Living Diagonally In My Parallel World!

The rain had stopped just before dusk, leaving the streets of Mumbai slick and glistening like a memory half-washed. Inside the lobby of the five star Trent Hotel in Nariman Point, the air was cool, perfumed faintly with lemongrass and polished leather. Marble floor reflected the soft yellow lights above, and the quiet hum of conversations floated like background music. Raghav spotted him first—leaning against the concierge desk, scrolling through his phone, dressed in a pale blue linen shirt and beige trousers. His hair was thinner, his shoulders broader, but the face was unmistakable. “Arjun?” Raghav said, unsure if he should smile. Arjun looked up, blinked, and then smiled slowly. “Raghav Patkar. From Nagpur. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.” They shook hands, awkwardly. It had been nearly twenty years. “You’re here for the conference?” Arjun asked. “Yeah. Policy and Infrastructure. You?” “Same. I’m with the Gujarat Urban Planning Board now.” “Delhi Development Aut...

The air in Dhwani Theatre’s courtyard was thick with the scent of cutting chai and damp bougainvillea. It had rained earlier, one of those October showers in Mumbai that arrived uninvited, rinsing the city in melancholy. Aarti Joshi, 42, adjusted the dupatta of her indigo khadi kurta and scanned the crowd. She hadn’t been here in years. She had long left theatre and dedicated herself to a charity organisation. The invitation had come unexpectedly — a tribute to Raghav Mehta, the legendary theatre director who had once ruled Mumbai’s experimental stage had recently passed away. Aarti had been his student, muse, and something else she wondered — something harder to name. She walked past the posters of past productions: "Dharavi", "Waiting for Godot in Goregaon", "Panchali’s Trial". His genius had always been in translation — not just of language, but of pain. Inside the black box theatre, the lights were dimmed. A slideshow played: Raghav in rehearsa...

The metro screeched into Viman Nagar station, its compartments spilling commuters like faceless ant’s from an ant hill. Among them was Raghav Pandit, a bachelor who had just crossed fifty, whose presence was as unremarkable as the rust on the railings. He wore a faded blue shirt, carried a leather satchel that had seen better decades, and walked with the kind of practiced indifference that only years of solitude could perfect. Raghav worked as a head clerk in a government office at Viman Nagar. His job was to file papers, stamp approvals, and nod at superiors. He had no friends at work, only colleagues who greeted him with the obligatory “Good morning, sir,” and ignored him by lunch. His evenings were spent in a one-bedroom flat in Kothrud, where the ceiling fan sometimes worked and creaked softly like his voice. He ate alone. Walked alone. Slept alone. And yet, city seemed to roar around him—its horns, its hawkers, its high-rises. The city was a living organism, pulsing with ambit...