Episode 20: Someone Else’s House

Bahadurgarh, Haryana · 2026

Khushi found her while the chairs were being stacked.

“You didn’t take a single photo.”

Gopina looked at the camera in her hands. “I was taking notes.”

“Without a notebook?”

Khushi was leaning against the corridor wall with her arms crossed, and the look on her face said she was enjoying this more than she should have been.

“I’ll get the photo from him.” Gopina nodded toward the district daily man, who was already packing up.

“Sure you will.”

“I will.”

“I believe you.” Khushi pushed off the wall and fell into step beside her. “I talked to someone at the plant office. About that record.”

Gopina stopped walking.

“HR said they’d look at the file. That’s all. They said they’d look. No promises, no date. But the file is there on their side, which means there’s something to find.”

“That’s good.”

“At least someone’s looking now.”

“Khushi.”

“Don’t make it a thing. I asked one person one question. That’s all it was.”

“Thank you.”

“You already said that at the labour office. Once is enough.” She paused. “Come back for the next one of these. They do them twice a year.”

They were near the side gate now. The courtyard behind them was emptying out. Mani crossed their path, collecting tumblers, stacking them on her tray with the speed of a woman who had done this a thousand times.

“Khushi, your mother left twenty minutes ago.”

“I know, Mani.”

“Your driver has been sitting in the car with the engine running.”

“He’ll survive.”

“He gets nervous when you walk places.”

“Everyone gets nervous when I walk places. That’s their problem.”

Mani shook her head. Then she saw Gopina and her face shifted. Not a performance. Something quieter. She set the tray down.

“You had enough tea? Water?”

“Yes. Thank you. For everything.”

“Come back,” Mani said. “Anytime we have something. We always need chairs filled.” She picked up the tray. She looked at Gopina one more time, the same way she had looked at her when she arrived.

Then she was gone, back into the courtyard with her tumblers and her garlands and her house that was not Gopina’s house.

· · ·

Gopina walked out through the side gate, past the loading bay, past the guard who checked her card one more time on the way out.

She turned toward the road. The sun was high and the compound wall threw no shade at all.

Ahan Modi. The water bottle held through the bars for a woman who was crying. The second car, the face in the window, the nod she had carried home and couldn’t place.

She had gone for two inches, page four. She hadn’t taken a single photo. She had a name now, and nowhere in the paper to put it.

She walked home the long way, past the sweet shop on Civil Lines Road where the convoy had passed. Past the corner where she had stood on her toes with the camera. The road was empty and ordinary and held none of what she had seen from it.

She put the camera back on the shelf.

From the kitchen, Sushma’s voice: “Back already? Did you eat there?”

“No.”

“Good. Mama-ji ate lunch for three. He says the akhaada builds appetite. Everything builds appetite for that man.” A pause. “What was it?”

“Staff certificates. Long service.”

“Anyone from the family there?”

“Komila Modi spoke. Her son gave out the certificates.”

Sushma appeared in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a towel.

“Her son. You saw him? Up close?”

“He was on the stage.”

“What was he like?”

“He was handing out certificates, mami. He was like a person handing out certificates.”

“You are useless. Rashika would have come back with a full report. Height, clothes, how he spoke, whether he looked like a man who eats home food or hotel food.” Sushma folded the towel over her shoulder. “I send you to the best house in town and you bring me nothing.”

“You didn’t send me. The paper sent me.”

“Same result. Anyone interesting?”

Gopina sat on the edge of her cot and looked at the wall.

“No,” she said. “Just the usual.”