(Author's POV)
The morning sun creeps in through the cracked window blinds, casting faint lines of gold across the dusty floor. Priya groans softly as she sits up on her thin mattress, the soreness from yesterday's long train ride still clinging to her body. Her neck aches, and her back is stiff. As she glances around, she takes in the dull cream walls, the narrow window without a curtain, the rusty ceiling fan that makes more noise than wind.
This is Bangalore. And this is her first morning alone.
She kneels beside her large suitcase, still half-packed in the corner, and begins digging through the layers of kurtas, shawls, and neatly folded salwars. Near the bottom, tucked between her favorite pink kurta and a stack of underwear, her hand finds a small red cloth envelope. She opens it gently.
Inside, a bundle of ₹500 notes, crisp, carefully arranged. Her mother had slipped it into her hands the night she escaped. "Use it wisely, beta," ma had said, her voice trembling.
Priya presses the envelope to her chest. A tightness builds in her throat. She misses them both of them, even Papa, despite everything. Wiping her eyes quickly, she sets the money into her purse and stretches her limbs. The house needs cleaning.
She gets to work methodically. First, the floor, she sweeps out the thick layer of dust that coats the corners like a second skin. Then, she fills a bucket with water and mops the floor with a faded towel. The single shelf near the window is wiped clean, each tile in the bathroom scrubbed with her bare hands.
There is no gas, no stove, not even a proper water bottle. The kitchen slab stands empty, abandoned like a promise never fulfilled.
Still, cleaning helps. It gives her something to control. Something to make hers.
She takes a notepad from her suitcase and sits cross-legged on the floor, scribbling out a shopping list in neat, careful handwriting.
The list is long, but necessary. She dresses simply, a soft blue salwar with delicate prints at the edges,and ties her hair in a loose braid. Her face looks tired in the mirror, but her eyes carry determination.
At 9:30 AM, she steps out. The street outside is already awake. Vendors shout in Kannada, autos honk in a jumbled rhythm, and cycles whizz past dangerously close. The air smells of warm concrete, frying oil, and something faintly floral.
Priya pulls out her phone, opens Google Maps, and searches for a local market. The closest one is 1.7 kilometers away.
She starts walking. The journey is slow. The road is uneven, and she watches every step carefully, dodging potholes and speeding scooters. By the time she reaches the market, her feet are sore.
But the market is alive. Flower's, Fruits, vegetables, steel utensils, detergent packets, and slippers, everything is laid out in a colorful rows. The sounds crash around her, children crying, shopkeepers calling out prices, someone playing a Kannada song from an old speaker.
She stops in front of a small utensil stall run by an elderly woman in a printed cotton saree, her forehead glistening with sweat, a long silver plait swaying as she rearranges steel plates on a cloth-covered table.
Priya picks up a thali set, lightweight, plain design, perfect for now.
She smiles politely and asks, "How much for this?" The woman looks at her blankly.
Priya tries again, slower this time. "Price? Thali?"
The vendor frowns, shakes her head, and responds in quick Kannada, "ಇದು ಐವತ್ತು ರೂಪಾಯಿಗಳು." (This is fifty rupees)
Priya blinks. "Sorry...no Kannada ," she says nervously. "Hindi?"
The woman raises her eyebrows, looks around, then chuckles softly. "No Hindi," she says, shaking her head with a toothy grin.
Priya laughs awkwardly and pulls out her phone. She quickly opens her translation app and types "Price of this?" in English. The app converts it to Kannada and displays it on the screen.
The vendor leans in, squints, and reads it aloud with a grin. "Thali... da bele?" Then she takes out a small calculator, punches in the numbers, and shows Priya, 50.
"Fifty?" Priya confirms.
The lady nods cheerfully, "Yes, yes. Aivattu (Fifty). Good quality."
While showing it to Priya she said "spoon?"
Priya smiles, relieved. "One spoon, yes. Thank you."
The woman digs out a plain steel spoon, adds it in, and carefully wraps everything in newspaper. As she hands it over, she says gently, "First time?"
Priya hesitates, then nods.
The woman pats her arm kindly and speak in priya's phone on translator "ನೀವು ನಿಧಾನವಾಗಿ ಕನ್ನಡ ಕಲಿಯುವಿರಿ."[You will learn Kannada gradually.]
Priya nods again, surprised by the warmth. "Yes. Slowly."
As she walks away, her first thali set in hand, something in her chest feels a little lighter. Not just because of what she bought but because someone smiled at her.
After crossing two fruit stalls and nearly being run over by a delivery bike, Priya stops in front of a vegetable cart overflowing with tomatoes, onions, green chillies, and okra.
The vendor, a young man with a red towel draped over his shoulder, is busy arranging coriander.
Priya waits her turn, then points to the tomatoes. "How much for one kilo?"
The vendor gives her a once-over. "100 , madam."
₹100. For tomatoes?
She frowns. "One hundred? That's too much."
The vendor shrugs. "Fresh tomatoes, madam. Morning mandi. Very good."
She looks at the tomatoes. They are shiny. But still.
She shakes her head. "Seventy. Final." He scoffs. "Not possible.
"You go anywhere, same price. Tomato costly." She crosses her arms. "Eighty."
"Madam, tomato not onion. You want onion? Seventy-five. Tomato, hundred." He lifts one proudly. "See? No damage."
She raises an eyebrow. "Eighty-five and I'll take onions too."
The vendor looks at her, then her cloth bag, then sighs. "Okay, okay. Eighty-five. No less. But only for you. First-time customer."
Priya smiles triumphantly. "Thank you!"
As he starts weighing the vegetables, he adds in a few sprigs of coriander. "Free. Welcome to Bangalore, madam."
She blinks in surprise. "How do you know I'm new?"
He chuckles. "You bargain like North Indian."
Priya laughs softly, the tension melting from her shoulders. Maybe this city wasn't so scary after all. That becomes Priya's method, using the app, pointing, bargaining with hand gestures, smiling when they smile. By the end of it, her hands are weighed down with bags.
Her kurta clings to her back with sweat, and her shoulders ache. But there's a small satisfaction in this new rhythm.
She mutters under her breath, half laughing to herself, "Mission accomplished."
Priya steps out of the last shops, her arms weighed down by bulging plastic bags, groceries in one, utensils in the other, and a folded curtain awkwardly tucked under her arm.
Her fingers ache, her sandals feel like they're melting into the road, and her kurta is damp with sweat.
She pauses on the footpath, adjusting the straps and wiping her brow with the edge of her dupatta. The city feels hotter now than in the morning, and the air is filled with the scent of dust, exhaust, and something fried.
Her phone buzzes with a low battery warning, but she closes Google Maps and turns the screen off.
"Just one straight road. Then left. Then home," she whispers to herself like a pep talk, shifting her bags again and stepping forward.
As she walks, her eyes scan the street but then something catches her attention.
Across the wide road, standing proud like a glass palace, is a huge shopping mall. Not just big but massive. Larger than any she's ever seen, even in the newspapers.
It has clean, silver letters stretched across the top: Pacific Square Mall. Digital billboards flash advertisements, designer brands, movie trailers, some cosmetic cream.
A water fountain dances in front of the entrance, with children running around it and selfie sticks pointed everywhere. The glass doors slide open and closed, letting out bursts of cool air.
Priya slows down, lips slightly parted in awe. For a moment, she forgets the pain in her arms. So this is Bangalore.
She doesn't notice the figure walking toward her from the opposite side. A man, tall and dressed in semi-formals, holding a phone to his ear and looking over his shoulder at someone calling out behind him. He's walking fast. She's walking slow.
They collide.
Not hard, but enough to send her curtain slipping and one bag nearly falling.
"Oh—" the man says quickly, stepping back and catching her bag just in time.
Priya's heart jumps. Her breath catches. Her eyes shoot up, meeting his face for a second and she freezes.
A sharp jawline, light stubble, black hair a little messy from the wind. There's something about him, something confident, sharp, almost too polished for this street.
He stares back for a beat. Then blinks. "Are you okay?"
Priya immediately lowers her eyes, heart pounding. She nods quickly.
"Yes... I-I'm fine."
She wants to scold him Or at least say watch where you're going. But she doesn't. Not here. Not in this new place where she's still learning the rules.
Instead, she steps aside, adjusting her bags again. Her face is warm. Not from the sun this time but something else. The man gives a polite nod, hesitates for a moment like he's about to say something more, then walks off. She doesn't look back. But her heart beats a little louder now.
He adjusts the phone back to his ear, but the voice on the other end has become a distant murmur. For a moment, the noise of the street fades.
He slows his steps, glancing once over his shoulder. The girl he bumped into is already walking away, her bags swaying against her sides, her head down like she wants to disappear into the crowd.
Something about her tugs at him. She didn't shout. Didn't even complain.
Her eyes had caught him for only a second big, brown, startled like a deer's and something about them stuck in his head longer than he expected.
"Hello? Sir?" the voice crackles in his earpiece again.
He blinks and straightens. "Yeah. Some idiot just walked right into me."
It's a lie. She wasn't an idiot.
He tries to laugh it off and keeps walking toward the mall entrance, but his thoughts stay behind for a few steps.
He shakes his head and finally turns his attention back to the voice on the call. "Yeah, send me the UI audit results by tonight. I'll go through them before the morning meeting."
The automatic glass doors slide open, and cool air hits him. He steps into the polished, humming world of the mall.
Priya's hands are cramping. The plastic bags dig into her fingers as she walks faster, her heart still thudding from that sudden collision. She doesn't look back not even once.
The streets feel too loud now. She hurries past honking bikes, weaving between parked autos and busy pedestrians until she reaches the lane leading to her temporary house. Her feet ache. Sweat slides down her back. But the only thing louder than the chaos outside is her own mind.
Once she reaches the gate, she fumbles with the keys, nearly dropping them. She pushes the door open, slips inside, and locks it behind her with a sharp click.
She leans against the door and closes her eyes.
"That man..." she whispers to herself. "What kind of guy just stands like a statue after bumping into someone? And those eyes, why was he staring like that?"
Priya shakes her head, frustrated. "And me, why couldn't I just say something? Why do I always freeze like a scared rabbit?"
She drops all the bags on the floor and sighs, rubbing her wrists. Her stomach growls, reminding her that she hasn't eaten since morning. But first, setting up.
She pulls her small, steel scissors out of her purse and opens the plastic bags. The curtain gets pinned up using old safety pins on the lone rusted rod. Not perfect but better than the bare glass. She arranges the plates and kadai on the corner shelf, wipes the stove with the edge of her dupatta, and folds the new dish towel. Then she opens the detergent packet, places it near the bathroom, and folds the plastic covers to reuse later.
Finally, she takes out the electric stove's box, sets it up near the plug point, and plugs it in. The red light flickers on. Success.
She boils a little water and pours it into a steel glass. Just hot water with a pinch of salt to settle the stomach after a long day.
She settles onto the edge of the mattress, her knees drawn close, sipping slowly. The room feels more hers now. She picks up her phone. It's almost 12:48 p.m.
Scrolling down the contact list, she taps on her cousin Aarvee's name. When he answers, his voice is cheerful.
"Finally! I thought you'd passed out somewhere in Indiranagar."
"I'm alive," Priya mumbles, forcing a small smile.
They had a little conversation about how she bargained with a vegetable vendor.
Then Priya said "Can you put Maa on the call? I... I want to hear her voice."
He senses something in her tone. "One sec." A moment later, the phone beeps, and her mother's soft voice crackles into the line.
"Priya beta? You reached home? Ate anything? Did someone receive you?"
Hearing that voice is all it takes. Priya's throat tightens. She blinks fast, fighting the burn in her eyes.
"Yes, Ma. I reached safely. No one came at first, but someone showed up in the evening. It's a small house, but it's okay. I bought everything today, a stove, groceries, even a curtain."
"Oh, good," her mother breathes in relief. "I've been staring at the clock all day."
"I miss you," Priya whispers, voice barely audible.
Aarvee speaks up gently, trying to lighten the moment. "Tell her how you bargained with the vendors using Google Translate."
Her mother laughs. "Really? You did all that alone?"
Priya smiles through her tears. "Yes, Maa. I even managed to argue with one man who tried to overcharge me for onions."
"Good," her mother says, pride laced with longing. "Take care of yourself. Eat something warm. And don't stay out after sunset."
Priya nods. "Okay. Thank you... both of you."
They talk a little more about the leaking tap, about how quiet the house feels without her and then the call ends.
Priya lies down on the mattress, her dupatta bunched under her head, the curtain fluttering gently in the warm breeze.
The wall clock ticks softly in the background. It's 2:07 p.m. Priya sits still for a few more moments, letting her thoughts settle like dust after a storm. Then she slowly gets up. There's too much to do.
She sets her phone aside and walks into the kitchen corner. She fills a small bowl with water and rinses a handful of rice. Simple food. No masalas yet. Just plain rice and salt. She slices one tomato and boils it with a pinch of turmeric. The smell fills the tiny room, making it feel less empty.
As the rice cooks, she opens her suitcase and pulls out the small laundry bag. Dusty socks, two sets of salwars, and her towel all stuffed inside. She takes the detergent packet, fills a blue plastic bucket with water, and kneels near the bathroom corner.
With sleeves rolled up, she scrubs and rinses, her hands turning pale and wrinkled. She hangs the wet clothes on the thin nylon rope stretched across the window. The curtain flutters lightly behind her.
Then she eats slowly. Just a few spoons of warm rice and tomato curry. Her appetite has shrunk somewhere between fear and fatigue.
After the meal, she wipes the stove clean again, folds the towel, sweeps the floor a second time, and rearranges the groceries on the shelf flour, sugar, tea leaves, dal all lined up.
Outside, the sky begins to darken. The city's buzz fades into the background hum of night. By the time Priya checks the time again, it's almost 8:45 p.m.
She hasn't touched her phone since the last call. She doesn't feel like scrolling, and doesn't feel like checking messages. The silence is loud enough.
She brushes her hair and ties it into a loose braid. The night is warm, and the fan barely moves the air, but she doesn't mind. She changes into her nightwear, folds the day's clothes, and switches off the single bulb.
Her mattress creaks gently as she lies down. The curtain sways, casting soft shadows on the wall. She turns to one side, pulls the bedsheet to her chin, and closes her eyes. Tiredness finally wraps its arms around her. And sleep, slowly, comes to claim her.
Meanwhile, across the city in a very different corner of Bangalore, under cooler lights and the low hum of an air purifier, A young man reclines on his plush white bed, one arm behind his head, the other scrolling absentmindedly through his phone and smiling to himself.
That girl.
The way her eyes refused to meet his for too long, like she was afraid of being seen. Her long soft braid. The nervous fingers clutching plastic bags. So different from anyone else.
He closes his eyes for a moment, his smile lingering.
"Will I see her again?" he wonders silently.
In a city of strangers, a moment like that feels rare. Too rare to forget. He turns on his side, the smile still lingering, even as his eyes start to close. Maybe fate doesn't need an address, a name, or a reason.
Maybe it just needs one unexpected encounter to begin something neither of them saw coming.
Across the city, in a small, dimly lit room, she sleeps unaware that someone is already thinking of her.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued…
Write a comment ...