Anya and Karthik were high-school sweethearts only to make it to the same college and land similar jobs in the same city. They were together for four years after graduation. Anya thought life could not be better. She was the happiest when they decided to live together in an apartment in Bangalore.

Late-night shifts and growing work pressure were indeed driving a wedge in their relationship. She sensed it but never addressed it. She meant to talk to him but never initiated it. She had disregarded apparent signs. Her quick analytical mind was warning her, but her romantic heart ignored it, and she hesitated in calling him out. It could all be traced to a year back when he did not turn up to fetch her from the office.

"An? I'm so sorry, baby. I have a client meeting now. I can't pick you up,"  Karthik's voice sounded rushed from the other end of the phone when he finally spoke, after twenty of her missed calls.

"You should've said that when I called you the first time. At least, you could've messaged. I've been waiting like for aeons now," Anya retorted in annoyance.

"Come on, baby. It's not that late. I'll be home before you know it," he placated.

"Karthik, it's not about you being late. It's about wasting my time. I like to spend my time the way I want. Even if I wait, that should be because I chose it. Plus, I hate waiting," she declared.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'll message next time. Ok? Got to go, bye!" 

So, there'll be a next time, Anya pondered as she put her phone away.

She did not think much about it then, but after that conversation, they had stopped driving together. Anya had to rely on public transport for her travel.

Soon, there were detailed messages instead of calls. Once Karthik got the hang of the latest messaging jargon, even these messages became concise -- like a telegram from older times --with a lot of information packed with the least possible number of characters.

Boys N8 out. Wil b late. ILY.

--Karthik

She took time to decipher the message and was irked because it was the Friday evening which they had planned to spend together. She knew this could be the cause of a prominent divide between them.

A few months later, on a lazy Saturday afternoon, "I'm getting this second-hand Wagon R. What do you think?" Anya chirped, as she browsed through the online used-cars website. It was all a ruse to get a reaction from Karthik.

After a long time, they were at home. He had been amicable that day. He cooked and cleaned for a change, before Anya woke up. It was a welcome surprise, but he was soon with his laptop and made no attempts to converse with her.

"Hmm, hmm. Good for you. Nice choice," he said without looking up. 

Anya gaped at him for a minute, then paid for the car, before she changed her mind.

The car was a blessing in disguise, or rather a blessing in hasty decisions. It served its purpose. She could finish her chores, travel to the office without hassles, and wondered why she took so long to get a vehicle. Yet, she did not confront him about their relationship. She was delusional and in denial then. Now, she knew that she had paid dearly.

Her pride was hurt. Thinking, she felt, was self-inflicted torture. When the breakup was still new, she had felt only anger which dwindled to numbness. She deleted Karthik's photos from all her devices, stopped browsing social media pages, except LinkedIn. Few of her days were better than others, and some days there was this indescribable pain in her abdomen, some kind of physical manifestation of rejection. It was not that she had loved him dearly, but she did not expect the betrayal.

Her self-confidence was mammoth, but somewhere on the fringes, she wanted to know the reason behind his infidelity. Where did she lack that he wanted to replace her? Was she that easily expendable? But, she did not dwell on it for long. She knew she was not at fault, and their breakup entirely vested on Karthik.

"One week and I'm getting out of this stupidity," she set herself an ultimatum, but one week turned to many.

After three months of their parting, she was done with crying, ice cream tubs and chick flicks. It was a Friday, and after much thought, she joined her colleagues for a night out at the local pub.

She was having a good time, and that was when she saw him for the first time.

He looked dapper in business casuals and meant to be in those. He was taller than the crowd around him. Though he was lean, he was muscular and had an athlete's build. There was nothing bulky about him, but he commanded presence among his peers. She glanced around and saw a lot of women look at him in awe. However, he hardly noticed them. He was like a chick magnet.

"So who is he?" she casually asked her co-worker, Samantha.

Samantha turned around and eyed him, "Oh my! You don't know?"

When Anya shook her head, Sam quirked her brow in surprise and went onto explain, "He, my dear Anya, is Mr Ajay Mullapudi."

"The famous banker? I've read his articles in business sections of Economic times."

"Yeah, the same."

"Wow, never thought I would see him here."

"This is his favourite haunt. He comes every Friday to chill out with his cronies."

Samantha was called away by someone she knew. Anya was by herself and noticed every little detail about him. He was on his second glass of Vodka tonic. It was not a creative or complex drink. He had a bored expression on his face, but she understood that he paid attention to everything that his group was discussing. He had perfect cheekbones, a chiselled jaw and a long-lashed pair of sharp, charming brown eyes.

He was justified in the looks department, and it seemed like he took time to groom. A little while after his second drink, he left. She wondered who drove him. It was illegal to drive drunk.

Anyway, he was intriguing, and his looks added to his favour. He could be the possible distraction that she needed from her self-pity and heartbreak. For a few minutes there, she forgot all about Karthik and her broken relationship.

She wanted to learn about him, but she was in a dilemma. She had never done anything of this kind before, yet her curiosity won.

Though she felt like a creep, every Friday from then on, she went to the same pub, took furtive glances at him and noticed the same things.

He ordered exactly two drinks —the Vodka tonic with the same brand of Vodka. Perhaps it was a habit, and he could be a creature of habit. He wore similar clothes and spent time with the same set of people and hardly glanced at all the women trying to catch his eye.

She was a data analyst for a reason. She collected all forms of data and pulled various reports using qualitative, quantitative and descriptive methods based on her client's requirements. She believed in descriptive analysis —drawing conclusions from historical data and trying to predict future trends.

She started researching about him and did mild social-media stalking which she knew was ethically wrong. But, as she anticipated, the task distracted her enough to ward off self-pity. She no longer gazed for hours together at open skies with a wandering mind. She no longer took pains to stop visiting her social media pages.

She approached Sanjay, the hacker, to find out more about Mr Ajay Mullapudi. It was not his line of business, but he helped her because she got down on her knees and looked at him with the best puppy-dog face she could muster.

"You look as if you are constipated. Stop scaring me and get out," he muttered yet gave her the data.

What she found out from him added nothing more to her analysis of the existing data.

Mr Mullapudi lived alone in a lavishly furnished apartment in Koramangala, Bangalore, quite close to his office and used Namma Metro to travel within the city. His routine was pretty much the same. He got up by 5 am and went for a jog, or on rainy mornings, worked out at his clubhouse gym. He was ready for his long day at work by morning 7.30. He worked until 10 in the night and went home to sleep. 

Twice a day, he visited the nearby food joints for his meals and survived mostly on coffee. He was quite addicted to that beverage that rivalled her own. He ate healthy food, usually stuck to salads, sandwiches, smoothies or fruit bowls. He never smoked, and drank only on Fridays, at the same pub, with the same crowd. 

He had a very active LinkedIn account. She thought that perhaps an assistant or a dedicated PR team handled his Facebook and Twitter accounts. 

Did she find his routine tedious, rigid or stifling? Her parents had driven home the point that designing and adhering to a personal daily routine was the path to freedom, productivity, happiness, and fulfilling one's true potential. Nah, she wasn't against routines.

But so far, nothing interesting came up. Anya didn't know if he had a sense of humour because he rarely laughed at the pub. She didn't know his favourite colour or if he had a girlfriend or if he was dating someone currently. His private life was a secret, and that intrigued her. He was as closed up like an onion, with so many layers to unravel.

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