Page 22 of Okay Boss
Divya stood, but Aditya caught her wrist briefly.
“One honest answer,” he whispered. “Is he cool in real life? Or fake?”
Their father cleared his throat.
Aditya let go immediately. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”
Divya carried her plate to the sink. Through the small window, she could see the neighboring building close enough to touch.Laundry hung from railings. A television flickered in someone else’s living room.
This was her world. Not hotel ballrooms. Not private conference suites. Not headlines.
This.
She washed her plate, dried it, and placed it back in its exact spot on the shelf.
Order restored.
Later, Divya heard her parents clearly through the thin walls.
“She’s exhausting herself,” her mother said in a lowered voice that still carried. “Did you see her face? Those dark circles?”
“What do you expect her to do?” her father replied. “This internship matters.”
“I know it matters.” A cupboard shut, sharper than usual. “But those film sets… such long hours. And what kind of atmosphere is she in all day? Actors, late nights, people with no routine.”
A pause.
“She has sense,” her father said, quieter now. “She won’t lose it.”
Their bedroom door clicked shut.
Divya stared at her closed laptop, understanding the fear beneath their words. Not that she would fail. That she would change. That she would wake up one day wanting a life that didn’t fit inside Shanti Niwas.
She pressed the power button. For a few seconds, the screen remained black, and her reflection stared back.
Wire-rimmed glasses. Same style since sixth standard, chosen for durability not fashion. Behind them, tired eyes. No concealer. No enhancement. Her hair in a plain braid.
She knew what she looked like. The sensible one. The scholarship student. Not the kind people turned to look at twice.
The laptop lit up, replacing her reflection with her thesis: “Media Representation and Cultural Identity: Analyzing Shifting Paradigms in Contemporary Indian Cinema.”
The irony wasn’t lost on her. Dissecting the very industry that reminded her daily where she stood. But maybe that distance sharpened her vision. She was writing about class and identity while living the gap between temporary access and ownership.
She thought of that morning’s makeup artist, sharp bob, perfect brows, leaning into Vikram’s space with ease.
Even the junior production assistants seemed to fit. Their messy hair looked intentional. Their casual clothes somehow coordinated.
They moved through that world like natives. Divya moved through it like someone who had memorized enough phrases to survive but would never be mistaken for belonging.
She didn’t resent them. She simply saw the gap.
Her glasses slid down. She pushed them back up, refocusing on the document.
The cursor blinked. She began typing.
On paper, she was confident. Divya Mathur. First rank. Debate society president. Scholarship student. The smart one who would rise through competence.
Outside, Andheri hummed. A neighbor argued about parking. Children shouted in their game. No insulation. No curated silence. Nothing like Vikram’s vanity van where sound could be switched off like a light.
