home

search

Chapter 3 - Neha

  The jewelry shop hummed with quiet efficiency, a rhythm as predictable as the tides. Neha Rao’s fingers moved methodically over the velvet-lined trays, adjusting the delicate gold bangles so their intricate designs caught the warm glow of the overhead lights. The shop smelled faintly of polish and old wood, mingling with the spice-laden air that drifted in from the street outside.

  Her father stood by the cash counter, chatting with a regular customer. His voice carried the practiced warmth of a businessman, a tone he rarely used at home. Neha kept her head down, nodding politely whenever a customer turned their attention from the counter or wall displays to glance her way.

  She knew her role: quiet, competent, unassuming.

  “Neha, the blue bangles—third tray,” her father said without looking up. She slid the tray toward him, resisting the urge to sigh.

  The shop was her world, whether she liked it or not. Her father’s pride and joy, passed down from her grandfather, now resting on her unwilling shoulders. She had a degree in computer science, but no one in Mumbai seemed eager to hire a woman programmer. The shop, her father had declared after a year of fruitless interviews, must be her true calling.

  The ceiling fan above her slowed to a stop.

  At first, Neha barely noticed, her hands still arranging necklaces on the wall display. Power cuts were part of life in Mumbai, as common as the honking of horns or the calls of street vendors. She reached for her phone to check the time.

  It didn’t turn on.

  Neha frowned, holding the phone up to the light. The battery had been nearly full. She pressed the power button again, harder this time, as though force would make a difference.

  “Baba, my phone isn’t working,” she said.

  Her father barely glanced up. “It’s a power cut. Don’t panic.”

  The customer at the counter muttered something and pulled out his own phone. His face darkened as he tapped the screen, then shook it, as if that might coax it back to life. “Mine’s not working either.”

  Neha straightened, her eyes flicking to the street outside. Power outages don’t affect phones, she thought.

  The bright signs above the shops were dark, and the usual chaos of traffic seemed to have frozen in place. She walked to the glass door and pushed it open.

  Outside, the street had transformed. Rickshaw drivers leaned out of their vehicles, muttering to one another. A woman tugged her child closer, scanning the crowd with wide, nervous eyes. The constant, familiar hum of Mumbai had vanished, leaving only fragments: hurried footsteps, raised voices, and the occasional clatter of something dropped.

  Neha stepped back inside, her heart beginning to race.

  “Baba,” she said, louder this time. “The whole street is out. It’s not just power.”

  Her father waved her off, his tone brusque. “It’s fine. These things happen.” He turned back to the customer, offering a well-rehearsed apology for the inconvenience.

  The cash register emitted a soft click, then fell silent.

  Neha caught her father’s expression falter for a split second before he recovered, his voice smooth again. “We’ll handle it manually,” he said, pulling out a small notebook and pen. “It’s just temporary.”

  The customer wasn’t convinced. He leaned across the counter, his voice rising. “How can l pay you if the register doesn’t work?”

  Neha’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She bit back a sharp retort, knowing her father would disapprove of her speaking out. Instead, she turned toward the back room, her mind racing.

  *

  By 7:00 p.m., the shop was empty, its metal security doors locked against the growing tension outside.

  “Baba, there are no buses, no trains. We’ll have to walk all the way home.” Neha kept her tone measured, though the knot in her chest tightened with every passing minute.

  Her father glanced up from the ledger he’d been scribbling in. “We’re fine here. People panic during outages, but it will pass.”

  She stared at him, incredulous. “This isn’t an outage. Look outside—nothing is working. Not the lights, not the cars, not even the phones. We can’t just sit here and wait for—”

  “For what?” he snapped, his voice sharper than she’d expected. “To lose everything we’ve worked for? If this is no power cut, then people will be scared. They’ll get crazy. Dangerous. They’ll loot the streets. They’ll be breaking off these doors from the hinges to get inside and take what’s ours!”

  Neha swallowed hard, her gaze falling to the tray of gold bangles on the counter. "You’re right. I don't think we can leave anything here for now."

  Without another word, she began gathering up the counter display, her movements quick and deliberate. She went to the back of the small store, picked up two sturdy bags, and walked over to the safe.

  Spinning the dial to open the safe, she slipped out the glass trays with rings, ear jewelry into the bag, along with the bangles.

  “What are you doing?” her father asked, his voice softer now.

  “I’m preparing,” she said simply, and passed him a bag. “Please gather up the necklaces-- we have to get as much as we can to the home vault.”

  *

  The streets were darker than Neha had ever seen them.

  The usual neon lights and advertisements were gone, leaving the city in shadow. People moved in uneasy clusters, their voices too loud in the silence. A woman near a fruit cart clutched her child tightly, her face pale under the faint glow of a candle.

  Neha walked close to her father, her bag held tightly against her side. The gold she hadn’t managed to lock away felt like a dead weight.

  “Neha,” her father said, his voice cutting through her thoughts. “It will be fine. Mumbai is resilient. This city has survived worse.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  As they passed a bakery, a large, rough-looking man stepped out of the shadows ahead, blocking their path.

  “What’s in the bags?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the heavy bag each clutched possessively under an arm.

  Neha’s heart pounded. Her father stepped back, shaking his head. “Just some clothes,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

  The man didn’t move. “Let me see.”

  Before her father could respond, Neha stepped forward, “Back off,” she snarled, her face taking on the fierce glare she’d learned to adopt on the public trains and buses. “Leave us alone.”

  The man hesitated, his gaze flicking between her and her father. With a muttered curse, he stepped aside, disappearing into the darkened street.

  When they reached their apartment, Neha locked the door behind them.

  Her younger brother sat cross-legged on the floor, a candle flickering beside him. “No power, no water,” he said. “The neighbors say their phones don’t work either.”

  Her father lit a small diya and placed it on the windowsill, murmuring a quiet prayer. Neha didn’t join him. After securing the shop inventory in the larger and sturdier home safe, she sat by the window, staring out at the city she thought she knew.

  Mumbai’s usual chaos had always felt alive, like a beast with its own rhythm. Now it was silent, broken, and alien.

  ***

  The kitchen tap sputtered weakly before falling silent. Neha turned the handle a few more times, willing it to work, but nothing came out.

  It had been two days. And still nothing worked.

  She leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the faucet, closing her eyes as the weight of the last 48 hours pressed down on her.

  No news. No word of what had happened, why everything had stopped.

  The water was gone.

  Her mother’s clay pots sat on the counter, empty. Their family had been careful—rationing what they had from the shared neighborhood tank—but the summer heat of Mumbai had been relentless, and two days without electricity had stretched their resources thin.

  “Baba,” she called out, stepping into the living room. Her father sat in his usual spot by the window, staring out at the chaotic street below. His posture was tense, but he kept his voice even when he answered.

  “What is it, Neha?”

  “The water’s finished. There’s nothing left in the tank.”

  Her father turned toward her, his brows furrowing. “They'll be back to refill it soon. We just need to be patient.”

  Neha bit back the frustration bubbling in her chest. “It’s been two days. This isn’t a normal outage. The municipal water trucks aren't coming. We can’t just wait—”

  “Enough,” her father interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “We are staying inside. It’s dangerous out there.”

  Neha clenched her fists, staring at the man who had always seemed unshakable. But now, his refusal to act felt less like strength and more like fear. “And what will we do with nothing to drink? Just sit here and hope the government fixes it before we die?”

  Her father turned away, his silence more infuriating than words.

  *

  Neha paced the small apartment, her mind racing. The air was thick and oppressive, the smells of unwashed clothes and cooking oil lingering in every corner. The shouts from the street below drifted through the open window, mingling with the distant clatter of something breaking.

  She paused at her brother’s door, knocking softly.

  “Come in,” Rohan called, his voice muffled.

  The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of sunlight filtering through the curtains. Her younger brother sat cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a cracked handheld gaming console that had been lifeless since everything stopped.

  “We need water,” she said, cutting straight to the point.

  Rohan looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. “And?”

  “And I’m going to get it.”

  He blinked, tilting his head in confusion. “Baba said we shouldn’t leave—”

  “Baba isn’t doing anything,” Neha snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. She softened it quickly. “We can’t just sit here, Rohan. If we don’t do something now, we’re going to run out of everything. I need your help.”

  Her brother hesitated, chewing on his lower lip. He was only 16, still caught between boyhood and manhood, and the events of the past few days had left him shaken. But beneath his uncertainty, Neha could see a flicker of resolve.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked.

  *

  The stairwell smelled of mildew and unwashed bodies. Neha and Rohan moved quietly, their footsteps barely audible against the worn cement steps. A few of their neighbors lingered in the darkened hallways, sitting on the floor or leaning against the walls.

  One man nodded at Neha as they passed. “Going out?” he asked, his tone tinged with both curiosity and concern.

  “Just for a little while,” Neha replied, keeping her voice neutral.

  The man shook his head. “Careful. People are starting to lose their minds out there.”

  Neha didn’t respond, guiding Rohan past the gathering of eyes that followed them all the way to the exit.

  Outside, the city was unrecognizable.

  Trash littered the sidewalks, piling up against the bases of buildings. Cars sat abandoned in the middle of the road, their doors left ajar, as if their owners had simply vanished. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke, though Neha couldn’t see its source.

  The usual cacophony of Mumbai had been replaced by an uneasy mix of silence and chaos. The occasional cry of an argument or the sharp crash of breaking glass echoed from distant alleyways.

  “This is bad,” Rohan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Neha adjusted the cloth bag slung over her shoulder, gripping the metal rod she’d taken from the storeroom. “Stay close to me,” she said firmly.

  *

  Their first stop was a public water pump a few streets away. Neha had seen it before, tucked into a cramped corner of the neighborhood near a row of small shops. When they arrived, she immediately saw it was useless.

  A group of people had gathered around the pump, their voices raised in frustration. Someone had pried the pump open, leaving it half-broken, and now a few desperate individuals were digging into the dry ground beneath it, hoping to find water.

  “We’re not staying here,” Neha said, turning to Rohan.

  “Why not? We could wait for a turn—”

  “And what happens when they decide we’re not worth letting near it?” She gestured toward the growing tension among the group. “This isn’t safe. We’ll find another source.”

  As they moved deeper into the city, the streets became more desolate. A few people wandered aimlessly, their eyes sunken and their movements sluggish.

  They turned a corner and spotted a man crouched by an abandoned stall, drinking from a small clay pot. Neha hesitated, her grip tightening on the rod.

  “Excuse me,” she said cautiously.

  The man looked up sharply, clutching the pot to his chest. His eyes darted between Neha and Rohan, and his voice was sharp. “It’s mine. Get away.”

  “We’re not here to take it,” Neha said quickly, raising her free hand in a calming gesture. “We just want to know if you’ve seen anywhere we can get water.”

  The man stared at her for a long moment, his breathing heavy. Finally, he lowered the pot slightly. “There’s a well,” he muttered. “A few blocks that way. But it’s not safe.”

  Neha nodded. “Thank you.”

  *

  The well was in a dilapidated courtyard surrounded by crumbling buildings. A small group of people was already there, filling containers and watching each other warily.

  Neha and Rohan approached cautiously, staying near the edge of the courtyard. The atmosphere was tense, every movement slow and deliberate as if any sudden action might set off a chain reaction.

  As Neha debated whether to step forward, someone shouted, and a scuffle broke out near the well. Two men shoved each other, their voices loud and angry. One swung a wooden plank, and the other stumbled back, nearly knocking over a woman holding a bucket.

  Neha grabbed Rohan’s arm, her heart racing. “We need to go,” she whispered.

  “But we don’t have water—”

  “Now,” she insisted, pulling him back into the shadows as the fight near the well escalated.

  Neha’s mind raced as they watched and waited near the well. If things didn’t go back to normal, and soon, how would they survive the streets of Mumbai in the coming days? Where would they go? How far would they have to travel to find water, food, and safety—if such a thing even existed anymore?

Recommended Popular Novels