“Events,” Arjun said. “So professionally charming.”
“What does that mean?”
“He has invoices for atmosphere.”
“You have not met him.”
“I have met the industry.”
Tanya saved the corrected banner. “It is casual.”
“You have used the word three times. Legally binding now.”
On the day of the school programme, Kabir sent a bouquet to reception.
Not roses. Yellow daisies and white chrysanthemums, the sort of flowers that could plausibly come from a friendly person. The card read: For general language quality. Try not to correct the national anthem. —K
Mrs Suri brought them to the auditorium herself.
“A vendor?” she asked.
“Friend.”
“The initial is mysterious.”
“The flower shop charges by the letter.”
Mrs Suri’s expression said she had once been twenty-six and did not appreciate being treated as institutionally born.
Arjun walked past, read the card upside down and whispered, “Casual horticulture.”
Tanya placed the flowers behind a stack of programmes. Her irritation could not suppress pleasure. Kabir had remembered the date, the assignment and her complaint about the banner. The gesture was precisely calibrated: private enough to deny, public enough to matter.
After the programme, she called him from an empty corridor.
“Flowers at school violate Rule One.”
“I did not appear at school.”
“Your vegetation did.”
“You liked them.”
“Irrelevant.”
“Completely.”
He was smiling through the phone. Tanya could hear it.
“Dinner tonight?” he asked.
“Family plans.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Girls.”
“Sunday?”
“Marking.”
There was a pause. “You are rejecting me with impressive organisation.”
“Monday.”
“I have an event.”
“Tuesday.”
“Done.”
They conducted their relationship like two overbooked institutions pretending spontaneity.
The girls’ dinner on Saturday took place at a new restaurant Meher’s company had helped launch. She secured a table, corrected the menu description of one cocktail and denied working while doing both.
Rhea arrived twenty minutes late from court and placed her phone beside her plate.
“No work,” Meher said.
“My work protects liberty.”
“Your work is arguing about an adjournment.”
“Today’s adjournment protects tomorrow’s liberty.”
Naina appeared tired. She had spent the week explaining to a wealthy customer why investments could decline even after he had “personally trusted the market.”
“People treat expertise like a guarantee against reality,” she said.
“Parents do that with schools,” Tanya replied.
“Clients do it with lawyers,” Rhea said.
“Brands do it with agencies,” Meher added.
They raised their glasses to professional disappointment.
Conversation moved toward the mystery men. It did this now even when no one intended it.
“Mine sent flowers to work,” Tanya said before caution could stop her.
“Mine knows better,” Rhea replied. “Evidence.”
Meher’s eyes sharpened. “What flowers?”
“Daisies. Friendly.”
“There are no friendly flowers from men.”
“Funeral flowers,” Naina said.
“Those are from families.”
“Sometimes men have families.”
Rhea leaned forward. “Initial?”
“Why?”
“Because you have concealed his full name, profession, age, appearance and criminal history.”
“I told you profession.”
“You said creative work. That could mean unemployed.”
Tanya drank water. “K.”
Meher’s hand stopped around her glass for a fraction of a second.
“K what?” Rhea asked.
“Just K.”
“That is not a name. That is a censorship decision.”
“Your turn,” Tanya said. “Initial.”
Rhea smiled. “Also K.”
They laughed. Meher joined a beat late. Naina examined the menu.
“Popular letter,” she said.
The coincidence stood on the table wearing a bright jacket. All four looked around it.
Meher changed the subject to a former classmate’s engagement.
On Tuesday, Tanya met Kabir at a small bar in Hauz Khas. He arrived late and apologetic, carrying a gift bag.
“You already sent flowers.”
“This is not a gift.”
Inside was a red pen engraved STRUCTURALLY SOUND.
Tanya laughed despite herself. “This is bribery.”
“Professional equipment.”
“You remembered a joke from June.”
“I remember things.”
He did. Her coffee order. Her free periods. Her dislike of raisins. The name of the student who had used artificial intelligence in an essay. Attention was Kabir’s most convincing form of affection.
They ordered dinner. Halfway through, a woman approached the table.
“Kabir?”
She was in her early thirties, sharply dressed, familiar enough to touch his shoulder.
Kabir stood. “Aisha. Hi.”
They exchanged a quick hug. Aisha asked about an event, complained he had vanished from a group and told him to call. She glanced at Tanya with open curiosity.
“This is Tanya,” Kabir said. “A friend.”
The word was accurate. It still landed badly.
After Aisha left, Kabir said, “Former colleague.”
“I did not ask.”
“Your face submitted a written request.”
“Friend?”
“We said casual.”
“Casual people can be introduced with context.”
“What context would you prefer?”
Tanya had no title to offer. Girlfriend was false. Person I regularly kiss sounded adolescent. Woman whose toothbrush is in my bathroom sounded territorial.
“Tanya,” she said. “You could introduce me as Tanya without reducing me.”
“I did.”
“After friend.”
Kabir leaned back. “You are angry about a noun.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Then choose one.”
The challenge was gentle but real.
“No,” she said. “You choose how you understand me.”
“I understand you as someone I like being with.”
“That is a sentence, not a noun.”
“English is flexible.”
“You are exploiting the subject.”
The argument softened into banter, but the discomfort remained. Later, in his flat, intimacy was warm and mutual, yet Tanya felt the unnamed shape between them. When she left in the morning, the engraved pen was in her handbag and her toothbrush remained beside his.
Meher called that afternoon.
“Hypothetical,” she said.
“No good conversation begins that way.”
“If a man says he hates labels, does that mean he is emotionally honest or avoiding responsibility?”
Tanya stood outside Class Eleven waiting for the bell.
“Usually both. People contain marketing contradictions.”
“He says labels create expectations.”
“Labels clarify expectations.”
“That sounds like Naina.”
“It sounds like food packaging. You should know.”
Meher laughed, then became quiet. “Do you think casual can still be real?”
Tanya thought of Kabir’s flowers, his care when she was sick, the word friend and the unanswered initial on his phone.
“Yes,” she said. “But real things can still be temporary.”
“Helpful and depressing. Very teacher.”
“Name?” Tanya asked.
“After yours.”
The bell rang. Both escaped.
September approached through humidity and half-yearly examination schedules. Tanya’s time with Kabir became both more limited and more necessary. On difficult days, she went to his flat and sat in silence while he worked. On his difficult days, he came to her neighbourhood and walked with her through the market after she had claimed she needed stationery.
Once, Sunita saw them from a vegetable shop across the road.
Tanya noticed her mother at the exact moment Kabir touched the small of her back to guide her around a scooter.
Sunita’s eyebrows rose.
Tanya stopped walking.
“What?” Kabir asked.
“My mother.”
“Where?”
“Do not look.”
He looked immediately.
Sunita crossed the road carrying spinach.
“Hello,” she said.
“Mummy, this is Kabir. He works in events. Kabir, my mother.”
Of all the possible introductions, Tanya had chosen his profession.
Kabir folded his hands. “Namaste, aunty.”
“Hello. Event from school?”
“No,” Tanya said too quickly.
Kabir smiled. “We met through friends.”
Also true.
Sunita looked from him to Tanya. “Would you like tea?”
“He has work,” Tanya said.
“I can—” Kabir began.