Can you write a short story with a twist ending?
08.06.2025 05:11
Within a month, he moved back to Bangalore. With the added expense of his wife, he couldn’t afford the Suncity apartment in Belandur and instead moved to Electronic City, where rents were cheaper. He had to arrange for a cook as his wife was unwilling to cook, and instead asked for a ring light with a tripod to make Instagram reels.
“Hi Sir, are you hungry?” she asked.
It’s not that Abhi lacks friends or is socially awkward. He has many friends, mostly from Karnataka, Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, and Orissa. He avoids staying in touch with his college mates, who are too ambitious and often backstabbed each other over minute CGPA differences. He only meets them for obligatory alumni events, where he clicks a few pictures and leaves quickly to maintain some semblance of networking. He feels more comfortable trusting a Mallu from Kottayam for advice than his own batchmates.
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“Who told him a small town was his home when he earns his living in Bangalore?”
“Who told him a small-town girl would be homely?”
“So, Abhi, where is your home?”
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“Who told him a corporate worker couldn’t manage a home?”
It’s not that Abhi hasn’t dated before. Since college, he’s been in various relationships, each ending painfully and leaving scars that sometimes had him waking up in the middle of the night, apologizing to the ghosts of his exes or just crying. He didn’t have the strength to go through that cycle again. Reflecting on his dreams, he’s grateful that his mistakes were made in his early 20s when he had nothing to lose—no job, no degree, and no assets. Now, in his 30s, he realizes the gravity of mistakes. He has a LinkedIn network of 1500, belongs to several RWA WA groups, has over a decade of employment history and tax records, and possesses assets in the eight-figure range. A blunder now would jeopardize everything he has worked for. He just doesn’t want to lose anything.
Once Abhi fulfilled his parental responsibilities, a peculiar form of loneliness began to creep into his mind. After work, when he’s home in Suncity Apartment, he gazes at the vast Belandur lake from the balcony and wonders, “For whom am I earning all this money? Do I really need all this?” He’s from Lucknow, after all, where he spent much of his life sleeping on the floor. Wakefit mattresses don’t offer much comfort. The thought of top students from his college choosing to pursue PhDs and working directly in R&D, who eventually decide what code he will write, unsettles him. He has considered pursuing a postgraduate degree from a US university, but the idea of abandoning his parents sends shivers down his spine. He even contemplated bringing his parents to Bangalore, but they are uninterested since they’ve invested their savings and efforts into building their home in Lucknow. At their age, people don’t change, relocating is simply unrealistic, so he abandoned that idea. He also thought about moving to Noida or back to Lucknow. During the lockdown, he spent time in Lucknow and relished every moment of it. His mother would have tea and biscuits ready on the table in his room before he started work. Everything he desired was always on his table before he even opened his eyes in the morning. In contrast, while paying a rent of ₹40,000 for an 8th-floor apartment in Suncity, he could manage all his and his family’s expenses in Lucknow, including those of his maid's family, for just ₹25,000. He could enjoy his favorite dishes, from curry rice to mutton curry, whenever he wanted.
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In Bangalore, he tried Tinder and Bumble, but his engagements lasted no more than 48 hours on each. He met some beautiful women but discovered that advanced Adobe Photoshop can make a 50-year-old look like a 25-year-old. Often, he would make excuses like needing to go to the restroom to avoid further interaction. He never dated his office colleagues, whom he dismissed as corporate opportunists and “DEI hires”. He found them too vocal, noisy, and demanding, contrasting sharply with the quiet, reserved women he was accustomed to in Lucknow. Even a new hire from Udupi, whom he was assigned to mentor, was deemed too dusky and a "corporate slut" by his standards. He would interact with her only when absolutely necessary and leave the meetings abruptly.
He cried a bit more, in front of her. He couldn’t express it to her, but his eyes spoke volumes.
As he stared at the hot Bisi Bele Bath on his plate, his eyes welled up. He wasn’t sure if it was because the food reminded him of his mother’s cooking in Lucknow or if it was because a “corporate slut” had served him.
Abhi is a 29-year-old from a small town in Lucknow, coming from a middle-class background. He completed his schooling at Kendriya Vidyalaya in Lucknow. Despite his parents' inability to afford coaching, he managed to crack IIT in 2006. After graduating from IIIT, he landed a job in the corporate world and was located in Bangalore. Over the next five years, he paid off his education loan and his father’s home loan, which was used to build their house in Lucknow. During this time, Abhi learned about career growth, loneliness, success, and failure. Now, with a decent six-figure salary after taxes, he finds himself stuck in traffic at the Sarjapur signal on his Bajaj Discover bike—a gift from his father when he cracked IIT. His bike, bearing the UP32 registration number, stands out among the sea of KA01, KA02, and KA51 vehicles. Despite the chaos, he cherishes this bike; it doesn’t make him feel lonely.
“Come here, I’ve cooked something at home,” she said, pointing to a table and holding a Milton tiffin. She served him hot Bisi Bele Bath from the tiffin and said, “Here, sir, have this!”
After about six months, his mother began to prod him, “Don’t you have a girlfriend? Do you have any plans of getting married? You’re in your 30s now; it’s time to settle down.”
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“Yeah, a bit,” he replied curtly.
However, when he was in Lucknow, where everything felt nearly perfect, the idea of marriage started to creep into his mind, largely because of his parents. He created a dating profile and met some doctors, but things didn’t progress due to differences in caste. His adamant demand, “HOME WILL ALWAYS BE LUCKNOW,” was non-negotiable. He was clear that, given his newfound happiness being close to his parents, he would build his family there.
His search and rejections eventually led him to a girl from his neighborhood, who communicated with him barely enough in English and was mostly quiet. When he asked her if she was comfortable living in Lucknow, her annoyed but clear reply was, “Where else would I be? This is my home after all!” Hearing these words was the answer he had been searching for. Within two months, he was married, fulfilling his dream.
He mixed some raita into the Bisi Bele Bath and took a few spoonfuls, questioning himself with each bite:
However, just two days after the wedding, his wife barged into his room, demanding a separate kitchen. “I can’t share a kitchen with your mother!” she exclaimed. Abhi was at a loss. He inquired further, and she said plainly, “I can’t live with your parents.” The floor seemed to crack beneath him. Isn’t this why he married her—to have a home in Lucknow and live with his parents? She clarified, “I agreed to live in Lucknow, but not with your parents.” This was a blow to him. He couldn’t understand the difference but felt powerless to change the situation. All he could say was, “Can we move to Bangalore? Living away from parents but still in the same city would be strange for me.” She agreed.
Years later, when he has a few spoonfuls of Bisi Bele Bath from her tiffin, he often asks himself:
He also explored matrimonial sites, receiving interest from profiles worldwide—London, Toronto, Melbourne. Perhaps his salary seemed unusually high for a North Indian living in Lucknow, but every conversation ended with the same conclusion: “HOME WILL ALWAYS BE LUCKNOW.” None of the candidates were willing to accept Lucknow as their home. Frustrated after three months of rejections, he started focusing on rural women, hoping to find someone like his mother, who would keep tea and biscuits on his table before he woke up.
Upon returning to the office, he found the Udupi girl still there. One day, feeling hungry as the cook hadn’t arrived and his wife was asleep after a Netflix binge, he grabbed a coffee from the vending machine. The Udupi girl approached him.