I text gangadhar

I waited until nine-thirty before I called him. The biryani was still in the fridge, the lid half-open, the smell of fried onions already turning sharp. The tickets sat on the table where I had left them after he walked out. I had told myself I would not call. Then I picked up the phone anyway and pressed his name.

It rang four times. On the fifth ring it went to voicemail. I hung up and called again. This time it rang twice and then the line cut. I stared at the screen. The little green dot that usually showed he was online had disappeared. I called a third time. It rang once and went straight to the automated message that said the person was busy. I put the phone down on the sofa and stood up. The flat felt smaller than it had an hour earlier. I walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it again, and came back. My hands were cold. I picked up the phone and opened our chat.

The last message from him was the string of thank-you emojis from Friday night. Below it, nothing. I typed Pick up and sent it. The ticks stayed grey. I typed again: I called three times. Still grey. I waited two minutes, then typed Are you in the movie or are you ignoring me? The message delivered. The ticks turned blue almost at once, which meant he had seen it, and then they stayed blue. No reply. I watched the screen until the blue faded back to the normal colour of the chat. Then I locked the phone and set it face-down.

The anger arrived slowly, the way it always did with him. First a tightness under my ribs, then a heat that moved into my throat. I had ironed his shirt. I had bought the tickets in my name because the booking site kept rejecting his card. I had told him it was fine when he asked to take Sravya. And now he would not even answer the phone. I stood in the middle of the living room and listened to the refrigerator hum. Somewhere outside a scooter horn sounded and faded. I thought of the way he had smiled when he left, already half-gone, already thinking about her hand on his arm in the dark. The heat in my throat turned sharper.

I unlocked the phone again. My thumb hovered over his name, then moved past it. I opened the blocked list, found the number that had messaged me at 1:17 a.m., and unblocked it. The chat reappeared exactly as I had left it: my Not interested, his reply about being close, and nothing after. I stared at the words for a long moment. Then I typed.

You still want to meet?

I sent it before I could change my mind. The ticks turned blue within seconds. A typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again. His reply came in three short lines.

Where?

When?

Your brother is with the girl tonight, no?

I sat down on the edge of the sofa. My fingers felt clumsy on the screen. I typed, How do you know that?

The reply was immediate.

He told the whole team this morning. Said he was taking his girlfriend to the old theatre. Looked very happy about it. I asked him if his sister was coming. He said no, she understands.

I read the last sentence twice. The heat under my ribs moved lower, into my stomach. I typed, What else did he say?

There was a longer pause this time. Then the messages arrived one after another.

He talks about you more than he talks about the work. Says you cook for him. Says you still call to check if he reached office. Says you are the only person who knows how the office treats him.

He also said you get angry when he cancels plans. He laughed when he said it. Like it was a small thing.

I put the phone down on my knee and pressed my thumb against the edge of the screen until it hurt. Outside, the traffic had thinned. Inside, the fan clicked every few rotations. I picked the phone up again.

Tell me what you do to him in the office.

The typing indicator stayed for almost a minute. When the message came it was longer than the others.

I give him the files no one else wants. I correct him in the client calls so the seniors hear it. Last month I made him stay until nine to redo a deck that was already approved. He did not argue. He just did it. Yesterday I stood behind his chair in the stand-up and asked him to explain a number he had already explained. The whole team looked at their laptops. He went red. After the meeting he went to the washroom and stayed there for twelve minutes. I counted.

I read it once, then again. My thumb moved without me deciding.

Why are you telling me this?

His next message arrived almost at once.

Because you asked. And because I saw the way you looked at me that day in the lobby. You already knew what I was. You still came downstairs to give him the folder. That means you care more than he thinks.

Another message followed before I could answer.

I can stop. Or I can make it worse. Depends what you want.

I stood up and walked to the kitchen. The biryani container was still open. I closed the lid properly this time and pushed it to the back of the fridge. When I came back the phone had another message waiting.

You called him and he did not pick up. That is why you are texting me now. Am I wrong?

I sat down again. My hands were no longer cold. I typed slowly.

What do you want?

The reply took longer this time. When it came it was only one line.

I want to fuck you. Properly. More than once. And while I do it you can tell me every time he complained about me at home. Every time he came back angry and you had to listen. I will listen too. Then I will decide how much worse his next week is going to be.

I stared at the words until the screen dimmed. I tapped it awake. Another message had arrived underneath.

You can say no. I will still see him on Monday. Nothing changes for him either way. But if you say yes, you get to decide how much he pays for tonight. And you get to watch his face on Monday when he realises something is different and he does not know what.

The fan clicked. Somewhere in the building a door closed and locked. I thought of the blue ticks that had stayed blue and silent. I thought of the way he had said “she understands” in the office that morning, laughing. I thought of Gangadhar standing behind his chair while the rest of the team looked away. My thumb moved.

When?

The answer came in less than ten seconds.

Tonight. After eleven. My place. I will send the location. Come in whatever you are wearing. Do not tell him you are leaving. If he calls while you are here, you can decide whether to pick up.

I did not reply at once. I opened our chat with my brother instead. The last message I had sent was still sitting there, blue and unanswered. I typed nothing. I went back to Gangadhar’s chat and wrote one word.

Send it.

The location arrived. A pin on a map, an old building three stops from the office. Underneath it he had written: Lift is slow. Sixth floor. Door on the left. I will be awake.

I locked the phone and set it on the table beside the unused tickets. The anger had not gone anywhere. It had only changed shape. I stood in the quiet flat and listened to the refrigerator and the fan and the faint sound of my own breathing, already counting the minutes until eleven.