her mother’s kingdom. The tiny shared bathroom.
The space that had once been the dining area but now served as her “room”, just enough for a bed, desk, and shelf of books.
And her parents’ bedroom, the most private space in their modest territory.
Suresh Mathur, her father. His presence announced itself through rustling newspaper pages.
Only his hands were visible behind The Times of India.
His ritual hadn’t changed in the eleven years since his health forced early retirement from the bank.
The paper served as his window to a world that had moved on without him, and his shield from a home that sometimes felt too small.
Aditya sprawled across the sofa, engineering textbooks scattered around him. At twenty-one, he still studied the way he had in school, messy, dramatic, somehow effective. He’d come home from his hostel for the weekend specifically to interrogate his sister about her glamorous new job.
The moment she entered, his head snapped up. Textbook abandoned.
“Finally! I’ve been waiting for hours.” He jumped up as if she’d returned from war. “So? What was he like today?”
Divya dropped her bag on the small side table. Leather hit plastic with a tired thud. “Let me breathe first.”
“You’re breathing.” He trailed behind her toward the kitchen. “Just tell me one thing. Was he wearing that blue jacket from the Dazzle shoot? Siddharth swears it was edited to look that good.”
Her head pounded. The weight of the day pressed against her temples. She’d spent fourteen hours being efficient and alert.
Home was supposed to mean she could stop.
“Your sister is not a gossip column,” her father said without lowering the newspaper. “She’s there to work.”
The pages shifted as he turned to the business section. That sound had filled every evening of her childhood. Rustle. Fold. Adjust glasses. Repeat.
“But Baba, she works with Vikram Khanna,” Aditya argued. “She must have something interesting to say.”
“I don’t.” Divya moved toward the kitchen. “I manage his schedule. I’m not hanging out with him.”
She stepped into the narrow space.
Small enough that two people had to negotiate carefully. Steam rose from the stove. Her mother stirred dal with one hand and, without looking up, touched Divya’s forehead with the other.
“Long day?” her mother asked quietly.
“Hmm.”
“Wash your hands. Food is ready. I made lauki.”
Divya nodded. Lauki again. Her supposed favorite. She had never corrected that myth.
“Adi, bring the plates,” her mother called.
“But Maa…”
“The plates.”
Aditya shuffled in, muttering, squeezing past them to reach the cabinet. Their shoulders brushed in the tight space.
For a moment, Divya felt the contrast sharply.
Vanity vans bigger than this entire kitchen. Studio floors where voices echoed. Hotel conference rooms with polished marble.
And here were chipped tiles, steel utensils, a flickering tube light.
It should have felt small. Instead, it felt grounding.
“I saw the new song release,” Aditya said, unable to contain himself even while setting plates. “Did you get to watch the shoot? Was it really filmed at that lake in Kashmir? Raj says it was just a set, but the water looks so real.”
“It was a set,” Divya answered, washing her hands in the small sink. “The ‘lake’ was about two feet deep. They added the mountains in post-production.”
“See! I knew it!” Aditya looked triumphant. “Wait till I tell...”
“After dinner,” their mother interrupted. “Let your sister eat in peace.”
“Beta, go to the table. I’ll bring the roti.” Her mother gestured with the spatula. “Suresh, newspaper down. Food is ready.”
The paper lowered reluctantly, revealing her father’s face, lined, tired, still handsome in a way old photographs confirmed had once turned heads. His eyes met Divya’s, asking questions his mouth wouldn’t form. Are you well? Are you safe? Is this job worth it?
She nodded slightly. Their usual wordless exchange.
He folded the newspaper, creasing it exactly as he had every night since his doctor told him stress would kill him if he didn’t retire early.
Eleven years of reading instead of working.
Eleven years of making his reduced pension stretch to cover a daughter’s college education and a son’s engineering books.
“Sit properly,” he said to Aditya, who was already half-sprawled in his chair. “Your sister has been standing all day while you’ve been lounging with books you barely open.”
Aditya straightened but couldn’t resist. “I studied for three hours. I’m just asking questions. My sister works with actual film stars and talks like she’s filing tax returns.”
“Because it’s a job,” Divya said, sitting at the small table pushed against the wall. She adjusted her chair so her knees wouldn’t hit the edge. “I’m there to work, not supply gossip to your hostel group.”
“But you must see things,” he insisted. “What about that director Madan? Is he really as dramatic as people say?”
Their father lowered his glass with a firm sound. “Enough. Your sister is building a career, not running a spy service.”
Silence settled quickly.
Her mother brought hot rotis to the table. The evening rhythm returned. Her father ate steadily. Aditya poked at his food, restless but quiet. Outside, televisions murmured through thin walls. A pressure cooker whistled. Somewhere, a child protested bedtime.
“Have more dal,” her mother said, adding another spoonful to Divya’s plate.
“Just one thing,” Aditya tried again, timing it between their father’s sips of water. “Is Vikram actually dating Riya Sharma? My friends swear they’re secretly engaged.”
Divya kept her tone neutral. “They’re professional colleagues. I manage schedules.”
“But you’re there every day. Don’t you notice how they behave?”
Their mother appeared with fresh rotis. “Stop interrogating her. Engineering doesn’t study itself.”
Aditya groaned but accepted the roti.
Their father finally looked up. “If Divya shared private matters about her workplace, she wouldn’t last there. Professionalism matters.”
That ended it.
Aditya muttered something about boring sister and returned to his plate.
Divya ate her food silently.
“Will you be free this weekend?” her mother asked gently. “I’ll make paneer.”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll know by Friday.”
Her mother nodded, already adjusting expectations.
When dinner ended, her mother began clearing plates. “Go rest. You look tired.”
Divya stood, but Aditya caught her wrist briefly.
“One honest answer,” he whispered. “Is he cool in real life? Or fake?”
Their father cleared his throat.
Aditya let go immediately. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”
Divya carried her plate to the sink. Through the small window, she could see the neighboring building close enough to touch. Laundry hung from railings. A television flickered in someone else’s living room.
This was her world. Not hotel ballrooms. Not private conference suites. Not headlines.
This.
She washed her plate, dried it, and placed it back in its exact spot on the shelf.
Order restored.
Later, Divya heard her parents clearly through the thin walls.
“She’s exhausting herself,” her mother said in a lowered voice that still carried. “Did you see her face? Those dark circles?”
“What do you expect her to do?” her father replied. “This internship matters.”
“I know it matters.” A cupboard shut, sharper than usual. “But those film sets… such long hours. And what kind of atmosphere is she in all day? Actors, late nights, people with no routine.”
A pause.
“She has sense,” her father said, quieter now. “She won’t lose it.”
Their bedroom door clicked shut.
Divya stared at her closed laptop, understanding the fear beneath their words. Not that she would fail. That she would change. That she would wake up one day wanting a life that didn’t fit inside Shanti Niwas.
She pressed the power button. For a few seconds, the screen remained black, and her reflection stared back.
Wire-rimmed glasses. Same style since sixth standard, chosen for durability not fashion. Behind them, tired eyes. No concealer. No enhancement. Her hair in a plain braid.
She knew what she looked like. The sensible one. The scholarship student. Not the kind people turned to look at twice.
The laptop lit up, replacing her reflection with her thesis: “Media Representation and Cultural Identity: Analyzing Shifting Paradigms in Contemporary Indian Cinema.”
The irony wasn’t lost on her. Dissecting the very industry that reminded her daily where she stood. But maybe that distance sharpened her vision. She was writing about class and identity while living the gap between temporary access and ownership.
She thought of that morning’s makeup artist, sharp bob, perfect brows, leaning into Vikram’s space with ease.
Even the junior production assistants seemed to fit. Their messy hair looked intentional. Their casual clothes somehow coordinated.
They moved through that world like natives. Divya moved through it like someone who had memorized enough phrases to survive but would never be mistaken for belonging.
She didn’t resent them. She simply saw the gap.
Her glasses slid down. She pushed them back up, refocusing on the document.
The cursor blinked. She began typing.
On paper, she was confident. Divya Mathur. First rank. Debate society president. Scholarship student. The smart one who would rise through competence.
Outside, Andheri hummed. A neighbor argued about parking. Children shouted in their game. No insulation. No curated silence. Nothing like Vikram’s vanity van where sound could be switched off like a light.
She typed steadily, examining how cinema portrayed class and identity.
Her phone buzzed near midnight, lighting up her small corner.
She picked it up without thinking.
Vikram: Schedule change tmrw. Need to move first meeting to 7 not 8. Press showing up early. Can you coordinate?
Her fingers responded automatically: Okay, Boss. Will handle it.
The message delivered. Read. No reply. Transaction complete.
She stared at the screen. His name felt out of place here, between chipped paint and a too-thin curtain that let in streetlight and sound.
Why did a schedule update feel personal? It wasn’t. It was logistics.
Her phone buzzed again.
Vikram: Thanks. Car at 6 then.
She stared at the word. Thanks. He didn’t need to say it. He usually didn’t.
“Stop it,” she whispered, placing the phone down harder than necessary. “It’s just a text.”
But now she was aware, too aware, that somewhere across the city, Vikram was awake too.
And tomorrow at seven, she would be there with him. Again.
She saved her thesis and closed the laptop.
Soon she would return fully to her own world. Clear boundaries. No one whose name made her heart skip at midnight.
She changed into her old cotton nightgown and switched off the lamp. Streetlight filtered through the curtain, pale and uneven.
She lay down on the narrow bed.
Her last thought wasn’t about the meeting moved to seven. It was about last week, when she had solved something complicated and he had looked at her differently for a second.
“You’re really good at this, Divya.”
His voice had been quieter. Warmer.
She had filed that moment away as she filed everything else. A professional compliment. Nothing more.
But lying in the dark, she let herself remember it one more time before sleep claimed her.
Just once.
Then she’d forget again tomorrow.