The police took our statements. The news channels called us "The Apex Ten." Our company gave us 3 months paid leave and free therapy. Most of us took it.
For the first month, we met every Sunday. All ten of us. At that same dhaba. We didn't talk about the factory. We talked about stupid things. Neha's dog Bruno. Vijay's wedding planning. Satwinder's new job offer. It was therapy without calling it therapy.
Karan and I, Ishani, we always ended up sitting next to each other. Not planned. It just happened. He was 27. I was 23. In the factory, he was the one who climbed first. He was the one who pulled me up through that window. His hands were rough and bloody from the cloth rope, but they were steady when he held mine. "I've got you," he had said. I believed him.
After the second month, the Sunday meetings stopped. People had to move on. Rajveer went back to his village. Anjali started a new course. Life pulled us in ten different directions.
But Karan texted me. "Bruno ka photo bhej. Neha bol rahi thi tu dog person hai."
I sent him a photo of Bruno. He replied with a laughing emoji. "Tu bhi Bruno jaisi hai. Chup rehti hai par aankhein sab bol deti hain."
That was how it started. Not with roses. With Bruno.
We started texting every day. Small things. "Coffee peeke aaya ya abhi zombie hai?" he'd ask at 9 AM. I'd send him a photo of my messy design sketches. "Client ne phir se bola 'make it pop'," I'd complain. He'd reply, "Bol de pop main tere sar pe maarunga."
He never asked me about the factory. Not directly. But once I had a nightmare at 3 AM and texted him by mistake. "The door is locked."
His call came in 10 seconds. "Ishani? Saans le. Slow. Tu safe hai. Main hoon na. Factory khatam ho gaya. Tu tere ghar pe hai. Mumbai mein. Samjhi?"
His voice was sleepy and rough, but it was an anchor. I didn't tell him what I dreamed. He didn't ask. We just talked for 1 hour about which pizza topping is superior. Pineapple, he said. I called him a criminal. We both laughed. I slept after that.
That was the first time I realized: Karan didn't make me forget the factory. He made the factory smaller. He was louder than the memory.
Month 4, we met for coffee. Just us two. No dhaba, no other eight people. It was awkward for 5 minutes. We were not colleagues anymore. We were not survivors in a room. We were just Karan and Ishani in a CCD, wondering what to order.
"You still order Hazelnut?" he asked.
I froze. In the factory, Day 3, I was crying quietly. He had given me his water bottle. "Le, tu le. Meri wali mein hazelnut ka taste aa raha hai," he had lied. There was no hazelnut. He just wanted me to drink.
I didn't know he remembered that.
"Tu kaise..." my voice caught.
He shrugged. Looked away. "Some things you don't forget, Ishani. Like when someone's hands shake while holding a bottle."
That was the first time he said my name like it meant something. Not 'Ishani from Design'. Just Ishani.
After that, coffee became weekly. Then twice a week. Then "I'm in your area for client meeting, 5 min ke liye mil?" He was never in my area. I checked on Google Maps. He drove 40 minutes extra every time.
We didn't call it dates. We called it "trauma bonding check-ins." We were idiots.
He met my parents first. Not planned. My mom saw him dropping me home and called him up for chai. He came. He was wearing a torn jeans and a t-shirt that said "Debugger" because he's in Sales but thinks he's funny. My father, who hates everyone, liked him. "Solid ladka hai. Aankhon mein sharafat hai."
I met his mother on Diwali. She hugged me for 2 minutes straight. "Beta, Karan ne bataya tha. Tum us din usko rope pe chadhne ka idea diya tha. Mere bete ko zinda ghar laane ke liye shukriya."
I didn't give him the idea. Veer did. But I didn't correct her. Because Karan was looking at me from across the room. And his eyes were saying "please don't." He didn't want to be the hero. He wanted to be the guy who got me home.
Month 8, it happened. We were at Marine Drive. It was raining. We were sharing one umbrella, which is the most Bollywood thing ever. My sandal broke. The strap just gave up on life.
"Ruk," he said. He put the umbrella in my hand. Then he knelt down. On the wet, dirty footpath. With people walking around. He took my broken sandal and tried to fix the strap with his car key.
"Karan, rehne de. Main nange pair chali jaungi."
"Nahi." He didn't look up. He was focused on my stupid sandal like it was a client deal. "Factory mein tu mere liye ruki thi. Jab main rope baandh raha tha, tu sabse last mein chadhne wali thi. 'Ladies first' bol ke sabko pehle bheja. Tu rehne wali thi agar rope toot jaata. Main nahi bhoola."
He fixed the strap. It was a jugaad fix, but it held. He stood up. He was soaked. His hair was dripping. He looked at me.
"Ishani, main dosti ke liye nahi rukta tere liye. Main..." He stopped. Ran a hand through his wet hair. "Main tere bina wapas normal nahi ho pa raha. Tu hai to factory door nahi dikhta. Tu hai to saans aati hai. I think that's love. Or I'm very stupid. Both possible."
I didn't answer with words. I stepped forward, under the umbrella, and kissed him. It tasted like rain and salt and 8 months of "trauma bonding check-ins."
We didn't do a big proposal. We didn't need to. We had already chosen each other. In a dark room. On a cloth rope. Every day since.
Month 11, we told the others. The Apex Ten. We booked the same dhaba. Teena cried. Neha said "I KNEW IT" and threw a peanut at Karan. Vijay started planning the wedding like it was a legal merger. "We need a MOU," he said.
Month 14, we got married. Small wedding. Only family and the other eight. Our family now.
Karan wore a black sherwani. I wore red. Nothing fancy. But when the pandit said "Kanyadaan," my father looked at Karan and said, "Beta, isko factory se bacha ke laaya tha. Ab zindagi bhar bachana."
Karan held my hand. His hand was the same hand that pulled me through the window. Rough. Steady. Mine.
"I've got you," he whispered. Like he did in the factory. Like he did every day since.
And he did. He does. He will.
Because some ropes are made of cloth and fear and you use them once to escape.
And some ropes are made of late-night texts, and hazelnut coffee, and fixed sandals in the rain. You use those ropes to hold on. Forever.
THE END
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