Chapter 9

The air in the villa, once filled with the smell of salt and the sound of laughter, had grown heavy and stagnant. Inside the master bedroom, the rhythmic wash of the waves outside felt like a cruel mockery of the silence within.

Rohan lay against the pillows, his body present but his spirit seemingly miles away. His eyes were fixed on a vacant point on the ceiling—wide, unblinking, and hollow. Christine hovered over him, her hands trembling as she watched the doctor finish his examination.

"Doctor, please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why won't he speak? He just... he stares. Like he’s looking through us."

The doctor offered no immediate comfort, his silence acting as its own grim diagnosis. Frantic, Christine turned away from the bed, stumbling toward Harry.

"Harry, what is happening to our family?" she cried, clutching his shirt. "First our own son... then Sameer... and now Rohan? I can’t lose him too. Why is God doing this to us?"

Harry pulled her into a fierce embrace. He kept his chin tucked over her shoulder, his jaw tight as he fought to remain the pillar she needed. He managed to swipe away a lone, stray tear before it could fall, though his eyes remained glassy and red-rimmed.

Kilometers away, the atmosphere was just as brittle. Shristi stood on her balcony wearing a pale white salwar like a widow, the wind whipping strands of hair across her face. She didn't feel the chill. Her thumb traced the rough, uneven edge of a shell—the centerpiece of the necklace Sameer had fashioned for her when they were stranded, a relic of a time when survival seemed like the hardest thing they’d ever face.

A single tear tracked down her cheek, landing on the shell. She squeezed the necklace shut in her palm, pressing it against her heart as if she could pull his heartbeat out of the wire and cord.

The sound of a distant roar began to drown out the ocean. The camera lingers on Shristi’s grieving silhouette before cutting to the tarmac.

A plane accelerates, its engines screaming against the quiet of the coastline. With a violent grace, it lifts off, cutting through the heavy clouds and disappearing into the gray expanse above.

*

A YEAR LATER

The morning sun filtered through the large windows of the New Zealand bungalow, but the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by the upbeat pulse of music vibrating through the hallways. Anita was in her element, spinning in front of her mirror, applying a final touch of gloss while humming along to the beat.

Suddenly, she paused, her eyes widening as she realized the time. "Shristi! Shristi!" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

From the kitchen, the sharp clatter of a spatula hitting a pan preceded her mother’s exasperated voice. "Anita! Why on earth are you screaming like the house is on fire?"

"Chill, Mom!" Anita called back, already darting out of her room. "I’m just looking for Shristi!"

She skidded into the living room, where her father sat perched on the sofa, buried behind the morning paper. "Daddy, where’s Shristi?"

Without lowering the news, her father replied calmly, "She’s likely in her room, beta."

"No, Daddy, that’s the point! I checked, and the room is empty. That’s why I’m hunting her down!" In her rush to turn toward the hallway, Anita’s shin clipped the edge of the heavy oak tea table.

"Watch out!" her father barked, finally dropping the paper in alarm.

Anita didn't even flinch, waving a dismissive hand as she kept moving. "Don’t worry, Dad! Falling and tripping are written in my kundali!"

She checked the guest wing, the laundry room, and the garden, her calls for "Shristi!" getting increasingly frantic. Finally, she stepped out onto the back deck. Below the bungalow’s private slope, the shoreline of the beach stretched out in a serene crescent of white sand.

There, a lone, still figure stood at the water's edge.

"She has actually gone mad," Anita muttered to herself, shaking her head.

She hiked down the path, her boots sinking into the sand until she reached her friend. Shristi was staring out at the horizon, her expression unreadable.

"Shristi! I’ve been searching every square inch of this house for you," Anita panted, grabbing her arm. "Come on, move it! We’re going to be late."

Shristi didn't turn. Her voice was flat, anchored by a weight Anita couldn't seem to lift. "I’m not in the mood, Anita. You go ahead."

Anita let out a long, dramatic groan, looking toward the sky for strength. "Oh, for God’s sake! What do you mean 'not in the mood'? Shristi, listen to me—it has been 2 weeks since you landed here and you haven't stepped foot outside this gate. Not once!"

She stepped in front of Shristi, blocking her view of the ocean. "I don’t care what mood you're in; we are going out. And godsake, please... get out of that salwar suit and put on something for the real world!"

*

The wind whipped through Anita’s hair as the open-roof car sped down the coastal highway. Anita was a whirlwind of energy, pointing out landmarks and chattering away, while Shristi sat like a ghost in the passenger seat, her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, her heart still anchored to a different shore.

Anita pulled the car to a sharp halt at a busy intersection. The light glowed a stubborn red.

"Ugh, this signal takes forever," Anita muttered, digging through her bag for her phone. "Keep an eye on the light for me, okay? Just shout when it turns green. I need to tell Mom not to wait up for lunch or she’ll have a heart attack."

Anita hopped out of the car, pacing a few feet away to get better reception as she dialed.

Shristi leaned her head back, sighing, when the roar of a high-performance engine vibrated through the floor of the car. A sleek sports bike pulled up in the lane directly beside them.

The rider was dressed in a rugged leather jacket, his posture confident and relaxed. As he adjusted his grip on the handlebars, Shristi’s breath hitched. Her world narrowed down to the profile of the man sitting just an arm’s length away. The jawline, the way his hair caught the sunlight, the slight curve of his brow—it was him.

"Sameer?" she whispered, the name catching in her throat.

She pulled her sunglasses down, her eyes wide and brimming with a sudden, painful hope. She searched his face, desperate for a flicker of recognition, a sign that the nightmare of the last few weeks was finally over.

The man felt her gaze and turned his head. He looked at her—straight into her eyes—but there was no spark, no warmth of a shared past. He looked at her the way a stranger looks at a beautiful girl in traffic. He gave a casual, polite nod and a half-smile, as if to say 'Hi', before checking the signal again.

"Sameer..." she said again, a little louder this time, her voice trembling.

He looked back at her, his brow furrowing in confusion. He opened his mouth as if to ask if they had met, but the light flashed green.

Without a word, he kicked the bike into gear and roared forward, weaving through the intersection and disappearing into the flow of traffic.

The sudden blare of horns from the cars behind them snapped the silence. Anita came running back, shoving her phone into her bag and waving an apologetic hand at the angry drivers.

"Alright, alright! I’m going!" Anita grumbled, hopping back into the driver's seat and slamming the car into gear.

As the car lurched forward, Anita glanced at Shristi, who was twisted around in her seat, staring at the spot where the bike had vanished.

"Mom said to come home soon," Anita said, oblivious to the storm brewing in the seat next to her. "But I told her we’re not coming back until at least two."

She drove off into the New Zealand sun, leaving Shristi breathless, wondering if she had just seen a ghost or a miracle.

Anita swung the car into a tight parking spot, the neon lights of the club reflecting off her windshield. She hopped out, radiating energy. "Come on, babe! Time to rock and roll!"

Shristi remained frozen in the passenger seat, her mind a chaotic loop of that face at the signal. "Anita, please... I’m not feeling well. If you want to go, just go."

"Oh, stop acting strange!" Anita laughed, pulling open Shristi’s door. "This is New Zealand’s best disco, Indiana. Once you hear the bass, you’ll be fine. Let’s go, man!"

As Shristi reluctantly stepped out, her eyes darted across the rows of vehicles. There, under a streetlamp, sat the same sleek sports bike. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She followed Anita inside, the heavy thud of the music vibrating through the floor.

Inside Club Indiana, the air was thick with perfume, haze, and high-energy beats. Anita was already lost to the rhythm, but Shristi’s gaze was a laser, cutting through the crowd. She wasn't looking for a party; she was looking for a ghost.

Then, he appeared on the elevated dance floor.

He was wearing a sleek, transparent black t-shirt that showed his silhouette, paired with dark pants, a cap low over his eyes, and silver-rimmed sunglasses. He moved with a fluid, electric grace that commanded the entire room.

As the iconic intro of Ek Pal Ka Jeena flared through the speakers, he began to sing, his voice smooth and effortless.

(Ek pal ka jeena, phir to hai jaana

Tofa kya leke jaaye, dil yeh bataana) - 2

Shristi moved closer, drawn like a moth to a flame. Every step he took, every flick of his wrist, was a mirror image of Sameer.

Khaali haath aaye the hum

Khaali haath jaayenge

He spun into the crowd, dancing momentarily with a beaming Anita before moving on.

Bas pyaar ke do meethe bol jhilmilaayenge

To hans kyoon ki duniya ko hai hasaana

(Ae mere dil tu gaaye jaa

Ae aaye aao aaye aa) - 2

The man swapped his cap for a bandana, his energy reaching a fever pitch. Shristi was in a state of total shock, her breath hitching as he sang about a "special face" close to his heart.

Oh, aankhon mein dilbar ka sapna bhi hai

Haan koi sapna bhi hai

Oh, duniya mein mera koi apna bhi hai

Haan koi apna bhi hai

Ek chehraa khaas hai, jo dil ke paas hai

He then again grooves matching Anita's moves

Honton pe pyaas hai, milne ki aas hai

Then he grooves with a foreigner

Dilbaron ka magar kahan koi thikaana

He then starts to dance with everyone

(Ae mere dil tu gaaye jaa

Ae aaye aao aaye aa) - 2

Unable to take the uncertainty, Shristi slipped out of the side exit.

She ran to the parking lot, her hands trembling as she found the sports bike. A leather sling bag was draped over the handlebar. Heart in her mouth, she zipped it open and pulled out a wallet. She flipped to the ID card.

NAME: SAHIL CHOPRA

Inside, the music reached a crescendo. Shristi walked back in, dazed, just as the song entered its final movement. Sahil was now in the center of the club, grooving on a miniature pool platform. Suddenly, the overhead sprinklers burst open. A scenic indoor rain began to fall, glistening off his transparent shirt as he performed the signature arm-glide dance move.

Oh, jeevan khushiyon ka ek jhonka sa hai

Haan koi jhonka sa hai

Oh, aur yeh jhonka ek dhoka sa hai

Yeh kaisi hai khushi, jal jalke jo bujhi

Bujh bujhke jo jali, milke bhi naa mili

Doston par kisi haal mein naa ghabaraana

He spun, water spraying off his hair, before pulling Anita into a quick, playful groove.

(Ae mere dil tu gaaye jaa

Ae aaye aao aaye aa) - 2

As the final instrumental notes played, Sahil’s gaze shifted. Through the mist and the neon, he noticed Shristi—standing still, soaked and staring at him with an intensity that stopped him in his tracks.

The music faded into a low ambient hum. Sahil slowed his movements. He reached up, slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, and looked at her directly. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a look of intense curiosity. He hopped down from the platform and began walking toward her, the water dripping from his bandana as he closed the distance.

The tension in the air was palpable, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of water from the ceiling sprinklers. Sahil wiped a stray droplet from his brow, a playful smirk dancing on his lips as he stepped into her personal space.

"Hi," he said, his voice carrying a light, melodic hum from the performance. "So, we meet again."

Shristi’s voice was barely a whisper, trembling with the weight of her confusion. "Who are you?"

Sahil gave a dramatic, theatrical bow, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Iss kaneez ko... sorry," he chuckled, catching his slip-up, "is naachez ko Sahil Chopra kehte hai." He straightened up, leaning in slightly, his accent carrying the unmistakable lilt of someone raised far from the streets of India. "What a strange coincidence, isn't it? Our second meeting in one day. But I haven't seen you around before... you aren't from here, are you?"

Before Shristi could find the words to respond, Anita bounced over, still buzzing from the music. She threw an arm around Shristi’s shoulder. "No, actually, Sahil! She’s my cousin from India. Her name is Shristi Arora, and she’s here for a few more days."

Sahil’s eyes widened in mock wonder, his expression turning appreciative. "Fantastic! It seems like the Taj Mahal has come here directly. Hindustan toh aabaad hogaya hoga."

Anita let out a loud snort, smacking him lightly on the arm. "Idiot! Not aabaad. Empty—it must be empty!"

"Ah, right!" Sahil corrected himself with a sheepish grin, snapping his fingers. "I mean viraan hogaya... viraan."

Anita rolled her eyes toward Shristi, leaning in to whisper loudly. "Shristi, please don't mind Sahil, okay? He has this keeda—this obsession—with wanting to learn Urdu since he was a kid. But as you can tell, he hasn't made much progress."

From across the club, a group of friends waved frantically. "Anita! Come here!"

"I'll catch you guys in a moment!" Anita called back. She gave Shristi’s hand a quick squeeze before disappearing into the neon-lit crowd, leaving the two of them in a sudden, heavy silence.

Sahil shifted his weight, his playful demeanor softening as he looked at Shristi’s pale face. "Anyways... it was nice to meet you, Shristi." He extended his hand, his palm open in a sincere gesture of friendship.

Shristi stared at his hand. Every line on his palm, the way his fingers moved—it was all too familiar. The reality of the ID card in the parking lot clashed violently with the man standing before her. The grief, the shock, and the impossible hope rose up in her throat like a wave.

Unable to take a second more of the haunting resemblance, she took a sharp step back. Then another.

"Wait—" Sahil started, his hand still suspended in the air.

But Shristi didn't wait. She turned and bolted toward the exit, pushing through the heavy velvet curtains and disappearing into the night. Sahil stood alone in the middle of the damp dance floor, his hand slowly dropping to his side, his face a mask of pure confusion and surprise at the girl who had looked at him like he was a ghost.