The Window Seat

Chapter 7: Secret Sharing

After the truth comes out in a middle-class family, nothing changes on the outside. Everything changes on the inside.

In Ludhiana, after Sharma aunty's phone call and the bus driver's report, both families acted as if everything was normal. They had to. Fathers still had to go to work. Mothers still had to stitch uniforms and cook food. BCA lectures still had to be attended. Fees had to be paid.

Only two things stopped.

In Aakay's house, his mother stopped asking, Whose tiffin did you eat today? She knew the answer.

In Isha's house, her father stopped asking, Did the bus come on time? He knew she was not taking the same bus anymore, at least not officially.

Aakay and Isha understood the new rule without it being written anywhere. The rule was simple: You can go to the same college, but you cannot be seen together.

So they created a second life.

The official life was for everyone to see. Aakay sat in the first row now, near the teacher. Isha sat in the third row, near the window but on the other side. They did not look at each other during lectures. During attendance, when Roll Number 22 and 23 were called, there was no smile. Just Present, ma'am.

The secret life began after 3:30 PM.

The college bus stand in Ludhiana has two tea stalls. One is in front, where all students stand, where teachers drink tea, where the whole college can see you. The second is behind the workshop building, old, with a broken bench and a tea uncle who has cataract in one eye and pretends he cannot see anything clearly.

That second stall became their new second row.

Every day at 3:35 PM, after the last lecture, Isha would go first. She would walk alone to the back stall, buy one cutting chai, and sit on the broken bench. She would keep her bag open.

Five minutes later, Aakay would come, from the other side of the workshop, as if he was going to the library. He would not sit. He would stand near the bench, keep his practical file on the bench, and take out his tiffin.

Their tiffin exchange was no longer a full lunch box shared in front of the class. It was now small foils. Half a paratha wrapped in newspaper. Two spoons of pickle in a small polythene. Sometimes, just one biscuit that Isha's mother had packed for her father but she had saved.

It was less food. But it was more valuable.

Today Maa made aloo paratha. I told her I am not hungry in the morning. She packed two. One I ate, one for you,Isha would say, pushing the foil under her notebook so that no one could see.

Today I have only rice. But I brought extra spoon. You didn't bring spoon today, right?Aakay would say.

They ate standing, quickly, looking around, like people doing something illegal. But they were not doing anything illegal. They were just sharing food. In their families, sharing food was never a crime. Sharing a life, however, was.

The tea uncle never said anything. He had seen many such students in thirty years. He knew that some love stories do not need a table and chair. They just need a bench that no one uses and a chai that costs ten rupees.

The second part of their secret sharing was not food. It was the future.

The black pen drive was still with Aakay. It was always in his left pocket, near his bus pass. In that pen drive, there was a file called Sharing_Dreams.pptx. It had only two slides when they started. Now it had seven slides.

Slide 1: We will both pass BCA with more than 75%.

Slide 2: We will both get a job in the same IT company in Mohali or Chandigarh.

Slide 3: We will save money for one year and buy a second-hand laptop for Isha, so she doesn't have to go to cyber cafe.

Slide 4: We will tell our parents together. Not separately.

Slide 5: We will rent a small one-room kitchen flat near the bus stand, so both our fathers can come and meet us easily.

Slide 6: We will never fight over who earns more.

Slide 7: This slide was new. It was added after Chapter 6. It said: Till Slide 1 and 2 are complete, we will not be seen together. But we will update this file daily.

Every day at the tea stall, one of them would bring a handwritten chit. Aakay would write the chit in the morning lecture, when the teacher was writing code on the blackboard. Isha would write her chit during her bus ride, sitting in the last row, hiding her notebook.

The chits were small updates.

One day Aakay's chit said: Today I got 18/20 in C++ test. Ma'am said I am improving. One step closer to Slide 1.

Another day Isha's chit said: My father got extra trip money -500 rupees. He gave me 50 rupees. I am saving it for Slide 3 laptop. Don't spend your money on samosas.

They never kept the chits. They read them, burned them with the tea stall's matchbox, and mixed the ash in the tea waste bucket. Because middle-class love is not just about keeping memories. It is also about destroying evidence.

One day, the system broke.

It was a Thursday. It was raining in Ludhiana. Heavy rain, the kind that floods the college ground in ten minutes. All lectures were cancelled after 1 PM. The front tea stall was closed. The back tea stall was also almost closed, but the tea uncle was still there, covering his stove with a plastic sheet.

Isha was waiting. She had a chit. It was important. She had got an internship call from a small company in Model Town. They were asking for BCA final year students. Unpaid, but they would give a certificate. That certificate would help in Slide 2 getting a job.

She was waiting for Aakay to come so she could tell him.

But Aakay did not come at 3:35 PM. He did not come at 3:45 PM. The rain was getting heavier. The college ground was emptying. Students were running to the main bus stand with bags on their heads.

At 4:00 PM, Isha got worried. Aakay never missed the tea stall. Even when he had a fever, he came and just waved from a distance.

She took a risk. She walked to the first row classroom. No one was there. She went to the library. No one was there.

Then she saw his friend, Manpreet, who sat near Aakay in the first row now.

Manpreet, where is Aakay? she asked, trying to sound normal.

Manpreet looked around. He went home early. His mother called. His father... his father fainted in the factory. They took him to Civil Hospital. Aakay left at 1:30 PM.

The chit in Isha's hand became wet with rain. The ink started spreading. The internship call did not matter anymore.

Isha did not think. She took her bag and ran to the bus stand. She knew which bus goes to Civil Hospital. It was the same bus her father drives sometimes. Route Number 12.

She did not ask her father for permission. She just got on the bus.

At Civil Hospital, Ludhiana, everything looks the same. White walls that are not white anymore, a smell of phenyl and sweat, and people sitting on the floor with tiffins.

Aakay was sitting outside Ward Number 4, on the floor, holding his mother's hand. His mother was crying silently. His father's cycle factory shirt was folded and kept on his lap. It had a small burn mark from a welding spark.

Isha stood at a distance. She did not go near. She knew that if Sharma aunty or any colony person saw her here, the story would become bigger. Factory worker's son's father in hospital, bus driver's daughter also reached there. Must be serious love.

So she stood behind the water cooler. From there, she could see Aakay.

She took out her phone. It was a small keypad phone, not a smartphone. She typed a message.

Is uncle okay? I am here. Behind water cooler. Do you need money? I have 50 rupees + 200 saved for laptop. Take it.

Aakay's phone vibrated. He saw the message. He looked around. He saw her, half hidden behind the water cooler, drenched in rain, holding her bag tight.

He typed back Doctor said low BP + weakness. No money needed. Factory owner gave advance. But you should go home. Your father will worry.

Isha typed: I told Maa I am at extra class. I will stay till uncle gets bed. I brought foil paratha. You didn't eat lunch. Come and take when you go to toilet side.

Aakay did not reply. He just sat.

After ten minutes, he got up, as if going to the toilet. He walked past the water cooler. Isha, without looking at him, slipped the small foil into his shirt pocket.

It was not just paratha. It was the 50 rupee note folded inside the foil.

That night, Aakay's father got a bed. He was fine. He just needed rest and less night shift. The doctor said he should not work in night for one month.

That night, Isha came home late. Her father was waiting at the door, holding an umbrella.

Where were you?he asked. Again, that quiet tone.

Extra class, Papa. For internship, she said. It was half true. There was an internship call, but she was at the hospital.

Her father looked at her wet clothes, her bag, and said nothing. He just said, Change your clothes. You will catch cold.

He knew. Bus drivers know all routes. He knew Route Number 12 goes to Civil Hospital, not to college extra class. He knew his daughter was lying. But he also knew that if she was lying to go to a hospital to give someone food, maybe the boy was not as bad as he thought.

Later that night, Aakay opened the foil in the hospital corridor. He saw the paratha and the 50 rupee note. The note was wet. On it, Isha had written in small letters with a ball pen: For uncle's medicine. Don't say no. This is sharing. Slide 6 says we will never fight over who earns more. Today I earned this extra class lie. So I am paying.

Aakay kept the note. He did not spend it. He kept it in his wallet, where the old bus ticket was.

That was their new sharing.

Earlier, sharing was tiffin in the second row. Now, sharing was money in a hospital, lies for each other, waiting in rain, and burning chits.

Earlier, they shared because they were friends.

Now, they shared because they were family. Not by marriage, not by papers. But by choice. In a world where their real families were scared of society, they had become each other's secret family that met behind a tea stall.

The aunty network had forced them to hide. But in hiding, they had learned the first rule of middle class survival: If you cannot share openly, share secretly. But never stop sharing.

The pen drive was still safe. And Slide 7 now had a new line added by Aakay that night in the hospital, typing on a borrowed phone at 2 AM .

Sharing doesn't stop when families say no. It just changes its place. From second row to tea stall. From tiffin to 50 rupees. From college to hospital.