The courtyard was quieter now, the initial commotion having ebbed away. Most of the neighbors had drifted back indoors, their whispers absorbed by the crumbling plaster of the chawl walls. The afternoon sun cut sharp angles through the open space, illuminating floating dust in the still air, making the silence feel watchful.
Neil stood a step closer than was polite, the space between them charged with unspoken tension.
Pranati registered the proximity immediately, a familiar knot of caution tightening in her stomach, but she held her ground, her expression giving nothing away.
He broke the silence first, his tone deceptively light, as if they were discussing the weather. "You know," he began, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips, "I was expecting that answer from you in there."
Pranati met his gaze, her own steady. "Which answer?"
"The refusal," he said, watching her closely. "You're not the type to be swayed by sudden proposals. You think. You analyze. You weigh the consequences." He said it like a compliment, but it felt like an assessment.
She offered no reply, her silence a wall.
Neil seemed to take it as an invitation to elaborate. He shifted his weight, his voice dropping to a more intimate, confiding register. "I want you to understand something, Pranati. I'm not the villain people make me out to be." A practiced pause. "I think… people often misunderstand my intentions."
As he spoke, he lifted his hand and placed it on her shoulder. The touch was light, possessive, an assumption of familiarity that sent a jolt of cold through her.
Pranati went perfectly still. Her eyes didn't dart; they slowly lowered to where his hand rested on the simple cotton of her kameez. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant cry of a street vendor.
Then, with deliberate calm, she raised her own hand. Her fingers closed not around his wrist, but around his hand, and she lifted it away from her shoulder, setting it back at his side. The motion was clean, unambiguous, and utterly devoid of drama.
Neil blinked, the rehearsed charm faltering for a second.
"I appreciate you clarifying your character," Pranati said, her voice low and even. "But please don't touch me."
He gave a short, uneasy laugh. "I was just trying to put you at ease. To connect."
"I don't need to be put at ease," she replied. "I need to be respected."
The words hung between them, stark and simple.
Neil exhaled slowly, visibly recalibrating his approach. His expression softened into one of earnest concern. "Look," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy, "I understand where you come from. I see this life." He gestured with a sweep of his hand at the cramped balconies and faded laundry lines. "The struggle, the limitations… it's written on every wall here."
Pranati remained silent, letting him lay out his pitch, her face a mask of polite attention.
"I can change that for you," he continued, leaning in slightly, his eyes bright with the promise he was selling. "No more sweating over a food truck. No more worrying about the next rupee. I can take you from this chawl to a life of ease. Not a palace, perhaps," he added with a self-deprecating chuckle, "but a world away from here."
He finished, waiting for the spark of longing, the flicker of temptation he was so used to seeing.
Pranati finally spoke. "Thank you for the offer," she said, her tone genuinely polite yet final. "It's generous. But I am content with my life."
Neil's brow furrowed, genuine confusion breaking through his polished facade. "Content? Here?"
"Yes," she affirmed, her voice quiet but resonant. "I have my work. My independence. My peace. They are things I've built for myself."
He shook his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips. "That's not contentment, Pranati. That's settling."
"No," she corrected him, the word gentle but firm. "It's a choice. And it's mine to make."
He opened his mouth, but she continued, her voice gaining a new, steely layer beneath its calm.
"And as for you not being a bad person… I can't speak for the world. But I can speak for what I've seen."
Neil's affable expression began to harden at the edges.
"My idea of a bad person," Pranati continued, her gaze locked on his, "is someone who would orchestrate a plan to sabotage his own sister's wedding."
"That's a misunderstanding—" he started, but she didn't let him finish.
"A plan," she pressed on, her words precise as surgical cuts, "designed to publicly humiliate her fiancé, to make him appear unfaithful on the eve of their marriage. And all because, years ago, that fiancé's sister had the audacity to reject your advances, and your pride couldn't bear it."
The courtyard air grew thick. The distant sounds of the chawl seemed to mute themselves.
Neil stared at her, his face a canvas of shifting emotions—shock, fury, and a dawning realization that the girl from the chawl saw right through him.
Pranati took a small, definitive step back, reclaiming the space between them.
"So, Mr. Motwani," she said, her final words falling softly but with the weight of stone, "you may believe you're not a bad person."
She held his gaze, unwavering, letting the truth settle.
"But from where I stand… you absolutely are."
She didn't wait for a retort, for an excuse, or for the anger she saw brewing in his eyes. She simply turned, her spine straight, her steps measured and sure on the cracked concrete, and walked toward the narrow staircase that led to her home.
She left him standing alone in the slanted sunlight, surrounded by the world he'd just offered to rescue her from, utterly dismantled not by a shout, but by a quiet, unassailable truth.