Every day, Zoya gave free chai to Aarav, believing he was a jobless IT worker struggling to get by. She never knew he was actually…
Part I: The Chai Girl of Dadar
Zoya Shaikh had a shop that was not a shop.
It was a steel table, two big kettles, one stove that hissed like an angry cat, and six small plastic stools at Dadar station, platform number 4 side, near the bridge where fast local and slow local both vomit people at 9 am. She was 26, lived in a one room in Behrampada, Bandra East, with her Ammi who stitched blouses and her younger brother who was in 11th standard and wanted to become YouTuber.
Zoya had studied till 12th, first class, but after Abba died of kidney failure, she left college and took over the chai tapri. Not because she loved chai, but because chai is the only business where people come to you even when they have no time. In Mumbai, no one has time, but everyone has two minutes for cutting chai.
She had a system. Morning 5 to 10, cutting chai and maska bun for office crowd. Afternoon 12 to 4, strong chai for college students who sit and discuss breakup. Evening 5 to 9, ginger chai for tired people who want to feel less tired. She knew all her regulars by chai type, not by name. Cutting no sugar uncle, extra ginger didi, less milk bhaiya.
She was not sad, exactly. She was practical. In Indian English, she would say, life is going on only. Ammi says marriage, she says first let brother become something. Life was going on.
Then came Aarav.
He came first on a Tuesday in June, when monsoon had just started and Dadar station smelled of wet cement and vada pav.
He was 27 or 28, tall, thin, wearing a faded grey T-shirt, blue jeans that were too clean for Dadar, and a backpack that had a broken zip. He had spectacles, beard that was not style but laziness, and eyes that looked like he had not slept for many nights.
He stood at her stall and said, “One cutting chai.”
Zoya made it, gave it. He took a sip, and said, “A little more sugar.”
Zoya frowned. “You want more sugar or more life advice? Because I give both free for first timers.”
He smiled, first time. “Both.”
She gave him extra sugar. He sat on the small stool, opened a cheap second hand laptop, stared at screen that had nothing, just black screen with some code, and kept sipping.
He came next day. Same time, 8:30 am. One cutting chai.
Next day again. Same time.
By fourth day, Zoya started keeping his chai ready.
“Jobless?” she asked on Friday, because in Mumbai you can ask that directly.
He nodded. “IT. Laid off.”
“Which company?”
“Small company. In Powai. They said cost cutting.”
Zoya nodded like she understood cost cutting. She did, because her own life was cost cutting daily.
“Degree?” she asked.
“B.Tech. IT. From Pune.”
“And now?”
“Now searching. Giving interviews. No one is selecting. They say overqualified or underqualified. Same only.”
Zoya felt a soft corner. She knew many boys like that in Behrampada, B.Tech, MBA, sitting at home, playing Ludo, saying market is down.
She started giving him free chai from day six. Not because she had extra money, but because he looked like he needed free chai more than others.
“Take, no need to pay today. When you get job, you pay for all days together,” she said, in her Dadar Hindi mixed Marathi.
He said, “Thank you.”
She also started teaching him life, because chai girls in Mumbai are also unpaid therapists.
On Monday, she told him, “Don’t wear that grey T-shirt for interview. Wear light blue shirt. In Mumbai, light blue means you are serious but not too serious.”
On Tuesday, she told him, “Don’t say I am jobless. Say I am on break. In English, break sounds better than jobless. We Indians love English.”
On Wednesday, she told him, “Eat bun maska also. You are too thin. Interviewer will think you don’t eat, so you are depressed.”
He listened. He always listened. He never argued. He would say, “You are right, Zoya.”
Zoya liked that. Most boys at her stall argued. This one listened like younger brother.
By second week, he started coming evening also. Evening chai, ginger, sitting till 9 pm, talking less, listening more.
Zoya told him about Ammi’s stitching, about brother’s YouTube dreams, about how she wanted to one day have a real shop with board, Zoya’s Chai & Books, where people can sit and read.
He told her little. He said his family is in Delhi, he came to Mumbai for job, now alone. He said he stays in a small room in Kurla, sharing with two boys.
Zoya thought, another poor IT boy, another Delhi boy lost in Mumbai. She felt like protecting him.
She did not know that protection was the opposite of what was happening.
Part II: The Boy Who Came For Free Chai
By July, Aarav was part of Dadar station.
Cutting no sugar uncle asked, “Your boyfriend?”
Zoya said, “Arre, no. He is like brother only. Jobless IT boy.”
Aarav heard and smiled, but something in his smile was sad.
Zoya had started saving for him. Not money, but contacts. She told her regular, one Sir who works in TCS, “Sir, my one friend is there, B.Tech IT, very good boy, you take interview?” Sir said, send CV. Aarav said, later.
She told another regular, a lady who runs a small coaching class, “Madam, you need computer teacher?”
He said, “Zoya, don’t worry. I will get something.”
One night, it rained heavily. Dadar station was flooded, trains cancelled. Zoya could not go home. Her stall was covered with plastic. She sat inside, alone, with kettle cold.
Aarav came, drenched, with two vada pavs in plastic.
“You also stuck?” she asked.
“I came to check if you are stuck,” he said.
They sat under her tarpaulin, sharing vada pav, listening to rain on tin roof of station. Mumbai rain makes everyone a philosopher.
Zoya said, “Why you always sad, Aarav? You are young, you have degree. You will get job. Life is not only job.”
He said, “What is life then?”
“Life is cutting chai at right time, and Ammi’s biryani on Sunday, and brother’s first YouTube video getting 10 views, and free extra ginger when customer is having cold. Small only. But real.”
He looked at her, long, as if trying to remember her face.
“Zoya, if someone has everything, money, house, family, but still feels empty, what should he do?”
Zoya said, practical, “Then he should come to Dadar and have chai. Because empty stomach makes empty mind more empty.”
He laughed, real laugh this time. “You teach life very well.”
“I teach because I live life,” she said. “You IT boys live laptop.”
He was quiet. Then he said, “Zoya, tomorrow I may not come.”
Zoya felt a small pinch. “Got job?”
“No. Going to Delhi for few days. Family calling.”
“Go. But come back. Your free chai pending bill is 42 cups now. I have written in book.”
He nodded. “I will come back. I promise.”
He left. Zoya watched him go into rain, backpack on shoulder, broken zip, grey T-shirt now a little more faded.
She thought, another boy who will go to Delhi and forget Dadar girl.
She did not know that next morning, Dadar station would be full of cars she had never seen near platform number 4.
Next morning, 7 am, Zoya was setting up kettle when three black Mercedes and one Range Rover stopped at the road outside station, which never happens because police never allows cars there. Six people in formals came running towards her stall, with security.
A man in suit said, “Excuse me, are you Zoya? Zoya Shaikh?”
Zoya thought it is police raid. “I have BMC permission only,” she said, scared.
“No, madam. We are from Mehta Group. Aarav sir has mentioned your stall. He is waiting in car. He wants you to come.”
Zoya said, “Which Aarav?”
The man showed a photo on phone. Same boy, same spectacles, same beard, but wearing a blazer worth maybe her one year rent, standing in front of a big office with Mehta Empire written.
Zoya’s brain stopped.
The man said, “Sir is Aarav Mehta, heir of Mehta empire. Turnover 12,000 crores. He left home two months back for break. We have been searching. He finally called last night and said he is at Dadar, at Zoya’s chai stall. Please come, madam.”
And then Zoya, holding her steel chai kettle with one hand and her free chai bill book with other hand where she had written Aarav 42 cups pending, realised with a thud that the jobless poor IT boy she had been teaching life and giving free chai and light blue shirt advice was actually Aarav Mehta, the heir of the Mehta empire, who was depressed and had left his 12,000 crore home to find a place where no one knew his class, and she did not pull him up from poverty, he had deliberately stepped down from richness to be a normal person at her tapri.
Part III: The Heir Who Stepped Down
The Range Rover’s back door opened. Aarav was there, same grey T-shirt, same backpack, but now there were two security guards and a lady who looked like his mother, crying.
Zoya did not go near car. She stood at her stall, kettle in hand.
Aarav came to her, alone, telling security to stay.
“Zoya,” he said.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t Zoya me. You lied.”
“I did not lie,” he said, same soft voice. “I said I am IT, jobless, from Delhi. All true. I am B.Tech IT from Pune, I did work in our IT division, I left job, so jobless. I am from Delhi. I did not say I am poor. You assumed.”
Zoya was angry, but also hurt, that Dadar kind of hurt where you feel foolish in front of whole station.
“Why you did this drama? For timepass? For seeing how poor people live? You rich people have this hobby only, slum tourism types?”
Aarav sat down on her small plastic stool, even though his mother was calling from car and security was uncomfortable.
“No. I was depressed,” he said, plainly, like he used to say I am jobless. “My father built Mehta empire from zero. My elder brother died in accident in 2021. Since then my father said you are heir, you have to become. I did MBA from Wharton, came back, joined office, 14 hours a day, board meetings, numbers, news articles saying young billionaire. I started having panic attacks at 3 am. I could not breathe. I told my father, I am not happy. He said happiness is for poor people, you have responsibility. My mother said adjust. My doctor said depression. I told them I want break. They said drama. So one night I took my old college backpack, old T-shirt, came to Mumbai because in Delhi everyone knows Mehta. In Mumbai, no one knows. I took small room in Kurla for 8,000 rupees, started going to Dadar because your stall had free book exchange board. I saw you giving free chai to a beggar. I thought, here people don’t know my surname, they will treat me normal.”
Zoya listened, kettle still in hand.
“I came for chai, but you gave me life lessons,” he continued. “Light blue shirt, break not jobless, bun maska. You taught me small life. For two months, I was not heir. I was just Aarav, jobless IT boy who has 42 cups pending. I slept well for first time in two years. Because no one expected me to be billionaire.”
Zoya’s anger softened a little, but not fully.
“So you used me? For therapy?”
“I used your chai. And you gave me free. So we are equal,” he said, trying to smile.
Zoya did not smile. “You should have told. I was making contacts for your job. I told TCS Sir, coaching Madam. They will laugh at me now. Chai girl thought billionaire needs job.”
Aarav said, “They will not laugh. They will respect you. Because you helped when you thought I had nothing. That is rare. In my world, people help only when they know I have everything.”
His mother came now, elegant, in saree, with tears.
“Beta, chalo, enough,” she said in Hindi, then looked at Zoya, folded hands. “Thank you for taking care of my son. He told me you gave him free chai. He never told us he was depressed. He told you.”
Zoya did not know what to say to a rich mother who folds hands.
Aarav stood up. “I have to go to Delhi today. Father is unwell. But I will come back. Not as jobless boy, as me. If you allow.”
Zoya said, “Your bill is still pending. 42 cups.”
He laughed, then took out wallet, but Zoya stopped.
“No money. You said you will pay when you get job. You got your old job back now, heir job. So you can pay with something else.”
“What?”
“Come tomorrow, 8:30 am, same grey T-shirt, same stool, and have one chai without security. No Mercedes. Just you. Then bill cleared.”
Aarav looked at his mother, at security, at Mercedes. Then he looked at Zoya’s stall, at plastic stools, at rain still dripping.
He said, “Okay. Tomorrow 8:30. No security.”
His mother was shocked. “Aarav, what…”
“Mumma, one more day only. Let me finish my pending bill,” he said.
Part IV: Changing For Her, Not Because Of Her
He did come next day, 8:30 am, grey T-shirt, backpack, no Mercedes. Security was there, but far, near ticket counter.
Zoya gave him cutting chai, extra ginger, no free now, she charged 15 rupees.
“You paid?” she asked.
He paid with 10 rupee coins, counted, like poor boys do.
“Where you got coins?” she asked.
“From Kurla room. My roommates gave. I told them I need for chai.”
They sat.
Zoya said, “So now you are billionaire again?”
“I am heir again. Billionaire is my father’s word, not mine. I told him I will join back, but only if I can work 6 hours a day, and start a foundation for mental health, and live in small flat, not big bungalow. He said okay, because he was scared I will run again. So I am changing, not for you, but because of you.”
“Because of me means for me only,” Zoya said, Dadar logic.
“No. For you means I change to impress you. Because of you means you showed me a different way, and I liked that way, so I am walking that way, even when you are not there. You taught life, remember? Small only, but real.”
Zoya felt her cheeks hot. She was not used to boys speaking like this, especially not boys who can buy Dadar station.
“And what about me? What you will change for me?” she asked, half joking.
Aarav said, “I will change my office canteen. We will have cutting chai like yours, 15 rupees, not 120 rupees Starbucks. And we will have maska bun. And we will keep one stall for free chai for jobless boys.”
Zoya laughed. “And my shop?”
“Your shop will become real shop. I have seen one small space near Dadar West, 200 sq ft, owner is my company tenant. I can give you on rent, same 300 rupees per day only, but with board, Zoya’s Chai and Books. No free, you will pay rent, but you will have roof that does not leak. And Ammi can stitch inside, brother can make YouTube videos there. If you want. No compulsion. You can say no.”
Zoya was quiet. She had always wanted a real shop. But she had wanted it from her own money, not from a billionaire boy who got free chai.
She said, “I will take on rent, but I will pay 500 per day, not 300. Because real shop means more customers. And you will not put your company board there. Only my board.”
“Done,” he said.
“And you will come daily? 8:30 am?”
“I will come when I am in Mumbai. I will be in Delhi mostly, but I will come. And when I am not there, my pending bill will increase. You keep writing.”
He left that day for Delhi. But he left his second hand laptop at her stall.
“Keep it, for brother’s YouTube,” he said.
Zoya kept it, but she kept it under table, not using, because she thought he will come back to take.
He did come back, after one week, then after two weeks, then every week. Same grey T-shirt first time, then light blue shirt, because Zoya had said light blue means serious.
He started bringing books for her book exchange board. Old books from his father’s library, first edition hardcovers that cost thousands, he gave for free exchange.
One day, Ammi came to stall, saw Aarav, and said to Zoya in low voice, “This boy is rich, no? Why he comes?”
Zoya said, “He is jobless IT boy, Ammi, only now he got job in big company.”
Ammi said, “Jobless boys don’t wear shoes that cost 20,000. I stitch blouses, I know shoes.”
Zoya laughed. Ammi knew always.
In October, Mehta empire news came in papers, Aarav Mehta announces new work policy, 6 hour work, mental health leave, foundation for youth. His father gave interview saying my son taught me that heir should be happy also, not only rich.
Zoya read it in newspaper that someone left at her stall, and she kept that paper cut.
In November, Aarav asked her, “Zoya, will you come to Delhi to see my small flat? Not bungalow, small flat, 2 BHK, I live there only now, with plants.”
Zoya said, “I have never been to Delhi. I have never been on flight also.”
“I will book train, second class, Dadar to Delhi, we will go together, 32 hours, cutting chai at every station,” he said.
She said yes.
They went by train, not Mercedes, not flight. At every station, he bought chai, compared with hers, said yours is better. She taught him again, more sugar, more ginger.
In Delhi, his small flat had a balcony with many plants and a small table with two chairs and a kettle.
He made her chai, for first time, with his own hands. It was too sweet, too milky.
She said, “You still need training.”
He said, “Then teach for lifetime?”
Zoya looked at him, at his grey T-shirt that was now actually old, not acting old, at his eyes that now slept well.
She said, “Lifetime pending bill will be very big. Lakhs of cups.”
“I will pay,” he said. “With free life lessons?”
“No. With small only, but real,” she said, using her own line back.
They did not get married quickly, because in Indian English love stories, marriage is not the twist, change is.
Zoya still has her shop, now real shop with board, Zoya’s Chai and Books, Dadar West, near station. She still charges 15 rupees, still gives free chai to jobless boys, but now she writes bill properly.
Aarav still has his empire, but he goes to office at 10 am, leaves at 4 pm, and every second weekend he is at Dadar, on small plastic stool, having cutting chai, extra ginger, listening to Zoya teach life.
She thinks he is still jobless poor IT boy sometimes, when he forgets to pay and she has to remind. He thinks she is still billionaire of chai, because she made a depressed heir want to live again with 42 cups of free chai.
And that is how a girl who thought she was pulling a boy up, realised the boy had stepped down deliberately, and then both decided to meet in middle, at a stall where chai is 15 rupees and life advice is still free.
