Stranger in the City

I had just moved to Pune.

New job, new flat, new city. Everything felt temporary. Even the bed in my rented 1 BHK still creaked like it hadn’t decided to stay. My colleagues at work were polite, but they were also busy. I had lunch with my laptop and dinner with YouTube playlists I didn’t finish.

And then one day, I ran into her.

Not in some magical, slow-motion way. Just outside a bakery near Model Colony. I was buying bread. She was standing beside the fridge, debating between two brands of cold coffee. A five-second delay at the billing counter led to a side glance, then a soft, “Hey... wait... weren’t you in Section B of BBA at LPU?”

I blinked. She hadn’t changed. Except now her hair was shorter and her eyes carried that same half-curious, half-amused expression they used to have in class.

“Yeah,” I said. “You were in A. Right?”

---

We didn’t plan to meet again. But she texted two days later—“You’re in Pune too? Coffee, maybe?”

And just like that, the city became less silent.

---

We weren’t dating. We weren’t friends either, not in the loud, late-night-call kind of way. We were just... two people who occasionally sat across from each other in small cafés, talking about nothing serious. The weather. Work. Her cat. My inability to cook anything except tea and toast.

I told her how I ended up here—post-placement transfer, a little unexpected, but I didn’t fight it. She said she liked Pune’s rain, but hated how quiet evenings became after 8 PM.

Once, when she found me staring too long at a couple on FC Road, she smiled gently and said, “You look like someone who misses people without telling them.”

I didn’t respond. But I walked her to her cab that night without saying goodbye.

---

It was around mid-August when the rains hit hard. I was stuck in traffic near Shivaji Nagar, soaked to the skin. My phone battery was dying. Uber cancelled. I remembered her flat was nearby.

I hesitated.

And then called.

“Are you home?”

She didn’t ask why. Just said, “Come up. I’ll keep a towel ready.”

---

That evening changed something. Not dramatically. But gently, like how a song shifts keys mid-way.

We talked while her washing machine whirred in the background. She made Maggi and gave me one of her oversized hoodies to wear. Neither of us mentioned the closeness. It was just... understood.

When I left, I said, “Thanks. I mean... really.”

She shrugged. “Kabhi zarurat pade to bula lena.”

Then paused. Smiled.

“This city might be stranger. But its people aren’t.”

---

I never did call her in desperation again. But sometimes, just knowing she was somewhere in the same city, breathing the same monsoon air, was enough.

And on certain nights, after long workdays, alone in my flat, sipping leftover chai, I’d scroll up in our chat to read that line once more.

"Kabhi zarurat pade to bula lena. Shehar begana hai, log nahi."