Sitting on the edge of one bunk-bed, I shifted my gaze between the tiled floor and Chanchal, who still soundly slept, on her bed. All of a sudden, an unsettling heaviness captured my beating heart, and an unshakable feeling of hollowness settled into it, bullying it to painfully twist and turn. In the moments of absolute silence in the bedroom, reality hit me hard; I was in Mumbai, on my own, and there was absolutely no way I could run back to my family on a bad day. It struck me that I shared the room with three strangers, who were definitely the kindest bunch of people I met in Mumbai, but I believed that they were simply too distant to fill the consuming void in me. I felt trapped and I wanted to run back home, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn't handle the feeling that groped me tight, nor could I fight that paralyzing feeling. When the bathroom door clicked open, I took a sharp breath in and hung my head low, in an attempt to hide my moist eyes from Vaish, who busily wiped her wet hair with a blue towel.

"Dityaa listen, I got an urgent call right now and I need to rush; I'll return in the evening only...", Vaish informed, and my heart experienced a depressing drop because I mentally sketched a plan to spend the day with Vaish to drive the loneliness and sadness away. "...when Chanch wakes up, will you please give her a glass of hot milk?", Vaish requested and I shook my head in a slow nod, as streams of tears warmed my cheeks. "I know you must be tired, so just order something for lunch, alright? Nash and I will cook something good for dinner. Just adjust for now. On the fridge door, there's a list of numbers of the restaurants around this area", Vaish continued. While she briefed about the things-to-do in her absence to kill time with Chanch, I broke down into a cry and shook hard, forcing her to take an abrupt pause. "Hey, Dityaa!", Vaish called out in a soft tone, and I simply cried in silence. "OMG, Dityaa!", Vaish exclaimed and knelt down in front of me, holding my hands in hers. She looked on in silence, wearing a sympathetic smile, while I cried my heart out in front of her; she was patient and considerate enough to take every bit of my tears. "I'm sorry", I hoarsely said, and sniffed in loudly, throwing my head back. "I miss home", I justified my sudden outburst, and Vaish tightened her grip around my hand. "I know. All of us went through this phase; it is normal, trust me", Vaish comforted, and I swallowed hard, looking down at my hands. "I didn't sleep for two weeks. Chanch didn't eat for a whole week. But slowly, you'll grow used to this space, this will become your home and we will become your family that whenever you visit your own family, you'll start missing us so much that you'll want to run back to Mumbai", Vaish calmly spoke, and I smiled weakly. "And if you have a family like mine, they'll taunt you about how you've forgotten your roots once you moved to Mumbai", Vaish lightly said, giving a reason for the smile on my lips to stretch. "You know that's the best part about being human, Dityaa; your heart builds a home in people and places where it finds something as simple as love, and I promise you'll find love in abundance in the city and with us", Vaish's promise steadied the shaky strength in me. "I often keep think..." – "Vaish, shut up!", Chanch's muffled cry filled the room, silencing Vaish and I giggled softly. "She is a cranky kid", Vaish loudly whispered to me. "I heard it!", Chanch snapped. "Too bad you did, ChanChan", Vaish teased, and the next thing Chanch did was – she threw a fluffy cushion on Vaish, which knocked hard on Vaish's head, making her lose balance. "Idiot, I hope you get well soon so that I could extract my revenge", Vaish said, but Chanch didn't respond back to her. "Anyways, I need to go. Don't forget about the hot milk, alright?", Vaish reminded. "And make sure you heat the right milk, otherwise the washroom's going to stink today", Vaish said in an extremely low hush, and we laughed.

Once Vaish left the apartment, I aimlessly wandered around the living room for a while, before washing all the dishes in the kitchen and mopping the dirty floor. Once I dusted every nook and corner and polished the glass windows, I sat down, cross-legged, on the rugged carpet with my laptop and iPhone, ready to search down a decent-paying job in Mumbai. Nanoseconds after turning on my mobile data, a waterfall of notifications cascaded down my lock-screen, all from my mom and I was certain it was related to Darshan. Leaning against the couch, I scrolled through her spam of 26 messages, which read, 'Did you eat? Eat something! Don't forget to send pictures of your apartment. How are your roommates? All of them are girls only, right? Are they good girls? Listen, don't think that you could do whatever you want because you're living on your own; we may not be watching you, but God still is. Fear God. Be a good girl. Don't forget about our upbringing and culture and beliefs. Focus on fulfilling your goals and nothing more. Okay, call Darshan. If you love me, call him and talk to him. If my peace of mind matters to you, talk to Darshan once. Here, I'm sending his number. Talk to him, okay? If you don't talk to him, you'll have to return to Gujarat and I am serious. Talk to him'; her messages were hilarious and I couldn't help but idiotically beam at my phone screen. She was one typical and annoying Asian mom, and that morning, I decided to pay heed to her words and 'talk to him'; not because I was in desperate need of his help, or anything of that sort, but solely because I felt it was my duty to respect my mom's orders because I was miles away from her and I didn't want to disappoint her. 'Take a chill pill, mommy boo! I'll call him and you can call Usha Aunty to confirm if I did, okay?', I dropped a text message for her and tapped on Darshan's contact number that she sent.

I stared at his number for a long while, and mentally prepared a one-sided script on my mind before tapping on the call icon. I kept a count of the endlessly long outgoing calls, and on the sixth ring, I cut the call. I breathed in, and called him up for the second time because that was exactly what my mom would have told me to do if I told her that he didn't answer my call, but even the second call went unanswered. Loudly, I sighed in frustration and tapped on WhatsApp to drop a message for mom. 'I called him twice. He did not answer the call. I am not trying again!', I texted, and almost instantaneously, mom replied back. 'Call him one more time', was her reply, and it was expected. 'Mom, self-respect!', I typed. 'Please', mom's one-word text message did the job, and shamelessly, I called the celebrity up for the third time. Thankfully, on the third ring, he answered the call and uttered a quick, "Hello", into the phone from the other end. "Oh, um...hi...", I fumbled, because all of a sudden, I went blank. "Sorry, wrong number", he said in one breath and cut the call on my face, giving my nerves a reason to snap. Unconsciously, my jaw dropped open in shock; that was extremely rude of him! I dialed my mom's number, sprung up to my feet and paced back and forth in the squashed living room, chewing my nails in anger. I couldn't believe that Vaish followed, idolized and adored someone as mean as him!

"He picked up, didn't he? I told you, he's a good boy. What did he say?", mom said in one breath, and the fact that she believed he was a 'good boy' got on my nerves. "Good boy, my foot, mom! He's so rude. What does he think of himself? Okay, he's Darshan Raval. He's a singer. So what?! Like, what's the big deal about him? He thinks so high of himself. I bet the Khans of Bollywood are fifty times more grounded and humble, when compared to him. Don't you dare call him a 'good boy' one more time, mom, because he is not! He is a big-shot and he has a lot of pride in him. Tell him to go to hell with that attitude; it's not going to help him in this world. I don't need his help. I would rather beg in Mumbai!", I vented out all my frustration on mom, who didn't even bother to interrupt me. "Are you done?", mom uninterestedly questioned. "So rude. He thinks he can do whatever he wants just because he's a celebrity. I called him up three times", I muttered under my breath. "Oh okay, you're not. Tell me when you're done", mom said, flatly. "Mom, this is not funny; stop making this a joke!", I nagged. "I'll talk to Usha Di about it...", mom said, and I plainly cut her off. "Dare you do that!", I warned. "I don't want him to think that I'm desperate for his help, or whatever. I don't need his guidance, mom; I'll find a way on my own", I stated. "I'll call Usha Di, tell her to tell Darshan to call you, and you have to answer the call because I don't want you to loiter around, unemployed, in an unknown city for too long", mom's voice gravely dropped; it sounded more of a threat. "I won't answer the call", I stubbornly said, and shrugged my shoulders. "If you don't talk to him, I won't allow you to live in Mumbai, as simple as that", mom laid the trapped, and I fell into it, within microseconds. There was no way I could argue with my mom, let alone win an argument against her. "Are you seriously my mom? I cannot believe you find peace in me depending on someone for something! You're too much at times", I spat in anger, and cut the call on her face.

♥

Around thirty minutes after the phone call with mom, I received an incoming call from an unknown number, but I was certain it was The Darshan Raval. I allowed the phone to ring for a while, a long while, like how he did and simply stared at the screen, keeping a count of the number of rings. On the sixth ring, I swiped the answer icon and remained pin-drop silent, waiting for Darshan Raval to speak up.

"Hello, am I speaking to Mrs. Dityaa?", a female questioned from the other end, and I narrowed my eyes. "Um...Miss Dityaa", I corrected, slowly. "Oh, I'm sorry. Anyways, I'm Amaya from Darshan's team. He's extremely busy with the sound-check at the moment, and he told me to inform you to meet him tomorrow in his office, regarding some job offer, I reckon. I've fixed an appointment at 10.30 sharp; make sure you're one time. Thank you!", Amaya, with a posh accent, uttered in one breath before cutting the call. I didn't know why, but I was mad at him; I didn't have a legitimate reason, but I hated him – probably, it was because of his attitude, or whatever.

"Please be on time, my foot. I'll show him", I mumbled under my breath and continued surfing the internet.