A week after settling into his new office near Canary Wharf, Arun met Meenakshi again—this time at a small South Indian café tucked into a side street near Southall. The aroma of filter coffee and the distant hum of Tamil songs playing from an old speaker brought with it the comfort of home.
They sat across from each other, warm drinks in hand. Arun, ever direct beneath his silence, finally asked:
"Meenakshi… who is Raghav, really?"
She smiled—not evasively, but like someone remembering a person too complex for one answer.
"He's…" she began, choosing her words carefully, "…an introvert. Not shy. Not insecure. Just… private. Deeply so. He dislikes crowds, doesn't like being around 'stars' in public spaces. Says the way people stare at celebrities—like they own their faces—it unsettles him."
Arun nodded. He understood that feeling, all too well now.
"I told him," she continued, "that not all stars enjoy attention either. Some of us… we value our audience. Some of us care. We know what it means to be forgotten."
Her eyes held a distant shine, not regret, but wisdom.
"I even told him," she said with a small laugh, "that when Telugu people recognize me in London, they still ask for selfies, autographs… some even beg me to return to cinema. But I always say no."
Arun raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because I've returned to myself," she said softly. "And I don't want to lose her again."
Then her tone shifted, quieter, heavier.
"During our conversation, I revealed Raghav that who I was. That I had once acted. I expected mockery. Or distance. But instead, he opened up."
Arun leaned in. "About the film industry?"
Meenakshi nodded. "Yes—but not like critics do. Not with cynicism. He sees things differently. He doesn't hate cinema. He just distrusts… performance. Not on screen. In life."
She paused.
"He told me once: 'I'm not mistaken about people. I just wait to see which version of themselves they choose to perform.'"
Arun was quiet for a long moment. That line lingered like a ghost.
Then Meenakshi added, almost wistfully:
"I liked him for that. His clarity. His distance. The way he never asked me to prove who I was, or explain why I left the spotlight. But…"
She sighed. "I saw him once after that—on Independence Day, at the NGO. We didn't speak. Just exchanged a nod. And since then… nothing."
She looked at Arun.
"But if you ever see him, Arun… you'll understand. He's not just different. He's something else."
Outside the café, the sky had darkened. The rain had slowed.
Arun walked home that evening feeling something stir again—not urgency, not ambition, but curiosity. The kind that once led him to write Shadow Nexus. The kind that once asked: What lies beneath silence?
That night, for the first time in years, he wrote a title on a blank page:
"Raghav – The Unperformed Life."