The morning sun was barely up, yet the food truck outside the metro station was already surrounded. Avinash had unlocked the back door, rolled up the service windows, and was moving like a machine on caffeine. The air around him reeked of fried oil, spices, and mounting impatience.
"Two cheeseburgers, one with extra mayo, the other with no onions!" he shouted over his shoulder to the cook inside. Then he turned back to the customer in front of him. "That'll be two hundred twenty."
Before he could take the cash, a delivery partner interrupted, waving his phone screen. "Order number 136, it's already ten minutes late. What's going on?"
"I'll get it in a minute. Just wait on the side," Avinash said, forcing a smile.
Another customer stepped forward, furious. "This isn't what I ordered! I said fries without cheese. Do you guys even listen?"
At the same moment, from inside the truck, the cook yelled, "We're out of gas! I can't finish the orders until we switch cylinders!"
Avinash froze. The voices around him blurred into a wall of noise — customers complaining, delivery partners grumbling, his cook shouting in panic. He could feel sweat forming at the back of his neck despite the morning breeze.
And then something happened.
His brain hit pause.
Everything slowed down. The angry customer's lips moved in slow motion, the delivery partner's hands flailed as if underwater, the cook's voice echoed distantly — as if the world had slipped into a dreamlike haze.
In that eerie calm, Avinash stood still. Breathing. Thinking.
Then suddenly — clarity.
He snapped back into action. "Sir, I apologise for the mistake," he said, turning to the furious customer. "We'll replace your order right away. Please take a free drink while you wait."
To the delivery partners, he said, "I know you're on the clock. I'll prioritise your handovers next. Five minutes tops."
He stepped into the truck, hoisted the empty gas cylinder out with the help of the cook, replaced it with a backup, and gave new instructions for the pending orders. The flurry of chaos was still around him, but he had found his rhythm.
Over the next half hour, Avinash was everywhere — taking payments, updating customers, handling the packaging, coordinating the orders. By the time the rush settled, his T-shirt clung to his back, soaked in sweat. He leaned against the edge of the counter, catching his breath, eyes closed for a second.
He had survived the storm.
And then came the aftershock.
Just as Avinash finally found a second to breathe, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his apron and leaning against the side of the food truck, he saw someone approach the counter. He glanced up casually.
His heart froze.
It was her.
Rhea.
She looked a little surprised, too, but recovered faster. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, tucked neatly into formal black pants, with a slim laptop bag slung over her shoulder — she looked every bit like the polished corporate professional he always imagined she'd become. There was a small smile on her face, polite but distant.
"Avinash?" she asked, leaning forward just a bit, trying to confirm if it was really him.
His throat dried up. "Rhea... hey," he said, voice cracking slightly. He instinctively straightened his sweat-soaked T-shirt and tried wiping his palms on his jeans before realising they were already stained with oil.
Rhea smiled, a little wider now, maybe out of nostalgia. "Wow, it is you! It's been what—four years since college?"
He nodded, forcing a chuckle. "Yeah… yeah, I guess."
"You look… different," she said, scanning his face for a second. She meant it innocently, but Avinash flinched internally. He could still feel the dried patch of flour on his sleeve, the lingering smell of grease in his hair, the slight itch of sweat trickling down his back again.
"So… is this your place?" she asked, gesturing at the food truck.
"Uhh… I manage it," he replied quickly. "Just a side thing, you know… helps stay busy."
"Oh, that's cool," she said, nodding, eyes drifting momentarily to the name of the truck written in worn-out letters. "I was just walking from that office park down the road. Our lunch break is short, so I thought I'd grab something quick."
That stung more than she could imagine.
She hadn't said anything wrong. She hadn't judged him. She hadn't laughed. But she didn't need to.
She was here as a customer- a passerby. Someone stopping to get a quick bite, not to meet him. Not to say hi. Not to catch up.
Just someone in a hurry, in a sharply ironed shirt and glossy shoes, reaching into her handbag for exact change while he stood behind a counter, reeking of onions and failed dreams.
"What's good here?" she asked, peering at the menu board.
He stammered something about the fries and chicken rolls, but his voice sounded hollow even to himself.
"I'll just get the fries then," she said, offering a casual smile.
He took the cash, avoiding eye contact now. His hands, which had managed a crisis an hour ago with surgeon-like precision, now fumbled with the change.
As she waited, she glanced at her phone, typing something quickly, probably replying to a work message. Her world was still moving. Office meetings. Targets. Cafeteria jokes.
His? It felt paused, stuck behind this rusted counter.
When he finally handed her the order, she smiled and said, "It was nice bumping into you. Take care, Avinash!"
He tried to smile. Tried to say something — maybe "you too" or "let's catch up sometime" — but the words clung to the walls of his throat like glue.
She walked off, tapping her fries packet lightly against her palm, disappearing into the street crowd.
And then it hit.
The weight.
His legs felt heavier. His chest was tight. The sweat from earlier hadn't dried; it had turned cold, clinging to his back like a second skin. The heat of the tandoor inside the truck had faded, replaced by a numbness.
His moment of pride — how he'd pulled off a near disaster just half an hour ago — now felt like nothing. Like dust. Forgotten.
He wasn't embarrassed because Rhea had looked down on him. She hadn't.
He was embarrassed because somewhere deep down… he had looked down on himself.
The shame of that day never quite left Avinash. That one fleeting exchange — the surprise on her face, her hesitation- all had etched itself deep within him. He had smiled, trying to play it cool, pretending it was all fine. But it wasn't. Not to him.
Since that day, the memories replayed constantly — especially when he was still, when there was no order to take or stove to tend. The incident curled itself inside his head like smoke, suffocating and silent.
Each morning began the same. Mechanical. Colorless. He'd arrive early, open the truck, check the supplies, clean the countertop, and set the day in motion. He took orders, served customers, wiped the sweat off his brow with a stained hand towel, printed bills, and handed over brown paper bags to delivery partners. Everything he did was swift and silent, not out of efficiency, but out of numbness.
By late afternoon, the sun pinned him down like a weight. By evening, his legs moved without thought. He'd shut the food truck, gather the leftover supplies, lock it all away, and trudge out into the chaos of Mumbai. The crowd was never forgiving — brushing, shoving, screaming. Every evening, he fought through the same storm, and every evening, he barely managed to board the local train.
He'd stand crushed between two men with smells of sweat and oil, unable to breathe freely, arms pinned to his side, body rocking with the motion of the train. When he finally stepped onto the platform at his stop, it was never relief — just a continuation of exhaustion. There was still a thirty-minute walk to his rented room.
That room. One small room with a flickering tube light, cracked tiles, and a rent that sat on his chest like a rock. Some nights, it felt like the walls were breathing with him, tightening when he tried to rest.
His phone rang almost every evening — Maa, Papa — but he always silenced it. Then he'd type out the same lie: "Busy at work. Will call later." But he never did.
One evening, as he was walking back home, the weight on his shoulders felt different — heavier, duller. His stomach twisted in discomfort, probably from skipping meals. The world blurred slightly, his steps slowing. He spotted a small park — empty, quiet — and sank onto a bench, letting his bag drop beside him.
He sat still, back hunched, arms resting on his knees. The silence enveloped him, and for the first time in weeks, he was alone with his thoughts. That moment with his old classmate began reeling in his head again. Her eyes. That pause. The soft "okay" before she walked off, her tone polite but distant. He felt that same cold sweat again, the same squeeze in his chest — the shame of being seen like that, doing something that didn't match the picture others had of him.
He buried his face in his hands, breathing heavily.
When he looked up, the world around him was still. A vegetable vendor across the road was pulling his cart, leaning his entire weight forward just to move it an inch. A road sweeper was collecting dry leaves with a broken broom, his shirt drenched in sweat. And farther ahead, an electrician about his age was halfway up a tall pole, climbing with clumsy metal hooks and no safety gear — fixing tangled wires in fading light.
Avinash watched them in silence.
None of them looked ashamed. They just worked. Not for pride. Not for applause. Just survival.
And in that moment, something inside him shifted.
"Maybe shame was a luxury. One you can afford only if you have everything else."
Avinash didn't remember this quote, but at that moment, he understood the meaning of it. And with this realisation, his mind eased.
His phone buzzed again — this time, it was Aisha.
He took a breath and picked it up.
"Hello?" he said, his voice softer than usual.
"Thank God!" Her voice instantly lit up. "You finally picked up. Are you alive?"
"I was busy," he said, rubbing his temple. "At work. Like always."
"Hmm, yeah yeah. Too busy to talk to your own family. Mom's been so mad at you! And Dad — he thinks you've become a corporate zombie or something."
"Tell them I'm sorry, okay?" he said quietly. "I'll call soon."
Aisha paused. "Are you… Okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."
Another pause.
"Actually, I called for something. I need a small favour."
Avinash smiled faintly. "Obviously, you do, go on."
"So, our school farewell is next week, and I've been saving up for a dress — this pastel blue one I really like — but I'm still short of… um… ₹600."
Avinash paused. Pretended the line was cracking. Said "hello?" three times.
"Oh, come on," Aisha laughed. "Don't pretend. I know your drama."
"I'm not sure I can hear you…"
"Fine, if you don't send it, I'll wear your t-shirt to the farewell."
He sighed, smiling despite himself. "Check your phone."
Seconds later: Transaction successful: ₹600 sent to Aisha Mehta.
"You're still annoying," she grinned.
"You're still broke."
" And listen, don't go disappearing for days again. I miss yelling at you."
"Yeah, yeah," he murmured.
They hung up, and Avinash stood up from the bench, the heaviness inside him a little lighter. As he resumed walking, the city lights flickered around him — indifferent and constant.
He didn't have much. He didn't have comfort. But he had resolve.
And that would do, for now.
A few days had passed. The routine had become muscle memory — early shifts, late nights, silent dinners. But this night, Avinash wanted some sea breeze.
The air was cooler than usual, the waves calmer. Avinash, too tired to sit upright on a bench, had found his spot on the sand just beside it, back resting against its wooden legs. His old laptop — one he hadn't opened since arriving in Mumbai — now lay propped on his knees. For the first time in weeks, the screen glowed not with job applications or resignation letters, but with lines of code.
He typed steadily, mind partly present in the logic flow, partly floating in the rhythm of the waves — until a hand emerged from behind holding a cup of tea in front of his face.
He blinked, startled.
"Thought your laptop might overheat without tea," said a familiar voice. He looked up.
Prachi stood above him, grinning in a loose T-shirt and joggers, one hand casually curled around her own paper cup, the other stretched out towards him.
"There won't be a next time. This is Mumbai, it's a big city," she mimicked with exaggerated drama.
Avinash couldn't help it — he burst into laughter.
"Oh God. You remember that?"
"Burned into my memory," she said, lowering herself onto the sand beside him, crossing her legs, and handing him the tea. "Also, the worst line ever."
"Okay, okay, guilty," he said, still chuckling. "But I did mean it. Mumbai is a big city. You're not supposed to randomly run into people."
"Clearly, the city didn't get the memo," she replied, sipping her tea.
Prachi smirked. "So, what's going on in your glamorous Mumbai life?"
Avinash chuckled dryly. "Oh, absolutely thriving. Just last week, I discovered that the corner of my room leaks from inside the wall. Which is fun. The paint now peels off like biryani rice."
Prachi laughed. "So, you got biryani walls?"
"No, worse. Damp biryani. Stinks like betrayal."
"Sounds fulfilling."
"Oh, it is," he sipped his tea dramatically. "Especially when rats in the kitchen try to rob me of the one onion I've budgeted for three days."
She chuckled. "At least you have onions. I asked a vendor for cabbage yesterday and he offered me an EMI plan."
They both laughed again.
"If you ever feel there isn't enough adventure in your life, just come to my place, just that you'll need a helmet and possibly a tetanus shot."
She cackled. "Okay, now I have to visit."
She nudged him. "But seriously, what are you doing these days? Like, for work?"
Avinash hesitated a second, then sighed, a grin sneaking in. "I'm working as a... supervisor at a food truck."
Prachi blinked. "Wait, you're serious?"
"Unfortunately. It's not glamorous. I mean clearly, I didn't come to Mumbai to serve momos and yell at two teenagers who fight over ketchup sachets. But... bills."
Prachi burst out laughing. "I love this city."
"I hate this city. You know how much rent I pay for a room that's smaller than my patience? And my landlord walks in like he's inspecting the Taj Mahal."
"Yeah, this place is very expensive, no doubt."
"So, how's your office life? Still got your keys lost somewhere here in the sand?"
Prachi rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. That was just day one. Now it's a daily circus."
"Tell me."
"Well, my new HR guy clearly thinks this is Tinder. He keeps 'accidentally' bumping into me at the coffee machine and starts random small talk about zodiac signs. Yesterday, he asked me if I believe in fate. I told him I believe in HR complaints."
Avinash nearly choked on his tea.
"And don't even get me started on my team," she continued. "Everyone is so fake. They complement each other's work like they're accepting Oscars. One girl literally said 'This spreadsheet is a masterpiece' and I wanted to ask her if she's seen Excel before."
Avinash laughed again. "You should carry a mic just to drop it."
"Oh, I would, but they'd steal it and start a podcast about it. 'Toxic positivity and how we love it.'"
They both cracked up again. The waves behind them crashed softly, the city lights blinking behind in the distance.
They kept talking — about nothing in particular and everything in between. From the taste of local chai to bizarre sea legends and the struggles of folding fitted bedsheets, their conversation drifted effortlessly. Laughter came easily, especially when there was no agenda behind it. For the next half an hour, time didn't seem to matter. The city buzzed around them, but on that stretch of beach, they were in their own little vacuum of calm.
Eventually, Prachi leaned back on her elbows, glancing sideways at him.
"You said you'd tell me what happened that day, if we met again."
The smile on Avinash's face faded just a little. He looked away, his eyes scanning the shifting sea, as if hoping it would answer for him.
"Nothing much," he said finally, his voice quieter. "Just… life. And its unpredictable, harsh lessons."
Prachi didn't press. She studied him briefly, noting the weight that seemed to settle on his shoulders again.
"Okay," she said softly. "A short explanation will do for now."
They both kept chatting for a while more, eyes looking far into the sea. The waves rolled in and rolled out — steady, uncaring, relentless. Somewhere in that rhythm, their thoughts wandered.
Moments later, as they both stood up to walk back to their places, Prachi asked, "Do we need to know each other's names?"
Avinash looked at her, then at the sea again. A brief smile crossed his face, not wide, but real.
"Nah."