Fiction: Forty-year-old Nayan, freshly divorced, sets out to rebuild her PR business in Mumbai

I trudge through a seemingly endless parade of apartments, each one more disappointing than the last. Tiny, claustrophobic pigeonholes that make coffins seem roomier in comparison. And what are these prices? It is like highway robbery. But just as I’m about to give up hope and resign myself to a life of squatting in my office, I stumble upon a hidden gem in Bandra.

It’s a simple but airy flat in a new building in a quiet lane that faces some old but charming bungalows beyond which is the sea. A flat offering even partial views of the sea in Bombay is gold and I say yes the minute I step out onto the vast balcony.

A meeting with the landlords has been fixed and I’ve dressed modestly in salwaar kameez to make a good impression on them, because god knows, all your sins are forgiven in this country if you dress demurely.

Now Pallavi Aggarwal, the unsmiling owner of the flat, is quite the sight, decked out in shiny Dolce & Gabbana kicks you’d expect on someone half her age, and rocking a baggy sweater over leggings. A Louis Vuitton tote, splashed with someone’s paint party, swings from her arm.

Her house husband, a nice and docile-looking gentleman, accompanies her to meet me and to discuss business on his wife’s behalf. Together, we walk around the apartment, and even though it is only a two-bedroom space, it’s beautifully laid out with a glass wall that overlooks the palm trees and the sea behind them. Additionally, it has a fairly large walk-in closet attached to the master bedroom, which has made me want this apartment so desperately.

“I love the sunset from here,” Mrs Aggarwal tells me, sliding open the balcony door. “If this flat was any bigger, we could’ve lived here with our children.”

“So, the broker told me you’re divorced?” Pallavi asks, her eyebrows slightly raised, while Mr Aggarwal speaks to the broker in the living room. She somehow makes the word “divorced” sound like a disease. She could as easily have said, “So, the broker told me you have herpes.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I reply with a smile.

Pallavi’s eyes widen a bit as she glances at me with a mix of curiosity and disapproval – the same look I always get when I mention I’m divorced to older married women.

“Oh, I see,” Pallavi says slowly, her words measured and deliberate. She absently smooths an invisible wrinkle on her top, her chrome gold nails catching the light.

She pauses for a moment, her gaze drifting briefly towards the living room where her husband is still engrossed in conversation. Taking a step closer to me, she lowers her voice, “Look, you’re our first tenant, so please handle it with care,” she looks at me directly and says. “It is a home and should remain one. The building society won’t like it otherwise.”

I get it. That’s a polite way of saying now that you’re divorced, please don’t be a slut and bring men up here and have hot sex with them. How do I tell this woman that at this point in my life, I’m as far away from having hot sex with men as Pluto is from the sun. I mean, Pluto isn’t even considered a planet anymore; they’re now referring to it as an object in the Kuiper belt. That’s how far removed I am from having any “hot” escapades with men. It’s like I’ve drifted off into a whole different cosmic realm of singlehood.

I assure her she will have no cause for concern once I move in. Mr and Mrs Aggarwal have a little chat privately and return to me shortly. Their collective expression is still stern, however.

“Fine, we will give you the apartment,” Mrs Aggarwal says grumpily and I am so thrilled with the news that I forget to negotiate, much to my broker’s disappointment.

As we shake hands, I internally do cartwheels with joy. I know the universe is finally on my side. When one door closes, another opens – quite literally in this case.

I can’t wipe the smile off my face for the rest of the evening. A beautiful new house in Bombay is as close as it gets to the promise of a good life. After slumming it in that pokey little apartment, this gem of a place is nothing short of a stroke of luck. The affirmations, Nina Barret, and even God himself – they’ve all made this happen.

I go to bed scrolling through Pinterest for ideas on how to do up my new rental. It is all so exciting, putting together a mood board for decorating a fresh new space.

But as the evening winds down, reality creeps back in, as it always does. A beautiful house is one thing, but the silence of an empty home is another. Whether you admit it or not, being single is like living in a completely different country from being married. And one would think that I’d finally feel adjusted to this after all these months, but coming home to an empty apartment day after day is enough to make anyone crazy – especially during holidays and the monsoons.

Excerpt with permission from The Wrong Way Home, Shunali Khullar Shroff, Bloomsbury India.