Andheri Monsoon Cabin: Pathan Colleague Claims Quiet Deskmate

Andheri Monsoon Cabin: Pathan Colleague Claims Quiet Deskmate

Monsoon had sat on the city for three days. Roads half water, half potholes. Inside, the AC lost to the humidity. Files stuck to fingers. Chai went cold too fast.

Rohan Sharma and Arslan Khan had shared the same cabin for eight months. Two tables shoved together because the company was cheap. Rohan by the window. Arslan closer to the door. Chairs almost touched if either leaned back.

Rohan was the quiet one. Slim, fair, shirts a size too big. Spoke when needed. Same dabba every day. Arslan was the opposite. Tall, broad, thick beard he scratched when he thought. Pathan blood in the walk, the laugh, the arm thrown over a shoulder without asking. He ordered chai for both, finished Rohan’s biscuits, never checked first.

Thursday the team left by seven. Flood alerts already on the phones. Only they stayed to clear vehicle allocations. The office felt bigger empty. Rain on glass. Soft keyboard clicks.

Arslan stretched. Chair creaked. Shirt rode up. Dark skin. A line of hair disappearing into trousers. Rohan’s eyes stayed half a second too long. He looked back at the screen.

Arslan noticed. He always noticed.

“Bahar pani hi pani hai. Kal subah tak road clear nahi hogi.”

Rohan nodded without looking up. “Haan. Dispatch delay ho jayega.”

Arslan pulled his chair closer under the pretext of Rohan’s screen. Knees brushed. Neither moved. Contact stayed. Warm. Steady. Rohan’s fingers slowed.

They worked like that almost an hour. Shoulders almost touching. Every shift of Arslan’s arm. Every reach for the mouse. Heat.

Arslan, softer: “Tu aaj bohot chup hai.”

Rohan’s throat moved. “Bas thaka hua hoon.”

“Thaka hua lagta nahi. Lagta hai dimaag mein kuch ghum raha hai.”

Rohan kept typing. Arslan didn’t push. He leaned back. One arm over Rohan’s chair. Fingers hanging close to the shoulder. Close enough that one lean would do it.

Rain heavier. Lightning far.

Around eleven Arslan went to the pantry. Came back with two cuttings and Parle-G. He sat on the edge of Rohan’s table. One leg dangling. Looked down while sipping. Shirt open two buttons from the heat. Rain still in his beard from the earlier smoke.

“Pehle finish kar le kaam. Phir baat karte hain.”

Rohan’s eyes flicked up once. Looked away not fast enough.

Last sheet together. Hands brushing papers. Arslan’s fingers rested over Rohan’s correcting a number. Didn’t lift. Rohan’s pulse jumped hard enough to feel through skin.

Done. Arslan checked his phone.

“Bike pe baarish mein jaana padega. Local band padi hogi ab.”

Rohan hesitated. “Main manage kar lunga.”

Arslan looked at him a long second. “Manage mat kar. Chal.”

Parking basement half flooded. Bullet near the exit. Extra helmet, no words. Rohan climbed on. Seat wet. Night thick.

Hands on the side grips first. First big puddle jolted the bike. Body slid forward. Chest against that broad back. Hands had nowhere except Arslan’s waist. He left them there. Arslan said nothing. Rode slower than usual.

Drizzle by Borivali. Streetlights on wet road. Arslan stopped a little away from Rohan’s building, under a neem still dripping.

Engine off. Silence.

Rohan removed the helmet slowly. Hair messy. Water down the neck into the collar. Arslan turned on the seat. One hand on the handle. The other on his own thigh.

Eyes met in the dim.

Voice low, almost lazy.

“Aaj tera haath mere kamar pe raha poora raste.”

Rohan’s ears burned. Looked down. “Bike hil rahi thi.”

“Hmm.” Gaze stayed. “Kal bhi late shift hai. Same time.”

Rohan nodded. Should have gotten down. Didn’t.

Arslan’s hand left his thigh. Fingers brushed Rohan’s wrist. Stayed. Thumb once across the inside of the pulse point. Slow. Testing. Rohan’s breath caught. He did not pull back.

Rain from the leaves. Distant train. Heat of those fingers.

Then Arslan let go.

“Ja. Ghar jaake so ja. Kal milte hain.”

Rohan stepped off. Legs strangely light. Last look. Arslan still watching. Eyes darker than the night. Small unreadable smile at the corner of his mouth.

Rohan walked to the entrance. Didn’t look back until the gate. Arslan still there. Bike idling. Watching him disappear inside.

Only then the Bullet moved into the wet Mumbai night.

Upstairs Rohan stood under the shower longer than needed. Water cold. Skin still warm where those fingers had rested. He tried work. Delayed trucks. Anything else.

He failed.

When he lay down the rain was still on the window. Somewhere in the city Arslan was riding home alone. For the first time in eight months Rohan wondered what that broad back would feel like without the shirt in between.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep took a long time to come.