Aarav Sen 1 “It always started with thunder.” That was how Arjun knew she’d appear. It had been five weeks now—five rainy days—each one painting the grey canvas of the city with blurred headlights and shimmering puddles. Each time the clouds rolled in and the air turned electric, Arjun found himself at the same spot: the corner tea stall by the old bus stop at South Market Road. He’d cradle a steaming clay cup of chai in one hand and his sketchpad in the other. And then she would come. Yellow umbrella. Green satchel. Books tucked under one arm. Hair…