Lata has been working as a maid for a long time at a mid-range hotel in Andheri, Mumbai. The work isn’t particularly glamorous, but it’s stable, enough to support her and her college-age son. Every day, she cleans rooms, changes sheets, mops the corridors, and silently observes the passing of life. For Lata, the hotel is like a stopover in life—people come, relax, then disappear, leaving behind stories that will never be told.

Lata has recently noticed a special guest: a young woman named Ananya, in her twenties, often seen with an attractive middle-aged man. Every night around eight o’clock, they enter room 405 together. The man is dressed in a neat suit, shiny leather shoes, and has a very good demeanor; while Ananya is dressed simply—a white T-shirt, jeans, and a small backpack.

What bothered Lata was the repetition. Not once, not twice—every night, as if it were a habit. In her experience as a janitor, she had witnessed many suspicious things: hidden relationships, secret meetings. From the receptionist, Lata had vaguely heard that the man was the girl’s “new stepfather.” She shuddered to learn this: a stepfather and a stepdaughter renting a hotel room every night—difficult to hear, difficult to accept.

What Lata saw seemed to “confirm” her suspicions: laughter echoed in the corridor, deep men’s voices mingled; sometimes they ordered late-night snacks, eating together in the room. Her curiosity and imagination were aroused.

Late one night, after cleaning the seventh floor, Lata walked through the fourth-floor corridor. The yellow lights were dim and quiet, and only her footsteps could be heard. Suddenly, room 405 erupted in noise: loud voices, the sounds of arguing. Lata paused; the girl seemed to be pleading, the man replied sharply. Then silence fell. A moment later, sobs filled her voice.

Curiosity seized her, and Lata crept closer to the small window near the hallway. She peeked in through the half-closed curtain. And then…
Stunned.

In the room, the man stood very close to Ananya, his hand on her shoulder; Ananya covered her face and wept. They were staging a dramatic scene, but to Lata, it could only be a scene of a man possessing a young girl.
She quickly backed away, her heart pounding, and ran down the hallway, trembling and terrified. That image haunted her all night. From that day on, Lata watched them with both pity and anger. She blamed herself for her helplessness—she was just a poor maid, how could she interfere in the affairs of rich people? But deep inside, a fire burned: if her guess was correct, then how pitiful that girl was.

One Sunday morning, the opportunity arrived. Lata was cleaning the room at the end of the hallway when door number 405 opened. Ananya came out alone, carrying a stack of papers and some thick books. Seeing Lata, she smiled politely.

Lata hesitated a bit, then mustered up the courage to ask:

— You… often stay here, don’t you?

Ananya nodded and replied softly:

— Yes, you and I are practicing a new play. We’re going to participate in an international festival soon, so we need a quiet place to practice.

Lata was stunned:

— Sir?

— Yes, Mr. Arvind Kapoor, my drama instructor. He used to be a famous stage director, and now he’s my personal trainer. We practice here every night because this place is private and no one will disturb us.

As if to prove it, Ananya handed her the script. The title of the play was clearly written on the cover: “The Stranger Father.”

Lata felt as if a bucket of cold water had been poured on her. Suddenly, everything became clear. Everything she had heard and seen for weeks—the laughter, the crying, the intimate gestures—had turned out to be just a rehearsal. The man wasn’t her real stepfather, but the director, the teacher. And Ananya wasn’t a victim, but a young actress working hard for her dream.

Lata smiled shyly, her face flushing. All the speculations, the “script” woven in her mind, were shattered. It turned out she was the sole spectator of a real-life “play” woven from her own imagination.

That evening, passing by room number 405, Lata heard laughter again. She laughed to herself—happily and joyfully. Curiosity sometimes makes people write stories that don’t really exist. And she said to herself: From now on, I’ll just do my job well—and leave the theatre and come to the stage in Mumbai.