Long hair love

# Chapter 1 - The Flat Ritika Managed

At seven in the morning, three alarms rang inside the flat.

The first was Ritika's phone beside her bed. The second was the pressure cooker in the kitchen. The third was the alarm from Ishan's room, which continued for nearly a minute before becoming silent.

Ritika waited while counting under her breath.

Nothing moved behind his closed door.

"Ishu," she called. "It is seven-fifteen."

A tired sound came from the room.

"I am awake."

"You said that without opening your eyes."

"I opened one."

Ritika shook her head and returned to the kitchen.

Their two-bedroom flat in Mumbai was not large, but managing it took time. The cook came in the evening and made chapatis. Everything else still had to be planned. Breakfast, vegetables, groceries, laundry, and cleaning did not arrange themselves.

Ritika checked the poha on the stove and packed some into her lunchbox. She had a long day at the office. Two interviews were scheduled before lunch, followed by a meeting about a new recruitment target.

Her own tea had already become cold.

Ishan appeared at eight with untidy hair and a loose grey T-shirt. His hair covered most of his ears and touched the upper part of his neck. The front looked thick because he kept pushing it sideways, but the crown had begun to look thinner.

He scratched his patchy morning stubble and looked at the dining table.

"Poha?"

"No, pasta," Ritika said.

He looked at her properly.

She placed a bowl before him. "What does it look like?"

"I was only asking."

"You ask the same question while looking directly at the answer."

Ishan sat down and took the first spoonful. Ritika placed a cup of tea near him.

"Good," he said.

"The poha or the tea?"

"Both. Excellent service."

Ritika stopped beside the table.

They were the same height, but that was where the similarity ended. Ritika had a moderate build and moved as if every minute had already been assigned a job. Ishan was slightly chubby and carried himself with the loose posture of someone expecting another chair nearby.

"You know this is your house also," she said.

"I know."

"Sometimes I feel you think it is a hotel."

"That is unfair. Hotels change the bedsheets more regularly."

Ritika stared at him.

Ishan gave her an innocent smile, but it disappeared when she did not laugh.

"I am joking, Didi."

"I know. Please put the dark clothes in the washing machine after breakfast."

"I have a stand-up call."

"At nine-thirty."

"I need to prepare."

"You will open your laptop at nine-twenty-eight."

"At least you understand my process."

Ritika picked up her handbag. "Dark clothes. Washing machine. Before lunch."

"Yes, boss."

"I am not your boss."

"That is what every powerful person says."

She wanted to answer, but her cab notification appeared. She put on her shoes and checked that she had her office card.

"There is dal in the fridge," she said. "Heat it for lunch. Don't order something oily again."

"Yes."

"And please check the grocery list I sent."

"Yes."

"And-"

"Didi, go. Your cab will leave."

Ritika opened the door, then looked back.

Ishan was eating with one hand and checking his phone with the other. The washing machine stood only ten steps away. Even then, she knew the clothes would probably remain in the basket.

"Lock the door," she said.

"I will."

The lock clicked behind her.

For the first few weeks after Ishan moved from Bangalore, Ritika had not minded doing more work. Their mother had passed away the previous year after a long struggle with her health. Their father had been gone for several years. Neither sibling had been ready to live alone after that.

Ishan's company had allowed him to shift to its Mumbai office. He now went there twice a week and worked from home on the remaining days. Ritika had been relieved when he moved into her flat.

They had secure jobs. Rent and bills were not a problem. They did not have to argue over every grocery purchase.

The difficult part was everything money could not arrange.

Their mother's absence lived in small places. It appeared when Ritika could not remember how much salt went into one of her recipes. It appeared when Ishan searched his phone to forward a joke and remembered that there was nobody waiting to receive it.

They spoke about their mother sometimes, but never for long. One of them always changed the subject.

Ritika had dealt with her grief by keeping busy. Ishan had slowly stopped moving unless something demanded it.

At first, Ritika believed he needed rest. His software job had been difficult during their mother's illness. He had travelled between Bangalore and Mumbai several times. He had answered work calls from hospital corridors and returned to his laptop after everyone else had gone to sleep.

Six months had passed since he moved in.

Rest had quietly become his normal life.

At eleven-thirty, Ritika checked her phone between two interviews.

There was a message from Ishan.

**Tea?**

Below it was a photograph of a cup beside his keyboard.

Ritika smiled despite herself.

**I am at the office. How will I drink it?**

His reply came at once.

**Your loss. It is excellent.**

She typed another message.

**Did you start the washing machine?**

The word *typing* appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again.

**Going now. Production issue came.**

Ritika placed her phone face down.

She knew he was not lying about the work. Ishan was a good software developer. When something broke, people called him because he remained calm. He could read through pages of logs and find one small mistake everyone else had missed.

He had helped Naina from the testing team several times. Priya from application support also called him when a technical issue reached her without a clear answer. Both women trusted him, and he respected their work in return.

At his job, Ishan was patient and dependable.

At home, asking him to move a wet towel felt like assigning a major project.

That evening, Ritika reached the building shortly after seven. Her shoulders hurt from carrying her laptop bag. She had spent almost an hour in traffic and another twenty minutes buying vegetables because Ishan had not replied to the grocery message.

The flat was quiet when she entered.

The television was on. A paused cricket video filled the screen.

Ishan was asleep on the sofa with one leg hanging over its arm. His laptop rested on the centre table. A game controller lay beside it.

The laundry basket remained outside the bathroom.

Ritika placed the vegetables on the dining table harder than necessary.

Ishan opened his eyes.

"You came?"

"No. This is my spirit."

He sat up and rubbed his face. "Why didn't you call? I would have come downstairs."

"You did not answer the grocery messages."

"My phone was on silent."

"It was not silent when you sent me a photograph of your tea."

"That was before."

Ritika lifted the laundry basket.

Ishan looked at it and closed his eyes for one second.

"I forgot."

"I can see that."

"I had a serious production problem."

"All day?"

"Most of the afternoon."

"And after that?"

"I was tired."

Ritika carried the basket towards the washing machine.

Ishan stood. "Leave it. I will do it."

"It needed to be done in the morning. These clothes will not dry properly at night."

"They will dry tomorrow."

"And tomorrow's clothes?"

"We can run it twice."

Ritika turned towards him. "That means somebody must remember it twice."

The cook arrived before the argument could continue. She entered, washed her hands, and began rolling chapatis. Ritika put the vegetables away and checked the fridge.

The dal was untouched.

"What did you eat for lunch?" she asked.

Ishan became interested in arranging his laptop cable.

"Something."

"What something?"

"A burger."

"I told you there was dal."

"I wanted a change."

"You ordered dinner yesterday."

"That was Chinese. Today was a burger. Completely different."

The cook lowered her face to hide a smile.

Ritika took out the dal. "Can you make the rice?"

"I can," Ishan said.

"Will you?"

He opened a cupboard and looked inside. "Where do we keep it?"

"The same place where we kept it yesterday."

"I don't remember."

Ritika pointed to the container directly before him.

"Oh."

He measured the rice while Ritika chopped vegetables for a quick sabzi. For a few minutes, they worked without speaking.

Ishan washed the rice and placed it in the cooker.

"How much water?" he asked.

"You lived in a hostel for four years."

"I have forgotten the advanced formulas."

"It is rice, Ishu."

"Exactly. One mistake and it becomes either stone or paste."

Ritika showed him the correct amount. He closed the cooker carefully.

When the food was ready, he carried everything to the table without being asked. He also served the cook before she left for her next house.

These small actions made it difficult for Ritika to remain angry.

Ishan was not careless about people. He paid his share of every bill without reminders. He called if Ritika was late. When her office cab once dropped her on the wrong side of a dark road, he stayed on the phone until she reached the building.

He simply behaved as if household work remained invisible until she pointed at it.

During dinner, Ritika watched him take a second serving of sabzi.

"Do you remember what you used to cook in the hostel?" she asked.

"Many things."

"Name three."

"Egg bhurji."

"That is one."

"Omelette."

"That is the same egg wearing different clothes."

"It is a completely different dish."

"What else?"

Ishan thought carefully. "Tea."

Ritika put down her spoon. "Tea is not cooking."

"You say that because you have never respected the process."

"I am serious. Why don't you help regularly?"

"I helped today."

"You washed rice after I came home with the groceries."

"That still counts."

"It counts as five minutes."

"Six or seven."

Ritika's voice softened, but her tiredness remained. "I also have a full-time job, Ishu."

"I know."

"Then why do I have to manage everything?"

"You don't manage everything."

She waited.

Ishan looked around the flat as if evidence might come to his defence. His eyes passed over the clean dining table, folded cushions, and filled water bottles.

"I pay half the expenses," he said finally.

"This is not about money."

"I work long hours."

"So do I."

"My work is mentally exhausting."

Ritika laughed once without humour. "And HR means I sit all day and distribute birthday cakes?"

"I did not say that."

"You can solve an office problem at midnight. You can guide three people through a technical issue. But if I ask you to wash clothes, you suddenly become helpless."

"I am not helpless."

"Then stop behaving like it."

The words remained between them.

Ishan looked down at his plate. Ritika immediately regretted the sharpness, but she did not take the sentence back.

He finished eating quietly. Then he collected both plates and carried them to the kitchen.

"I will wash these," he said.

"You don't need to do it because we argued."

"Then when should I do it?"

"Before an argument would be nice."

He looked at her, and the corner of his mouth moved.

"That is a very complicated system."

Ritika nearly smiled. "You will understand with practice."

He washed the plates, cooker, and pan. He used too much dishwashing liquid and left water across the counter, but Ritika did not correct him.

Later, she found him playing a video game in the hall.

The laundry still had not been started.

She stood near the sofa with the basket.

Ishan paused the game. "I will do it now."

"You said that in the evening."

"I am getting up."

He did get up this time. He loaded the clothes, added detergent, and asked which setting to use.

Ritika showed him.

"You have seen me do this," she said.

"Seeing and remembering are different skills."

"The machine has six buttons."

"My office software has thousands of buttons. That does not make it easy."

"You are impossible."

"You still keep me."

The lightness left his face as soon as he said it.

For one moment, both of them remembered why they were living together.

Ritika placed her hand briefly on his shoulder.

"Of course I keep you," she said. "But I am not keeping you as a permanent guest."

Ishan nodded.

The washing machine filled with water. Its low sound entered the quiet flat.

On Sunday, Ishan surprised her by making egg bhurji for breakfast. It had more chilli than Ritika preferred, but it was properly cooked.

She took another spoonful.

"This is actually good."

"Actually?"

"Very good."

"Thank you. Please record that statement."

"You should make breakfast every Sunday."

His expression changed immediately. "Let us not destroy a special talent by overusing it."

"I knew you would say something like that."

He smiled and pushed the serving bowl towards her.

After breakfast, Ritika asked him to find a roll of tape. Ishan opened the drawer near the hall cupboard.

It was filled with old receipts, batteries, charger cables, pens, medicine bills, keys, and two pendrives. He moved everything from one side to the other.

"How does one drawer collect so much rubbish?" Ritika asked.

"Because you keep putting things here."

"You also put things here."

"I contribute only important items."

He lifted a cable whose purpose neither of them knew.

"Very important," Ritika said.

They did not find the tape.

"Next Sunday, we will clean this drawer," she said.

Ishan pushed everything back inside and closed it with some effort.

"Yes. Next Sunday."

Ritika knew what that meant.

That evening, she prepared her clothes for Monday while Ishan watched television. She no longer believed he was incapable of helping. The rice, washed dishes, and egg bhurji had proved otherwise.

He had not forgotten how to take care of himself.

He had stopped choosing to do it.

Ritika came into the hall and found him standing before the narrow mirror beside the cupboard. He bent his head slightly and moved the hair over his crown. Then he pulled a few longer strands towards one temple.

His smile had disappeared.

"What happened?" she asked.

Ishan quickly straightened.

"Nothing."

"You have been looking at your hair for five minutes."

"It is becoming thin here."

He touched the crown again.

Ritika stepped closer, but he moved away from the mirror.

"It is probably stress," she said. "You should sleep properly and move your body sometimes."

"Everything is stress according to you."

"Everything is sitting according to you."

He gave her a weak smile, but his eyes returned to the mirror.

For the first time in months, Ritika saw him worried about something enough to stop joking.

She did not yet know that his hair would become the one thing capable of making him act.