Gauri’s APARTMENT – FRIDAY NIGHT, 8:47 PM
Gauri had finally done it. She’d chosen the weekend binge — The Glory, if only for the revenge arcs and perfect eyebrows. The face sheet mask was on, feet snug in the massager, wine chilling beside a generous cheese platter. The only thing missing? Food.
“Huh, finally!” she muttered as the doorbell rang.
She opened the door, but paused.
There stood an aged woman, elegant in a Chanel blazer, a pearl-detailed Prada bag, and understated Tiffany jewelry. Definitely not your average food delivery outfit.
Gauri squinted. “Aren’t you dressed a bit too fancy for delivering food?”
“You are 985?” the woman asked coolly.
Gauri blinked. “Nope. This is 965. Veena aunty’s kitty party gang is two floors up — the FABS.”
“Pardon?”
“‘Forever 40 And Botox Society.’ It’s a working title.”
The lady smiled — a slow, amused curve that didn’t reveal whether she found it wicked or funny.
“I’m at the right door, Gauri. Can I come in?”
Gauri stiffened. “I don’t know you.”
“So?”
So, no sane person lets a stranger in at 9 p.m. Unless you’ve missed every true crime doc on Netflix… or that 9 o’clock ‘news opera’ where the anchors scream louder than the victims, and somehow always manage to blame the jeans.
The woman smiled, “If I were here to hurt you, I’d be holding a delivery bag and wearing a cap with your building logo.”
Gauri rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m not scared of you. I could pin you down if I had to.”
“But you won’t. I’m too old for tackle-downs, remember?” she said smoothly, stepping forward.
Gauri blocked her. “Still. Stranger danger.”
The woman sighed. She reached into her Prada tote and pulled out a sleek, leather-bound book — the kind that looked like it contained spells, confessions, or blackmail.
Gauri gasped. “Wait. Is that real leather?!”
“It’s faux,” the woman said flatly. “Vegan. New in the market. I don’t want to add more into my... regrets.”
That last word echoed oddly. The woman handed her the book.
On the cover, in perfect calligraphy:
Regret Ledger of Gauri Kapoor (1989 – ∞)
Address: 509, Manohar Heights
Parents: Mohan.Kapoor & Reema Sen
Allergic to: Bullshit, strawberries, truth talks, confrontations
Preferred Emotional Coping: Wine, sarcasm, online shopping, and Houdini-level disappearing acts.
Well, escaping reality is an art. I’ve practically got a PhD in it, Gauri muttered dryly.
Inside, the pages were handwritten but meticulously arranged, like Excel had been possessed by Gauri’s dramatic school librarian, Mr. Octopus Hand Sharmaji. The man wrote with the grace of a caffeinated octopus.
Regrets were labeled, color-coded, and filled with doodles, strikethroughs, and highlights:
❌ Regret #002: Faked chickenpox to skip PT. Got caught. Ironically, still had to run laps.
✅ Regret #019: Never told Mansi Dutta her eyeliner made her look like a haunted panda and quietly watched her get bullied.
❌ Regret #201: Stayed with Rahul even after he said “irregardless” in a poem.
✅ Regret #333: Cried over a guy who wore anklets “for balance”—the spiritual pirate with commitment issues.
⚠️ Regret #512: Skipped Tanvi’s road trip because “thighs looked big.” Never saw Manali.
❌ Regret #613: Made mom cry on Mother’s Day because I was too busy scrolling through Instagram to actually call her.
✅ Regret #714: Insulted dad at a family gathering because I was still holding a grudge over that one “discussion” from 2008.
❌ Regret #750: Shopped over the credit limit and canceled my gym membership out of sheer laziness.
✅ Regret #911: Wanted a mahogany streak but ended up with blonde streaks because Anish wanted it.
✅ Regret #711: Attended Zoom party in full makeup, loneliness, and silent screams.
Gauri blinked, flipping faster. At the top of the next page in bright red ink:
Used Regret Quota: 990 / 1000.
“What the hell is this?”
“Your emotional CIBIL score,” the woman replied. “You’re ten regrets away from defaulting on your soul.”
Gauri stared, unsure if she was terrified or impressed.
And for the record, you weren’t actually going to watch The Glory. You were going to scroll through your ex’s Insta between episodes, then fall asleep mid-regret, the woman said, gesturing towards the frozen TV screen.
And then TV flickered back to life.
“Okay,” Gauri muttered. “Either you’re magic... or my wine is stronger than usual.”
The woman smiled. “Now may I come in? Or do you want ‘Refused Help From Divine Department’ added to the list?”
Gauri stared at her for a beat... then moved aside.
“Fine. But no touching my cheese platter.”
The woman walked in gracefully, pausing only to give the cheese board a polite but pointed glance.
“Darling, if you’d cared to check the expiry date… you really shouldn’t either.”
Gauri blinked. Instinctively, she picked up a cube of Gouda and bit into it. It tasted… slightly sour.
But aren’t cheeses supposed to taste funky with time? she reasoned, chewing suspiciously.
Meanwhile, the woman had made herself fully at home. She fluffed a few cushions, arranged them just so, and settled into the corner of Gauri’s L-shaped sofa with alarming ease.
“I like this corner,” she said, smiling contentedly.
Gauri narrowed her eyes and flopped into the opposite end.
“What is this, Sheldon Cooper’s couch? Should I draw you a seat map too?”
“Great minds think alike,” the woman replied, entirely unfazed. “Anyways, I’ve cancelled your food order. You can quickly order from that Japanese restaurant you love.”
Gauri sat up. “You what?”
“Cancelled it. Because you got a stomach infection from their tom yum soup last week.”
“How do you even—”
“And you’re out of antacids. Don’t pretend you were going to drag yourself to the chemist tomorrow with a bloated stomach and regret in your soul.”
Gauri groaned, already opening her phone. “Still. Not ordering from that Japanese place. Takes two hours.”
“Actually,” the woman said casually, inspecting her nails, “they’re running a delivery promotion. Thirty-seven minutes. Order now.”
“You are disturbingly good at this.”
“I’m from the Department of Regrets. Timing and stomach lining matter.”
Gauri sighed. “Fine. What do you want?”
“I’ll have the chef’s omakase selection, truffle xiao long bao, black garlic tonkotsu ramen, and the mango mochi in coconut milk,” she said.
Gauri glanced up from her phone. “That’s it? You sure you don’t want to bankrupt me properly? I’m emotionally prepared to blow my whole salary tonight.”
“Yes, darling… I can’t eat much after 8 at my age. A woman must choose—digestion or desire,” the woman said matter-of-factly.
Guari scoffed internally at the absurdity of it all.
“It’s done. Thirty-five minutes, ETA,” Gauri muttered, placing her phone down.
“Perfect. Now,” the woman pointed at Gauri’s phone, “time to call Niharika.”
Gauri blinked. How did she know about Niharika? She didn’t ask. Instead, she placed the call order with the enthusiasm of someone agreeing to a tax audit, muttering under her breath about psychic intruders and hijacked Friday nights.
The woman, now fully reclined on the couch, nestled into a cushion throne with a throw blanket draped over her knees, sipped from Gauri’s monogrammed glass like it was royal crystal.
Gauri froze. “I haven’t spoken to her in months. I don’t even know if she wants me at the wedding. For all I know, someone from the gang forced her to invite me,” she said, voice tight, pouring herself another drink.
“That’s your second glass. And you’ve typed and deleted a dozen drafts already,” the woman noted, unbothered.
Gauri winced. “You’re like my anxiety, but with lipstick and Prada.”
“Thank you,” the woman said, preening slightly. “Now be a dear and open your inbox. Search: ‘Niharika Wedding – Final Reminder.'
Gauri groaned, but complied. The unopened email glared at her like a disappointed parent.
“It’s too late to RSVP now,” Gauri muttered, scrolling through her inbox.
“She’s added you to the family table,” the woman said, without looking up.
“Even worse.”
“And there’s cheese fondue on the menu.”
“So?”
“You love cheese fondue.”
“She likes it too.”
“She’s lactose intolerant.”
Gauri paused, frowning. “How do you know that?”
The woman tapped the ledger beside her.
“Because that’s the kind of regret you carry like a pocket rock — tiny, pointless, but always there.”
Gauri stared at her phone again. The contact: Niharika school friend.
“She’s probably over it.”
“Or maybe,” the woman said gently, “she’s waiting for proof that you’ve outgrown your tendency to disappear the moment feelings are involved.”
That landed like a passive-aggressive Facebook memory.
Gauri sighed and reached for the wine, then paused.
“If she makes a snarky comment, I’m hanging up.”
“You’ll listen. You owe her one.”
She hesitated, then tapped the call button. Her thumb hovered as if needing one last cosmic push. But the phone rang — and Niharika picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?” Her voice was surprised, cautious.
“Hey... hi,” Gauri said, suddenly nervous. “I, uh... just saw your wedding invite.”
A pause. Then a gasp. “Gaura Maura?! Oh my god — hi! I thought you were ghosting me. Again.”
“No! I wasn’t. I mean… I was. I just got overwhelmed,” Gauri admitted. “And honestly, I didn’t want to show up somewhere I wasn’t really wanted.”
“Wanted? You’re literally on the RSVP list as ‘mandatory presence.’ I even told Aman, ‘She’s dramatic. She’ll show up in the final hour like a Karan Johar reveal.’”
Gauri laughed despite herself. “That sounds about right.”
A pause. A beat too long.
“It’s just... after our fallout last year, I wasn’t sure if we’d patched things up or just painted over the cracks,” she added, voice quieter now. “I didn’t want to risk making it worse.”
Niharika softened. “Gauri, we’re messy. That’s kind of our brand. But you’re still my person.”
“So… you’re coming?” she asked, a little hopeful, a little smug.
“Only if I can wear black.”
“You better. And bring wine. My bachelorette was dry. Actual juice boxes were involved.”
“Ugh. You monsters,” Gauri said, grinning.
“I missed you, idiot.”
Gauri’s voice softened. “I missed you too.”
After thirty minutes of warm banter — about exes, Goa debts, and wedding drama — Gauri ended the call, grinning.
She sank into the couch, lighter, like she’d finally exhaled something she’d been holding in for years.
Gauri set the phone down slowly. The silence between her and the woman was gentler now.
The woman opened the ledger, struck a bold red line through Regret #814, and smiled.
“Few more to go.”
A small chime echoed. At the same time, the doorbell rang.
“Your sushi’s here,” she said.
Gauri raised an eyebrow. “Are you secretly Alexa?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Alexa doesn’t wear limited edition Chanel.”
The sushi had arrived. The dumplings steamed gently. The ramen threatened to spill over.
Gauri dug in like a woman who’d survived war. Or worse — a Friday without carbs.
The woman, elegant with her chopsticks, plucked a dumpling like she’d trained in Kyoto.
“You know,” she said, “your mother has very nimble fingers. Great at rolling dosas. Terrible at choosing Wi-Fi passwords.”
Gauri paused mid-chew. “I’m sorry, what now?”
“I visited her last week. Department outreach. She’s been building quite the regret list of her own.”
Gauri blinked. “You... visited my mom?”
“She was delightful. I convinced her to go on that all-ladies trip she’s been declining since 2018. And... to say yes to that widowed batchmate who’s been asking her out on WhatsApp using flower GIFs.”
“Mr. Chawla?” Gauri choked on her ramen. “He used to have a mullet.”
“He now has a heart murmur and a garden of peonies. People change.”
Gauri was quiet.
“She... seemed different last time we spoke,” she said. “Lighter. Less—angry mom, more... Zenful.”
“Turns out clarity happens when you stop waiting for closure from people who will never offer it.”
The words hung in the air.
“You’re talking about my dad, aren’t you?”
The woman simply raised her brows.
Gauri laughed, bitterly. “He left. Married someone else. Then sent birthday cards and Diwali messages like we were starring in a Modern Family reboot — just outside the TV. I blocked him. Every single time.”
“And then blamed him when your relationships crumbled.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
Gauri looked at her half-eaten sushi roll, suddenly not hungry.
“Every time a guy tries to get too close, I find a reason to insult him. Or dump him. Or ghost him before he can. Because I just... assume they’ll do what my dad did. Leave.”
The woman nodded.
“So you punish strangers for a sin they didn’t commit.”
“Wow. You’d be a hit at therapy. Or a really aggressive TED Talk.”
They sat in silence for a beat.
“He’s paying for his regrets,” the woman said softly. “Lonely man. Too proud to admit it. But every message you delete chips away at his hope. That’s how karma works. Quietly.”
Gauri looked down, biting her lip.
“So what do I do?”
“You don’t need to forgive him. Just stop letting him steer the ship when he’s not even on board anymore.”
Gauri snorted. “Is that a metaphor or a therapy notes?”
“Yes.”
A truce, sealed with small smiles.
“So what now?”
The woman flipped another page.
“Regret #547: Broke up with Kartik via email after he got you surprise Coldplay tickets.”
“Okay, yeah. That one’s bad.”
“You also used Comic Sans.”
“Alright, no need to assassinate my character.”
Gauri made her second call of the night.
Her father picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?” His voice was tentative.
“Hi... Dad. It’s me,” she said, softly.
Silence — the kind that holds years between it.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
“I’m not in jail or pregnant, relax.”
He let out a nervous chuckle. Familiar. Awkward. Human.
“Why’d you call?”
She breathed in.
“I just... wanted to know. Your version. Why you left. Why you didn’t try harder.”
And slowly, he spoke. About fear, pride, and cowardice wrapped in a crisp shirt and expensive cologne. About regret. About missing her every single day.
And this time, she listened. Really listened.
She ended the call with a soft, “I need some time, okay?”
He said okay.
Gauri stared at the ceiling. The air felt lighter. Breathing, easier.
“Wow,” she murmured. “I feel like I dropped 30 kilos of emotional nonsense.”
She picked up the phone again and dialed.
It was nearly midnight.
Her mother answered, groggy but cheerful. “Gaura? Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine, Ma,” Gauri laughed. “Just needed to hear your voice.”
Her mother instantly sharpened. “What happened? Did someone break your heart again? Should I get the rolling pin?”
“No, no heartbreak. Just... I spoke to Dad.”
A long pause.
“He talked. I listened. It was hard. But it’s a start, right?”
“It is,” her mother said gently.
“I’m sorry,” Gauri added.
“For what, beta?”
“For being impossible through my teens. And twenties. And last week.”
Her mother chuckled. “That’s part of the daughter package.”
“I muted your calls during therapy.”
“You what?!”
“Only the ones where you recommended haldi milk and meditation for heartbreak.”
They both laughed.
They caught up — her mom’s spa trip, the seat war with Mrs. Sharma, and, finally, the big news: coffee with Mr. Chawla.
“The peony guy with the new heart valve?”
“That’s the one.”
“You deserve nice things, Ma. Just... don’t let him sing Kishore Kumar in public.”
Her mother’s voice wobbled. “You sound... happy.”
“I think I am.”
Then came Gauri’s list: expensive moisturizer, lychee tea, black sesame KitKats, jade roller.
“Are you healing or looting me?”
“Both.”
Laughter — not just mother and daughter, but two women finding a softer way to hold each other.
Across the room, the woman scribbled into the ledger.
Gauri raised an eyebrow. “So? What’s the damage?”
“You’re at 763.”
“Wait, how? Those calls dropped over 200?”
“Honesty clears clutter. Guilt weighs more than you think.”
Gauri laughed. “That’s annoyingly wise.”
The woman winked. “It’s what I do.”
The wine was nearly finished, sushi half gone, cheese platter abandoned with suspicion. Gauri and the woman now sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through Gauri’s phone like teenagers.
Gauri typed:
“Hey, sorry for ghosting you after the second date. You didn’t deserve that. I panicked when you ordered soy milk with butter chicken.”
The woman nodded. “Honest. Apologetic. Just a hint of judgment. Perfect.”
Another chat. “Oh my God — Shweta from college. I told her she smelled like boiled peas during a presentation.”
“She did.”
“Still.” Send.
Silence returned — warm this time. Gauri’s expression softened.
The woman quietly opened the ledger. The regret count ticked down.
763 → 732 → 701...
Each regret acknowledged — with a wince, grin, or sigh — rewrote the list.
“Wait…” Gauri looked up. “Was I really that mean?”
The woman smiled. “No. You were human. And being human comes with a decade of bad hair, pigmented skin, questionable decisions, and emotional combustion. All part of the package.”
Gauri smiled — a real one.
The woman stood, brushed invisible lint from her Chanel blazer. Walked toward the door.
“You’re leaving?”
She nodded. “Ledger’s lighter. You’re lighter. My job’s done.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Not unless you eat that cheese from last week again. That would trigger a new regret audit.”
Gauri grinned.
“One last thing. You never wear Chanel and Prada together. Cardinal sin. Even Anna Wintour would remove her glasses for that one.”
The woman gasped dramatically.
“If getting invited to the Met Gala was on my list, maybe I’d care. But darling, I do me. Always have, always will. So Prada and Chanel it is.”
She blew a kiss, then disappeared down the hallway. The door clicked shut.
For the first time in a long while, the apartment felt like a home. And Gauri felt... new.
She picked up her phone one last time. Typed. Sent.
A soft ding echoed in the room.
There were still regrets. But piece by piece, she was letting them go.
React
