Chapter 1 : Uttan, here I am!

An iPhone buzzed endlessly on the side table, vibrating against the wood with urgency. The screen lit up with a barrage of missed calls and unread messages—most of them from Bianca’s former colleagues.

But what stood out were the 59 missed calls and over 20 WhatsApp messages from her best friend, Suvarna Shinde.

Suvarna, who worked at a modest hotel in Santacruz, was juggling front desk duties, demanding guests, and the weight of dreams that reached far beyond reception bells and tip boxes. Since childhood, Bianca and Suvarna had been inseparable—sharing clothes, heartbreaks, board exams, and the comfort of every mundane Tuesday evening, Suvarna’s weekly off, which they had turned into their unspoken tradition. Bianca always made sure to wrap up early on Tuesdays just so they could sit, chat, or do nothing together.

But this morning wasn’t like the others.

Her head throbbed. The effects of last night’s heavy drinking with Suvarna still lingered—and with it, a foggy recollection of something she had done. Something big.

Groaning, Bianca pulled a pillow over her face.
“Ahhhhh, why is Suvarna buzzing me sooo much?” she mumbled, her voice hoarse. “What grave thing has happened that this girl can’t just drop a message and wait?”

She reached out and grabbed her phone, blinking against the light as her eyes adjusted. As she wiped the sleep from her face, the reality of her notifications came crashing down. Dozens of texts, warnings from colleagues, and frantic messages urging her to do damage control before it was too late.

Then it hit her.

The reel.

Bianca’s heart dropped as memory rushed back: the viral reel she had posted last night in a moment of uninhibited rage. A direct exposé on Dr. Vineeta Kulkarni—her senior and part-owner of the clinic—accusing her of prescribing unnecessary root canals just to inflate the clinic’s quarterly revenue, especially targeting celebrities and even middle-class locals. Bianca had always held onto a patient-first philosophy, something her father would’ve been proud of. But apparently, in the world of private dentistry, that made her naive.

Just as she hurried to open Instagram in a panic, her phone buzzed again.

Ting.
A new email notification slid into her Gmail inbox.

She tapped it open. Her eyes scanned the subject line—“Termination Notice – Immediate Effect.”

“We regret to inform you that your employment has been terminated with immediate effect due to inappropriate conduct and defamation of your reporting superior, Dr. Vineeta Kulkarni.”

Bianca sat frozen.

“Oh my God… in just a few hours…” she whispered to herself, “a damn reel made out of pent-up frustration—about real, unethical practices—has now stripped me of my job. Just when I needed that salary the most… to keep up with my car EMIs… and my rent...”

Her thoughts spiraled.
“I have to find a job. Fast. I can’t let this spiral further. I need to pay off my loans. I have to.”

She clutched the phone tightly, her face pale, eyes wide—not just at what she had lost, but at the new uncertain road ahead.

*

The following evening, Bianca returned to the clinic one last time—to collect her belongings. The familiar walls, once filled with ambition and routine, now felt like a place she had outgrown. With a heavy but resolute heart, she packed her things into a cardboard box, carefully placing her dental tools, notepads, and a few personal trinkets. Before leaving, she removed her nameplate from the desk—Dr. Bianca D’Mello—holding it for a moment, a bittersweet smile on her face.

She made her rounds, politely bidding farewell to a few colleagues—some indifferent,

others silently supportive who extended her flowers as a token of appreciation that she will surely missed by them. And then, as she headed for the door, she locked eyes with her boss, Dr. Vineeta Kulkarni.

The tension crackled.

Dr. Kulkarni crossed her arms, her voice laced with venom.
“I hope you never work in this industry again. Only then will you understand what a massive mistake you made by defaming your boss. You’ll come crawling back to me in tears.”

Bianca met her gaze, unflinching.
“Over my dead body. I’ll prove to you—and to everyone—that I’m more than capable of standing on my own two feet. If not recruited by a reputed dental clinic, I’ll open one myself.”

Kulkarni scoffed. “Oh? Madam has that kind of money to open a private clinic? Do you even know the going rates for a space in Mumbai?”

Bianca narrowed her eyes. “And what if I do?”

“We’ll see about that,” Dr. Kulkarni sneered. “Now get out. An A-list actor is due for treatment soon, and I can’t have them seeing you packing up like some fired intern. You’ve already cost me enough—thanks to your viral video, I lost several Instagram influencers. I will not risk losing serious clients who stay off social media.”

Bianca gave her a tight-lipped smile.
“Yes, yes—I’m leaving. Enjoy treating your so-called ‘elite’ clients. I just hope your obsession with fame doesn’t make you forget the very oath we swore as doctors—the Hippocratic Oath.”

With that, Bianca stepped out of the clinic, the cardboard box in her arms and her pride intact. For the first time in weeks, she felt something close to relief. She was no longer tied to a place that valued profit over ethics. The road ahead was uncertain—but it was hers now.

*

It had been three days since Bianca had stepped out of her flat. She had been living off takeout, aimlessly scrolling job listings, applying to private clinics, and sinking deeper into a cloud of despair with every unanswered application. Her inbox, once a space of hope, had become a graveyard of silence.

Then suddenly—ping. A new email notification lit up her screen.

Her heart raced as she opened it, clinging to the hope that maybe this clinic would give her a chance. But the moment she began reading, her hopes crumbled.

"We regret to inform you that after careful consideration, we have decided to decline your application. We hope that you find a good dental clinic that will recruit you soon. All the best for your future."

Bianca let out a dry laugh filled with irony.
“Every goddamn industry has that one Yukta Kapoor,” she scoffed aloud, “the one who can blacklist an artist—and because the industry is so close-knit, that ban spreads like wildfire. One black mark from a powerful production house, and you’re untouchable.” Her voice turned bitter. “And in my case, it’s Mrs. Vineeta Kulkarni.”

Running her fingers through her hair in frustration, Bianca muttered, “Now what should I do?”

That’s when it hit her. A distant memory—her father’s ancestral cottage tucked away on the shores of Uttan. The thought sparked something—a faint glimmer in the fog of hopelessness. She leapt up and started rummaging through her cupboard. Beneath neatly folded clothes, wrapped in a soft cloth, she finally found it: the old property deed.

She unwrapped it carefully. The paper was yellowed with age, brittle at the edges, and embossed with a faded government stamp. It read:

"Property Deed — D’Mello Family Cottage, Uttan, Thane District."

Her breath hitched. Uttan. That forgotten place… distant as a dream.

Her father, Lawrence D'Mello, had passed away when she was just sixteen. A quiet, hardworking Goan man, he’d spent his early life in Uttan before the family moved to Bandra to be closer to work and city life. Her mother, Anita—a disciplined Mangalorean woman—kept the household running like a clock. She had passed away last year. Bianca was still reeling from that loss when her fiancé, Aaron, had asked her to marry and move abroad with him. But Bianca, emotionally unavailable and grieving, couldn’t give him what he needed. He left her. Coldly. She never returned the engagement ring—his insensitivity didn’t deserve it.

The cottage had been forgotten in the tides of time—unused, unopened, but still legally theirs.

*

That night, over Chinese takeaway and an almost-empty bottle of wine, Bianca showed the property deed to her best friend, Suvarna.

“Yaar Bianca, you should go to Uttan!” Suvarna exclaimed. “Away from this city’s shor sharaba—the chaos, the pollution. You can start a peaceful life there… maybe even open your own clinic by the beach.”

Bianca hesitated. “But the rent? Do you think I can even afford clinic space? I still have my car loan EMIs to pay…”

“Ah yes, your Jeep Compass,” Suvarna nodded. “But if you can’t pay, they’ll take the car back anyway.”

“I still have my old Maruti Dzire—2017 model. It's lying in the basement. I think it’s still in decent condition.”

“Oh? You didn’t sell it off when you bought the new car?”

“No. That was Mom’s car. It’s... home for me. Whenever I want to disconnect from everything, I just sit inside. For hours. It’s where I feel safe.”

Suvarna looked surprised. “You never told me how much it helped you during your anxious spells.”

Bianca sighed. “Su… how could I? When I was struggling, you were dealing with your own family mess. There are times in a friendship where one has to survive alone. It doesn’t mean there’s no trust or love—it just means sometimes, we have to learn to take care of ourselves… in case no one else can.”

Suvarna slowly nodded, chewing thoughtfully on a spring roll. “When you put it that way… yeah, that makes sense. But then—return the Compass. Whatever amount you’ve paid in EMIs till now might get reimbursed. You can use that money for your clinic.”

Bianca nodded. “Yes, I’ll get that process started first thing tomorrow.”

Suvarna raised an eyebrow. “And your engagement ring? When are you going to put that to use?”

“What ring?” Bianca asked innocently. “I don’t have any ring.”

"OMG, Bianca! What did you do with that diamond ring? It must’ve been worth a fortune!”

Bianca chuckled. “I bought these heels—Cinderella Ruffle Pointed ones. Cost me three thousand. The rest of the money I’ve kept aside for any emergency or shifting expenses.”

Suvarna gawked. “Sis! A revenge gift? Love that for you—but 3K? Bit expensive, no? Especially now that you’ve got no job and a whole new house to set up.”

“I don’t think the house will need much renovation,” Bianca shrugged. “And even if it does, I’ll manage once the car reimbursement comes through. That should help me set up the clinic too.”

“Fair enough,” Suvarna said, raising her chopsticks in mock salute. “So, when are you leaving?”

“I’m heading there tomorrow morning. Just temporarily… to check the place out. If it feels like home, I’ll shift for good soon after.”

Suvarna smiled, nodding approvingly as they continued to munch on their food, the city’s lights flickering through the window behind them—soon to be replaced by ocean views and quiet nights.

*

The next morning, after the representatives from the Jeep Compass showroom came to collect the car from Bianca’s apartment garage, she found herself drawn to the familiar space in the parking lot—where her old Maruti Dzire rested, a car that held countless memories and emotions. Slipping into the driver’s seat, she took a moment to breathe in its nostalgic comfort. She started the engine, letting it warm up as she checked the controls, ensuring everything was still functioning smoothly. Satisfied that the car was road-ready, she gently pulled out and began her drive towards the Western Express Highway.

Crossing the Dahisar toll naka, Bianca continued onward, making her way towards Bhayandar. From there, she took an exit onto Uttan Road.

As she drove along the stretch, the surroundings began to transform—the lush greenery, the sparse traffic, and the quaint cottages evoked the tranquil charm of Goa. The peaceful atmosphere washed over her, calming her mind.

As she passed the Bhatebandar Mata Velankanni Church (Our Lady of Velankanni Church), something within urged her to stop. She pulled over for a quick pit stop, walked up to the grotto, and stood silently for a moment.

With a bowed head and clasped hands, she offered a quiet prayer, feeling a gentle sense of peace settle within her before continuing her journey.

*

On the bustling shores of Uttan. Fisherboats bobbed near the jetties, and the scent of salt and fresh catch of fish and dried bombay ducks lingered in the air.

A rust-covered ferry docked near the pier, the metal scraping gently as it settled. Among the handful of people who stepped off, one man stood out—not because he tried to—but because the village noticed him before he could even greet them.

“Arey, Pradhan Pereira aala re!”
(“Hey, Pradhan Pereira is back!”)

Neil Pereira stepped off the ferry, rucksack slung over one shoulder, a box of freshly packed ear buds in hand, his thick black curls damp with sea mist. He smiled modestly as greetings echoed from every corner of the pier.

“Pradhan, tuzya mulech toh pipeline aaichyaa varshi barach kaam zhaala!”
(“Pradhan, that pipeline leak from last year—only you could’ve fixed it!”)

Neil gave a short nod and wave, but before he could move ahead, a distressed voice called from a small fishing trawler anchored nearby.

It was Vinod, one of the older fishermen, waving frantically.

“Neil! Tula konte lok suggest kele kaam sathi? Arre toh naavik tar pehla divasachya safarit sea-sick jhala, upar se… sign language chya bharose bolto!”
(“Neil! What kind of person did you recommend for the job? He got sea-sick on the very first trip, and worse—he only communicates in sign language!”)

Neil climbed onto the dock beside the boat, unfazed. “Vinod kaka, shant raha. He’s just nervous—it’s his first day. Give him some time. And learning sign language isn’t difficult. It just takes love... and intention.”

Vinod huffed. “Pana kasa kaam karu asa co-worker sobat?” (" But how can I work with such a co-worker?")

Neil pulled out a steaming thermos from his bag and handed it to him. “No milk. Ginger tea. It’ll help with the nausea.”

He also fished out a pair of soft silicone earbuds. “This will ease the motion noise. And here…”

Neil gestured to the new recruit using basic signs: You okay? Boat good? The boy nodded gratefully, giving him a thumbs-up.

“See?” Neil smiled. “It’s possible. When you're on the sea, you're a team. You look after each other. That’s the rule.”

Vinod muttered something under his breath but accepted both the tea and the earbuds. “Deva re deva...asa ka (O God, it's like that)? Okay then I will take care, don't worry .”

Neil grinned, tapped the boat’s side affectionately, and moved on.

As Neil walked toward the village market, more faces lit up.

“Pradhan ji, mala photo dakhavaycha aahe!”
(“Pradhan ji, I want to show you some photos!”)

It was Mhatre Kaka (Uncle), a vegetable vendor in his 50s, waving his phone excitedly.

“My daughter and her husband just left for Manali! She sent pictures of snow! Look, look!” he said, scrolling clumsily through the gallery. “It’s all because of your help with their booking. They’d never have gotten that discount without your login!”

Neil chuckled. “Kaka (uncle), you’re giving me more credit than I deserve.”

Further down, a woman selling bangda (mackerel) waved at him from her tiled home window. “That water clog in the kitchen you fixed—still working like a charm! I haven't mopped once since!”

And just as he passed the next stall, a plump aunty in a polka-dotted apron called out, holding up a basket of golden-brown fugiyas.

“Neil! Fresh batch! Try one, na—piping hot!”

He reached over, took one, and bit into it. Crispy outside, fluffy within. “Perfect as always, Lorna Aunty. I hope they sell fast!”

She beamed. “With your blessings? Always!”

Neil nodded, exchanged a few more greetings, and then finally turned toward the sea path for his daily swim. He walked past the Our Lady of Velankanni shrine and made his way to his usual spot near the quiet end of the beach.

*

After sometime Bianca walked barefoot across the sands of Uttan beach.

The salty air blew through her hair as she removed her Cinderella Ruffle Pointed Heels and placed them beside her. Her toes curled into the sand. The setting sun bathed the ocean in gold.

Out at sea, a lone figure rode the waves with ease. He was tall, tanned, and agile—surfboard under his feet, cutting through the tide like he belonged there. After a perfect ride, he sat cross-legged on his board, gazing at the horizon.

She sat down, hugging her knees, and let her eyes follow the rippling horizon. The sound of the waves was soothing, almost like a lullaby she hadn’t heard in years.

And just like that, the memories began to surface.

She was five, clinging to her father’s arm as they walked this same beach. Her mother’s laughter echoing as she tried to keep her sandals from getting wet. A picnic basket, a red and white mat, her dad’s guitar playing softly under the coconut trees…

It had been their family spot.

Her father, Lawrence D’Mello, always insisted on short weekend getaways to Uttan. “The sea calms the noise inside,” he used to say. Back then, she never understood what he meant.

Now, she did.

She smiled faintly through a sting of tears. So much had changed since then. Her father’s passing. Her mother’s death just last year. The broken engagement. The job gone in a flash. Everything that had once made her feel safe had slipped away.

She felt a lump in her throat, "I wish you both were here," she whispered aloud, to the wind.

Instinctively, she rose to her feet and began walking along the shoreline, slow and aimless. Her thoughts swirled with grief, hope, fear, and confusion. The kind of reflection that only the sea could hold.

She didn’t even realize how far she had wandered until the sharp touch of a pebble underfoot brought her back to the present.

Bianca turned around, retraced her steps—and then froze.

"My heels".

She quickened her pace, scanning the stretch of sand she had left them on. Her heart sank.

“Oh no, no no no…” she whispered and when turned towards the shoreline

That’s when she saw him.

The man from the surfboard was now walking toward her, a single heel in his hand.

He was wearing a wetsuit, and his presence was... commanding.

“You dropped this,” he said, handing her the shoe.

She blinked, stunned. “Thank you! This is brand new. I… I wore it for the first time today.”

“You’re welcome,” he said flatly, turning to go.

“Wait!” she called. “You wouldn’t have seen the other one, would you? It was a pair. Very expensive. If you found one, maybe—”

He turned with a smirk. “Save someone from drowning, and they’ll ask for your clothes too.”

She frowned. “That’s not what I meant. I just thought, since you’re comfortable in water and I have a phobia, maybe…”

“Then you’re mistaken,” he interrupted. “The heel floated to my board. Gave me quite the scare.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to burden you.”

She looked at her feet, half-sunk in the sand. “Is there a place I can buy slippers nearby? My car is parked far.”

“Not really,” he said. “But barefoot walking is underrated. Grounds you. Helps you connect to Mother Earth.”

He began to walk away.

She sighed to the sky, “Now what do I do?”

He paused. Turned.

Walked back.

And dropped a pair of well-worn rubber slippers in front of her.

She took a glance on it and she felt that were clearly from a local restaurant—emblazoned with "Rosy Aunty’s Fish Fry – Estd. 1986."

She laughed despite herself. “Bathroom chappals?”

He shrugged. “You said you were in trouble.”

“I’ll manage, thank you.”

He chuckled, already walking away. “Suit yourself. Have fun walking barefoot.”

As Bianca stood there, wind in her hair, one heel in hand and the other missing in the sea, she looked at the slippers again.