Unravelled

I was coming undone, quietly, in my Matunga apartment, the October heat pressing like a heavy palm. Mumbai simmered outside, its air thick with roasted corn and rickshaw fumes. On a worn stool, I faced a wall where plaster flaked, revealing ghosts of old posters. My name is Pj, and I found solace in the slow fracture of my mind, like the comfort of chai’s steam against my face.

The steel glass sat warm in my hand, cardamom sharp in the stillness. My phone lay blank on the table, untouched by messages. Seven months had passed since Pooja faded, not with a goodbye but a silence that settled like dust. Yet she lingered, her presence in the fan’s steady drone, its rhythm like her soft laughter. I closed my eyes, past and present blurring.

It began a year ago at Kurla station, evening rush packing the platform with office workers and students. I was a data clerk in BKC, my days lost to screens, fingers cramped by night. The loudspeaker cut through: “CST train, platform two.” Amid the crowd, Pooja stood by a pillar, her green saree simple, hair loosely tied, eyes calm but piercing.

The train’s jolt pushed us close. “Careful,” she said, clutching her bag.

“No room to fall,” I replied, gripping the rail.

A faint smile. “I’m Pooja.”

“Pj.” Words drowned in the clatter, but at Matunga, she said, “Stay safe till tomorrow.” Her figure vanished into the station’s flow, a tug starting within me.

Now, I rose and crossed to the window, tiles warm underfoot. The street pulsed below, vendors stacking guavas, scooters honking. Was Pooja there among them? Or was my mind weaving her into the crowd? I let the thought settle, no fear rising.

A week later, I saw her again at Kurla, sipping chai from a paper cup. I approached. “Pooja, from the train.”

She turned, eyes bright. “Pj. This city keeps us near.”

By a chai stall, she spoke of her work as a librarian in Sion, helping children read. “Books open their worlds,” she said, offering a biscuit. “I grew up in Thane, raised by my grandmother after my parents died. Now I help her stitch clothes at night.”

“Why books?” I asked.

“They hold stories,” she said. “Connections.” I shared my sketches, city faces, fleeting moments. Her interest sparked. We exchanged numbers on a torn page. “Call in the evening,” she said, boarding her train.

I called that Saturday, temple bells ringing nearby. “Lunch at Chowpatty?” I asked. She agreed, and we met under banyan trees, the beach alive with kites and families. At a small eatery, we sat by an open window, pav bhaji steaming. “Your sketches,” she said. “What ties them?”

“People crossing paths,” I said.

“Paths to where?” Her gaze held mine.

“Each other.”

We walked the shore, sand shifting underfoot. She spoke of her grandmother’s push for marriage. “I choose my own way,” she said.

“I see you,” I replied. The sea caught the sinking sun, and the city’s weight lifted.

In my apartment now, the fan’s hum closed the walls in. I left, passing neighbors’ cooking smells, and reached the station. The platform swarmed, and there was Pooja, near a bench, saree neat. My pulse jumped.

“Pooja?” I stepped closer.

“Pj,” she said, her voice soft. “You look worn.”

Her hand felt real in mine. “I’ve missed this.”

“The past holds tight,” she said.

We boarded a train, standing close. “Remember our clash?” she asked over the rumble.

I did. During Navratri, we had visited her grandmother’s Thane chawl, lanes bright with lanterns. Her grandmother, sharp-eyed, served sweets. “Who’s this boy?” she asked.

“A friend,” Pooja said.

Outside, under a dim streetlight, I paced. “She judges me.”

“She’s cautious,” Pooja said. “Life taught her that.”

“It feels like a wall.”

Her hand grazed mine. “Give it time.” We sat on a bench, her touch a quiet anchor.

Now, on the train, she said, “You tried to keep me.” Buildings blurred past.

“You left without a word,” I said. “No trace.”

“Our bond was heavy,” she replied. “It changed you.”

At Matunga, we stepped off, walking to a park. Under a neem tree, we sat, a fountain glinting nearby. “Why go?” I asked.

“You built me into your world,” she said. “It trapped us both.”

“I cared,” I said.

“Care can bind too tightly.”

A memory flickered: Versova Beach, city lights on the water. We shared kulfi, its sweetness sharp. “This city’s yours,” I said.

“Yours too,” she replied. But soon, her calls stopped. The library said she had left. Her grandmother’s flat stood empty. My searches found nothing.

On the bench, her arm brushed mine. “It’s different now,” she said. “Let it shift.”

“Stay,” I said.

“I’m here,” she answered, but her voice wavered like a radio losing signal.

At dusk, I returned home, the streets lit by shop lamps. In my apartment, the quiet pressed in. I faced the mirror, my reflection worn. “She’s here,” I said, but a scarf on the table, hers, was just my own. A neighbor’s voice echoed outside, calling a name, not hers. The fracture deepened, yet I welcomed it.

One last memory surfaced: Ganesh Chaturthi, near Siddhivinayak Temple, chants of “Ganpati Bappa” rising. Pooja, a tilak on her forehead, handed me a modak. “What’s your wish?” she asked.

“You,” I said.

She paused, then said, “Choose something beyond me.” Her words, sharp and her own, caught me off guard.

At a nearby stall, we ate vada pav. “What if we left Mumbai?” I said. “A new start.”

“This city’s our root,” she said. “It shapes us.”

Days later, she was gone.

Morning broke, heat climbing. At the station, the vegetable seller nodded. “Pj, you’re steady today.”

“Just moving, kaka,” I said.

On the platform, Pooja waited. “Ready?” she asked, her outline faint against the crowd. I boarded with her, but the train felt still, passengers’ eyes sliding past her. “Tell me something,” I said.

She began, “There was a man who held what shaped him…” Her voice trailed, and I leaned into the words, unsure if the train moved at all.