Shreya Mehra
ONE
Aaravi stepped off the plane into the crisp, cool air of Kashmir, her senses immediately overwhelmed by the beauty around her. The mountains, dusted with snow at their peaks, loomed majestically in the distance, while the air was thick with the scent of earth and pine. This was supposed to be a new beginning—a chance for her to break through the creative block that had gripped her for months. She had come to Kashmir at the urging of her gallery, to capture the essence of the saffron fields for her upcoming exhibition. But as she stood in the small airport, clutching her canvas bag and looking out at the unfamiliar landscape, she couldn’t shake the feeling of uncertainty. The breakup with Arjun still weighed heavily on her mind, the pieces of her broken heart scattered like the remnants of an unfinished painting. She wasn’t sure if this trip would help her heal or if it would only deepen the ache of her artistic emptiness.
The drive to the small village was quiet, with only the sound of the engine and the soft hum of the wheels against the uneven roads breaking the silence. Aaravi gazed out the window, her eyes scanning the fields of golden saffron that stretched out before her like an endless sea of color. The landscape was so different from the bustling streets of Mumbai, so serene, yet it felt as though it was almost too perfect—a landscape plucked from a dream. She had imagined this moment countless times in the months leading up to her trip, but now that she was here, standing in the midst of this untouched beauty, it felt almost surreal. The mountains, the saffron fields, the thick, soft light—it all seemed too much to absorb in one glance. Aaravi wasn’t sure if it was the weight of the landscape or the memories of her past life that made her feel so small in this vastness. She had come here to find clarity, but as she sat in the car, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, she felt more lost than ever.
When the car pulled into the village, Aaravi was greeted by a simple, rustic charm. Small houses with tiled roofs lined the narrow streets, and the air was filled with the faint chatter of locals as they went about their daily routines. Her host, an elderly woman named Fareeda, welcomed her with open arms, but Aaravi couldn’t shake the feeling of displacement. The village was quiet, far removed from the fast-paced life of Mumbai that she had known so well. Even the people seemed to move slower, their faces etched with the wisdom of living closely with nature. Fareeda led her to the small cottage where she would stay for the duration of her visit. It was a simple place, with a thatched roof and a small garden filled with herbs and flowers. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen, and for the first time since her arrival, Aaravi felt a small flicker of warmth. She unpacked her things, setting up her easel by the window, where she could gaze out at the saffron fields below. Despite her quiet discomfort, there was a part of her that was already beginning to see the potential in this place—something she hadn’t been able to find in her own crowded life.
The following morning, Aaravi was introduced to Rafiq, a young man in his late twenties, who would help her with the saffron harvest. He was tall, with dark hair and a quiet intensity that was immediately noticeable. Unlike the locals she had met so far, Rafiq’s demeanor was reserved, almost distant. He didn’t seem interested in art or the grand vision that Aaravi had for her work, and yet there was something in his eyes—something that suggested he saw the world in a way that Aaravi could not yet understand. He guided her through the fields, showing her how to carefully pluck the saffron threads from the delicate flowers, and though he spoke little, Aaravi found herself drawn to him. There was a grounded quality about Rafiq, a simplicity in his approach to life that seemed to contrast with her own inner chaos. As she worked beside him, Aaravi began to wonder if this quiet man—this farmer’s son—might just be the key to unlocking the creative block that had held her hostage for so long.
TWO
The days blurred together as Aaravi settled into the quiet rhythm of the saffron fields. She would wake early in the morning, her body stiff from the cold night, but the sight of the golden fields outside her window was enough to shake off the lingering exhaustion. Fareeda had already prepared tea, the warmth of it filling the small cottage with comfort, and the promise of another day of work with Rafiq waiting for her. But even as she walked to the fields, the excitement she had expected to feel about painting in this serene landscape had not yet materialized. Her easel was set up by the edge of the saffron fields, the flowers stretching out before her like a sea of orange and purple. But as she dipped her brush into the paint, the strokes felt mechanical, uninspired. It was as though the brush itself was weighed down with the burden of her uncertainty, struggling to capture what her heart could not yet express.
The air was thick with the earthy scent of saffron as Aaravi worked, each petal of the delicate flowers seeming to mock her lack of creativity. She glanced over at Rafiq, who was working diligently in the fields, his hands moving with practiced ease as he plucked the saffron threads from the flowers. Unlike her, Rafiq seemed completely at home in the land, moving with an effortless grace that spoke of years of familiarity. Aaravi envied him—envied the way he was so deeply rooted in the world around him, how he moved with purpose, while she felt like a stranger, struggling to make sense of a world she didn’t fully understand. They worked side by side, with nothing but the sound of the wind rustling through the fields and the occasional chatter of other workers filling the silence. Despite the stillness, something inside Aaravi began to shift. There was a quiet beauty in the simplicity of the task at hand, in the repetitive motion of picking the saffron flowers, and it struck her how much Rafiq’s life was rooted in such routine, such dedication.
By midday, the sun was high in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields. Aaravi sat down under the shade of a nearby tree, her sketchpad in her lap. She had made little progress with her painting, the canvas still empty and waiting for her to fill it. Rafiq, noticing her frustration, walked over to her, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You are still struggling with the painting?” he asked, his voice gentle but direct. Aaravi nodded, not sure how to explain the weight of her creative block. “It’s not just the painting,” she admitted, “it’s everything. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I used to love this—painting, creating—but now, it feels empty.” Rafiq studied her for a moment, his gaze piercing but not unkind. “Sometimes, we need to stop searching for meaning in what we do and just do it because it is part of us,” he said quietly. Aaravi wasn’t sure if he understood what she was going through, but something in his words struck a chord deep inside her. There was a simplicity in his approach to life that was different from her own complexity. He didn’t seek validation from his work; it was enough to exist in the moment, to do what needed to be done.
Later that afternoon, Aaravi stood once again before her canvas. Rafiq had gone back to the fields, and the silence was almost deafening. But this time, something felt different. Her mind was no longer cluttered with the pressure to create something grand, something perfect. She simply looked out at the saffron fields, the golden hues of the flowers dancing in the light, and allowed her brush to move as it pleased. The strokes were free, unguarded, and for the first time since she had arrived in Kashmir, the painting began to take shape. It wasn’t her usual style; there were no sharp lines or defined edges. Instead, it was soft, fluid, almost like the landscape itself had been translated into paint. Each brushstroke felt like a release, a letting go of the expectations that had burdened her for so long. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but it was a start. A small breakthrough, perhaps. But as she stepped back from the canvas, Aaravi felt a flicker of excitement deep within her. Maybe this quiet place, this place so far removed from the chaos of her old life, was exactly what she needed to rediscover herself, to rediscover the art she had nearly lost.
THREE
The next few days in Kashmir were like a slow unfolding of a dream. Aaravi had settled into a routine, waking up early to work in the fields alongside Rafiq and the other locals. Each day felt like a continuation of the one before, yet she noticed small, significant changes within herself. The creative block that had once held her captive seemed to be loosening its grip, like a knot slowly untying. Still, there was something more that lingered in the air, something that Rafiq’s quiet presence and the surrounding land had begun to awaken in her. One afternoon, as the sun dipped low behind the mountains, Rafiq invited Aaravi to join him and his family for dinner. His mother, a warm, gracious woman named Fatima, welcomed her with open arms. As they sat around the low wooden table, eating simple, delicious food, Rafiq began to speak of the land they lived on, of its history, and the deep connection his family had to it.
As the conversation unfolded, Aaravi learned that Rafiq’s family had been farming saffron for generations. The fields they worked in were passed down from father to son, each harvest carrying the weight of tradition and family pride. Rafiq’s father had taught him everything he knew about saffron cultivation—how to tend to the delicate flowers, how to harvest them without damaging the fragile threads. Rafiq’s eyes softened as he spoke of his father, and it became clear that, despite his stoic nature, the land had shaped him in ways words could not fully explain. “The land doesn’t ask for much,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You give it what it needs, and in return, it gives you life. Saffron is precious, but it’s not just the spice that’s valuable. It’s the land itself—this connection that has been passed down through generations.” Aaravi listened intently, her mind turning over his words. There was something about the way he spoke that made her feel like an outsider, someone who had never truly understood the importance of roots, of belonging. She had spent most of her life chasing after fleeting goals, never stopping to consider the deeper meaning behind her work or her place in the world. Here, in this small village, she was beginning to understand that some things—like art, and love, and life itself—were not meant to be rushed.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast with Fatima, Aaravi accompanied Rafiq into the fields once again. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting long shadows over the saffron blooms. The workers were already in the fields, carefully harvesting the delicate threads. Aaravi had learned the process in the days before, but this time, as she bent to pick the saffron flowers, something in her shifted. She didn’t just see the fields anymore; she felt them. The deep earth beneath her feet, the vibrant colors of the flowers, the distant mountains—all of it seemed to pulse with life. She picked the saffron with a quiet reverence, aware that each flower, each thread, was a part of something larger than herself. As the morning wore on, Rafiq began to explain more about the significance of saffron to the region’s history. “It’s not just a crop,” he said. “It’s part of Kashmir’s identity. Saffron has been cultivated here for centuries. The land holds its own secrets.” Rafiq paused as he looked out over the fields, his face softening with the weight of his words. “My grandfather used to tell me stories about the land—how it was blessed by the gods. People from all over the world came to Kashmir for saffron. But it wasn’t just about the spice. It was about what the land gave them in return. The land holds memories. It holds the past.”
Aaravi’s heart began to race as she listened. There was something in the way Rafiq spoke that made her think of her own relationship to her work. She had always seen art as a means to express herself, but now, in this moment, she realized it was more than that. Art, like the land, was a way to connect with something deeper—a way to understand the world and her place within it. She paused, looking at the saffron fields around her. The vibrant hues of orange and purple seemed to shimmer in the morning light, and for the first time in a long while, Aaravi felt a sense of clarity. Perhaps her art, like the saffron, had been waiting for her to understand its true value. Not for fame or recognition, but for the quiet fulfillment that came with creating something that was rooted in something real—something lasting.
By the time the sun had risen fully, Aaravi had finished picking her share of the saffron flowers. She felt a strange sense of peace settle over her, a peace she hadn’t known in months. Rafiq worked beside her, but there was a silence between them, a kind of unspoken understanding that had begun to form. They didn’t need words to connect; the land, the work, and the quiet presence of each other spoke louder than anything they could have said. Aaravi realized, as they moved together through the fields, that she had started to find a sense of belonging here—not just in the land, but in the people who lived off it. And in some quiet way, she knew that Rafiq had already become a part of that connection, a part of the tapestry she was beginning to weave with her art.
FOUR
The days stretched on, each one blending seamlessly into the next. Aaravi had fallen into a rhythm that felt strangely comfortable. The mornings were spent in the saffron fields, working alongside Rafiq and the other villagers, learning the delicate art of harvesting saffron. By afternoon, she would retreat to the small cottage to paint, her easel set up in front of the window overlooking the fields. The quiet beauty of the land had become a constant source of inspiration, but it was something more than that—something deeper. Each day, as she watched Rafiq move through the fields with effortless grace, Aaravi began to feel a subtle shift within herself. The connection between them was unspoken, but undeniable. It was in the way he would glance over at her, his eyes softening for just a moment, or in the rare, small smiles he gave when their hands brushed as they worked side by side. Aaravi tried to ignore the fluttering in her chest when he was near, telling herself that it was just the calm of the place affecting her. But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, the truth was undeniable: she was growing attached to him.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains and painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, Rafiq invited her to join him on a walk through the fields. The light was soft, and the air had a coolness to it that made the evening feel intimate, almost sacred. They walked in silence at first, the only sounds the rustling of the saffron flowers in the breeze and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night. Aaravi felt the tension between them, a quiet, palpable energy that neither of them acknowledged but both could feel. The silence was comfortable, though, and as they reached the edge of the field, Rafiq stopped and turned to her. His gaze was steady, and for the first time, there was a softness in his eyes that made Aaravi’s heart race.
“I never asked you much about your life before you came here,” Rafiq said, his voice low but filled with curiosity. “What made you leave Mumbai and come to Kashmir? Why art?” Aaravi hesitated, the question stirring memories she had long buried. She had never really talked about it with anyone, least of all with someone who seemed so grounded, so tied to the earth in a way that she could barely comprehend. But there was something about Rafiq—his quiet presence, the way he listened without judgment—that made her feel safe enough to open up.
“I—” she paused, taking a deep breath. “I came to escape. My life in Mumbai felt… chaotic. I was in a relationship that… fell apart. My art, too. I just… lost my way. I thought maybe being here, in a place like this, would help me find something. Something real, something that made sense.” She looked out at the fields, her eyes tracing the curves of the landscape. “But the more I stay here, the more I realize… I don’t think I came here just for my art. I think I needed a place where I could just… breathe. Away from everything that’s loud and demanding and full of expectations. I think I needed peace.”
Rafiq nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “The land has a way of giving you what you need, even if you don’t know it yet,” he said quietly. “It’s not always easy, but it teaches you to slow down. To listen. Sometimes we think we’re running away from things, but really, we’re running toward something. Something that’s always been there.” His words hung in the air, and Aaravi felt a strange sense of clarity wash over her. He wasn’t just talking about the land; he was talking about her, about what she had been searching for without even realizing it.
Their walk continued, but it was different now. The air between them had shifted, the unspoken tension growing, but it was no longer uncomfortable. There was a quiet understanding between them, a recognition of the spaces they both inhabited—separate, yet intertwined. Aaravi found herself stealing glances at Rafiq, her heart beating faster each time their eyes met. There was something in his gaze that made her feel both grounded and weightless, as though the world was vast and open, yet she could find her place in it, beside him. The simplicity of their time together—working in the fields, walking through the saffron blooms, sharing quiet moments—was beginning to feel like something sacred, something that she didn’t want to let go of.
That night, after the walk, Aaravi went back to her cottage and sat before her canvas, the paintbrush in her hand. But tonight was different. As she began to paint, the strokes came effortlessly, the colors flowing from her like they had been waiting to be released. The landscape around her, the saffron fields and the soft, golden light, had taken root in her heart, and now, she could paint it in a way that felt true, not just to the eyes, but to her soul. And as she painted, she realized that it wasn’t just the land that had changed her. It was Rafiq—his quiet strength, his connection to the earth, his understanding of what it meant to be rooted in something real. She couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward him, nor the way he made her feel more herself than she had in months.
In the stillness of the night, Aaravi allowed herself to imagine a future where her art, her life, and perhaps even her love could be as simple and true as the saffron flowers beneath her feet. She didn’t know where it would lead, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t afraid of what might come next.
FIVE
The mornings in Kashmir were always the same, and yet, they were never quite the same. Each dawn, Aaravi would awaken to the soft light filtering through her window, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor. The scent of fresh tea would drift in from the kitchen, where Fareeda would already be preparing breakfast. The quiet of the village was a stark contrast to the constant hum of the city life she had left behind in Mumbai. But even in this tranquil atmosphere, there was a sense of restlessness that lingered in Aaravi. Something inside her had begun to shift, but she couldn’t quite place what it was. Was it the beauty of the saffron fields? The simplicity of life in the village? Or was it something else, something more personal that she had yet to face?
It wasn’t until one particular afternoon, as the sun hung high in the sky and the air grew warm with the promise of an early summer, that Aaravi realized what had been missing all along. She was working alongside Rafiq in the fields, carefully plucking the saffron flowers, her hands moving with the practiced rhythm of the task. It was a quiet, almost meditative activity, but today, it felt different. For the first time, Aaravi didn’t feel the weight of her own doubts, her own insecurities about her art. She wasn’t thinking about the next brushstroke, the next gallery exhibition, or the pressure of living up to expectations. She wasn’t even thinking about the looming deadline that would force her to return to Mumbai. All she could feel, all she could see, was the saffron—the vibrant, delicate flowers that seemed to hold the world together in their fragile threads.
As she worked, Aaravi began to notice the world around her in a new light. The way the sunlight danced on the tips of the saffron petals, the gentle sway of the flowers in the breeze, the distant mountains standing as silent sentinels in the background—all of it began to come alive in a way that it never had before. She found herself looking at her surroundings not just as a painter but as a woman who was beginning to understand something deeper about herself. The fields, the land, the people—everything had its place in the world, and for the first time, she felt like she was part of it. She wasn’t just an outsider anymore, standing on the periphery, trying to capture something she didn’t fully understand. She was becoming a part of the fabric of this place, woven into its rhythms and its silence.
By the time the sun began to dip below the mountains, Aaravi had filled an entire canvas. It was different from anything she had painted before. There were no sharp edges, no defined lines. Instead, the painting was a wash of color—soft, fluid, almost as though the fields themselves had bled onto the canvas. The saffron blooms, the sweeping landscape, and even the distant shapes of Rafiq and the other workers were captured in broad, sweeping strokes. It was raw, it was unrefined, but it was real. And for the first time in months, Aaravi felt a spark of excitement. This was what she had been searching for—this connection between her art and the land, between her past and the present, between the chaos of her old life and the simplicity of the one she had found here in Kashmir.
Rafiq stood beside her, watching as she painted. He had been quiet for the last few hours, allowing her to lose herself in the process. But now, as she stepped back from the canvas, he spoke. “It’s beautiful,” he said simply, his voice soft but steady. Aaravi looked at him, surprised by the genuine admiration in his words. “I… I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” she admitted. “I thought I had lost my way, that I had forgotten how to paint. But this… this feels like something I’ve been missing. Something I didn’t even know I needed.” Rafiq nodded, his gaze shifting from the painting to the fields around them. “Sometimes, we need to lose ourselves to find our way back,” he said. “Art isn’t just about what you create. It’s about what you discover in the process. The land, the people, the silence—it all has something to teach you, if you’re willing to listen.”
Aaravi didn’t know how to respond. Rafiq’s words lingered in her mind, and she felt a sudden, deep gratitude for the peace and clarity that had settled over her. The struggle that had plagued her for so long—this feeling of being lost, of not knowing where she belonged—was beginning to dissipate. She wasn’t completely free of it yet, but she could see the path ahead more clearly. And for the first time, she wasn’t afraid of the unknown. She was learning to trust it.
That night, after dinner, Aaravi sat by the window of her cottage, her sketchpad in her lap. The saffron fields, bathed in the soft glow of the moon, stretched out before her like an endless sea of gold. Her brush hovered over the paper as she began to sketch, not the landscape she had seen with her eyes, but the one she had felt with her heart. It was as if the land had seeped into her, had become part of her very being. And in that moment, she realized that the painting was no longer just about capturing beauty—it was about understanding it. It was about finding a piece of herself she had long buried, a piece that had always been there, waiting to be uncovered.
The more she painted, the more she realized that it wasn’t just the land that had changed her. It was the way she saw it, the way she saw herself in it. She had come to Kashmir looking for clarity, for inspiration, for peace. And she had found it, not in the bustling streets of Mumbai, not in the galleries or the expectations of her old life, but here, in the silence of the saffron fields, in the steady rhythm of the harvest, and in the quiet strength of the man who had shown her what it meant to be rooted in something real.
SIX
The days had become warmer, the saffron fields more vibrant with each passing day, and yet, there was an undeniable tension in the air between Aaravi and Rafiq. Their friendship had deepened, and every shared moment seemed to carry a weight that neither of them dared to acknowledge. They had spent hours working side by side in the fields, exchanging few words but plenty of understanding. When they spoke, it was often about the harvest, or the weather, or the land—but beneath every casual conversation, there was a pulse, a quiet thrum of something more. Aaravi had tried to ignore it, tried to tell herself that she was simply drawn to the peace this place offered, to the simplicity of Rafiq’s life. But each time their hands brushed as they worked, or when their eyes met in the quiet moments of the day, she felt her heart flutter in ways she couldn’t control.
One evening, as they walked along the edge of the saffron fields, the sky painted in shades of pink and gold, Rafiq spoke for the first time about something more personal than the harvest. “Do you ever feel like you’re not meant for the world you came from?” His voice was low, almost hesitant, but Aaravi could hear the weight behind his words. She glanced at him, unsure of how to answer. “What do you mean?” she asked. Rafiq’s eyes flickered to hers, then back to the fields. “I mean, you came here to escape, right? To find something different. But do you ever wonder if maybe you’re not meant to go back to that world? Maybe you’re meant for something else entirely. Maybe… you’re meant to stay here.” His words hung in the air, like a question that wasn’t really a question, but more of a quiet hope. Aaravi felt a lump form in her throat. The thought of staying in Kashmir, of leaving behind her life in Mumbai, seemed impossible—and yet, the idea of it didn’t feel as foreign as it once had. The world Rafiq spoke of was simple, rooted in the land, in family, in quiet moments. And here, beside him, Aaravi had begun to feel something she hadn’t felt in years—a sense of belonging.
“I don’t know,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes, I think I’ve been chasing something my whole life. Something I’m not even sure exists.” She stopped walking, letting the wind catch her hair. “I thought I could find it in art, in fame, in success. But every time I get closer, it slips away, like it’s always just out of reach.” She turned to face him, her eyes searching his face for some sign, some answer. “But here… it feels different. It feels like there’s something more. Something I’ve been running toward without even knowing it.”
Rafiq didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his gaze steady. “Sometimes, you have to stop running and let the world come to you,” he said quietly. His words, simple as they were, seemed to resonate deeply within Aaravi. She hadn’t realized how much she had been running—running from her heartbreak, from her confusion, from the emptiness she had felt in her life. But now, here in the stillness of the saffron fields, with Rafiq standing so close, she wondered if maybe it was time to stop running. Maybe it was time to let go of the past and embrace what had begun to take root in her heart.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sky had darkened, and the soft hum of the evening was all around them. The sounds of the village were distant, muffled by the thick air, and the only light came from the soft glow of the moon, casting long shadows over the saffron fields. Aaravi could feel the heat between them, but she wasn’t sure if it was just the lingering warmth of the day or something more. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she reached out, her hand brushing against his arm. The contact was electric, a quiet spark that made her heart race. Rafiq looked at her, his eyes wide for a moment before softening. The distance between them, once so carefully maintained, seemed to shrink in that moment.
“I think…” Aaravi began, but her voice faltered. She hadn’t planned to say anything, hadn’t prepared herself for the weight of what was on her mind. “I think I’m falling in love with this place,” she whispered. “With the land, with the people… and with you.”
Rafiq didn’t respond right away, and Aaravi felt her heart race with anxiety. Had she said too much? Had she read too deeply into something that wasn’t there? But then, slowly, Rafiq stepped closer, his hand gently resting on her shoulder. “I think I’ve been falling in love with you since the moment I met you,” he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. Aaravi’s breath caught in her throat, her heart thundering in her chest. She had never expected this—had never expected him to feel the same way. But now that the words were out in the open, the tension that had built between them for so long seemed to lift, replaced by a quiet, undeniable connection.
They stood there for a long moment, the world around them falling away, until Rafiq finally spoke again. “You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he said. “You don’t have to leave or stay. Just… let yourself feel what’s here. Let it be enough for now.” His words were a balm to her racing thoughts, a reminder that sometimes, the best things in life didn’t require answers, just presence.
Aaravi nodded, her heart lighter than it had been in months. She didn’t have all the answers, and maybe she never would. But for now, she was content to stand in the stillness of the saffron fields, with Rafiq by her side, and simply feel.
SEVEN
The days in Kashmir had passed in a blur of saffron fields and soft moments with Rafiq. The connection between them had deepened, grown into something undeniable. Yet, with every passing day, the bitter truth lingered like a shadow at the edge of Aaravi’s thoughts: she had to leave. Her exhibition in Mumbai awaited, and the gallery had already made it clear that she was expected to return. The date of her departure was fast approaching, and the thought of leaving the place—and Rafiq—felt like a weight she couldn’t shake. The more she tried to ignore it, the more it grew, until it was all she could think about.
One evening, as the sun dipped low behind the mountains, casting a soft, golden hue over the saffron fields, Aaravi found herself sitting beside Rafiq near the edge of the village. The wind was gentle, carrying the scent of earth and flowers, but for the first time, it did nothing to calm the storm in her chest. Rafiq sat quietly beside her, his gaze distant, lost in the vastness of the land before them. Aaravi could tell he was aware of the inevitable—that she would have to leave—but neither of them had said it out loud yet. The silence between them had become heavy, suffocating, as if speaking the truth would make it real, would make it impossible to ignore.
“I leave in two days,” Aaravi said quietly, breaking the silence. Her voice felt foreign, heavy with the weight of the words. Rafiq turned to her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—sadness, perhaps, or resignation. He didn’t speak immediately, and for a long moment, the only sound was the rustle of the saffron petals in the wind. Aaravi felt her heart pound in her chest, and a lump formed in her throat. She wasn’t sure why it was so difficult to say the words, why it felt like something was breaking inside her. Maybe it was because she hadn’t prepared herself for the finality of it all. In the back of her mind, she had always known this moment would come, but now that it was here, it felt like her world was slipping out of focus.
“You’ll be fine,” Rafiq finally said, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re a great artist, Aaravi. The world will welcome you back. You’ll do well.” His words were kind, but they didn’t reach her. She could tell he was trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince her. The words felt hollow, like something he thought he should say, not something he truly believed.
Aaravi turned her gaze away from him, looking out at the saffron fields that had become so much more than just a backdrop for her art. They had become a symbol of the peace she had found, the peace that seemed to seep into her soul every time she walked among them. She had come here searching for inspiration, but in the process, she had found something far more precious: a sense of belonging, of connection, both to the land and to Rafiq. The thought of leaving it all behind felt like leaving a part of herself.
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered, barely audible, as though saying it aloud might make it all the more real. Rafiq’s eyes softened, but he said nothing. He simply sat beside her, letting the silence stretch between them. Aaravi felt the weight of his presence, the quiet strength he exuded, but it only made the truth more painful. He wasn’t asking her to stay—he was giving her the space to make her own decision, to choose the life that she had come here to find. But the choice felt impossible, as though each option led to a different version of herself, one she wasn’t sure she could reconcile.
“I never thought I’d feel like this,” she continued, her voice shaking slightly. “I came here to paint, to escape, to find clarity. But now, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” She turned to face him, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “How can I go back to the world I came from? How can I go back to the noise, the chaos, the… emptiness? And how can I leave here, leave you?” The question hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken truth that neither of them wanted to face.
Rafiq remained silent for a long moment, his gaze steady, unwavering. “You have your own path, Aaravi,” he said quietly. “This place… this life… it’s been a part of me for as long as I can remember. But it’s not yours. You’ve found your own way here, and you have to follow it. What you do, where you go—it’s yours to decide. But I won’t hold you back.”
His words, though gentle, hit Aaravi like a wave, crashing over her with a force she hadn’t expected. She wanted to stay, wanted to tell him she couldn’t imagine her life without him, without this place. But she also knew that she couldn’t stay in Kashmir forever. She had responsibilities, dreams she hadn’t finished chasing. And so, with a heavy heart, she whispered, “I have to go.”
Rafiq nodded slowly, as though he had known all along. “I understand,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But know this, Aaravi—you’re always welcome here. This land, these fields, they will always be here for you. And so will I.”
Aaravi felt a tear slip down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. The goodbye was bitter, but it was necessary. She had to leave, and yet, a part of her would never truly leave Kashmir. The land, the saffron fields, and Rafiq had become a part of her in ways she couldn’t explain. She stood up, wiping her eyes quickly before turning to face him one last time. “Thank you, Rafiq. For everything.”
He gave her a small, soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Goodbye, Aaravi,” he said, his voice filled with quiet sadness. “And good luck.”
As she walked away, her heart felt heavy, each step taking her further from the place that had become her refuge, further from the man who had changed everything. But no matter where she went, no matter how far she traveled, she knew that a piece of her would always remain in the saffron fields of Kashmir, with Rafiq.
EIGHT
Aaravi’s journey back to Mumbai was long and full of restless thoughts. The moment she boarded the flight, it felt as though a chapter of her life was closing, and though she was headed back to the city where her career awaited, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had left something vital behind in Kashmir. The days spent in the saffron fields, the moments with Rafiq—those memories were imprinted on her heart, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase them. The life she had known in Mumbai now seemed distant, foreign, as though it belonged to someone else. And yet, she knew she couldn’t stay in Kashmir forever. The exhibition was calling, her gallery expected her back, and her career demanded her attention. But with each mile that brought her closer to the city, a sense of dread settled in her chest.
When she finally stepped off the plane and into the cacophony of Mumbai, it was as though a weight had settled in her stomach. The noise, the crowds, the relentless energy of the city—it all felt overwhelming. The tall skyscrapers, the honking cars, the endless rush of people—it was all so familiar, and yet, it felt like a lifetime ago. She had left behind the peaceful simplicity of Kashmir, the stillness of the saffron fields, and the quiet understanding she had found with Rafiq. Here, in Mumbai, everything felt like a constant blur, moving too fast for her to keep up. As the taxi took her through the crowded streets to her apartment, Aaravi found herself overwhelmed by the sharp contrast between the life she had left behind and the life she was returning to.
Her apartment, once a place of comfort, now felt cold and distant. She unpacked her bags, arranging her belongings mechanically, but it all felt like a dream—her life in Mumbai, the gallery, the exhibitions. It all seemed so far removed from the person she had become in Kashmir. The artist she had been, so focused on recognition and success, now felt like someone she barely knew. She stood by her window, looking out over the city. The skyline stretched far beyond her reach, the bright lights of the city flickering like a thousand promises. And yet, none of them felt real. The weight of the decision she had made to leave Kashmir pressed heavily on her chest, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside her had been lost in the process.
The next day, as she stood in front of her easel in the studio, preparing for her exhibition, the paintbrush felt foreign in her hand. The canvas before her was large, waiting to be filled, but it felt like she was staring at an empty void. The creative spark that had once been so effortless was gone, replaced by a quiet emptiness. She had thought that returning to Mumbai would reignite her passion, that the energy of the city would inspire her once again. But all she felt was numb. The brush moved slowly, unwillingly across the canvas, and each stroke felt forced, mechanical. She was no longer painting for the love of it. She was painting because it was expected of her.
A few hours later, her assistant arrived with the final details for the upcoming exhibition. As they discussed the logistics, Aaravi barely registered the conversation. Her mind kept drifting back to Kashmir, to Rafiq, and the peaceful life she had found there. She thought about the way the land had taught her to slow down, to find meaning in the small, quiet moments. She had been so focused on chasing success, on building a career, that she had forgotten what it felt like to simply be—to exist in the present, to connect with the world around her. The truth was, she didn’t know how to balance the life she had in Mumbai with the life she had experienced in Kashmir. She had left a part of herself behind, and she wasn’t sure how to reconcile the two worlds.
That evening, after a long day of preparations, Aaravi sat alone in her apartment, staring at the unfinished painting on the easel. The city outside was alive with the hum of traffic, the distant sound of voices, but it all felt muffled, like a world that no longer belonged to her. She felt an overwhelming sense of isolation, as though she had returned to a place that no longer understood her. She picked up her phone, her fingers hovering over Rafiq’s number. She hadn’t spoken to him since the night she left, the goodbye still too fresh, too painful. But as her thumb pressed against the screen, the phone slipped from her hand and landed with a soft thud on the floor. Aaravi sat back in her chair, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. What could she say to him now? She had made the decision to leave, to return to her life in Mumbai. She had made her choice, but her heart was still in Kashmir, still with Rafiq.
She picked up the phone, staring at his name on the screen, and for the first time, she allowed herself to cry. It wasn’t the tears of regret or sorrow. It was the tears of a woman who had discovered a piece of herself that she didn’t want to lose. The love for her art, the love for the land, and the love for the quiet, unspoken connection she had found with Rafiq—all of it was a part of her now. And though she was back in Mumbai, that part of her could never be left behind.
As the tears fell, Aaravi made a decision. She didn’t know what the future held, but she knew one thing for sure—she had to find a way to bring the peace she had found in Kashmir back into her life. Whether through her art, her relationships, or the simple act of living, she had to rediscover what truly mattered. And maybe, just maybe, it would lead her back to the one person who had shown her what it meant to live fully, to live honestly—Rafiq.
END
