Mridul Sharma Rhea stepped off the train at Madgaon station, her city-weary eyes widening as the first monsoon drops kissed her cheeks. The air in Goa was thick with the scent of wet earth and salt, a combination that seemed to cleanse the dust and stress clinging to her from months of relentless deadlines. The usual din of Delhi—honking cars, shouting vendors, and the unending pulse of urgency—was replaced by a soft, hypnotic symphony of raindrops pattering on tin roofs and leaves trembling under the weight of water. Every corner of the small station seemed alive with the season’s lush…
