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The first heavy fog of December descended on Darjeeling like a mourner's veil. In the corridor of Bloomfield Nursing Home, Arjun Mehta paced restlessly, his face drawn with exhaustion and his eyes betraying a fear he couldn't articulate. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting their sterile glow on the faded green walls.
When Dr. Sharma emerged from Room 104, Arjun's heart stuttered. The physician, a silver-haired man nearing sixty with kind but tired eyes, gently closed the door behind him.
"Doctor, how is my grandmother?"
Dr. Sharma removed his glasses and wiped them slowly—a gesture Arjun had learned to dread over the past three weeks. "Arjun, beta, I'll be honest with you. Dadi's heart is giving up. It would take a miracle for her to see the morning."
The words hit Arjun like a physical blow. He stumbled backward, his spine meeting the cold wall, his body going limp as if someone had cut his strings.
Dr. Sharma placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I've prescribed strong painkillers. The nurse will administer an injection every three hours. We'll make her passing as peaceful as possible. I'm so sorry."
After what felt like an eternity, Arjun removed his spectacles and wiped the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. He took three deep breaths, steadied himself, and pushed open the door to his grandmother's room.
Leela Mehta lay quietly on the narrow hospital bed, an oxygen tube curving beneath her nose like a transparent serpent. Despite the lines of pain etched around her eyes, her face softened when she saw her grandson. She turned her head slightly, squinting at him with that familiar, loving smile that had been the constant warmth of his twenty-eight years.
"Arjun, where is Priya?" Her voice was a whisper, each word costing her dearly.
She knew. In the way the old always know when their time is short, Leela Mehta understood she would not leave this room alive. And she wanted to see her granddaughter-in-law one last time.
Arjun fought back the burning in his throat. He pulled a plastic chair to the bedside and took his grandmother's papery hand in his own. "Dadi, she's probably shooting today. You know how busy she gets during the wedding season—everyone wants Priya's photography."
Leela's cold fingers tightened around his. "Busy is good, beta. But call her, na? I want to talk to her. I'm afraid I won't be able to wait much longer."
"Don't say that, Dadi. You'll live to be a hundred." He squeezed her hand, but the unwavering hope in her clouded eyes forced his reluctant compliance.
He pulled out his phone and dialed.
"The number you have dialed is currently switched off."
Arjun's brow furrowed, but he kept his voice light. "She must be in the middle of a shoot, Dadi. Network issues in those old havelis, you know? Are you hungry? Shall I get you something?"
The old woman closed her eyes, her pale lips moving faintly. "I'd love your special tomato soup. The one you make with the little cubes of bread."
The Darjeeling Oncology Centre wasn't far from the nursing home—a ten-minute drive at most. Arjun thought for a moment, gave the nurse on duty his number, and rushed out to his battered old Maruti Suzuki.
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In the underground parking garage of their apartment building, Arjun had just parked and opened his door when he saw a sight that froze the blood in his veins.
Not thirty feet away, beside a gleaming white BMW, Priya Malhotra was wrapped in the arms of a man in an expensive blazer. Tears streamed down her face like monsoon rain, but these were not tears of sorrow. These were the tears of a woman reunited with a long-lost love.
Arjun's heart seized. He recognized that man.
Karan Malhotra. Priya's childhood sweetheart. The one she'd always spoken of with a wistfulness that Arjun had chosen to ignore. Three years ago, for reasons unknown, Karan had abruptly left Priya and gone to London. Priya had been devastated—a wreck, as her friends described it. They say a woman is most vulnerable when she's hurting, and that's how Arjun, ever the devoted admirer, had finally gotten his chance to marry her.
He had known, of course. Known that Priya still carried a torch for someone else. But he believed that love could conquer all, that with enough warmth, even the coldest heart would eventually thaw.
And now Karan was back, gently patting Priya's back, murmuring words that carried across the empty garage.
"Priya, listen to me. Three years ago, I thought I was dying. The doctors found a tumor—they gave me six months. Going to London was my last hope. I couldn't drag you into that. I pushed away the woman I loved most in this world because I wanted you to find happiness. I even prayed you'd find someone who would love you more than I ever could."
Priya's sobs echoed off the concrete walls. "How could you be so stupid, Karan? So selfish? These three years, not a single day went by that I didn't think of you. I knew there had to be a reason. You can't leave me again. Please."
Karan caressed her cheek, his eyes full of pain. "I won't, Priya. I'm not going anywhere. But tell me—that Mehta guy you married. You don't really love him, do you?"
Priya paused. Her lips parted, but before she could answer, her gaze fell on Arjun, who was walking toward them with slow, deliberate steps.
"Let her go."
The sudden, ice-cold voice behind him made Karan instinctively release Priya. He turned, surprise flickering across his handsome features before being replaced by a mocking smile. Defiantly, he draped an arm around Priya's waist.
Priya's body tensed. After a moment's hesitation, she removed his hand and took two steps toward Arjun. Her neck remained stiff, her eyes fixed on the floor.
"Arjun, I—you saw—"
"I'm not blind." Arjun's face betrayed nothing. He paused, then took a breath. "Come with me to the nursing home. Dadi is asking for you."
Karan stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over Arjun's simple attire—the faded sweater, the ordinary jeans, the shoes that had seen better days. "So you're Arjun Mehta." A smirk played on his lips. "I remember you from St. Xavier's. Always following Priya around like a lost puppy. Still the same, I see."
Arjun ignored him completely, his gaze fixed on Priya. "Come to the nursing home. Dadi wants to talk to you."
Priya frowned, about to speak, when Karan cut in. "Arjun, you should know about Priya and me. More importantly, you should know that Priya never actually loved you."
With that, Karan pulled a checkbook from his inside pocket, tore out a check, and held it out to Arjun. His tone was smooth as cream, laced with condescension.
"Nevertheless, thank you for taking care of her these past two years. Fill in any amount you like. Consider it my way of repaying you."
Arjun's patience, stretched to its breaking point, finally snapped. He shoved Karan hard.
"Was I talking to you?"
Karan staggered backward, his spine hitting the BMW's hood with a dull thud. He clutched his chest, his face contorting in pain.
Priya's eyes widened. She pushed Arjun away with both hands, her strength surprising. "Arjun, what are you doing? He's not well! What if something happens to him? Can you take responsibility for that?"
She rushed to Karan's side. "Karan, are you okay? Talk to me!"
Karan's breathing was ragged. He bit his lip, his face pale. "I'm—I'm fine. Just—"
"Fine? You call this fine? I'm taking you to the hospital." Priya struggled to help Karan up and settled him into the passenger seat of the BMW. As she walked around to the driver's side, she shot Arjun a glare that could have frozen the Ganges.
"Get lost. I don't want to see you right now."
Arjun's fists clenched at his sides. "Priya, I'm telling you one last time. Come to the nursing home. Dadi is—she's not going to make it."
His last words were swallowed by the slamming car door.
Arjun stood alone in the parking garage, watching the BMW's taillights disappear up the ramp. Slowly, he removed the heavy black-rimmed glasses from his nose—the ones he didn't really need—and wiped them on his sleeve. A bitter smile touched his lips.
"Forget it," he murmured. "Just forget it."
When it came to being a pushover, Arjun Mehta was in a class of his own. He had always believed that some grand gesture would eventually win the beauty's smile. He knew, deep down, that unrequited love was a poor substitute for the real thing. But even devotion has its limits. In a situation like this, to keep clinging, to beg for her glance, would be truly pathetic.
Reality, he was learning, often works this way. When Prince Charming finally appears, the kindest thing the princess can say to the daydreaming frog is, "You're a nice guy," before riding off into the sunset with her true love.
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