By Vimal Kapoor
I was sitting on the garden bench when he arrived—mud-stained sneakers, a faded T-shirt, and a dazzling smile.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked.
I looked up. “Do you usually wander into private gardens uninvited?”
He grinned. “Do you usually assume all benches belong to you?”
I laughed despite myself. No one spoke to me like that. People usually measured their words around me—probably because I was Maanvi Mehta, daughter of one of the wealthiest businessmen in Dehradun.
“Fine,” I said. “Sit. But don’t bump into the roses.”
He sat, leaning back casually. “I’m Ayaan.”
“Maanvi.”
He gave me a mock bow. “Pleasure meeting royalty.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide my smile.
Over the next few weeks, Ayaan kept appearing in odd places—by the Doon Club library I frequently visited, at the roadside café my friends considered “too shabby”, at a famous Rajpur Road bakery and once, when my car broke down near FRI, magically pulling over on his scooter to help.
“Are you following me?” I teased.
“Or maybe,” he said, wiping grease from his fingers, “we’re just orbiting in the same universe.”
I didn’t want to admit how much I liked that line.
He wasn’t like anyone I knew. My world was glittering, lavish parties, champagne glasses, and people discussing stock markets like they were gossip. His world was crowded buses, evening cricket in narrow lanes, and a laugh that didn’t care who was watching.
One evening, as we walked by the secluded ‘Old Mussoorie Road’, I asked, “Don’t you ever feel… small? Compared to people who have everything?”
Ayaan flung a pebble across the road. “If you have everything, what’s left to dream about?”
That silenced me. For someone with so little, he made me feel richer than all the diamonds in my mother’s locker.
(After one month)
It was inevitable: my family found out.
Father’s voice thundered across the dining hall. “Maanvi, he’s not for you. These people only want money.”
“These people?” I shot back. “He has never asked me for anything!”
But their words pierced like splinters. Was I just a dream he couldn’t afford?
The next time we met, at the same garden bench, near the same rose bush where it all began, I blurted out, “Ayaan, tell me honestly… do you ever think about my money?”
He looked at me for a long moment and then burst out laughing.
“You really think I’d fall in love with your bank account? Maanvi, I love the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed. I love that you pretend to hate roadside tea but always steal a sip from my cup. I love that you’re terrified of pigeons but still sit with me on this bench in the park. If that’s money, then sure—I’m greedy.”
I felt tears sting my eyes. He hugged me tightly.
Weeks later, he invited me to his home. I imagined a cramped house, maybe peeling paint, maybe noisy neighbours. Instead, I froze on the threshold.
Italian marble floors. Antique chandeliers. A grand piano in the living room.
“Ayaan…” I whispered. “What is this?”
He scratched his head sheepishly. “I was going to tell you. My father owns a chain of hospitals. I just never mention it because, well, people treat you differently once they know.”
I gaped at him. “You mean… you’re wealthy?”
“Not your level wealthy,” he said with a grin, “but let’s just say my scooter isn’t exactly a necessity.”
For a second, I didn’t know whether to laugh or strangle him. “So, all this time, I thought I was rebelling by dating a ‘normal’ guy?”
He wrapped an arm around me. “Maybe you still are. I’m just a normal guy who happens to have a very abnormal bank balance.”
I burst out laughing. And sitting there, on his ridiculously plush sofa, I knew we were even richer together.
(Vimal Kapoor a Dehradun resident, is passionate about literature, creative writing, cricket and exploration through travel)
