Rumors in the Air

The fountain in Sector 17 had always been Samar's favourite spot to people-watch, but this morning, the people were watching each other, and someone was about to be devoured. Clusters of aunties huddled near the flower vendors, their voices dropping to theatrical whispers whenever someone passed by. Even the usual cacophony of auto rickshaw horns seemed subdued, as if the entire plaza was holding its breath for the next piece of scandalous news that would feed their hunger for destruction.

Mrs. Gupta materialised beside his motorcycle like smoke, her dupatta pulled low despite the October heat. She had a nervous habit of twisting her gold bangles when she delivered particularly juicy gossip, and they were spinning furiously now. "Beta, you know the Sharma girl from B-block?" Her kohl-rimmed eyes darted left and right. "Coming home at all hours. With the company."

Samar's hand tightened on his helmet strap. Sneha Sharma, he'd seen her at the bus stop mornings, medical textbooks clutched against her chest, dark circles under determined eyes. "She works nights at..."

"Works." Mrs. Gupta's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "That's what they call it now." She leaned closer, her voice sweet with false concern. "My heart breaks for her parents. Such shame on the family name."

The words lodged in Samar's throat like fishbones. He wanted to argue, to defend, but his mother's warnings echoed: Don't make enemies in this city, beta. Word travels faster than your motorcycle.

By noon, the rumour had metastasised. Three colleagues cornered him at the water cooler, each adding their own embellishments to Sneha's supposed scandal. Samar found himself nodding along, his silence feeling heavier with each passing story. What was he afraid of? That defending someone he barely knew would mark him as either naive or complicit? That questioning the narrative would make him the next target? By evening, even the security guard at his IT office was shaking his head knowingly. "These modern girls, sahib. No values anymore."

Samar escaped to his usual tea stall near the Rose Garden, hoping Balwant Singh's weathered wisdom might offer some perspective. The old vendor moved with the deliberate grace of someone who'd served thousands of cups of chai, his moustache permanently stained amber from decades of tasting his own brew. He had an endearing habit of humming old Punjabi folk songs while the tea boiled. Today, the melody was melancholy.

"Uncle, this business about the Sharma girl..."

Balwant's hand stilled on the kettle handle. "You mean the one who tips me five rupees extra when she has it? Who asks about my grandson's studies?" Steam rose between them like incense. "She takes the 11:30 bus home from Dr. Mehta's clinic. Works double shifts since her father..." He tapped his temple. "Lost his job. Engineering company downsized."

"Then why is everyone..."

"Saw her getting dropped off by Dr. Mehta's boy one night. The bus had broken down." Balwant poured tea through a practised arc. "One good deed becomes a dozen dirty stories. You know how it is."

That night, Samar lay awake listening to his neighbour's television bleeding through the thin walls. The laugh track of some comedy show mocked him. How was anything funny when someone's life was being shredded by strangers who'd never spoken her name before this week?

His phone buzzed. WhatsApp group message from his housing society: "Parents should keep better watch on their daughters. Standards are falling in our colony."

Samar stared at the screen until the words began to blur. Sneha lived in B-block, just across the courtyard. How many times had he seen her returning from late shifts, shoulders sagging with exhaustion? How many times had he noticed her parents watching anxiously from their balcony until she was safely inside?

The next morning, Mrs. Gupta's cold shoulder in the elevator spoke louder than her usual chatter. Her bangles remained perfectly still as she stared at the floor numbers, refusing to meet his eyes. At work, two colleagues who'd previously included him in their gossip sessions now found excuses to avoid the break room when he entered. Even his mother called that evening, her voice tight with worry: "Beta, Mrs. Sharma mentioned you've been... stirring things up. Be careful. This city has a long memory." The grocery store owner mentioned casually while weighing onions that Sneha had been "let go" from the clinic. "Too much talk, you know. Bad for business."

Standing in line with his vegetables, watching ordinary people buy ordinary things while someone's dreams crumbled, Samar felt something crack inside his chest. His mother had always warned him about making waves in their small social ecosystem, but some currents were more dangerous than others.

He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over his college WhatsApp group. Fifty people across Chandigarh. Fifty voices that could whisper poison or speak truth.

"Friends, need to share something. Sneha Sharma from Sector 22, a brilliant medical student, supports her family, works harder than any of us. Stories are going around. I know the truth. She's been pulling night shifts at Dr. Mehta's clinic since her father lost his job. When buses stop running, Dr. Mehta's son drops her home safely. That's it. That's the whole scandal."

His thumb hovered over send. He could already imagine the fallout: Mrs. Gupta's cold shoulders, his mother's worried lectures, colleagues questioning his motives. In Chandigarh's tight social fabric, defending someone could unravel your own standing.

He pressed send.

The responses came in waves. Guilt-ridden confessions: "Shared this story yesterday. Feel terrible now." Supportive voices: "Always seemed like a good girl. Shame on us." And then, unexpectedly, from Rohit Mehta: "Thank you for this. Sneha di is like family. Seeing her character questioned for accepting help... we're better than this gossip culture."

Within hours, the narrative began shifting like sand. Medical students shared stories of Sneha's kindness, her study groups that helped struggling classmates, and her volunteer work at free clinics. The whispers grew louder, but now they carried different words.

Two weeks later, Samar found himself at Sukhna Lake, watching joggers circle the path in the golden evening light. He'd come here to think, but found Sneha sitting on a bench, feeding breadcrumbs to persistent ducks.

"Funny how quickly things change," she said without looking at him. "Last week I was unemployed and..." She trailed off, watching a duck dive beneath the surface. "This week, Dr. Mehta called personally to offer me a raise."

"You heard about..."

"Everyone heard." She turned to face him, and he was struck by how young she looked despite the weariness in her eyes. "The question is why you..." Her voice caught slightly. "You barely knew me."

Samar watched a family of ducks paddle past, leaving V-shaped wakes in the still water. "My mother always said gossip is like throwing stones in a pond. The ripples reach places you never intended." He picked up a pebble and skipped it across the surface. "Guess I wanted to try throwing truth for once."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the sun paint the lake copper and gold. Somewhere across the water, a boat's engine puttered peacefully, carrying tourists past the same scenery that had watched countless stories unfold, some true, some exaggerated, some completely fabricated.

"You know what scared me most?" Sneha's voice was soft. "Not the rumours themselves, but how ready everyone was to..." She shook her head. "People who'd known my family for years suddenly saw me as capable of things I'd never even..."

A cool breeze carried the scent of roses from the nearby garden, mixing with the lake's earthy smell. Samar thought about all the conversations he'd overheard, all the judgment passed by people who probably couldn't remember when they'd last spoken to Sneha directly.

"Maybe that's the real problem," he said. "We've stopped seeing each other as... as people. Everyone's become a character in everyone else's story."

Sneha stood to leave, brushing crumbs from her dupatta. "I got my job back, but more importantly, I got something else. Faith that not everyone enjoys watching others fall."

As she walked away, disappearing into the evening crowd of families and couples, Samar remained on the bench. The lake had grown still again, its surface reflecting the first stars. Tomorrow, there would be new rumours, fresh scandals to dissect and distribute. But tonight, he felt something he hadn't expected: hope that truth could travel just as fast as lies, if enough people were willing to carry it.

He pulled out his phone. Three unread gossip messages blinked on the screen. Without opening them, he deleted each one. Then, on impulse, he picked up another pebble and skipped it across the water, watching the ripples spread outward in ever-widening circles until they reached the far shore and dissolved into stillness. Some stones sank without a trace, he thought. Others sent waves that lasted long after the impact was forgotten.