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Part I

Chapter 1

Back in the ’sixties, Vagator was merely one more sleepy beach in the Indian state of Goa until a forty-year-old American tourist with only eight fingers trudged down the mud track to the nearby village, bringing with him a stampede of hippies.

Most of the locals scratched their heads in puzzlement as Eight Finger Eddie and his friends adopted the matted hair, rancid clothes, and broken sandals of the homeless, seeking enlightenment in LSD and heroin, but there was one enterprising fellow who saw a chance to make an easy buck. Gossip had it his ramshackle shed at the far end of the beach was the designated cop-free zone where hippies rented cots to crash at night.

To the surprise of no one who knew him, the owner of the establishment disappeared one day, only to resurface next week as the corpse in a fishing boat found adrift a few kilometres from the shore. Just three people showed up to grieve at his graveside—a couple of boyhood friends and his toddler son.

By the time Eight Finger Eddie went on to meet his maker half a century later, the shed’s owner—part white, part Indian, and all hustler—had long been forgotten. Wealthy young locals and backpackers from around the world still partied to trance music amidst the dramatic red cliffs and green palm trees dotting the shore of the former Portuguese colony. Pungent smoke from industrial-sized rolls of charas, the homegrown weed, swirled all around, and white surf frothed over rocks, tickling the feet of stoned couples as they groped their companions and made promises which wouldn’t last past daybreak.

The shed itself was converted by its current owners into a hip café which served delicious seafood and fine wines at exorbitant prices. It was where the rich and famous were frequently caught in carefully choreographed candid pictures. That’s what the kaamwaali bai—the maid—employed at the Joshi holiday home a few kilometres away claimed. The woman showed up at her leisure and barely did any work if she could help it but always carried news of the movie stars spotted in the seaside village where her cousin lived.

None of the celebs seemed to have ventured outside this lousy night in April 2020. Lucky for them, thought Anjali Joshi, skirting the group of tourists dancing to ear-splitting music on the beach despite the ominous dark clouds rolling across the half-moon. Each screech from the synthesiser thrummed across her skull. Even her eyeballs were vibrating.

The ocean roared in displeasure, swatting the revellers with a storm wave. As the group screamed and dashed backwards, a white lightning bolt splintered the sky.

“No,” exclaimed Anjali, her stiletto heels sinking into the wet sand as she plodded towards the electric torches marking the entrance to the café. Crashing thunder heralded the sudden descent of water from the heavens. “This is not happening.” Rain fell in sheets, soaking through her hair, sluicing down her torso, plastering the red floral maxi to her skin. “Argh,” she shouted, shaking a fist at the universe in general.

First, she’d lost her phone. Unable to find another way to cancel the stupid blind date her stupid cousin set up, she’d marched out to her car to tell the stupid man in person she wasn’t meeting him for dinner, but the stupid car stalled half a kilometre from the café, and she was forced to walk across the beach in the insanely stupid shoes instead of just sashaying in from the parking lot. Now, this—a thunderstorm in sunny Goa in April, weeks before monsoon was supposed to hit. Couldn’t it have waited five more minutes until she was safely inside the café?

The tourists from the beach were also making for the restaurant. With raucous laughter, a couple of young men sprinted closer to Anjali. One of them leered at her. “Hey, cutie,” he bellowed over the sounds of the downpour. With a high-pitched giggle, he lurched sideways, the piercing odour of fermented coconut peculiar to Goan hooch wafting around him.

She blinked away the water spraying into her eyes and walked faster, keeping a firm grip on the strap of the purse hanging on her shoulder. On top of everything else, she didn’t need to deal with a drunk lover boy or be robbed.

She was going to arrive soaking wet at the restaurant, but surely they’d let her make a call to whatever cab service could get there fastest. Or better yet, to the same stupid cousin who was responsible for Anjali being here in the first place. Said cousin came up with the bright idea of creating a fake Tinder profile with a picture of Audrey Hepburn. Only, she created it first and then informed Anjali. It wasn’t the first time someone thought she looked like an Indian version of the yesteryear actress, but the photograph was actually that of the movie star, for God’s sake.

Anjali would’ve dismissed the man who swiped right as a fool. Except, his DP was Gregory Peck. It tickled her enough that she’d agreed… and regretted it in the space of the afternoon. She wasn’t in any sort of shape to get back into the dating pool, not after the year she’d gone through. But following the mysterious disappearance of her phone, her laptop apparently contracted some kind of virus and refused to let her log in. Then, Anjali’s cousin vanished, taking her phone with her, leaving a note saying she’d be back at the family holiday home before midnight. Anjali had no way of contacting the fake Mr Peck to cancel.

Well, he’d have the pleasure of being turned down in person. Before she made the call to her cousin to pick her up, Anjali would tell Mr Peck: “Sorry, but not sorry.” Anjali Joshi wasn’t even about to wait at his table to be picked up. She wasn’t giving the universe any chances to wreak further havoc in her life. If she sat quietly in a corner until her ride arrived, what else could possibly go wrong?

The electric torches on top of the gateposts flickered as she walked through. Except for the row of lit windows, not much was visible of the café, but she’d seen enough of the beach restaurants in Goa to know it most likely looked like a giant thatched hut. Behind the building, shadowed coconut palms gyrated in the wind. To the right of the glass double doors was a single bulb, casting a golden glow on the wooden board beneath it. Written on the plank in crimson lettering was the restaurant’s name: Café Ishq. Anjali couldn’t help a reluctant giggle. Ishq—the Urdu word for passionate love. The owner was surely a sucker for romance. She fervently hoped it didn’t mean her supposed date for the evening chose the place because he was expecting action. He wasn’t getting any.

Wiping away the water trickling down the back of her neck, she pulled the door open and walked in. A few others in the foyer were already following one of the employees inside, leaving small puddles on the floor. There were wet umbrellas in a couple of plastic buckets. Mandolin music was coming from the restaurant proper, the peppy cadence very European.

“Come in, come in,” enthused a plump girl in a yellow tee and black slacks, her hair in pigtails. Only in Goa. Any other place, and the restaurant wouldn’t have been so warmly welcoming to those running in from the rain, dripping all over their polished floors. Here, the local economy depended on keeping visitors happy.

With a grateful smile for the helpful hostess, Anjali peered into the interior. The band was on the left. Black pants, suspenders, billowy, white shirts, bowties—the overweight musicians with handlebar moustaches were swaying in place to the song they created. So were the diners and the wait staff moving around the tables. Lanterns hung from the high thatched ceiling, cane chairs were set around square tables, and yellow lighting created a cheery glow. There was a bar at the far end, built to resemble a shanty.

“Beautiful,” Anjali breathed, tapping a foot in time with the song. Bits of mud fell off the toe of the red suede stilettos. Her ankles itched from the gritty sand coating them, but she couldn’t very well lift her skirts here to scratch in peace. “How long have you been open?”

Anjali might have been from Mumbai, but she’d travelled enough times to Goa as a child and didn’t recall… that was many, many moons ago, and she didn’t remember venturing this way on her childhood visits. Once her grandparents made the family holiday home their retirement residence, she hadn’t returned, not even after their passing.

No, not entirely true. Anjali had made one trip as a twenty-year-old, not informing any of her family about it. Eleven years, to be exact. That’s how long it took her to work up the nerve to return. Except, she hadn’t exactly worked up the nerve as much as been pushed by her family into making the trip to check on some problems which cropped up in the Joshi Charity Clinic. Anjali’s brain added its own two paise—pennies—telling her she wouldn’t be able to move on until she closed the door on painful memories, and she ended up acquiescing to her family’s request.

The hostess murmured an answer to Anjali’s question, but the words barely penetrated her mind. Eleven years since she’d last seen him. Eleven long years, during which she’d pretended everything was just peachy. Spectacular, in fact.

With a mental shrug, she shook off the memories. She’d wallowed in pain and regret long enough. Anjali was a new woman now. For New Anjali, a trip to Goa would be easy-peasy… until her cousin decided to tag along and pronounced a blind date was just what Anjali needed.

Nuh-huh. No way. Romance would have to wait until New Anjali got the rest of her life in order. Mr Peck was about to find himself dateless. “I have someone waiting for me,” she said. “I’m Dr Anj—Audrey. My name is Audrey.”

The hostess’s eyes widened. “You’re Audrey?”

“Umm… yes.” Okay, so Anjali’s dark brown hair might be hanging limply all around her head, her very wet floral maxi might reveal the slight belly flab on her short and skinny figure, and she likely had mascara smudged all around her brown eyes, but the hostess didn’t have to sound so shocked. Anjali just came in from a thunderstorm. By God, she was allowed to look a little imperfect.

“All right,” said the hostess, shaking her head as though she couldn’t believe someone like Anjali could have a man waiting inside. A man presumably clad in dry clothes and not quite so dishevelled as the date he expected for the evening.

New Anjali squared her shoulders and tightened her fingers around her purse strap. Even if she weren’t soaking wet, she didn’t need to be perfect. She might not be a ravishing beauty, but for a thirty-one-year-old woman, she looked pretty good. Most people called her “classy.”

The skirts of her sodden maxi flapping noisily against her legs, Anjali followed the judgemental twit into the restaurant. They headed towards a table on the right next to a row of windows overlooking the sea.

The cacophony created by the lousy weather was nearly drowned out by the music, but the view through the glass panes was still gorgeo—no, that wasn’t the right word. Dramatic. Nature was putting on quite a show. Lightning bolts crackled across the black velvet sky, revealing coconut palms whipping into graceful dips, almost like the trees were dancing to the song from the café.

The suit-clad man waiting in one of the chairs must have agreed. He was looking out at the magnificent thunderstorm, leaving only a sliver of his profile visible. His fingertips were tapping out the rhythm on the rim of his brandy snifter. There were black-rimmed glasses on his nose. No grey in his hair that she could see, but something about the way he held himself said he’d left his twenties behind. That kind of confidence in posture came only with life experience.

Small mercies, Anjali muttered in her mind. At least her stupid cousin hadn’t set her up with teenaged beefcake who could’ve gotten her arrested for paedophilia.

However old he was, the fake Mr Peck did seem trim. The way he was leaning back against the chair, long legs stretched below the table, ending in brown dress shoes… the set of his shoulders under the dark blue blazer and the streaks of light brown in the wavy hair brushing the top of his yellow shirt collar sent a tremor through Anjali.

No. It couldn’t be him. She was imagining things. The mess her life had become was causing her mind to blast to the past, that’s all. New woman, she admonished her wayward brain.

“Dr Joe,” called the hostess. “Your guest is here.”

“Hi,” Anjali said, automatically. Joe? Her heart thudded. No. This was Goa, former Portuguese colony, stomping ground of ageing hippies. Men named “Joe” had to be a dime a dozen. Some of them were surely doctors. Her Joe left Goa eleven years ago.

Chair scraping the floor, the man stood and turned to face her. The light brown eyes behind the glasses crinkled in welcome. Bushy brows were combed into place like always. There was the same hint of a cleft in his chin and the crooked grin she remembered, now tinged with a strange uncertainty. If Anjali sniffed hard, she might smell the same cologne he always used, the one which reminded her of sun-warmed trees.

No. Anjali shook her head. Either she’d just lost the last of her marbles, or the gods were playing a prank on her, having a belly laugh at her expense.

The smile on the man’s face morphed into shock. “Anju?” he asked, incredulously.

Anjali opened her mouth to speak, but sounds refused to come out. This can’t be happening, her mind screamed, wildly. In her dreams, they’d met again a thousand times. Each time, she’d been a diva, unleashing royal fury on him for ripping her heart apart and trampling on the pieces. Each time, the agony of loss overwhelmed her pride and anger, and she cried loud, ugly sobs which left her humiliated even in her imagination.

She was finally—finally—trying to put the painful chapter behind her, and she ran into him exactly when she bore a close resemblance to a drowned rat. Anjali struggled to get her scrambled neurons in working order and remember the hurtful words she’d once longed to throw at him. “Joe,” she croaked.

Dr Joseph D’Acosta, her onetime tutor. The man she’d loved and lost.

Chapter 2

2006

Long, narrow dissection tables stretched end to end in the physiology lab at the All India Institute of Medical Science in New Delhi. The recently hired tutor was walking up and down in front, methodically instructing first-year students on the experiment in progress. His deep, smooth flow of words was occasionally interrupted by the clatter of specimen dishes and steel instruments and a question or two from his audience. Unlike the anatomy lab where the smell of formaldehyde overpowered everything else, this place stank of mud and slime and frogs.

“I can’t,” Anjali whispered, her voice full from the puke she was trying to hold back. “I just can’t.” She was at one end of the table, and the rest of her classmates clad in white lab coats and protective gloves were already well into the lesson. In front of each student was a rotating drum covered by thick paper coated with black soot. With every twitch of a frog’s thigh muscle, the contraction would be recorded on soot paper.

She had no idea how the rest of her classmates did it. They were all seventeen or eighteen like her, straight out of secondary school as was usual in India. Not a single one seemed to have a problem cutting open a live frog.

“You most certainly can,” said the second new tutor, standing next to her. The lab attendant spent all of two minutes waiting for Anjali to pick a frog of her own from the specimen bucket before summoning this tutor—Tutor Two as opposed to Tutor One who was in front—for assistance. Unlike the rest of the people around, Tutor Two wore a surgical mask and safety glasses as though he’d been getting ready for the operating theatre when he was dragged into the lab. She’d been sure she’d be told off, but his kind smile was evident even under the protective garb. He was also careful to keep his voice low so none of the other students could overhear. Or it could’ve been the mask which muffled his voice. “Haven’t you done frog dissections in school?”

“On dead ones.” Not squirming, croaking creatures with great big eyes, blinking accusingly at her.

“Vivisection is the only way to learn how a live muscle works,” Tutor Two insisted, puffing up. “Or a nerve or a heart. It’s important. Galen, the ancient Greek surgeon, wrote most of his treatises based on animal experiments. Galen, Sushruta, Hippocrates… you’re following in the footsteps of the greats.”

Was she supposed to clap and yell, “Bravo”? The pomposity of the man!

Kindness notwithstanding, he and his colleague were strutting about as though they’d been running the college for years when today was their first day on the job. Well, according to the whispers in the lab prior to the session, they had been big men on campus until they completed their undergraduate internships not long before Anjali arrived, making them twenty-two-ish to her eighteen. They were spending a year as tutors in basic sciences—the lowest possible position on the academic medicine totem pole—before starting the postgraduate course in surgery the next year. They could then do more cutting and sewing, blissfully imagining themselves on that list of greats someday.

“I’m not following in anyone’s footsteps,” she mumbled. “I can’t even catch a frog.” Anjali took a quick glance at the lab attendant, still holding the metal bucket towards her. In it were the last three of the captured animals, waiting to see which of them would be the final victim of this lab session. “How am I supposed to—” She couldn’t complete the sentence: catch a frog, insert a needle into the soft spot at the base of its skull to immobilise it, strip the skin, isolate the thigh muscle, and attach it to the electrodes.

“Pithing makes sure it doesn’t feel any pain,” Tutor Two explained. “You have to do it to pass the course. No way around it.”

“I don’t have to,” Anjali said, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. Tears blurred her vision. She furiously batted her lashes, willing the waterworks away. She didn’t need to make a total fool of herself by blubbering in front of the whole class. “I could quit.” She could tear off the lab coat and gloves. Before anyone objected, she’d run home to Mumbai in the same electric yellow salwar suit she was wearing underneath—the long tunic and leggings along with the brown flats she’d selected for her first day in the lab. She’d never imagined she’d freeze at the sight of the frogs.

“Quit—” With a muttered curse, Tutor Two straightened. “Don’t be silly.”

Anjali took a step back, her hand dropping to the table. Her knuckles collided with metal. The empty specimen dish slid sideways. It hovered on the edge of the table for a second. Both Anjali and Tutor Two dived for it, but—

A clatter. Then, there was a second loud noise, followed by a curse in guttural Hindi from the lab attendant. All chatter in the large, airy lab paused. Every head swivelled in their direction. Anjali didn’t wait to check on the second noise. Hoping to God she hadn’t knocked over one of the soot drums, she crouched to pick up the specimen dish, keeping her eyes pinned on the floor.

“Eek,” squealed a girl a couple of places down. Something else clanged.

“What’s going on, Dr Rastogi?” called a deep voice. Tutor One—the man who’d been instructing the rest of the students.

“Ahh…” grunted Tutor Two—Dr Rastogi. “Just a second… almost…”

Anjali frowned. For God’s sake, it was just a specimen dish—an empty specimen dish—and maybe one of the soot drums or instruments. She was mildly embarrassed, but really, there was no need for so much drama. When she clambered back up, the other students were scampering away from the table. Dr Rastogi stretched his arm to the middle, lunging after… an errant frog?

The frog croaked as if taunting its pursuer and leapt a couple of feet, sending more specimen dishes crashing to the floor.

Anjali shook her head in confusion. “What happened—”

“Dammit, get back here,” swore Dr Rastogi.

Titters rose. One of the students ran to take a stance on the other side of the table as though that would trap the frog. “Idhar aa jaa, baby,” he crooned, asking the creature to go to him.

“What the hell—” said Tutor One from the front of the hall, taking two steps towards them.

“My fault,” said Tutor Two, Dr Rastogi, positioning himself for another pounce across the table. “I caught my elbow on the specimen bucket.”

The second clatter she heard… “Oh, my God,” Anjali mumbled, both hands curled into tight fists against her mouth. Her first day in the lab, and she… maybe she could faint or something, and when she woke up, she’d just pretend today never happened.

“Get back here, or I’m gonna—” Dr Rastogi dived, again. So did the student on the other side. Two pairs of gloved hands met around the slimy amphibian. With a furious croak, the frog leapt almost straight into the air and atop the student’s head.

Ignoring the shouts and the hoots and the guffaws from the audience, Dr Rastogi swiped at the student’s head.

“Hey,” screamed the student. “Let go of my hair!”

A giggle erupted from Anjali. Behind the hands held to her mouth, she laughed, helplessly. At least she’d have a story to tell her dad—

One more croak, and the frog flew through the air. Every eye in the lab followed its course as it made for Tutor One’s chest. He took a startled step back, but the creature landed on his pristine white lab coat and slid a couple of inches straight into the front pocket. With a victorious grunt, the tutor clapped a hand over the lump. “Got ya.” He looked around at the rest of the lab. “Show’s over. Return to your specimens, please.”

“Thanks, Joe,” said Dr Rastogi, holding out a hand. “And sorry. Like I said, I caught my elbow on the specimen bucket.” It happened only because Anjali sent her specimen dish flying to the floor, but he didn’t mention it.

Tutor One—Dr Joe Something—was still holding his hand to his left chest, keeping the squirming frog prisoner. “Uh-huh.” He glanced between his colleague and Anjali.

At the start of the session, he’d introduced himself. Busy as Anjali was, gaping in horror at the frogs in the bucket, she’d heard only a garbled echo, not his name. Nor had she paid any attention to the man.

Like his colleague and everyone else in the hall, Dr Joe wore a lab coat over his shirt, leaving only his frayed khakis and scuffed brown loafers visible. Unlike his colleague, Joe wasn’t wearing glasses or a mask, and his face wasn’t particularly kind. There was an edgy sort of attractiveness to him even with the bushy brows. The dark, wavy hair was a little too long for a doctor, and the chiselled jaw showed a slight cleft in the chin. A hint of stubble shadowed the sun-bronzed skin. His light brown eyes were narrowed and fixed on her. Oh, yes. He’d somehow guessed Anjali had something to do with the ruckus. The stiffness of his tall and trim form telegraphed his annoyance at disruptive students.

Anjali tried a cool smile, only then realising her hands were still curled into fists in front of her mouth. She dropped them in haste and straightened her shoulders, tilting her chin up ever so slightly. From her height of five feet and almost one inch, it wasn’t easy to look down her nose at tall men.

“Lemme have the frog,” said Dr Rastogi, “and I can help Miss… ahh…”

“Anjali,” she supplied, thankful to have an excuse to drop her stare before her neck muscles froze into place. She tried a regal nod, something she’d seen her mother use on impertinent junior doctors at her maternity clinic. “Anjali Joshi.”

“Right,” said Dr Rastogi. “Miss Joshi asked a few questions about the procedure, so why don’t you go ahead with the class while I show her how to do it?”

Joe’s gaze was still on Anjali, and he opened his mouth as though to say something.

“Joe?” called Dr Rastogi, holding out a hand for the frog.

Turning his weirdly intent stare onto Dr Rastogi, Joe waited a couple of seconds. A strange expression flitted across his face before he shook it off with a jerky shrug and brought the hapless frog out of his pocket only to drop it back into the bucket. “Use one of the others. After the racket he caused, he deserves to live.” Dr Joe turned away and sauntered to the next table.

The lab attendant snickered. Anjali hadn’t even noticed he was still there. It was his job to set up the lab for experiments and clean up after, and the horrible man had made no attempt to help.

With a muttered exclamation and a blur of movement, Dr Rastogi dipped his hand into the bucket and came out with a writhing frog. Was it a different one? Anjali squinted. How could she tell?

“Here,” said Dr Rastogi, tone brisk. Grabbing one of her hands, he placed the animal in it, keeping his fingers over hers to make sure the frog didn’t get a chance to leap away.

God. Even through the latex glove, she could feel the slimy body squirming. A warmth spurted into her palm as the creature peed. Anjali whimpered. The pithing needle was tucked into her other hand.

“Hurry up,” said Dr Rastogi. “Let’s get this done before anyone notices.” Three seconds. Even in their awkward side-by-side position with his fingers guiding hers, three seconds was all it took for the frog to become motionless. “Can you take it from here?” asked Dr Rastogi, his hands still holding hers.

Anjali was hot and sweaty, and her vision was slightly hazy, yet she craned her neck up, managing a watery smile. Darn it, he was as tall as the other one. But then, most males over the age of thirteen towered above Anjali. “I’ll try. And thanks.”

“That’s better,” he said, softly. He let go and stepped away but waited a bit to make sure she could, indeed, do the rest.

A snort intruded, followed by a snigger. When Anjali looked up from the frog in the dish, the lab attendant was covering his mouth with one gloved hand, the other still holding the bucket.

“Kya hai?” snapped Dr Rastogi, asking the attendant what the matter was.

The attendant—a lanky man, dressed in his uniform of white, half-sleeved shirt and white pants—moved his hand and shook his head. “Nothing,” he responded, speaking in thickly accented Hindi. He immediately contradicted the denial by humming,“Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.”Only one of the most romantic Hindi songs ever from the eponymous movie, talking about the effect a small smile from the girl had on the hero.

Anjali frowned. Heavy glare evident behind the safety glasses, Dr Rastogi said, “Abey, chup.”

The attendant shut up as ordered, but he continued to titter as he walked away, the two remaining frogs tumbling about in the bucket.

Turning back to Anjali, Dr Rastogi said, “Get on with your work.” His tone was once again kind.

There were only fifteen minutes left, and she just about managed to finish the experiment before the students dispersed, and a voice came booming from the other end of the hall. “Anju,” called Meenakshi, Anjali’s roommate, waving frantically. “What happened with the frog?” Meenakshi asked as soon as she got within three feet, pushing the designer eyeglasses further up the bridge of her nose.

“Nothing,” Anjali mumbled. “I… umm… asked for help, and like Dr Rastogi said, the frog got out.” She’d explain the rest in the privacy of their hostel room. Thick, heavy textbooks cradled in their arms, both of them joined the line of students heading to the biochemistry lecture.

The two tutors were still in the lab not far from the door, talking to a short man with a grey combover, heavy jowls, and the brightest, most intelligent eyes Anjali ever saw on anyone. The head of the physiology department was enthusiastically brandishing a sheet of paper, not paying any mind to the students, but Joe looked up as though aware of being watched. His gaze snagged on Anjali. The corner of his mouth curling, he glanced between her and his colleague.

She looked away, pretending not to have noticed his snarky amusement. No. Unlike Dr Rastogi, Dr Joe was not kind. The smirk totally ruined the broody sex appeal of his face. He knew very well she was responsible for the stupid incident, and he was mocking her for it.

“Lucky you,” muttered Meenakshi. “Rishi was with you a long time.”

“Who?” Anjali asked, resisting a sudden, insane impulse to stick her tongue out at Joe. Mentally, she urged the line to move faster so she wouldn’t have to see the knowing grin, but the students in front were so busy gawking at the head of the department—a man who’d recently been shortlisted for the Nobel Prize in medicine—they were merely inching along.

Meenakshi clucked. “Rishabh Rastogi. Rishi.”

Ah. “A bit pompous but very nice.”

“Rishi is nice. He and Joe came to our house for my sister’s engagement party.” Meenakshi’s older sister was in her final year in the same college. “But Rishi… he’s so handsome.”

“I never saw his face.” Anjali craned her neck to peer past the exit, wishing she could snap out an order, asking her classmates to move, for God’s sake.

Meenakshi nodded. “I know. The surgical mask. My sister says he wears it because he gets asthma from the chemicals, but believe me, he looks like a movie star. Gorgeous hair and bedroom eyes and a body to kill for. And that sexy voice!” She shivered. “Plus, all the professors agree he’s going to be a fantastic surgeon.”

“Down, girl,” Anjali teased, squeezing past the door. Finally. Dr Joe could now keep his stupid smirks to himself.

“An observation, yaar,” Meenakshi said, calling Anjali her friend. “That’s it. It’s not like I have a crush on him or anything. Actually, I’m planning to have no crushes for the next five years. Nuclear medicine is not easy to get into.”

Nuclear medicine—Meenakshi already knew what she wanted to be, unlike Anjali who in spite of being born into a family of doctors, had yet to consider any specialities. She was simply excited to finally be a medical student. At least until this morning. Well, the frog experience told her one thing. Surgery might not be her forte.

“I’m still allowed to appreciate male beauty, right?” Meenakshi asked. “You know, like a da Vinci painting or classical music.”

Anjali giggled. “Right.”

“Plus, there’s the tragic backstory. My sister says there’s some gossip about some girl Rishi was in love with who threw him over. Before medical college, I mean.”

Taken aback, Anjali asked, “In high school? And he’s still holding on to it? How weird.”

“Romantic, not weird,” Meenakshi said, firmly. “Hey, I forgot to bring my Harper’s today. Can I share yours?”

“Of course.” Arguing over the merits of various textbooks, they got to the lecture hall. As they settled into seats somewhere in the middle of the stadium-style hall, Anjali asked, “What about Rishi’s friend? Dr Joe Something?”

“Joseph Francis D’Acosta,” Meenakshi said, flipping through the pages of Harper’s Illustrated Biochemistry. “According to my sister, they’re not friends, just part of the same group. Joe’s really driven—competitive. He and Rishi were always competing for the top rank in their class. My sister says Rishi was mellow about it, but Joe could never stand losing. He once asked to do the supplementary exam when he came in second.”

“Really?” Retake the exam for coming in second in a class of almost a hundred medical students? “Crazy.”

“Still, he’s great fun. Such a dry sense of humour. When Rishi and Joe visited our home, Joe kept my father laughing. He never likes any of my friends.”

“Fun?” That certainly wasn’t how Anjali would’ve described Joe D’Acosta. “‘What’s going on, Dr Rastogi?’” Anjali quoted the man, her tone snide. Okay, maybe it was a silly thing to object to, but she couldn’t help it. He annoyed her. “Didn’t he just graduate six months ago? I mean, Rishi was also a bit pompous, but he didn’t act so totally full of himself. I didn’t hear him say ‘Dr D’Acosta.’” The name… Joseph D’Acosta… it sounded familiar. Had she heard it somewhere before?

Meenakshi laughed. “You know how it is when you first graduate.”

“No, I don’t,” Anjali retorted. “You don’t, either. We’re still in our first year.”

“My sister has one more year to go, and she told me if we run into each other on campus, I have to call her ‘doctor.’”

“Rishi called Joe by his first name.”

“True,” Meenakshi acknowledged. “Rishi’s more mature. I guess tragedy does that to a man.”

Anjali rolled her eyes. The tragedy of a failed high school romance?

“Anyway, both of them are cool, but my sister’s already warned me not to fall for either. Not that I was planning to.”

“What? Dr D’Acosta also has a tragic past?” Anjali had heard his name before. She merely couldn’t place it.

“Nope. Everyone says he has a one-year rule. No girlfriend has ever lasted longer.”

“Maybe that’s how long any woman has been able to tolerate him,” Anjali suggested, snippily.

“Don’t think so.” Meenakshi snickered. “Or he wouldn’t have gotten any more dates after the first couple. Word gets around, you know. They’re called ‘Joe’s girls.’”

“Yuck,” Anjali said. “Why would any self-respecting woman want such a ridiculous label?”

Meenakshi waggled her eyebrows. “Don’t dis it. Talk on campus is they all had a good time. If you know what I mean.”

With a groan, Anjali said, “Double yuck. So anyone who goes out with him becomes the butt of every crass joke in college. No wonder your sister warned you away.”

“Just as a romantic prospect. He’s great to hang out with.”

“Whatever,” Anjali said. “Listen, next time in physio lab, stay with me. I need someone to catch the frog.” She couldn’t keep asking for help from the movie star doctor, and she wasn’t about to give Joe D’Acosta another chance to mock her. “I can help you in the dissection hall.” She had no problem with human cadavers, but Meenakshi’s eyes watered from the formaldehyde the moment she started cutting.

The professor, a sari-clad woman with a bush of salt-and-pepper hair on her head, strode to the podium. “Amino acid metabolism,” she started.

The sound of flipping pages went around the lecture hall.

Pushing Joe D’Acosta out of her mind, Anjali focused on the intricacies of deamination. Wherever she’d heard of him, whatever she’d heard, it hadn’t been significant enough to remember.

Chapter 3

Present day

Outside Café Ishq, nature unleashed its rage on Vagator Beach, pelting it with violent rain. Thunder crashed, setting the glass windows vibrating. Inside the building, it should’ve been a safe, cosy cocoon beyond which nothing existed. Instead, another storm raged in Joe’s heart.

Anjali was here in Goa, standing by his table. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The band switched from the playful song of a minute ago to a romantic ballad, but he couldn’t hear much beyond the soft whisper of her breaths. She stammered, “I… I didn’t know it was you…”

That much was evident from the stark horror on her face. Gritting his teeth, Joe reminded himself exactly how their romance ended. She was reacting as expected to a nasty memory from the past. “I got it. I didn’t know, either. Not that I’m not happy to see you. I am happy… thrilled, to be honest.”

At his unusual stuttering, her eyes widened. Joe mumbled a curse under his breath. He was no clumsy dork, but when his two brothers decided he needed to get laid and teamed up with his godfather—the crackpot parish priest—to set him up on a blind date from Tinder, he hadn’t been expecting to run into the same woman who’d haunted his dreams for years. No reasonable person could hope to remain Mr Suave under the circumstances.

Or maybe he’d finally gone batshit crazy from the nightly fantasies and started hallucinating. Lack of regular sex, brother number two would say. Joe clenched his fist to stop himself from stretching out his arm and touching Anjali to make sure she was real.

A wet lock of hair clung to her cheek, its tip ending at the corner of her mouth. If she moved the hair even by a micron, the tiny black dot would become visible. That is if he peered closely at her face. He’d done it often enough. The little mark simply begged to be kissed, and he’d obliged every chance he got since he first gave into the impossible attraction he had for her.

Red colour washed across her skin as though she were aware of his thoughts. Her knuckles came up, but instead of brushing the lock of hair away as he wanted, her hand dropped back down.

The wet clothes were plastered to her petite frame, showing off every delicately sexy curve. Her figure was slightly fuller than Joe remembered, and—

“Excuse me,” called a voice. The hostess. “Miss… er… Audrey, would you like a towel?”

Anjali’s slim arms were wrapped across her torso, and the soft pink lips were quivering. The air conditioner in the café was set to a pleasant 23°C, but she’d just come in from a thunderstorm. With a muttered exclamation, Joe said, “Towels and something hot to drink, please. In fact, why don’t you show her to the office so she can dry off?”

A light flared in Anjali’s doe-shaped eyes. “Office?”

“Er… yeah.” He gestured with his hand. “This is my brother’s café.” It used to be a teashop-turned-bar in his grandfather’s day, selling bootlegged hooch and fried fish to tourists. By the time Joe met Anjali, the place was mortgaged to the hilt to a private bank. The rickety shed was one more symbol of the huge gulf between them, something neither had a prayer of crossing. She wouldn’t have known it was now a Michelin star restaurant.

“Office?” Anjali repeated, as though she hadn’t heard his explanation.

The band was loud but not that loud. The current song was a dreamy melody with the lead singer crooning about the mysterious connection between two people who’d met by chance. “It’s my broth—”

“Office?” she asked a third time, her voice dangerously low. Her nostrils flared. Her chest heaved. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

Joe snapped his mouth shut. No, it wasn’t all. He longed to ask her how she’d been. Had she thought of him once or twice without hating him? Did her mind ever wander back to the heady days of new love like his did night after night?

“After eleven years?” Anjali bared her teeth in a hiss. She stumbled around as though looking for something.

“Anju, I—” tried Joe.

“Miss?” called the worried hostess, her eyes darting to the rest of the diners. A few were looking interestedly in their direction. “Why don’t you go with me?”

Not even glancing at the hostess, Anjali grabbed a fork off the table and raised her arm, as though to sink the prongs into his chest.

“What are you—” Joe took a rearward step, the back of his knees striking a chair. It fell with a clatter, but he didn’t turn. He didn’t dare. “Anju, let’s talk inside.”

“Argh.” Tossing the fork onto the table with a clatter, she reached for the vase with the single yellow rose in it.

“Anju, no,” he said, retreating further. A sudden, electric pain shot down his calf. The fallen chair. “Oww.”

There were more of the restaurant’s staff around the table now, all of them dressed in yellow shirts and black pants. “Miss,” called someone. Hands reached for her, trying to calm her. Every face carried the same expression: alarm and the urgency to get the crazy woman out of sight of the rest of the diners. Of course, they didn’t have a clue what Joe did eleven years ago. He’d expected to live with guilt… never imagined he’d get a chance to tell her how sorry he was.

Without looking towards anyone, Anjali swatted away the hands and lifted the vase. Her face was now worryingly flushed. A splash—lukewarm water landed on his face, in his eyes, in his nostrils. The rose flew to his head and tumbled to the floor. Joe screwed his eyelids shut, spitting out slimy water.

There were a couple of shocked exclamations, followed by a smattering of claps. “You show him, sister,” hollered a woman, the accent distinctly American. “The lying, cheating bastard.”

Opening his eyes, he looked for the culprit. There—a black woman with curls all the way to her mid-back was sitting across a table from an Indian dude in khaki shorts barely hanging on to his twiggy legs. Through the droplets of funky-smelling slime dripping from his hair, Joe scowled in their direction. “Madam, could you please mind your own business? You have no idea what’s going on.”

White cloth suddenly blocked his vision. Fabric covered his eyes and face, mopping up the water and slime.

“What the—” Swatting aside the napkin and the hand of the waiter holding it, he said, “Stop. I need to talk to—Anju?”

Face still flushed, she was staring up at him. Her chest was heaving, and the empty vase was now rolling around on its side on the table. “How could you do it to me, Joe? How could you just walk out and never come back? Eleven years and not a word. Not one phone call, no emails, no texts.”

There was a sudden gasp from the hostess. As one, all the employees turned accusing glares towards Joe. Even the music died down with the group craning their necks towards the tableau at the other end of the room.

Anjali’s brown eyes filled with sudden tears. “Damn you,” she whispered, and wiping away the added moisture on her cheeks with trembling fingers, she pivoted to glide regally towards the exit.

“Anju, wait.” He pushed through the staff surrounding him and jogged after her.

She did stop before she got to the foyer but only to talk to the waiter manning the hostess station. “I don’t have my phone on me,” she said, her voice shaky. “May I use yours? I need to call a taxi.”

Joe caught up. “It’s not going to be easy to get a taxi in this weather. Anju, wait in the office, please. Or let me take you home.” Don’t walk away, he begged with his eyes.

Ignoring him, she asked the waiter, “I’ll call my cousin, then.”

“Er…” The waiter tugged at his collar and glanced between Joe and Anjali. “I’m sorry, Dr Joe. She’s a customer.” Pulling out a cordless phone from the podium, the waiter handed it to Anjali.

Watching her dial, Joe mumbled a curse. “Don’t go, Anju. Please, please—”

She slapped a hand to her forehead and said into the phone, “Mohini, where are you? I need—as soon as you get this message—oh, God. What’s the point? I’ll have to wait here for a taxi.”

“No, you don’t,” said the hostess, marching towards them with her mouth set in a straight, thin line. “I can have the delivery van take you home.”

“Do you mind?” Joe snarled. “I’m trying to talk to her.”

“Yeah?” asked the hostess, hostility radiating from every pore. “You had eleven years like she said.”

“You work for me,” Joe howled. Brother number one ran the place, but Joe and brother number two and their baby sister also owned shares.

“I work for Mr Dev,” insisted the hostess. “He’s not gonna fire me for it.”

“Thank you,” Anjali said, putting the cordless phone back on the podium and taking the hostess’s hands in hers. Sudden chagrin appeared on Anjali’s face as though she were just remembering something. “I do need to get back soon. My… umm… there’s someone waiting for me.”

Huh? Someone was waiting for her to return from her date in less than half hour after it was supposed to begin? Why? And who?

“The van will be here in two minutes.” The hostess treated Joe to a particularly malevolent side-eye. “You go home and forget all this, Miss Audrey. Some men are not worth your tears.”

Joe suppressed a groan. Was he going to have to battle the entire sisterhood of womankind for one measly minute with—

“Anjali,” she corrected. “Anjali Joshi.”

Joe frowned. The shock of meeting her had driven one important question from his mind. She’d been here on a blind date from Tinder, and now, she was introducing herself as Anjali Joshi. Last he heard, she’d been Mrs Rishabh Rastogi.

Part II

Chapter 4

The monitor on the wall beeped at regular intervals, showing steady heartbeats. Blood pressure, stable. Oxygenation, acceptable. On the ICU bed, the patient moaned in her unconscious state, restlessly moving her bandaged head on the pillow. Her eyebrows drew together in a grimace. A couple of hours had passed since she was wheeled out of the OR, but the faint smell of antiseptic still clung to her. Or it could be Rishi’s nose, ultrasensitive to every damned odour.

Dr Rishabh Rastogi—Rishi—was still in his green surgical scrubs but ripped off the mask before walking into the patient’s room. Mistake. Holding his breath, he quickly completed checking the neural reflexes on the soles of the patient’s feet and stepped back.

“Stupid kids,” muttered the nurse, the grey in her hair and the wrinkles on her face no detriment to the briskness with which she moved around her charge, adjusting pillows. “Always think they’re indestructible.” This particular one and her best friend thought it was a fine idea to race mopeds on Delhi’s roads to celebrate the end of high school. “Her parents and brother are in the waiting room. They’re lucky you were here, Dr Rastogi.”

“If not, one of the others would’ve taken care of it,” said Rishi, automatically. Evacuating hematomas—draining pooled blood from the brain—was something every neurosurgeon knew how to do. “But…” Curling the corner of his mouth into a smug smile, he grabbed the COW—computer on wheels—which was basically a laptop placed on a wheeled hospital cart. “…none of them would’ve been Rishabh Rastogi.”

The nurse chortled. “Surgeons! Always so modest.” She’d been a theatre nurse at AIIMS when he was training, and he’d lured her to this exclusive hospital in India’s capital as soon as he was given charge of staffing the neurosurgery department. Not only was she excellent at her job, she had no qualms about telling him off when she felt he needed it. Talking to her and the rest of his staff, sharing chai and snacks during breaks—he felt like a human being with them. If he could, he would’ve spent twenty-four/seven in the operating theatre, scalpel in his gloved hand. It was the only place which offered him peace.

Rishi glanced quickly at the patient’s electronic chart and signed off. “Hey, we both know who’s the best.” Tugging off his surgical cap, he tucked it into the back of his scrub pants. “I won’t have any further updates for the parents until she wakes. I don’t believe there’s been any permanent damage, but no way to be certain until we see her responses.”

On cue, the patient mumbled, “Water.”

“Meds are wearing off,” the nurse remarked. She leaned towards the patient and gently touched a shoulder. “Hey, girl. Can you hear me?”

Slowly, the girl’s eyes fluttered open. Pain and confusion on her face, she peered at the nurse. “I… what…” Her gaze snagged on Rishi. For a second or two, she stared. Then, she gave a weak giggle. “You look like my husband.”

The nurse laughed. “Husband? How old are you, child? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Seventeen, and I’m not married,” the girl said, eyes drifting back shut.

“Heh? Oh.” The nurse turned to Rishi, her eyes brimming with mirth. “Looks like you got yourself another marriage proposal, Dr Rastogi.”

Rishi could feel his face burn. He’d been on the receiving end of proposals before—decent and indecent. Many surgeons had when patients came out of anaesthesia. Rishi, being blessed with the even features, the sun-kissed complexion, and the lean, muscular build of his maternal ancestors, collected more than his fair share of lurid offers. He winced, remembering the ninety-year-old great-grandmother who pinched his bottom once. He’d laughed with the rest of the theatre staff over pervy granny, but this time, he couldn’t meet the gaze of the nurse. He didn’t want to see the sympathy sure to be in her eyes at the talk of romance. Not a soul asked directly, but they’d all heard about the divorce proceedings. How could they have failed to when Anjali was employed by the same place as an anaesthesiologist?

Yes, they’d all heard about Rishi’s personal misery, but none of them had a clue of the extent of the trouble he was in. Earlier in the evening, a text popped up on his phone from an unknown number, asking him to check the hospital mailbox where something special waited for him. His heart thudded. Of all the people who’d come and gone through his life, there were only two left who’d care enough to send him surprise gifts. Anjali did care—of that Rishi was sure. Still, she wouldn’t be in the mood to buy him gifts any time soon, and she certainly wasn’t as callous as to send anything related to the divorce quite this way. The other one… the reason behind Anjali wanting a divorce… perhaps the anger at Rishi’s desertion had subsided. Perhaps his pleas for understanding on his obligation towards his wife and family got through. Rishi was in no position to toss aside his responsibilities and travel the world with a lover.

The unstamped envelope delivered by Rishis’ secretary contained only a single sheet of paper—a letter in Hindi typed with English alphabet. Each word in it dripped venom, telling Rishi news of the impending divorce reached the one person in the world he’d prayed would never hear of it—the blackmailing bastard Rishi thought he’d left in his past.

Daktar saab. Bohot din huve.

Rishi didn’t bother looking for the signature—there wouldn’t be one. The mangled greeting calling him “Doctor sir” and the statement it had been a long time since they talked was enough to remind him of the crime he’d committed so many years ago. The mistake no one knew about except him and the blackmailer. Rishi whimpered in panic and shivered in his chair for an hour until the call came through about this teenager who needed emergency surgery.

As soon as he slipped his hands into latex gloves, all thoughts of the disaster awaiting him fled. It was always the same. Being with his team drained the tension from him. Under the bright theatre lights focused on the delicate structure of the human brain, there was no Rishi—only Dr Rastogi, neurosurgeon.

The bastard who wrote the letter was threatening to rip it all away. He was threatening to slice off Rishi’s identity, reducing him to a mere skeleton.

Fear tightened into a hot ball in his upper abdomen. Stop, he ordered himself. He was still in the patient’s room. He couldn’t afford to break down. The nurse was already looking at him with concern. She didn’t know anything about the letter, did she? No, it was the patient’s silly comment. Rishi tried a dismissive chuckle and turned, but the mirth seemed false to even his own ears. Marriage had dulled his reflexes against unwanted advances. He and Anjali had been together for eleven years, more if he counted from the year they met. But at the time, there was someone between them—Joe, Rishi’s flatmate, the love of Anjali’s life.

Chapter 5

December 2006

“Are you insane?” Rishi shouted over the sounds of cricket commentary drifting into the tiny bedroom from the living room TV. As he sat up higher on the twin bed, the yeasty froth of beer came up his nostrils. Coughing, he tossed the nearly empty bottle into the wastebasket in the corner and glared at the curly-haired woman in jeans and fuzzy pink sweater by the door—Gauri, final-year medical student and overall pain in the butt. He’d been chilling at home with a bottle of Kingfisher and a decent paperback when she barged in. “Darling,” Rishi explained through clenched teeth, “I’m your sister’s tutor. I can’t have her as a guest for New Year’s Eve.”

This would be one of the handful of things Joe and Rishi ever agreed on. Gauri’s fiancé, who was right now in the U.S. doing medicine internship, was best friend to both men, but there were limits to friendship, dammit—like risking their employability to keep the S.O.B.’s bratty betrothed entertained.

Stomping a foot, Gauri said, “The little snot complained to my parents I don’t take her anywhere. If she can’t be here, I can’t, either. I can’t even go any other place. You know how my family is.”

Yup, Rishi did know and like a lot of young people in India, could painfully identify. Her parents—a retired history professor and his wife—were the conservative sort and kept strict control over all aspects of their children’s lives. Rebellion would lead to withdrawal of social support and perhaps financial, as well. Their older daughter’s romance with Rishi and Joe’s best friend was initially met with intense hostility until the credentials and family background of the man in question were confirmed. Now, the intended son-in-law was treated royally, and he’d certified Rishi and Joe safe—including for the younger daughter. The flat was the only place the girls were allowed to visit without explicit parental permission.

“And she won’t go anywhere without her pals,” Gauri continued whining. “C’mon, Rishi. Help me out.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up a second. Did you say your sister wants to bring her pals?”

“Sorry, yaar. The girl she’s always hanging with… the frog girl, Anjali? She and a boy from their batch. You know who I’m talking about?”

Rishi mumbled a curse. How could he possibly forget Anjali Joshi? The damned lab attendant from physiology spun a tale of love at first sight all around campus, and no matter where Rishi went, someone was humming the same silly movie song. After five years of successfully evading every attempt at pushing him into romances he didn’t want, he was now starring in an imaginary love story. He’d hardly muttered two words to her since the incident in the lab, and she darted away anytime they came within ten feet of each other, but even the head of the department carried on about the girl’s parents being practically royalty in medical circles, glancing meaningfully at Rishi as he made the remark. Apparently, Anjali was from Mumbai and came from a line of doctors extending back to the 1600s, all famed for their contribution to the development of modern medicine in India. Not only that, the Joshis were über wealthy, having made their money in land and gold and lately in stocks. It was more than Rishi ever wished to know about the girl. They were in Delhi—a major metro with almost fifteen million people—but in the medical college campus, he couldn’t escape mentions of one Anjali Joshi.

Plus, Gauri’s sister—Meenakshi—always hung out with the girl. Then, there was the third one in their little pack. The punk who’d tried to help Rishi capture the frog—wavy hair, dark poetic eyes, and a talent for making up dirty limericks about his teachers if the rumours were correct.

“I’m so bored,” Gauri complained. “The only social life I have is with you and Joe. Please, Rishi? It will be just the three of them.”

“Hell, no,” Rishi said, gesturing her away. “I’m not losing my job just so you can keep yourself entertained.” Nor was he going to give fodder to the gossip about him and Anjali. “Out you go.”

“Rishi,” whined Gauri. “Why are you being so difficult, yaar? I need you to convince Joe.”

“Ain’t happening.” Even if Rishi weakened, Joe wouldn’t agree. Where career was concerned, there was no one more mindful of proprieties.

A hand to her heart, Gauri said, “I swear nobody’s gonna know they were here. Except for a few of us, most everyone has gone home for Christmas break.”

Gauri’s parents were at some religious retreat their daughters recoiled from joining. Joe couldn’t afford to travel to Goa, and Rishi… well… home was New Delhi for him, but he wasn’t welcome in the family residence at the moment. If Gauri didn’t show up, it would be only him and Joe staying home as neither had the money to go clubbing. Also, the nurse from Goa who was a friend of Joe’s. When sozzled, they both tended to lapse into a weird mix of Konkani, Goa’s official language, and Portuguese, neither of which Rishi knew. If not for Gauri, his Christmas would’ve been spent listening to the two Goans talking gibberish and drunkenly belting out carols.

Rishi growled. “Dammit, Gauri. You need to be here, or I won’t have anyone to talk to on New Year’s Eve! Give your sister some money to go watch a movie or something.”

Gritting her teeth, Gauri asked, “Don’t you think I would’ve… you got a couple of hundred on you? I’m broke.”

“Me?” Rishi swung his bare feet to the floor and stood, turning the pockets of his flannel pants inside out. “Darling, I’m a tutor, not one of the professors. I barely make enough to pay rent and eat three times a day.” Hence the flat-sharing arrangement with Joseph D’Acosta in this affordable neighbourhood as close as they could get to the AIIMS campus. People thought them friends, but people were thoroughly mistaken. Rishi and Joe did have a best friend in common, but they otherwise merely tolerated each other. “What if…” Rishi shook his head. He couldn’t think of any alternatives.

“Exactly,” said Gauri. “There’s no other option. C’mon, Rishi.”

With a huff, Rishi said, “Joe’s not gonna agree.”

“What are you guys talking about?” asked a deep voice.

Gauri squeaked and whirled to face the man walking by clad in flannel pants and cotton tee like Rishi. “Joe! I… umm… we thought…”

Rishi sighed. “She wants to bring her sister and two other first-years to dinner tomorrow. Anjali Joshi and the boy they hang out with.”

“Heh?” Joe goggled. “No way. You’re crazy.”

For a second, Gauri didn’t say anything. From where Rishi stood, only her profile was visible, but he could clearly see her eyes widening. Her lower lip trembled. Her shoulders shuddered.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” groaned Joe.

Rishi growled. “Gauri,” he warned.

Before he could finish the sentence, the wailing started, loud enough to drown out the TV. Another sound joined her howling—the neighbour’s dog, a Pomeranian with the lung power of an elephant. It took a couple of minutes for Rishi and Joe to cajole Gauri to the worn floral sofa in the living room. “I miss him so much,” she blubbered, rubbing her tearful face on Joe’s shoulder—“him” being her absent fiancé.

“We do, too,” Joe soothed, exchanging a long-suffering glance with Rishi sitting on her other side. Even the dog’s continued yips seemed to hold exasperation. They all knew how this would end.

Five minutes later, they were negotiating terms. “No alcohol for them,” Rishi said, firmly. “Or for you.” Hell, even he and Joe were below Delhi’s drinking age of twenty-five and needed Joe’s friend—the Goan nurse—to buy beer. “If anyone hears about them being here, they were walking by and something happened… an accident… someone sprained an ankle…”

“Done,” Gauri agreed, her face now tear-free. “I just need to tell my mom I did my bit to get my sister settled into life on campus.”

Face heating, Rishi added, “Also, you can’t leave me alone with… ahh… you know…”

“Anjali?” Gauri asked, chortling.

Eyebrows drawn, Joe snapped, “She asked you for help exactly once. Stop acting as if she’s throwing herself at you.”

“Poor thing’s sooooo embarrassed about the whole thing,” Gauri agreed, eyes brimming again but with mirth. “She agreed to the party only because of my sister.”

“He thinks he’s irresistible,” Joe muttered. “He doesn’t even want her. She hasn’t done anything for him to think…”

“I simply want to avoid any misunderstanding,” Rishi insisted, choosing to ignore Joe’s annoyance. An argument about some girl who’d somehow stumbled into their social sphere was not worth the discomfort it would cause them over the next few months as flatmates until the postgraduate course in surgery started, and God willing, each got a room in the hostel.

“All right, all right,” said Gauri.

Joe looked around, cursing at the plastic Christmas tree on the coffee table. “Dammit. We have to clean. This place stinks.”

The flat was cluttered but not really unclean. Still, the stink part was true. The smell of weed wasn’t easy to get rid of. Rishi didn’t give a damn what the pulmonologists said—the herb was the one thing guaranteed to stop his asthma attacks. That was his story, and he was sticking to it. Joe admitted to plain liking it.

“Open the windows for a couple of hours,” said Gauri, rolling her eyes. “Then, burn some agarbattis.” The incense sticks would beat the shit out of any weed odour strong enough to withstand the wintry winds of New Delhi. “As far as the snots are concerned, you two will be Gandhiji’s avatars, okay? And don’t worry about people finding out they were here. My sister and her friends are not gonna blab.”

Moments after their arrival the next evening, they didn’t even seem capable of opening their mouths. Oh, Gauri’s sister was doing plenty of talking, mostly to the Goan nurse, but her batchmates were sitting stiffly on the sofa, wide eyes darting around the shabby living room.

Even with only seven people, it was a tight squeeze. Other than the threadbare sofa, there were the two wobbly wooden chairs which came with the flat and a couple of folding contraptions Joe managed to beg from their neighbour, the owner of the howling dog. The two windows which looked out to the narrow gap between apartment buildings were shut, and the space heater was on. Anjali, clad in jeans and a soft red sweater, was still shivering mildly, her sleeves pulled over her hands.

Mumbaikars. They constantly complained about the heat but dove for cover at the first hint of a chill. Except for Rishi and Joe, the rest were also dressed warm in jeans and sweaters and sneakers. Rishi was a Delhiite, used to cooler winters, and his thin fleece was absolutely fine for the occasion. After sunny Goa, Joe should’ve found the weather in the nation’s capital uncomfortable, but he stuck to his usual khaki pants and Polo shirt—navy blue this time—along with the brown loafers which had seen better days. He’d at least bothered to shave to greet the new year. The bathroom reeked of his cologne. It did cover the weed stink.

Since Rishi and Joe usually ate in front of the TV, they’d never troubled themselves to get a dining set up, so they had to use the small coffee table.

“Wow,” said Gauri, sniffing. “You guys went all out tonight.”

Rishi recognised shrimp sautéed with coconut bits and the pork vindaloo—they were both Joe’s specialities. Roti and fried rice were unmistakable. The red chunks Rishi wasn’t quite sure about, but it looked like meat of some sort. Dessert—plum cake filled with nuts and bits of dried fruit—was still in the oven.

“This is not from a restaurant?” asked the boy in the group, speaking for the first time since his arrival.

“Did you copy your dirty songs from a book?” asked Joe, an affronted glare on his face.

Rishi tut-tutted and shook his head in mock awe before distributing paper plates to the group. “Poetry, my friend. Poetry. I heard he recited something at the freshers’ party.” The young punk’s ditties were getting attention from even senior faculty. Academicians rarely appreciated mockery—salty mockery at that.

“It is poetry,” said the punk, his dreamy black eyes snapping. “And I don’t plagiarise. My lines are my own.”

“I don’t do restaurant food,” Joe snapped back.

“Don’t insult the chef,” advised Meenakshi, plonking herself on the sofa, flanking the punk between her and Anjali. If Gauri were all about pinks and sparkles, her younger sister’s giant polka-dotty butterfly glasses and high ponytail screamed Nerds-R-Us.

“Look how proud he is of his silly writing,” marvelled Gauri.

Nose in air, the punk said, “It’s not silly, and it’s not dirty. It’s erotic satire in rhyming verse.”

“Porn poetry?” asked the Goan nurse, dragging a folding chair close to Meenakshi’s end of the sofa.

As everyone else laughed, Anjali asked, her voice at once sweet and strong, “You made all this?” Joe and Gauri took the two chairs next to the nurse, leaving Rishi the one close to Anjali, but her eyes were on Joe, her pink lips parted slightly as though in surprise.

“Yeah,” mumbled Joe. “I do the cooking around here, and whatshisname does the cleaning.”

Gauri giggled. “Aren’t they domesticated?”

Anjali leaned towards the coffee table with paper plate in one hand, sending the soft, lemon scent of her perfume drifting to Rishi. She pointed at the red chunks of meat. “What is this?”

For a second or two, Joe said nothing. Then, an unholy glee crossed his face. “It’s a Goan dish. Jumping chicken.”

His friend—the nurse—snorted, hiding her mouth with the back of her hand.

The faint suspicion in Rishi’s mind was reflected on the other faces in the room. “What exactly is jumping chicken?”

Glinting eyes boring into Anjali, Joe admitted, “Frog legs.”

***

Rage churning, Anjali stared unblinkingly at Joe, at his mocking smirk as he bit into… the thing. Around them, the rest were convulsing with laughter, stopping every few seconds to apologise to her. Pressure built inside her head. The muscles in her arms tightened almost involuntarily. She wanted—oh, she so badly wanted—to toss the paper plate in her hands onto his face. Too bad it was empty.

“Joe, you terrible man,” squealed her traitorous friend. Meenakshi removed her butterfly eyeglasses to wipe the tears of mirth off her cheeks.

Wetness spurted at the corners of Anjali’s eyes. Horror. Absolute horror. She was going to make a fool of herself any moment. Clumsily, she placed the paper plate on the table and stood, looking frantically around. “I… umm… I need to use the bathroom.” No, she wanted to return to the hostel. She so badly wanted to stalk out and run to the security of her bed to have herself an angry cry.

Laughter sputtering to a stop, the second traitor complained, “C’mon, Anju. It was just a joke.” Siddharth—Sid—attached himself to her and Meenakshi after his failed attempt to capture the frog in the physiology lab but switched sides exactly when Anjali was in dire need of support. Yeah, it was a joke like he said—the kind which was funny only if you were not the butt of it.

Anjali blinked hard, trying to keep her dignity intact. Staring at a spot somewhere above Joe’s head, she said, “It’s not that. I really need to use the bathroom.”

“Sorry, yaar,” mumbled Meenakshi. “It was not a joke. It was a horrible thing to do to you, and I shouldn’t have laughed.” Everyone else stopped guffawing, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

“The bathroom?” Anjali repeated, keeping her voice even. She lowered her gaze to meet Joe’s eyes.

“I didn’t mean to…” He huffed out a breath and stood, pointing to his left. “Bathroom’s over there.”

As soon as she shut the door behind her, Anjali turned on the faucet and stood in front of washbasin, the hissing water camouflaging her furious sobs. She wished she hadn’t decided to stay in the hostel when her parents offered to fly her to Mumbai for Christmas break.

Meenakshi stayed only because she refused to attend the religious retreat her parents were at, and Siddharth recoiled from spending time with his father and his new family in Boston. When Anjali heard her friends were planning to have Gauri take them to Joe and Rishi’s flat for New Year’s Eve, she didn’t want to miss out on the fun and immediately made up a story about her parents going to a medical conference. Oh, Rishabh Rastogi would be at the party, and she really didn’t need to feed the gossip, but who was going to find out? He would only be one among the group with Anjali, her friends, Gauri, and Joe D’Acosta. It would be Anjali’s first time out as a semi-independent adult, and she would have fun. Instead, she ended up being the joke.

If she left now, she’d give the awful man the satisfaction of having driven her away. Splashing cold water on her face, she checked the mirror above the washbasin to make sure there were no tear tracks on her cheeks. She wiped the wetness from her hands on her jeans and took a deep breath before opening the door. Two steps, and she nearly collided with the tall form slouched against the opposite wall of the narrow passage. “Eek,” Anjali said, heart pounding. “You…” She gritted her teeth. Didn’t Dr Joseph D’Acosta already have enough fun for the evening, kicking around a poor first-year student?

“They’re not frog legs,” he said, abruptly.

“What?”

“I said they were because… I have no idea why I said it, but I’m sorry.”

Utterly confused, Anjali shook her head. “But… what… come again?”

Enunciating each word in his buttery smooth voice, Joe explained, “I just said they were frog legs. They are not. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry.”

Anjali searched the light brown eyes under the bushy brows for some sign of mockery, but she saw none. There was no stench of deceit about him, only the scent of his cologne, something which reminded her of trees baking under the sizzling sun. Returning her silent regard, he scratched the slight cleft in his clean-shaven jaw with a single finger. An angry red line ran across the cleft, a shallow cut which was now healing.

The rest of the group was also silent, watching them from the living room merely ten feet away. There was a snort from Rishi, almost a laugh, but he immediately went into a coughing fit and turned his back until it subsided.

“So what are those things?” Anjali finally asked, crossing her arms over her chest to rub her shoulders.

“Soya chunks.”

“Soya?” Siddharth exclaimed from the living room, his voice full from the food in his mouth. “Gimme a napkin. Hurry!” Rishi leapt from his chair as though to look for one, but there weren’t any. Without waiting for anyone to locate one, Siddharth spat the half-masticated food onto his paper plate.

“Eww, Sid,” said Meenakshi, leaning away from him.

“Are you all right?” asked Rishi. “You’re not having an allergic reaction, are you?”

Joe straightened. “Get your EpiPen, Rishi.” With his susceptibility to allergies, Rishi would need to keep pre-filled syringes of the lifesaving medicine with him.

“No,” said Siddharth, holding a hand up. “It’s just that I’m a strict non-vegetarian. It’s against my religious code to eat anything without meat. You should’ve warned me.”

It took a moment for the claim to sink in. Then, Anjali giggled. Everyone else erupted into shouts of mock-annoyance, pummelling Siddharth with pillows.

“He’s asking to get his ass kicked,” said Rishi, glaring and laughing at the same time.

“I agree.” Joe stepped back into the living room, fists raised, but he was also laughing.

“Hey,” Siddharth said, holding his hands up. “No violence, please. I’m delicate.”

“You’re certainly something,” Rishi agreed. He leaned towards Siddharth as though to say more.

“I know what to do,” said Meenakshi, holding her index finger up. Before Siddharth could object, she poked him in the tummy.

He bent double with a high-pitched tee-hee, setting Anjali and Meenakshi off while the rest guffawed. “Pillsbury doughboy,” squealed Anjali.

Rishi glanced at the sofa where Siddharth was making faces at Meenakshi. Shaking his head slightly, Rishi scooted back into his chair.

When they settled down around the food a second time, Siddharth said, “Sorry, Anju. I shouldn’t have said it’s just a joke. You’re so goody-goody all the time it’s almost irresistible temptation to see what will make you crack.” Ignoring Anjali’s heavy frown, he nodded at Joe. “I get it, bro. Still, why health food junk on New Year’s Eve?”

Joe was in the process of loading his plate with fried shrimp and stilled for a moment. Voice casual, he said, “I wasn’t sure if any of you were vegetarian. There’s some khatkhate, too, in the kitchen.” His gaze swept over the group, skipping Anjali. “It’s a sort of vegetable stew, very popular with Konkani brahmins.”

Anjali fixed her eyes on the fragrant fried rice on her plate. Joe had been to Gauri and Meenakshi’s home; he would’ve been aware they ate all kinds of meat, including beef. Of all the people in the flat, the only two whose dietary preferences he wouldn’t have known were Anjali and Siddharth. She wasn’t terribly keen on meat, preferring seafood, but lots of brahmins were strict vegetarians. A tremor went through her heart. Then, she frowned. Konkani brahmin? It was such a minute detail of their caste, how could Joe possibly have—

“I knew your grandfather,” said Joe, as though he’d heard her unspoken question. “Dr Ram Manohar Joshi.”

“Heh?” asked the nurse, Kokila. “Dr Ram was her grandfather?”

“Really?” Meenakshi tore off a piece of roti and dipped into the thick, tangy gravy of the pork vindaloo. “You never told us your family knew Joe, Anju.”

“Ididn’t realise,” Anjali said, trying to take in the information. Joe was talking about Daadaji—her paternal grandfather. He and Daadima—Anju’s paternal grandmother—moved to Goa after Daadaji’s retirement. Well, semi-retirement, since he ran a charity clinic there. They’d been a quiet couple, awkward with all their grandchildren, and Anjali hadn’t known them all that well. She’d never visited Goa while they were living there. Not on purpose; it never occurred to her. Both passed very recently with Daadaji following Daadima mere weeks after her—Anjali sat up and waved her fork in Joe’s direction. “That’s where I heard your name. You found him.”

The rest were glancing back and forth between her and Joe. He nodded. “Yeah. I’d gone home after the final-year exam. Your grandmother had just passed. Someone from the neighbourhood went by daily to make sure Dr Ram was doing okay. It was my turn that day. Plus, I needed some advice. He wasn’t at the clinic, so I went to visit him at the house. He’d told all his employees to take the day off and was just resting in the living room, no TV, no nothing. He asked if I could buy him a pack of cigarettes.”

Anjali smiled. The one thing she did know about Dr Ram Manohar Joshi, general practitioner, was that he’d smoked like a chimney. Where his health was concerned, Daadaji never practised what he preached, much to the frustration of his four sons, all doctors.

“When I returned,” Joe continued, meditatively, “he was still in his chair. First, I thought he’d fallen asleep. But… it was too late for CPR, and he’d said many times he wouldn’t want to be resuscitated. I called my godfather, the parish priest. He contacted the family.” Setting his plate on the coffee table, Joe shrugged.

He’d left out a couple of details. Standing by her mother’s side, Anjali had heard the conversation between her parents about Daadaji’s protégé. The aforementioned parish priest and Joe hadn’t been mere neighbours to Dr Ram Joshi. The priest and Joe’s grandfather, a part Portuguese and part Indian man who’d died in a boat accident many years ago, were cousins and childhood friends of Daadaji.

Anjali’s father asked Joe to return to Delhi to start his internship on time instead of travelling to Mumbai for the cremation. Daadaji would’ve wanted it that way. From among his circle in Goa, only the white-haired priest attended the funeral, the grief of loss clear in his red-rimmed eyes.

“Wow,” muttered Kokila, Joe’s nurse friend from Goa. She glanced at Anjali. “I worked a year at the charity clinic with Dr Ram. I never realised you’re his granddaughter.” No surprise with such a common enough last name. “How did you know, Joe?”

With a bemused look, Joe said, “He used to show me family photos and talk about his grandkids. He told me one of his granddaughters was dead set on going to AIIMS.”

Daadaji had known it? Anjali supposed he and Daadima loved their grandkids, but the old couple were never more than distant figures in her life. Joe seemed to have enjoyed a closer relationship with them than her.

“Even on the last day…” He brooded.

After a couple of seconds, Anjali asked, “What happened on the last day?”

Joe shook his head. “Nothing. He just said I’d get to meet you soon.”

“Of course,” said Kokila. “You were already here in Delhi. Still, small world.”

“Yeah,” said Siddharth, fidgeting. “Hey, can we discuss something else? All this talk about death is going to give me nightmares.”

Rishi raised a brow. “And you want to be a doctor?”

“Don’t forget the poetry,” Gauri said, chortling. “Porn poetry.”

With a grin, Rishi said, “Erotic satire in rhyming verse. He does look the part.”

Kokila gawked. “He looks like a porn star?”

“Like a poet,” corrected Rishi, leaning back in his chair with a lazy warmth in his black irises. “The eyes and the long hair.”

Anjali peered at her Siddharth’s face and back at Rishi. Hmm.“I guess,” she muttered.

“Stop,” Siddharth said, swatting her away. “I feel like I’m one of the frogs.”

The laughter resumed. Chatter continued. Anjali didn’t talk to Joe one-on-one for the rest of the night except for when she caught his gaze on her face once. They’d somehow ended up sitting next to each other on the sofa, and he was peering intently at… her mouth?

With the tip of his finger, he gestured at the corner of his own lips. “You have something there.” With a paper napkin, she rubbed it vigorously, but he shook his head. “Still there.”

She touched her fingers to the spot in question. Nothing. “Is it a small, black dot? It’s not food; it’s a birthmark.”

“Uh-huh… okay.” Joe straightened.

“You have good eyesight.” Anjali frowned. Or maybe the mark wasn’t as tiny as she believed. “I should get it removed or something.”

“Don’t,” he said, tone almost husky. Flushing, he added, “I mean, why do unnecessary surgery?”

Gauri’s phone rang, and she squealed, announcing it was her fiancé. Both Joe and Rishi rushed to talk to him. So did Kokila and Meenakshi. They put him on speaker to introduce the new members of the group. He continued to stay on the phone until after the countdown to the new year. Even when he hung up, no one mentioned leaving.

Anjali bit into delicious plum cake and laughed helplessly at Rishi attempting to dance to the rowdyish movie songs picked by Joe. “You look like you’re having seizures,” she said, pointing a finger at a rueful Rishi. Whereas Joe… God, the man could move! He and Kokila put on quite a show for the rest, claiming the rhythm of the seas flowed in their blood.

The entire group stayed all night in the flat, chattering about this and that and everything. She didn’t realise she fell asleep on the sofa until she woke the next morning, her head on Siddharth’s chest, and Meenakshi’s feet on his lap.

Chapter 6

Present day

Sitting in the leather chair in the wood-panelled office, Dr Rishabh Rastogi spun a pen on the desk and glanced at the clock. Eight AM? He’d been here all night? The wooden shutters were down, not letting him see the sun, and the air conditioner hummed, keeping the heat of the day away. No wonder he wasn’t aware the night ended. Outside the closed doors, sounds of morning rounds started—shift change for the support staff, the clatter of carts, the ringing telephones, the heated discussions—but within his office, there was a forbidding quiet of impending disaster.

Rishi’s mind fought to remain in the pokey flat near the AIIMS campus where he celebrated the birth of another year, unaware of the hidden enemy waiting to get him. In the flat where he was watching romance bloom between a couple, five more young people chatted that night, forming the first tentative bonds of friendship.

There were no plans made when the group scattered after breakfast, but somehow, they ended up spending most weekends in the flat. Cramming for exams, watching movies, arguing over cricket matches, while Anjali—not a fan of any sport, whatsoever—napped. Joe put the rest to work as his minions, cutting and chopping and cleaning while he cooked. The food bill was split seven ways. The young’uns managed to be deferential to Rishi and Joe in the lecture hall and call them by their title, but within the four walls of the apartment, they were equal—friends. Laughter, camaraderie, support, acceptance—they’d had it all until the day Rishi opened the letterbox and found an unstamped envelope addressed to him, threatening to reveal the crime he’d committed.

Rishi was still reeling from it when Joe—for reasons he never bothered to explain to his devastated girlfriend or anyone else—walked out of the flat for the last time. Anjali went to Goa, searching for Joe, only to be given the message he didn’t want to be found. Rishi grabbed the lifeline Joe unintentionally left him—Anjali. Rishabh Rastogi deliberately used her and the political clout of her family to ensure his safety from the blackmailer. Whatever his reasons, he’d done his best to make her happy. Anjali had her own rationale for wedding him. No way could either ever claim they didn’t get exactly what they wanted out of the marriage. It was an incredibly good life, too, with the mellow warmth of heart-whole friendship, deep affection, and shared interests. At least until Rishi was fool enough to seek romance with someone else.

Now, Anjali was gone, and it hadn’t taken long for the news to reach his enemy. Rishi was no longer shielded by the political connections of the Joshi family. If he didn’t do as he was told, his career could be destroyed. His identity as a doctor could be stripped away.

No.Rubbing his gritty eyes with a thumb and forefinger, Rishi stood and went to the window. He separated two of the slats and looked out into the sunlit street—the real world, the here and now. He’d invested too much of himself—in his past, present, and future—to let it be destroyed by the bastard who’d stayed in the shadows, waiting for the right time to strike. Rishi wouldn’t let anyone wreck his career, and he certainly wasn’t about shirk to his familial responsibilities towards Anjali to go chasing after a lover. Those who claimed to have feelings for him needed to understand it once and for all.

Rishi needed to talk to Anjali. He would get her to see how they could make it work. They needed to, dammit. Blackmailer aside, they got each other. Neither was ever going to find the peace they craved with anyone else no matter what emotional highs that particular someone might have promised. It took months of Anjali’s absence to drive the point home to Rishi. He wouldn’t stray ever again. She’d understand it. She’d forgive him. She had to.

Pressing the intercom button, Rishi said, “Farida, come to my office for a moment.” When the secretary arrived, notepad in hand, he was back in his chair. “Don’t say anything to anyone just yet but draft an email for me and send it as soon as I text you I’m out the door. I don’t want to give anyone a chance to object… I’m resigning, effective immediately.” At the startled squeak from her, he smiled, reassuringly. “No, you don’t have to worry about your job. You’ll continue to be my personal secretary.”

“But… what… which hospital… are you going to teach?” It was no secret AIIMS would love to have him back.

“Maybe… I don’t know yet. I’ll keep you posted. Also… ahh… book me a ticket to Goa, will you please?”

“Oh…” Understanding dawning in her eyes, the secretary nodded. “Good idea, Dr Rastogi. There’s no job more important than family.”

Forget the job, forget the note still locked in his desk—there was nothing more important than family. When Rishi returned to Delhi, he and Anjali would be a family, again. There was nothing or no one he’d let stand in their way. “Also, a hotel room as close as you can get to Fontainhas.”

The oldest Latin quarter in Goa’s capital city was where the Joshi holiday home was. Anjali’s grandparents once used the Portuguese mansion as their retirement place, but after their passing, the family only ever went there for holidays. Anjali asked her mom to inform Rishi of her location merely out of courtesy. He’d somehow managed to conceal his shock at the idea of her returning to the place which witnessed her devastation at Joe’s hands. Family request or not, why the hell was Anjali going back to the scene of her heartbreak? She could’ve told the Joshis she was in no shape to handle the problems at the charity clinic. It wasn’t as though the Joshi family suffered a shortage of doctors who could do the same job. Rishi got a single-word answer in response to his text. “Closure.”

Closure, Rishi mumbled in his mind. She needed it before she returned to her life with Rishi. So did he. Together, they could bury the ghosts of their past in Goa.

His phone pinged. Taking a quick glance at the text message, he straightened in surprise. Anjali? After all the weeks of barely communicating? And precisely when he was thinking about her? Hope and anxiety battled for primacy in his heart as he dialled her number. “Anju, I’m so glad you—”

“Rishi,” came her trembling voice. “He’s back.”

“Heh? Who’s back?” The blackmailer? It couldn’t be. Why would the bastard contact her? Rishis’ heart thudded. Or was it someone else’s last-ditch attempt to get Anjali out of his life?

“Joe,” Anjali said with a soft sob.