The ceiling fan in the Malad apartment didn't rotate; it struggled. It hummed a low, dying tune that matched the stifling heat of the room.
"I'm done, Rohan," Arjun said. His voice was hollow, stripped of the ambition that had brought them to Mumbai two years ago. "My father was right. This city isn't a dream; it's a meat grinder."
Arjun zipped his old duffel bag with a finality that sounded like a gunshot in the small room.
Rohan didn't look up from his laptop. His fingers continued to fly across the keys, polishing a marketing deck he had rewritten four times. "We have the Singh pitch on Monday, Arjun. Two years of eating dust and skipping meals, and we are finally at the door. You're going to walk away just as the handle is turning?"
"The handle has been turning for twenty-four months!" Arjun snapped, spinning around. "I'm twenty-six years old. I have no savings, a permanent cough from the city soot, and a mother who cries on every WhatsApp call because she thinks I'm starving. The truth is, I am starving, Rohan. Not for food, but for a life that makes sense."
Rohan stopped typing. He let his hands hover over the keyboard, his gaze fixed on a flickering cursor. "Then go. Go back to the village. Marry the girl your parents chose. Be safe. But don't look back at me when my name is on the billboards."
Arjun paused at the door, his shadow long and weary against the peeling wallpaper. "You think pride is a shield, Rohan. It's actually a cage. Good luck in your box."
The door slammed, vibrating the thin walls.
Rohan sat in the silence for exactly three minutes. Then, as if the apartment itself was giving up, the power flickered and died. The hum of the fan stopped. The heavy, humid air of the Mumbai monsoon rushed in. Driven by a sudden, jagged impulse to be anywhere but in this graveyard of a friendship, Rohan grabbed his laptop bag and walked out.
The Deluge- The storm didn't start with a warning; it started with an explosion. Within two blocks, Rohan's formal shoes were waterlogged, squelching with every step. The rain was a thick, grey curtain that turned the streetlights into blurry smudges.
He was a marketing executive, yet he couldn't market his way into a single taxi. Every hotel he passed had a glowing red sign that felt like a personal insult: NO VACANCY. Finally, he saw the Hotel Crestwood. It was a fortress of glass and marble, a place for people whose credit cards never saw a "declined" message.
"I need a room," Rohan said, his voice raspy. He stood in the middle of the pristine lobby, a dark puddle forming around his feet.
The receptionist looked at Rohan's frayed bag and soaked clothes with practiced hesitation. "We only have the Executive Suite left, sir. A last-minute cancellation because of the airport closure. It is quite expensive."
Rohan thought of his bank balance—the emergency fund he'd scraped together over six months. He thought of Arjun's parting words. He thought of the dark, empty apartment.
"I'll take it," Rohan said, sliding his card across the marble counter. "For one night."
Room 609 -The suite was a sanctuary of sandalwood and beige silk. Rohan dropped his bag and stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. The city below was drowning, but up here, he felt untouchable. He stripped off his soaked blazer, the air conditioning biting into his damp shirt.
The electronic lock clicked.
Rohan spun around, his heart jumping. A woman stood in the doorway. She looked like she had walked through a hurricane to get to a gala. She wore a tailored white suit that was now translucent from the rain, and her hair hung in dark, wet ropes over her shoulders.
"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice wasn't scared; it was sharp, the tone of someone used to being obeyed.
"I'm the person who just paid for this room," Rohan countered, his pride flaring up. "The question is, who are you?"
"I am the woman who booked this suite two weeks ago," she said, stepping inside and kicking off her ruined heels. "My name is Ishita Rajawat. And I am not leaving."
Before Rohan could find a retort, the bedside phone chirped. The receptionist's voice sounded frantic through the speaker. "Sir, Ma'am, I am so sorry. The bypass has flooded and the lobby is full of stranded families. You have two queen beds. For tonight, the hotel is a lifeboat. Please, for the sake of the emergency... just stay on your sides."
The silence that followed was heavier than the thunder outside. Ishita walked toward the bed near the balcony. "I don't do small talk. And I don't do strangers."
"Perfect," Rohan muttered, turning toward the other bed. "I've had enough of both today."
The Blackout
For an hour, the only sound in Room 609 was the rhythmic lashing of rain against the reinforced glass. Rohan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying the fight with Arjun. He felt a strange mix of triumph and devastating loneliness.
Across the room, Ishita was a silhouette. She had changed into a dry hotel robe, her wet clothes draped neatly over a chair. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring out at the storm.
"You stare a lot," she said suddenly. Her voice was softer now, stripped of the corporate edge she'd used in the lobby.
"I don't," Rohan replied flatly.
"Sure. You just happened to aim your face in my direction for the last ten minutes."
"I was trying to guess whether you're the type who steals the blanket at night."
Ishita let out a short, dry laugh. "And I was trying to guess if you always sleep fully clothed in jeans and regret."
Rohan rolled his eyes and turned toward the wall. He wasn't in the mood for her commentary. But then, the universe decided to intervene again.