The scooter had been making that sound for weeks. Not a dramatic sound. Not even a complaint. More like a quiet, sulking wheeze. As if it had opinions about her choices and had decided to express them through the engine.
Nandini Rao patted the handlebars the way her mother used to pat her head when she couldn’t fix a problem but wanted it to behave anyway.
“Bas. Just get me there,” she murmured. “I’m not asking for much.”
The scooter responded by dying right outside the shuttered entrance of the old Bhandarkar Hall, where somebody had recently put up fresh hoardings with glossy visuals: REVIVAL. HERITAGE. A NEW CHAPTER.
Nandini stared at the hoarding and felt an unhelpful urge to laugh. Mumbai loved the idea of revival. It loved new chapters. It also loved forgetting the old ones.
She pushed the scooter to the side, wiped sweat from her forehead with the end of her dupatta, and checked her phone. One bar. Low battery. A bank balance that looked like a scolding.
Of course.
She stood there for a second, between the traffic and the hoarding and her own tiredness, and tried to decide which was worse: the scooter breaking down, or the fact that she’d started expecting breakdowns like they were part of the monthly budget.
A tap on her elbow made her flinch.
“Madam, scooter bandh?” a watchman asked, leaning on a metal railing like he’d been born there.
“It’s… taking a pause,” she said, as if she could negotiate with it using language.
The watchman grinned. “Pause toh theek hai, par yeh road pe pause mat karna.”
Behind him, a man stepped out from the construction site, wiping his hands on a rag. He wore a faded T-shirt and jeans that looked like they’d seen too many monsoons. There was dust in his hair. Not styled dust. Real dust. He had the kind of face that would disappear in a crowd until it didn’t.
“Need help?” he asked, and his voice was calm in a way that made her suspicious. Calm usually came with privilege. Calm usually meant people had options.
“It’s fine,” Nandini said automatically.
The man glanced at the scooter, then at her. Not in a dramatic up-and-down way. More like he was assessing the situation and doing the math quietly.
“You’re not from the It’s fine school,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
He smiled a little. “You said it’s fine, like you were trying to convince yourself. Not me.”
Nandini felt her cheeks heat. She hated being read. She made a living reading people, matching them to books. She did not enjoy the same attention coming back at her.
“I’m Nandini,” she said, mostly because she didn’t know how to end the conversation without being rude, and she was tired of being rude to strangers. It turned life into a long fight.
“Mihir,” he said. “I’m working there.” He tilted his head toward the building.
She followed the gesture. The place smelled of wet cement and old paint. Bhandarkar Hall had once hosted plays, debates, charity shows, and at least three weddings that had spilt onto the road. Now it was being reborn with a name that sounded like a bank.
“You can’t fix it?” she asked, half-hopeful, half-defensive.
“I can try.” He crouched near the scooter, peered under the side panel, and made a small sound of disapproval. “When was the last time you serviced it?”
Nandini made a face.
“That long, huh?”
“I’ve been… busy,” she said.
He looked up. “Everyone’s busy. The scooter doesn’t care.”
He opened the panel and nudged something with his thumb. “Battery connection is loose. Also, your plug cap looks like it wants to retire.”
Nandini blinked. “You… know what you’re doing.”
“Just enough to survive Mumbai,” he said.
The watchman chuckled. “Yeh Mumbai hai, madam. Sabko sab aata hai.”
Mihir tightened the connection, tapped the panel back into place, and gestured. “Try now.”
Nandini started the scooter. It coughed, complained, and then—like a child who didn’t want to be late to school but didn’t want to admit it—came alive.
Relief washed through her so hard she nearly closed her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, and meant it in the way you mean things when your day was about to fall apart and then didn’t.
Mihir wiped his hands again, then glanced at her scooter basket. There was a cloth bag in it, bulging with what looked suspiciously like books.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Banyan & Paper,” she said, before she could stop herself.
He frowned. “That second-hand bookstore near the station?”
Nandini’s pride stirred, even though it was a small, exhausted pride. “Yes.”
“I’ve walked past it,” he said. “Always wanted to go in.”
“You haven’t?”
“I keep meaning to. I…” He paused, as if he was choosing words. “I haven’t had the habit in a while.”
Nandini didn’t ask what habit. She knew what he meant. Everyone knew what he meant. Reading had become something people claimed to love the way they claimed to love fitness. A virtue, not a practice.
“Well,” she said, surprising herself, “you should come in.”
“I will,” he said, and she got the sense that he actually meant it.
The watchman called out behind them, “Arre Mihir, kaam pe aa. Boss chillayega.”
Mihir lifted a hand in acknowledgement, then looked at Nandini again. “Don’t ignore the service, haan. Battery connection is a symptom. The scooter is basically you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He smiled. “Overworked. Still functioning. One bad day away from collapsing dramatically on a main road.”
Nandini stared at him, offended and amused at the same time. Before she could come up with a reply, he turned and walked back into the dusty half-reborn building.
She rode off with her scooter, behaving, and her mind mildly unsettled.
Banyan & Paper sat between a photocopy shop and a tiny snack stall that sold vada pav with alarming confidence. The bookstore didn’t have a glossy sign. Just painted letters that had faded unevenly, and a handwritten note taped near the entrance:
Yes, we buy old books. No, we can’t take your college textbooks from 2009. Please don’t argue.
Inside, the air was cooler than outside, not because of AC; she couldn’t afford to run it all day, but because books held a different kind of temperature. The place smelled like paper, dust, and the faint perfume of mothballs that Nandini kept in strategic corners like tiny guards.
Her mother had named the shop when Nandini was eight. Her father had wanted something sensible. Something like Rao Books & Stationery.
Her mother had insisted on a banyan tree.
“A banyan doesn’t look like it’s doing anything,” her mother had said. “But it holds everything together.”
Nandini unlocked the shutter, pulled it up with a grunt, and stepped inside.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her neighbour, Aarti:
Ma ate?
Nandini typed back quickly:
Yes. Dawa de diya. Sleeping.
Chronic but stable, her mother’s condition was a constant hum in the background of their lives: medication, BP checks, occasional dizzy spells, and a general fragility that made Nandini’s choices feel less like choices and more like a line drawn on a map.
She couldn’t move for work. She couldn’t “just try something else.” She couldn’t relocate, restart, reinvent herself in the way LinkedIn loved to suggest. Her life was tethered to this suburb, this shop, and the upstairs bedroom where her mother slept with a fan pointed directly at her face like it was a personal assistant.
Nandini flipped on the lights, dust motes rising like tiny spirits.
At ten thirty, the regulars drifted in.
A retired uncle who came to argue about politics and borrow old Marathi novels.
A teenage girl who pretended she was browsing but actually just wanted to sit in the corner and breathe for twenty minutes away from her tuition schedule.
A man who bought self-help books and looked disappointed every time a book failed to fix him.
The shop didn’t make money the way shops were supposed to. It made meaning. And meaning, unfortunately, didn’t pay rent.
At noon, the bell above the door rang.
Nandini looked up and saw Mihir standing there, freshly washed, wearing a clean shirt that looked surprisingly well-fitted. Not expensive exactly, but… deliberate.
He stepped in slowly, like someone entering a temple without knowing the rules.
“Hi,” he said.
“You came,” Nandini said, and immediately hated the warmth in her own voice.
He glanced around, taking in the shelves, the mismatched chairs, the handwritten category signs: Old Loves, Weird But Good, Marathi Classics, Women Who Don’t Apologise.
“It’s… exactly how I imagined it,” he said.
“What did you imagine?”
“A place where people come to feel less alone,” he said, like it was obvious.
Nandini’s throat tightened, annoyed at herself. She moved behind the counter and busied her hands with a stack of books.
“So,” she said, brisk, “what are you looking for?”
Mihir smiled at her tone. “Something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m doing homework.”
“Welcome to the club,” Nandini muttered.
He wandered into the aisles. He picked up a thin book of poetry, flipped through a few pages, put it back carefully.
“You read poetry?” Nandini asked before she could stop herself.
“I used to,” he said. “When I was younger.”
“And now?”
He shrugged. “Now I scroll.”
Nandini snorted. “You and the rest of the country.”
He looked at her then, properly. “Do you ever feel like everyone is tired but pretending they’re fine?”
Nandini paused. “Yes.”
“And do you ever feel like reading is the only thing that makes the tiredness… manageable?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
He nodded, like something inside him settled. “Okay. Give me something.”
Nandini came out from behind the counter, walked to the shelves, and started pulling books without overthinking.
A slim novel in English that carried quiet grief like a second skin.
A book of essays by an Indian writer that made you laugh and then feel guilty for laughing.
A Marathi short story collection she’d grown up reading, translated on the facing page because she didn’t know what his Marathi was like and she didn’t want to ask.
She handed the stack to him. “Start here.”
He stared at the books as if she’d handed him a key.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“I’ve been doing it forever,” she said, and then, because honesty slipped out sometimes when you weren’t watching, she added, “and because I can tell when someone is trying to remember themselves.”
Mihir’s mouth opened, then closed. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something and didn’t trust it.
He paid in cash.
Nandini noticed because she always noticed. Cash was inconvenient. Cash was usually a habit, or a decision.
He took the bag and hesitated. “I’ll come back and tell you what I think.”
“You better,” she said. “Otherwise I’ll assume you didn’t like it and I’ll take it personally.”
He laughed. It was a full laugh. Not polite.
“Deal,” he said, and left.
Nandini watched the door for a second longer than she needed to, then turned back to the counter, annoyed with her own heart for being so easy to wake up.
Over the next two weeks, Mihir became a pattern in her day.
Not daily. That would have felt like too much too fast. But often enough that she started expecting him in the way you start expecting the train to arrive, even though it never arrives when you want.
He’d come in, buy one book, then talk about it like it mattered. Not like he was showing off. Like he was trying to understand why it hit him.
He brought her cutting chai once, and she nearly cried because nobody brought her chai unless they wanted something from her.
“Don’t make it weird,” she told him.
“You’re making it weird,” he said, grinning.
Sometimes he’d help her shift cartons. Sometimes he’d sit in the corner and read for twenty minutes without speaking. The shop accepted him the way old spaces accepted people who didn’t try to dominate them.
Even her mother, who noticed everything despite pretending she didn’t, asked one evening while Nandini was crushing tablets into curd:
“Who is this boy who keeps coming?”
“He’s not a boy,” Nandini said.
“Men are boys until they prove otherwise,” her mother replied, unbothered.
Nandini rolled her eyes. “He’s… a customer.”
Her mother made a soft sound. “Hmm.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“That hmm. That I-know-more-than-you hmm.”
Her mother smiled. “I’m only saying, if he’s making you smile, don’t immediately find a reason to punish yourself for it.”
Nandini stared at the curd like it had answers.
One Thursday, after the shop had closed, Aarti stuck her head in with her usual lack of boundaries.
“You’re coming for the open mic, right?” she asked. “Don’t back out.”
Nandini groaned. “Aarti, I said maybe.”
Aarti widened her eyes theatrically. “Maybe is what cowards say when they want to sound brave.”
Behind Aarti, Mihir walked in, carrying a book under his arm.
“What open mic?” he asked.
Nandini shot Aarti a look that could have peeled paint. Aarti smiled innocently and disappeared.
Nandini exhaled. “There’s this small thing. At the community library. People read their writing.”
Mihir’s eyes lit up in a way that made her want to throw something at him. “You write?”
“Not like… professionally,” she said quickly. “Just. Sometimes.”
“I’d like to hear you,” he said.
The way he said it was not flirtatious. It was earnest. That made it worse. Earnestness didn’t give you room to be cynical.
“I don’t do public reading,” she said.
“Why?”
Because in public, people decided who you were and then told you. Because the moment you offered your words, they belonged to everyone.
Nandini shrugged instead. “I’m not that person.”
Mihir studied her for a second, then said quietly, “You already are. You just haven’t admitted it out loud.”
Nandini stared at him. “You’ve known me for two weeks.”
“And in two weeks,” he said, “I’ve seen you tell a teenager that her feelings aren’t a problem to solve. I’ve seen you put a book in an uncle’s hand and make him look less lonely. I’ve seen you run a shop that shouldn’t survive and keep it alive anyway. Don’t tell me you’re not that person.”
Nandini’s eyes stung, and she hated that too.
“You’re saying all this because you want me to read something,” she said, trying for sarcasm.
“I’m saying all this because you deserve to hear it,” he replied. “Reading is just… one way.”
Nandini looked away, pretending to straighten a pile of books.
Finally, she said, “Fine. I’ll go. But if I faint, I’m blaming you.”
Mihir’s grin returned. “Fair. I’ll bring water. And a chair.”
The community library in their suburb wasn’t fancy. It had plastic chairs, yellowing posters, and a librarian who treated overdue books like personal betrayal.
About thirty people showed up for the open mic. Mostly students. A few aunties. One man who read jokes like he was performing at a corporate event.
Nandini sat in the back, holding a sheet of paper so tightly it was beginning to crease.
Mihir sat one row ahead, turned halfway in his chair so he could see her, as if she might bolt.
When her name was called, her body moved before her brain agreed.
She walked up to the front, faced the microphone, and saw the room: not hostile, not kind, just waiting.
She took a breath.
“This is…” Her voice caught. She tried again. “This is called Banyan & Paper.”
And then the words came.
She spoke about the shop. About her mother’s hands pricing books with a pencil. About the way people came in looking for one thing and left with another. About the slow grief of watching reading become unfashionable. About holding a space together when the world told you it didn’t matter.
She didn’t mention her mother’s illness. She didn’t mention her bank balance. She didn’t perform pain.
She just told the truth.
When she finished, there was a beat of silence. Then applause. Real applause, not polite.
Nandini stepped down, slightly dizzy, and returned to her seat.
Mihir looked at her like she’d done something impossible.
“I told you,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” she whispered back. “Don’t make me cry in public.”
He smiled, but his eyes were damp. “Okay.”
Outside, later, under the streetlight near the paan shop, he said, “You were brilliant.”
Nandini exhaled shakily. “I feel like I ran a marathon without training.”
“That’s what it looks like when you do something you’ve been avoiding,” he said.
And then he kissed her.
Not dramatically. Not to prove a point. Just like it was the next honest thing.
Nandini kissed him back, and for a moment, the suburb felt suspended: the local train rumble in the distance, the smell of rain on concrete, the fact of tomorrow waiting.
After that, their closeness grew faster.
It always did once you crossed that line.
Mihir started coming over. Not often, because her mother was home, and Nandini had a complicated relationship with private life being witnessed. But sometimes he’d stand at the door with fruits or masala biscuits and say, “Aunty ke liye.”
Her mother would eye him with suspicious fondness.
“Tumhara kaam kya hai?” her mother asked one evening, not bothering with softness.
Mihir paused. “Consulting,” he said.
Nandini’s mother raised an eyebrow. “That word means nothing.”
Mihir smiled politely. “I help companies… fix problems.”
Her mother gave him the look only Indian mothers could give: the look that said I’m letting you speak, but don’t think I’m believing you.
Nandini watched Mihir carefully. He didn’t seem offended. He didn’t seem defensive. He seemed… careful.
Careful was okay. Careful was better than arrogant.
Still, there were things that didn’t add up.
He knew how to talk to people. Not just in a friendly way. In a practised way.
He was too comfortable in expensive spaces. Not showy, but unbothered.
He paid in cash, always.
And sometimes, when his phone rang, his entire face would change for a second. Like someone had called him by a name he wasn’t using.
Nandini told herself she was being dramatic. She told herself she was looking for problems because peace felt unfamiliar.
Then, one evening, she walked back to the shop after locking up, because she’d forgotten her keys.
She took the side lane behind the building, where the photocopy shop dumped paper scraps, and the snack stall stored gas cylinders.
She heard voices.
Low. Urgent.
A woman’s voice, sharp and controlled. “You can’t keep doing this.”
Mihir’s voice. Different. Cleaner. “I told you, I’m not available.”
“You’re not a college boy playing house in the suburbs,” the woman snapped. “You have responsibilities.”
Nandini froze behind a stack of cardboard, heart climbing into her throat.
“You can handle it,” Mihir said.
“I can handle it for a week,” the woman said. “Not indefinitely. And not when you’re ignoring calls. This is getting noticed.”
A pause.
Then the woman said, “Mihir Mehta, this isn’t romantic. It’s reckless.”
Nandini’s blood went cold.
Mehta.
Not an unusual surname. But the way she said it. Like it carried weight. Like it was a name that opened doors.
Mihir’s voice softened, but there was steel under it. “Don’t use my full name like you’re scolding a child.”
“You’re behaving like one,” she shot back. “The board meeting is tomorrow. The Pune acquisition is hanging. Your father is asking questions.”
Nandini felt dizzy. Father. Board. Acquisition.
This wasn’t just consulting. This was a life she hadn’t been invited into. A life that didn’t include second-hand bookstores and open mic nights.
“You’re going to get attached,” the woman said, and now there was something almost weary in her voice. “And then what? You think she’ll just… fit?”
“She doesn’t need to fit,” Mihir said.
“You’re not listening.” The woman lowered her voice. “She’ll pay the price for this long before you do. That’s how it works.”
Nandini pressed her hand to her mouth because something between a laugh and a sob threatened to come out.
Mihir said, very quietly, “I’m not lying to hurt her.”
“You’re lying to be loved safely,” the woman replied. “That’s still lying.”
Silence.
Then footsteps. The woman’s heels clicked away.
Mihir exhaled like someone who’d been holding his breath for days.
Nandini stumbled backwards, stepped on a plastic bottle, and the sound made Mihir turn.
Their eyes met across the lane.
For half a second, both of them looked like strangers.
“Nandu,” he said, and the nickname landed wrong. Like a stolen intimacy.
Nandini’s voice came out thin. “Who are you?”
Mihir opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “Can we talk inside?”
Nandini shook her head. “No. You don’t get inside. Not right now.”
His face tightened. He took one step toward her.
Nandini held up her hand. “Stop.”
He stopped.
“Tell me,” she said, voice steady now in a way that surprised her. “Don’t perform. Don’t manage my emotions. Just tell me.”
Mihir swallowed. “My name is Mihir Mehta,” he said. “That part is true. I… didn’t lie about my name. I lied by omission.”
Nandini laughed once, sharply. “That’s a fancy way to say you lied.”
He flinched. “Yes.”
“What are you?” she asked. “Consultant? Business heir? What? Because the lane behind my shop is not where ‘board meetings’ happen.”
Mihir looked down for a second, then back up. “My family… has businesses,” he said. “I work in them. I run a part of it.”
“And you thought saying ‘consulting’ was… what? Charming?”
“It was cowardly,” he said, and at least he didn’t deny it.
Nandini felt something inside her go very quiet, the way a room goes quiet when someone says something true and ugly.
“Why?” she asked.
Mihir’s voice broke slightly. “Because when people know, they don’t see me. They see the name. They see what I can offer. They see access. And with you—” He stopped, as if the sentence scared him.
“With me?” Nandini prompted, even though she already knew she’d regret it.
“With you,” he said, “I felt like I could be… a person.”
Nandini stared at him. She wanted to be moved. She wanted to soften. But something harder rose in her chest.
“You didn’t trust me,” she said.
Mihir’s face tightened. “I did—”
“No,” she cut in. “You trusted your own fear. You trusted your own script. You didn’t trust me to choose.”
He went still.
Nandini continued, words coming now like they’d been waiting. “Do you understand what you did? You let me imagine a future. You let me… step into something. And you knew, somewhere in your head, you knew that if this went wrong, it would cost me more than it would ever cost you.”
Mihir’s eyes shone. “I wasn’t trying to…”
“I know you weren’t trying,” Nandini said, and the fact that she believed that made her angrier. “That’s the problem. You didn’t even see the imbalance. Or you saw it and didn’t want to look at it.”
He whispered, “I did see it.”
Nandini held his gaze. “And?”
“And I still wanted to be with you,” he said, voice raw. “I still do.”
For a moment, the lane felt too small for the truth sitting between them.
Nandini looked away because if she looked too long, she’d remember the other version of him: the one who held her hand in the library, the one who listened to her words like they mattered, the one who sat on the shop floor and read quietly like he belonged there.
Her voice came out tired. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
“I’ll tell you everything,” Mihir said quickly, like he’d been waiting for permission. “Not managed. Not filtered. Everything.”
Nandini stared at the broken plastic bottle on the ground. Then she said, softly, “You should have done that before.”
“I know,” he said, and it sounded like it hurt.
Nandini felt tears rise, annoying and hot. She wiped them away with the heel of her hand, angry at her own body for being loyal to feelings.
Mihir took a cautious step closer. “Nandini…”
She stepped back. “Not today.”
He stopped, visibly restraining himself. “Okay.”
Nandini swallowed. “Tell me one thing. And don’t answer like a man in a boardroom.”
He nodded.
She asked, “Was any of it real?”
His voice turned quiet, almost rough. “All of it.”
“The books?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
“The way you looked at me?”
“Yes.”
“The kiss?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Nandini’s chest tightened painfully. “Then why ruin it with a lie?”
Mihir’s laugh was small and bitter. “Because I didn’t know how to be loved without one.”
That sentence landed hard. Not romantic. Not redeeming. Just honest in a way that made the skin on her arms prickle.
Nandini reached into her bag, pulled out her keys, and stared at them as if they were instructions.
Mihir stood there in the lane, not reaching for her, not touching her, as if he’d finally understood that touching was not the same as staying.
He took out his wallet, hesitated, then pulled out a card and held it out to her.
Nandini didn’t take it.
“It’s my number,” he said. “My real number. Not the one I’ve been using.”
“Why are you giving it to me?” she asked.
“Because I’m done hiding,” he said. “And because I’m not going to chase you. I don’t have the right. But I also don’t want to disappear and let you think you did something wrong.”
Nandini’s throat tightened. She hated that he was saying the right thing now. She hated that she still wanted to believe him.
She reached out and took the card, not because she forgave him, but because she wanted the truth to remain available if she chose it later.
Mihir watched her fingers close around it as if it were a fragile thing.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. Not dramatic. Not pleading. Just plain.
Nandini nodded once. She didn’t trust her voice.
She unlocked the shop door, stepped inside, and turned on the light. The shelves stood there, patient and familiar, like they’d seen everything and survived anyway.
Mihir stayed outside. She could feel him, even without looking.
After a minute, she heard his footsteps retreat.
When she finally turned back toward the glass door, the lane was empty.
That night, Nandini sat on the balcony of their flat, listening to the local train rattle past in the distance.
Her mother slept inside, the fan still aimed at her face like a stubborn guardian.
Aarti had texted twice. Kya hua? and then Don’t be stupid, ya. Nandini didn’t reply.
She held Mihir’s card between two fingers, turning it over and over like a coin.
On the other hand, her phone glowed with an unsent message.
I don’t know what to do with you.
She didn’t send it.
Below, someone argued with a delivery boy. Somewhere, a dog barked. The city continued, indifferent and intimate at once.
Nandini thought about the shop. About her mother. About the years she’d spent making peace with staying.
She thought about Mihir’s face when she read at the open mic, like he’d seen her become someone she’d been hiding from.
She thought about the lane behind the shop, about that one sentence that had cut clean:
You’re lying to be loved safely.
Nandini didn’t know what tomorrow would hold. She didn’t know whether love could survive the kind of truth that arrived late and messy.
But she knew this: she was done being treated like an afterthought in someone else’s escape plan.
The phone screen dimmed. She tapped it awake again.
The message still sat there, unsent.
She stared at it a long time, then deleted the text entirely.
And then, because she was not a saint and because she was human, she didn’t delete the number.
Memories and Such 