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"Completely."
"Good. Because that girl deserves someone who pays attention." A rustling sound. "What do you want to know?"
"Her favorite things. Food, places, routines. Things that bring her joy."
"Divya doesn't indulge much. She's practical. Saves money, avoids luxuries." Mrs. Menon paused. "But there is chai."
Vikram straightened. "Chai?"
"From a tapri near college. Nothing fancy. Street vendor with a metal cart. But Divya swore it was the best in the world. She'd walk fifteen minutes out of her way to get it between classes."
Vikram could picture it. Divya closing her eyes as she sipped, that rare contentment crossing her face.
"Location?"
"Near the old gate of college. Vendor's name is Raju. He's there every morning, six to eleven."
Vikram filed the information away.
"One more thing," Mrs. Menon added. "Grand gestures won't work with her. She'll find reasons to dismiss them. But if you pay attention to small things, details she thinks don't matter, that's what will reach her."
"I understand."
"I know you do. That's why I'm helping." Her voice softened. "Make her happy, Vikram. That's all the thanks I need."
The call ended.
Vikram set the phone down.
Tomorrow was a shoot day. Call time at eight. He'd need to leave by five-thirty to reach the tapri and return in time.
He turned off the lamp, the study plunging into darkness.
Upstairs, Divya slept peacefully, unaware that tomorrow morning would shift something between them.
Again.
Chapter 27
Five-thirty AM found Vikram on a borrowed motorcycle, prosthetics reshaping his face into anonymity, dressed in faded jeans and a plain shirt that had seen better days. He’d called his makeup artist at four in the morning. Paid him four times as much.
And, he'd skipped his workout. The gym equipment sat unused for the first time in years. That mattered. His morning routine was sacred: an hour of weights and cardio before the world woke, building the physical discipline that translated to every other area of his life. Directors praised his dedication. Co-stars envied his consistency.
All of it abandoned for a cup of tea.
Mumbai's early morning streets were still clearing from the night as he navigated through delivery trucks and newspaper vendors. Linking Road appeared through the morning haze, and there, on the corner exactly as Mrs. Menon had described, stood a metal cart under a faded blue tarp.
The Tapri.
Nothing fancy. Just a weathered cart with a small gas burner, dented pots, mismatched cups, and a proprietor who looked like he'd been serving tea since independence.
Raju. Had to be.
Vikram parked the motorcycle down the street and approached, waiting until the current customer left before stepping forward.
"Chai?" Raju asked, not looking up from the pot he was cleaning.
"Actually, I need to learn."
