Dilip had lived with silence long enough to make peace with it. Ten years of writing to the same woman and never hearing back had stopped feeling like humiliation; it had become routine — a small, private prayer that steadied his days. Now, at fifty, he wanted to close that circle quietly. Not in anger, not in despair, but in gratitude for what the waiting had taught him.
He sat at the kitchen table, his MacBook open, its white glow spilling across the tiles. Outside, Bandra hummed with night noise — the slow roll of an auto, rain still dripping from an old pipe. He typed until the words finally felt honest.
Dear Anya,
I turned fifty this month. It feels like a quiet line I've crossed.
I wanted to thank you — for existing somewhere in the world, for listening in your own way.
You've been part of my life longer than I ever meant to let anyone be.
I'm stronger now. I can stand, work, and walk through my days without leaning on words that go nowhere.
I hope you're well. That's all I wanted to say.
With care,
— Dilip
He read the mail once more, then pressed Send. No drama — just a small release that left his chest hollow and warm at the same time. He closed the MacBook, sat back, and listened to the fan tick against the ceiling.
⸻
The Email and After
Anya opened the message that night in her bedroom. She saw Dilip's name in her private inbox and read the short, steady lines on the screen. The tone was quiet and final, not sharp. She felt the slow burn of something tender and painful: gratitude folded into goodbye.
She did not need to imagine who else might read it—Vikash read all her mail. Everyone in the house knew he did, and for years she had given him the passwords without question. It was not an intrusion in her mind; it was the architecture of their life. That tacit fact sat beside the words she read, steady and unremarked.
She read the email twice, then a third time, the stillness of his lines pressing against her ribs. When she finally whispered, "He's stronger now," it came out like an admission and a relief at once.
⸻
Vikash
In his study at Malabar Hill, Vikash was already looking at the same message in Anya's account. He had been reading her mail for decades — it was a practice that felt to him like governance, not theft. The rain outside thinned; the whisky in his glass caught the monitor's glow.
Ten years of letting Dilip orbit close enough to be useful; now the man wanted to step back. That presented a moment.
Vikash waited two days, letting the thought settle. When the timing felt right he called for his daughter.
Anya came quickly, phone in hand. Even at forty there was a restless brightness to her movement — moods that lit and dimmed fast, and a loyalty that never wandered.
He turned the monitor toward her. "Dilip Shrivastava sent this," he said. "Says he's finished."
She read again, the same lines she had already read alone. "He's… not angry?" she asked.
"No. Just decided," Vikash said. "Reach out to him. Use one of your old accounts. Keep it light. See what he's thinking."
She nodded. "Okay." No argument. No hesitation. She had long since learned that following his directions was the smooth way through life.
When she left the room she felt that quick, small spark of being needed — not excitement exactly, but a brief, honest warmth.
⸻
The First DM
That night Anya sat cross-legged on her bed with her MacBook on a cushion. The rain tapped the roof. She scrolled through old handles until she paused at one she'd made years before: @Alish99❤️.
Her fingers hovered, then she typed.
@Alish99❤️: Hi! Can you help me find a good vet for my puppy?
It was plain and small and safely ordinary. For a moment she felt something like a child's delight at the triviality of it.
A minute later:
@mumbaipulse: Sure. What's wrong with the puppy?
Her smile came quickly, bright and slightly embarrassed. She typed fast.
@Alish99❤️: She's limping. I'm new to Bandra and don't know any vets.
@mumbaipulse: Try the one near Turner Road. They're good with strays too.
@Alish99❤️: thank you :)
She set the MacBook aside, hugged a cushion and let the small warmth spread. For a few minutes she forgot the whole thing had begun as an instruction.
⸻
Dilip
On the other side of the city, when the DM arrived in his inbox, Dilip smiled at the ordinary question. A vet request — nothing more. He answered because he could. He had always been someone who found small reasons to be kind.
Over the next nights they exchanged short, light messages: Bandra's puddles, the dogs that favored certain corners, the way a lamp on Turner Road buzzed when it rained. Nothing personal, and yet the simple back-and-forth felt like company.
He did not press for names. He did not demand truths. He let the small, bright thing be what it was.
⸻
Anya
Messages became the soft lights she went to when the house felt too quiet. She laughed easily at his jokes and then felt a quick prick of guilt for laughing with no one watching. She reminded herself — once, twice — that this was for her father, that she was doing what she had been asked. Still, the warmth held. For now, she let it.
⸻
The conversation grew the way uneven ones often do — one person building, the other letting it stand.
Dilip talked.
He wrote about the city, about where he ate and what he noticed — the jasmine strings outside St. Andrew's, the chai at Chaayos, the slow, wet smell of Bandra in the rain.
Anya replied sparingly: still raining there? or you always notice the small things.
Her tone stayed steady, polite, precise.
He mistook it for grace; to her, it was control.
Every message he sent became quiet data — his moods, his habits, his hopes.
Her father didn't need to read it; she already knew how to extract what mattered.
For now, that was enough.
⸻
The Story
That night, Dilip posted a line on Instagram, white text over a photograph of rain-slick asphalt outside his Bandra window:
"Only in Bandra can someone double-park under a 'No Parking' sign and call it rebellion."
He uploaded it and went to sleep, not expecting anyone to notice.
By the next morning, Anya had seen it.
⸻
The Favor
Anya smiled when she saw the post — that sharp, amused kind of smile that disappears before you realise it was there.
The line had that blend of wit and melancholy that was his signature.
She picked up her other phone and opened her chat with Zara Ahmed.
Anya → Zara: Need a favour.
Zara → Anya: Depends. Are we rescuing or ruining someone? 😂
Anya → Zara: Neither. Just repost this story. No caption, no tag. Just a smiley.
Zara → Anya: Who's he?
Anya → Zara: A writer. Potential husband candidate. Father thinks he's… reliable.
Zara → Anya: Ah, the auditions.
Anya → Zara: Something like that.
Zara → Anya: Done. 😊
Zara sent the emoji and tapped repost.
The story went up on her feed within minutes — a favour executed with effortless discretion.
Anya locked her phone and stared at the ceiling.
It wasn't affection she felt; it was satisfaction.
The first step of a plan had clicked into motion.
⸻
Zara Ahmed
By afternoon, Zara Ahmed, the country's most recognisable face, had reshared the post on her feed with a single smiling emoji — 😊.
Born in Bangalore to India's most famous tennis player, Zara had grown up visible but not rich — close enough to privilege to smell it, far enough to crave it.
She'd modelled in Paris, walked Cannes by twenty, and at forty was married to one of Bollywood's biggest stars.
She was Anya's age — same generation, different outcome.
That week, the city buzzed with rumours of her first pregnancy.
⸻
Dilip
When the notification appeared, Dilip almost scrolled past it — until he saw the name.
Zara Ahmed.
No words, just a smiley emoji.
He stared at it for a long time.
He didn't tell anyone; there was no one to tell.
But all afternoon the quiet inside him felt lighter.
That evening he messaged her:
@mumbaipulse: Zara Ahmed reshared my story today. Out of nowhere.
After a pause came her reply:
@Alish99❤️: She smiles at clever things.
He smiled at the screen.
@mumbaipulse: You know her?
No reply. Just the typing dots that appeared and vanished.
He leaned back, half-smiling.
Of course she did. The connection completed itself.
⸻
The Confession
That weekend, Dilip wrote late into the night.
He told her about a woman he had once known — a rich man's wife who lived in a Lokhandwala penthouse while her husband worked at sea.
The husband had made a mistake once — not a habit, a single slip.
She found out and wanted her own balance.
That's how he came in.
He said it had lasted less than a year and ended because it had to — she had children, a home, a world to return to.
He wrote it plainly, even with a trace of pride.
He used the phrase rich man's wife twice, without noticing how it sounded.
Anya read the message twice.
Something in her went cold.
⸻
The Fight
@Alish99❤️: Must be satisfying, being a rich man's wife's secret.
@mumbaipulse: You make it sound cheap. It wasn't.
@Alish99❤️: You said it twice like a medal.
@mumbaipulse: I was describing, not boasting.
@Alish99❤️: You want me to admire you for it.
@mumbaipulse: No. I want you to understand I've lived a life.
@Alish99❤️: Then maybe keep some of it to yourself.
@mumbaipulse: Why? Because it doesn't fit your idea of refinement?
@Alish99❤️: Because it's vulgar.
He stared at the screen.
Her tone had shifted — sharp, commanding, almost cruel.
@mumbaipulse: That's uncalled for.
@Alish99❤️: You don't get to decide what's called for.
@mumbaipulse: You're being rude now.
@Alish99❤️: Rude is honesty without your approval.
@mumbaipulse: You sound dangerous.
@Alish99❤️: Maybe you bring that out in people.
@mumbaipulse: I've never seen arrogance like this. I'm done. Blocking you.
@Alish99❤️: Go ahead. Weak men always end things when they lose control.
He hit Block.
The chat window turned grey, the silence landing like a door slammed in a quiet house.
He sat there for a long time, not angry, not hurt — just stunned at how quickly warmth had turned to threat.
⸻
Aftermath
Anya closed her MacBook, her hands steady.
The rain outside thickened into a soft roar.
It wasn't guilt she felt — it was relief.
She had shown her edge, the one her father trusted.
In Bandra, Dilip stared at the greyed-out chat, feeling something unnameable—part regret, part disbelief.
He had never met anyone who could turn so cold so fast.
For the first time in years, he wished for silence to mean nothing.
Between the Three Days
After the block, the house settled into its usual hush.
Rain pressed softly against the glass walls of Malabar Hill.
Anya stood a few steps from her father's desk.
He didn't look up; he never had to.
Vikash: He'll unblock you.
Anya: He knows who I am.
A faint smile crossed his face — not warmth, just recognition.
Vikash: And what proof does he have?
She stayed silent.
Vikash: None. So let him know. It won't matter.
He turned back to his monitor, the blue light brushing his face.
Vikash: This time I'll read the messages myself.
That was enough. He never repeated instructions.
By the time she left the room, her face had already reset — hesitation replaced by the stillness he demanded.
Three days would pass, and he would be right.
⸻
The Unblock
For three days the chat window stayed grey.
No new messages, no typing dots — just the blank space of absence.
He reread their last exchange until he knew every line by heart.
He told himself it was finished, yet every evening he checked his phone again.
On the third night he unblocked her.
He didn't write anything; he simply watched the thread, daring it to remain silent.
At 10 : 42 p.m., a message appeared.
@Alish99❤️: You missed me already?
@mumbaipulse: I don't like leaving things half-said.
@Alish99❤️: So you came back for closure. How poetic.
@mumbaipulse: Maybe I came back because I didn't believe that side of you was real.
@Alish99❤️: Every side of me is real. You just saw the one that doesn't flatter you.
@mumbaipulse: I'll take that.
@Alish99❤️: Good. Then we're even.
And just like that, they were back.
⸻
Vikash Watches
At Malabar Hill, Vikash read their exchanges on her MacBook.
He had trusted her instinct once; now he preferred certainty.
He watched the rhythm of the words — the eagerness, the pauses, the small attempts at tenderness.
He didn't need to take notes. His memory was precise enough to weaponise.
He saw what was forming between them, and it disturbed him: affection made her luminous.
Luminous meant independent.
He leaned back, eyes half-closed. A plan was already taking shape.
⸻
The Honey-Trap
It began that Friday.
The first woman smiled too long while handing him change at Chaayos.
The second, at Rama Nayak's, Matunga waited near the counter, pretending to check her phone.
When he turned, she met his eyes and smiled — brief, calculated, coquettish. Not an accident.
By the fifth day it had become routine: different faces, same gaze.
One woman a day. Always new. Always silent.
He started avoiding his usual places, taking the local train instead of autos, changing routes like a man trying to outrun his own shadow. It didn't help.
That night, he snapped.
He went home, opened the chat, and typed without thinking.
@mumbaipulse: Tell your father to stop.
@Alish99❤️: Stop what?
@mumbaipulse: Sending women. One a day, every day. You think I don't notice?
There was a pause, then her usual calm reply.
@Alish99❤️: You notice everything.
@mumbaipulse: Don't play word games. You know what I'm talking about.
@Alish99❤️: If you've already decided, what's left for me to say?
@mumbaipulse: Anya, don't do this. I'm serious. Women follow me everywhere. They smile, they wait. Same look, same timing.
@Alish99❤️: Mumbai's small. Maybe they like writers.
@mumbaipulse: Don't lie. You never lie. So don't start now.
A longer pause.
@Alish99❤️: What difference would it make if you knew?
@mumbaipulse: It would make all the difference! Because I'd know who's pulling the strings. Because I trusted you.
@Alish99❤️: You still can.
@mumbaipulse: Then tell me the truth. Why is he doing this?
No answer.
@mumbaipulse: Say something, for God's sake.
@Alish99❤️: Because he can.
He stared at that line for a long time.
Something in her tone made it worse — not defiant, not cruel, just inevitable.
@mumbaipulse: So he's controlling me now? Watching me?
Still no answer.
@mumbaipulse: You knew. You've always known.
Silence.
@mumbaipulse: Anya, tell me. What else is he doing?
Another long pause. Then finally —
@Alish99❤️: He's in the chat, Dilip.
@mumbaipulse: What do you mean he's in the chat?
@Alish99❤️: He reads everything.
He froze. Every message, every confession, every stray word — all of it had passed through another man's eyes.
@mumbaipulse: You let me write all that while he was watching?
@Alish99❤️: I didn't let you. That's just how it is.
@mumbaipulse: You're forty, Anya. How does a grown woman give her father her password?
No reply.
@mumbaipulse: Do you know how that feels? Like being exposed in public.
Still nothing.
He sat there, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a hollow kind of shame.
It wasn't her silence that broke him — it was knowing she'd never once lied.
⸻
The Edge of Understanding
The talk drifted again, softer this time.
They had been discussing the idea of closeness—what it means, who really understands whom.
@mumbaipulse: You speak like someone who's seen every kind of love.
@Alish99❤️: Maybe I have. Love wears too many shapes here. Some of them don't fit the photo frames.
@mumbaipulse: You sound like you've tested that theory.
@Alish99❤️: Let's just say I've learned that connection isn't about gender; it's about recognition.
He reread the line twice, trying to decide if she was confessing or quoting.
Before he could ask, another message appeared.
@Alish99❤️: Anyway, you'd get bored of the details. Tell me about what you're writing.
The subject changed, but something new had settled between them—a quiet current that neither of them named.
⸻
Vikash and Power
While Dilip paced his apartment, Vikash stood by the window of his study, watching the rain crawl down the glass.
He wasn't jealous of Anya's happiness; he had never begrudged her that.
What unsettled him was the possibility of an alliance — the faint but growing sense that Anya and Dilip might begin to think together.
Vikash could allow his daughter joy, but not independence that came from another man's understanding.
Power didn't mean cruelty to him; it meant control of the story.
He'd built his life around the idea that everything could be managed — events, outcomes, even emotions — if one simply stayed alert.
But now he saw something new in their messages: rhythm, trust, a kind of private language.
That was dangerous.
He wanted to break the rhythm before it formed into loyalty.
So he set the distraction in motion — one woman a day, always smiling, always silent.
Not to test Dilip's fidelity, but to re-establish scale: to remind both of them that he could reach into anyone's life and alter the balance with a single order.
He wanted Anya safe, but on his terms.
He wanted Dilip alive, but uncertain.
He wanted the world — as always — to remain his.
⸻
The Bollywood Chat
It was late, and the chat had drifted to Bollywood — the world that made and broke people every Friday.
@Alish99❤️: You know Samrat Khan's bodyguard makes more than most actors? Two crores a year. He's basically the man holding the industry together.
@mumbaipulse: Two crores? That's impossible.
@Alish99❤️: It's true. People say he's not just guarding the star — he's guarding the secrets too.
@mumbaipulse: Secrets are a better currency than money in your world.
@Alish99❤️: In everyone's world, Dilip. Ours just pays better.
She paused, then added:
@Alish99❤️: And everyone knows about Sanjay Dev — three thousand women. It's like an open secret.
@mumbaipulse: Three thousand? That's… almost mathematical.
@Alish99❤️: It's a number people repeat when they're bored. Nobody cares if it's true.
@mumbaipulse: Still, that kind of boasting says something.
@Alish99❤️: It says everything. Most Bollywood marriages are a sham anyway. The fathers drink too much, and the lines in those homes blur — no one remembers what respect is supposed to look like, fathers lust for their daughters.
Dilip read that twice, slower the second time. His reply came after a long pause.
@mumbaipulse: That's… difficult to imagine. But not new, maybe. History was full of the same thing. Egyptian kings married their sisters and daughters to keep power pure, and later the Habsburg family in Europe did the same. After a few generations, their children were born weak and their faces changed — jaws that couldn't even close properly. Power does that when it keeps turning in on itself.
@Alish99❤️: You make it sound polite.
@mumbaipulse: I'm just saying nothing shocks me if it's old enough.
@Alish99❤️: Same story. New soundtrack.
@mumbaipulse: You talk like you hate that world.
@Alish99❤️: Hate? No. I just know it too well.
She sent a wink emoji.
He stared at the screen, unsure whether to feel pity or admiration.
⸻
Anya
At Malabar Hill, Anya read his messages in silence.
Vikash stood behind her chair, hands folded. He said nothing; he didn't need to.
She could feel his satisfaction in the room — control restored, order back in place.
Whatever had been rising in her was gone again.
She closed the MacBook without replying.