Post Views: 47
Sanya Varma
One
The taxi wound its way through narrow, rain-slicked lanes, past moss-covered compound walls and bougainvillea sagging under the weight of the monsoon. Ishani sat in the back, forehead resting against the cool glass, letting the blurred greens and greys of Goa in the off-season seep into her. The air smelled heavy—wet earth, sea salt, and the faint sourness of overripe mangoes fallen on the roadside. When the driver finally stopped in front of a pale yellow villa, its terracotta roof dripping steadily, she felt an odd mix of relief and trepidation. The villa looked like something out of a forgotten postcard: arched doorways, green shutters, a wrought-iron balcony, and the languid sway of palm fronds behind it. Inside, it was airy but carried a faint dampness in its bones—salt-speckled walls, wooden shutters that didn’t quite close, and the steady percussion of rain on the tiled roof. As she moved through the rooms, her leather suitcase leaving faint water spots on the tiled floor, she realized there was no sound of traffic, no honking, no hurried footsteps—only rain, sea wind, and the occasional chirp of a stubborn bird. She unpacked slowly, her crisp cotton shirts and trousers looking strangely formal against the villa’s faded charm, and made tea in the small kitchen that smelled faintly of coriander and old wood.
Later, stepping onto the balcony with her mug, Ishani was greeted by the sight of thick curtains of rain blurring the world into watercolor smudges. Somewhere beyond the garden wall, the ocean sighed—a low, constant hum beneath the rain’s rhythm. That’s when she saw him. Across the narrow lane, in the garden of the neighboring villa, a man sat under a leaning palm tree, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the glow briefly flaring before disappearing again. His hair caught her attention first—silver, not the white of age but the streaked silver of salt and sun—tumbling loosely to his collar. He held a guitar on his lap, strumming in a lazy, unhurried way that seemed to fold into the sound of the rain rather than compete with it. The melody was faint, a soft ripple against the storm, and she couldn’t quite tell if it was improvised or remembered from somewhere. He seemed completely at ease, as if the weather, the damp, the endless grey were part of him. Ishani realized she’d been staring, and in that moment, he looked up. Even through the rain, she could make out the brief narrowing of his hazel eyes, the almost-smile that touched his mouth but didn’t fully form.
Their eyes held for only a few seconds before the wind shifted, sending a diagonal spray of rain across her balcony and forcing her to step back. By the time she returned with the thought of a polite wave, the figure under the palm tree was gone, the garden empty except for the faint curl of smoke dissolving into the wet air. She lingered by the railing, unsure whether she felt disappointment or a strange flicker of curiosity. The rain kept falling, relentless and soft at once, blurring the edges of the villa and the world beyond. She sipped her tea, its warmth grounding her against the cool damp, and told herself she’d come here for solitude, for stillness, not for noticing strangers with silver hair and guitars. But as the evening deepened, and the first hints of lamplight glowed from the villa next door, the image of him remained—smoke curling, fingers moving across strings, eyes catching hers through the rain. It was a small thing, a moment easily dismissed, yet it settled in her mind like the echo of a chord she couldn’t quite forget.
Two
The night was ink-dark, the rain a steady curtain against the windows, when the villa suddenly fell silent—the hum of the ceiling fan gone, the faint whir of the fridge stilled. Ishani stood in her kitchen with a half-cut lime in her hand, realizing she had only one small torch whose light flickered ominously. She rummaged through drawers, finding nothing but matchboxes and one stubborn candle that refused to stay upright in its holder. The rain had made the world outside smell wilder, more alive, and when she stepped onto her balcony, she noticed the faint glow of lamplight from the villa next door. Without thinking too hard—telling herself it was purely practical—she slipped on her sandals, wrapped a shawl over her shoulders, and crossed the narrow lane. The garden gate was ajar, creaking softly in the wind, and the path led her to a warmly lit verandah where the man from the previous day sat hunched over a small oil lamp, tuning his guitar. He looked up as she approached, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable before it settled into something resembling amusement.
“You’re either here to listen to music,” he said, his voice a slow, easy drawl, “or you’ve run out of light.” Ishani smiled despite herself, explaining her predicament. He stood, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the unhurried grace of someone who had nothing to rush toward. “I’m Rafael,” he offered, before disappearing briefly into the shadows and returning with a bundle of stubby candles and a small box of matches. “Come in for a drink, or you’ll be drenched before you get back,” he said, gesturing toward the open doorway. The room inside was low-lit, walls lined with bookshelves and stacks of vinyl records, the air rich with the scent of wood and citrus. A bottle sat on the coffee table, its contents pale and slightly cloudy. “Feni,” he explained, pouring into small glasses without waiting for her reply. “Homemade. Stronger than it looks.” She took a cautious sip—the drink was warm and sharp, with a tang that seemed to travel straight to her chest. They sat across from each other, the oil lamp flickering between them, the guitar resting quietly at his side.
Their conversation began with safe topics—how the rains transformed Goa, the occasional absurdity of Mumbai traffic, the small dramas of living alone. Rafael spoke in that same unhurried way, his sentences carrying the weight of someone used to telling stories late into the night. Ishani found herself watching his hands as he talked, the way his fingers traced the rim of the glass absentmindedly, as if still in dialogue with music even in silence. At some point, they moved to music—he asked her what she listened to when she needed to think, and she surprised herself by admitting she hadn’t listened to anything without multitasking in years. “That’s a crime,” he said with a half-smile, and for a moment, their eyes held in a way that made the room feel smaller. The rain outside softened, the lamplight steady, and though their words remained light, Ishani felt as if they were brushing against something deeper, a familiarity that shouldn’t exist between two people who had just met. When she finally stood to leave, the candles clutched in her hand, he walked her to the verandah. “If the power doesn’t come back,” he said, “you know where the light is.” She nodded, stepping back into the damp night, her pulse carrying the faint warmth of feni and the sense that she had crossed an invisible threshold without meaning to.
Three
It began with Rafael arriving at her villa one late afternoon, carrying a basket of fish wrapped in banana leaves and a bunch of green mangoes. “Too much for one person,” he said simply, setting them on her counter without asking if she wanted company. The rain outside had settled into a soft, steady percussion, as if it had finally grown tired of its own ferocity. He moved easily in her small kitchen, peeling back the banana leaves and sprinkling salt over the fish, his hands working without rush or hesitation. “You cook like you’re on trial,” he remarked, watching her measure coriander with the precision of a courtroom argument. She laughed despite herself, realizing he was right—every slice, every stir was calculated, efficient, without waste. “Cooking’s not about efficiency,” he said, handing her a lime and showing her how to cut it so the juice fell evenly over the fish. “It’s about letting the smell of it get to you, about not worrying if it takes an hour or two.” Somewhere between chopping onions and grinding spices in his old stone mortar, she began to notice the way the minutes stretched, how her usual clock-bound urgency felt strangely out of place here.
By the time they moved the cooking into his kitchen the next day, Ishani had already begun to expect the slow cadence of his afternoons. His villa smelled of woodsmoke and turmeric, the air rich with the faint tang of feni lingering from the night before. He put on music—not loud, not background noise, but something warm and deliberate: a saxophone murmuring over soft percussion. “You don’t just hear the rain,” he said, stirring the curry as the storm tapped against the shutters. “You let it play with the music, like an extra instrument.” She tried it—closing her eyes, letting the rhythms merge—and found herself swaying slightly without meaning to. When she opened them, he was watching her, an amused half-smile playing on his face, and she quickly turned back to the chopping board, though her hands moved more loosely now. He teased her about her “lawyer’s posture” and the way she leaned too close to the chopping block, and she teased him about his heavy hand with chilies. At one point, he leaned in to correct her grip on the knife, his fingers brushing over hers—a small, fleeting contact, but enough to send a warmth curling low in her chest.
They ate at his small wooden table, the meal still steaming, the rain a quiet accompaniment through the open window. The fish was tender, the curry rich and sharp, and Rafael insisted she eat with her fingers, showing her how to mix the rice just so. “You city people forget your hands know things,” he said, watching her awkwardly at first, then more naturally. There was no rush to finish; the meal seemed to stretch like the rain-soaked afternoon, with pauses filled by the sound of music, the occasional shared glance, and the lazy clink of glasses. When she finally rose to leave, it felt less like ending a visit and more like drifting from one slow moment into another. Back at her villa, Ishani noticed that she moved differently—pouring herself water without glancing at the clock, lingering by the window just to watch a palm frond sway in the wind. It struck her then that Rafael wasn’t just teaching her to cook; he was undoing something in her, loosening the knots she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying for years. And though she told herself it was only about the rain, the music, and the food, she couldn’t ignore the fact that she was beginning to listen for the sound of his footsteps in the lane between their homes.
Four
The night of the fishermen’s feast arrived with the smell of rain in the air and the distant thump of drums carried over the wind. Ishani hadn’t planned to go — she had said as much earlier in the day — but when he appeared at her door with a half-smile and an umbrella, she found herself agreeing without much thought. The fishing village, tucked away at the edge of the coast, was already alive when they arrived. Oil lamps flickered in the rain-slick lanes, their light bouncing off puddles like shards of gold. Children darted between stalls selling fried prawns, roasted fish, and sweet jaggery fritters, their laughter ringing above the patter of drizzle. A group of men in rolled-up lungis beat their drums with an infectious rhythm, and women with flowers in their wet hair swayed in time to the music. Ishani felt the damp earth squish beneath her sandals, and without warning, he took her hand and pulled her into the crowd. At first, she hesitated, self-conscious under the dim, rain-smeared glow of the lanterns, but the music was warm and relentless, and soon she was barefoot, her toes sinking into the mud, spinning and swaying to the beat. The air smelled of salt, spice, and woodsmoke, and for the first time in months, she forgot to think about herself — she was simply there, laughing, wet hair sticking to her cheeks, rain mingling with sweat and the heat of the firelight.
Later, they sat side by side on a low wooden bench, a shared plate of fried prawns steaming between them. He cracked the shells with quick, practiced fingers, passing the flesh to her without comment, and she didn’t bother with politeness — just ate with her hands, the tang of chili and lime on her tongue. Around them, the feast carried on, with bursts of song and laughter rising into the heavy night air. The fishermen passed bottles of dark country liquor among themselves, toasts were made, and the drumming never really stopped. Ishani’s cheeks ached from smiling, her hands were oily, and she didn’t care in the slightest. She caught herself glancing at him now and then, not because of any sudden realization, but because in that moment, under the crackling lights strung between bamboo poles, she could see something in his face that she hadn’t before — not just kindness, but the quiet steadiness of someone who didn’t mind being her anchor without asking for the role. The thought unsettled her and yet, somehow, didn’t frighten her away. The rain began to pick up again, heavier now, and stalls hurriedly pulled their tarpaulins tighter. He nudged her shoulder, and without words, they stood to leave.
The walk home was quieter, though the rain’s drumming on the umbrella filled the spaces between them. The power had gone out along the road, and the only light came from the faint glow of a lantern in the distance and the flashes of lightning far over the sea. The wind curled damp strands of hair against her neck, and rainwater slid down her forearms where their sleeves brushed. Under the small circle of shelter, their shoulders pressed now and then, and she could feel the faint warmth of his hand steadying the umbrella above them. They didn’t speak, but the silence was not empty — it carried the leftover hum of drums, the taste of spice on their tongues, and something unspoken that hung between them like the scent of rain before it falls. When they reached her doorway, neither made any move to step apart immediately. For a moment, they simply stood there, listening to the rain hit the ground in silver splashes, the umbrella still between them. She realized, almost absently, that she was smiling again. Not because of anything he had said or done in particular, but because for the first time in a long while, she felt herself returning — piece by piece — to the person she used to be. And in the dark, rain-soaked street, with the sound of the sea somewhere beyond, that felt like a beginning.
Five
The rain outside was steady, tapping against the windows in a rhythm that felt almost deliberate, like nature was adding its own percussion to the evening. Rafael’s living room was awash in the warm amber glow of candles, their flames swaying gently with each draft of wind that crept in through the slightly open balcony door. A jazz record spun lazily on the turntable, its soft crackles and mellow saxophone weaving a cocoon around them. The room was cluttered but in a comforting way — stacks of records leaning like tired friends against a bookshelf, a half-empty glass of wine on the coffee table, and a faint trace of sandalwood in the air. Ishani sat on the couch, legs curled beneath her, watching Rafael as he flipped a vinyl, the needle lifting with a soft click before settling onto the next track. He didn’t look at her when he started speaking, as though the music gave him the courage to talk to someone without meeting their eyes. “I thought I had it all,” he said, his voice low but steady, “until one stupid decision unraveled everything. A scandal. Headlines. Friends who stopped returning calls.” His hands moved over the record sleeve almost absently, the candlelight catching the lines on his face. “They didn’t even hear my side. Maybe they didn’t want to.” Ishani could feel the vulnerability in his words like a tremor beneath the floorboards, something fragile and unspoken finally breaking free.
She found herself leaning forward, elbows on her knees, her own pulse quietly syncing with the lazy sway of the music. It was rare for Rafael to speak of his past; most days he seemed to exist in the present with deliberate precision, never letting shadows catch up. But now, as he talked, Ishani could sense the weight he carried, the invisible residue of betrayal and loss. She thought of her own unraveling — the endless hours at the magazine office, the mounting deadlines, the way her body had begun to reject the life she was living. She remembered the day she walked out, her resignation letter still warm from the printer, her heart pounding not with freedom but with the hollow fear of the unknown. “I burned out,” she said softly, her voice catching on the words. “Not in the dramatic, movie-scene kind of way. More like… quietly. Like a candle that doesn’t realize it’s almost out of wax.” The words hung between them for a moment before Rafael reached for the wine bottle, pouring her another glass without asking. There was no pity in his eyes, only recognition — the kind that comes when two people realize they’ve been standing in the same kind of storm, even if in different corners of the world.
The music swelled, the saxophone dipping low, and the air between them felt heavier now, laced with something unnamed but palpable. Rafael leaned back, his gaze finally meeting hers, and there was a softness there she hadn’t seen before — not the guarded charm he wore like armor, but something open, unshielded. Ishani felt the urge to look away, but instead, she held his eyes, letting the silence stretch until it felt almost intimate. She noticed the faint scratch on his wrist, the way his fingers tapped unconsciously against his knee in time with the beat, the curve of a half-smile that seemed caught between melancholy and hope. Somewhere in that moment, the room felt smaller, the music louder, and the distance between them less about space and more about choice. Neither spoke again for a long while. They just let the vinyl play on, each note a thread binding their confessions together in ways they didn’t fully understand yet. The candlelight danced across their faces, shadows blurring edges, and though nothing explicit was said, something had shifted — a quiet acknowledgment that in each other’s stories, they’d found a reflection worth keeping.
Six
The storm that had been threatening all evening finally arrived just past midnight, the sky splitting open with a violent crack of thunder. Rafael was in his room when the power snapped off again, leaving the villa bathed in darkness, the wind howling through the narrow streets outside. He moved to the window, intending to check on the shutters, but a sudden metallic clatter from above caught his attention. Looking up, he saw Ishani on her balcony, her thin frame outlined against the erratic flashes of lightning. The balcony door was swaying dangerously, the wind threatening to wrench it from its hinges. Without thinking, he grabbed a torchlight and bounded up the stairs, his steps echoing in the silence between gusts. When he reached her floor, she was struggling, her hair whipping into her face, one hand gripping the frame while the other fought the stubborn latch. The sight was a collision of chaos and beauty, her silhouette both vulnerable and defiant against the storm.
Rafael stepped forward, his presence startling her, though she didn’t resist as he moved into her space. “Let me,” he said, his voice low but steady, carrying above the roar of the wind. He caught the door with both hands and pulled it closed with a sharp jerk, the latch snapping into place. But as the wind rattled the glass, Ishani stumbled slightly, thrown off balance by the sudden stillness, and his hands found her waist instinctively. They stayed there longer than necessity dictated, the warmth of her body seeping through the thin cotton of her dress into his palms. The air between them thickened—not with the storm’s humidity, but with the unspoken awareness of proximity, of breath mingling in the dark. Neither moved away immediately. A single candle on the table behind her flickered, casting shifting shadows over their faces, making it impossible to tell if their silence was caution or longing.
It was Ishani who finally broke the moment, her eyes darting briefly to the door before she murmured, “Thank you.” Rafael simply nodded, his hands sliding away as though releasing something precious he wasn’t yet allowed to keep. They stood there for another breath, listening to the storm tear at the world outside while inside, the air seemed suspended, waiting. He turned to leave, but as he reached the threshold, he glanced back once, catching her watching him in the dim light, her fingers resting absently where his touch had been. Neither would mention this to the other in the days to come, but as Rafael returned to his own room, the ghost of that contact lingered in his palms, and Ishani, alone now with the candlelight and the rain, found herself pressing a hand to her waist as if to hold on to the moment a little longer.
Seven
The night had settled heavy and still over the Goan coast, the kind of quiet where even the palm fronds seemed reluctant to sway. Ishani lay in her guesthouse bed, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the ceiling fan spinning a rhythm that refused to lull her to sleep. Something restless thrummed inside her — not exactly anxiety, not quite excitement, but a persistent pull. Eventually, she slid out from under the sheets, barefoot on the cool tiled floor, and found herself stepping into the moonlit path that led to his villa. The air was humid, scented faintly with salt and distant jasmine. She hesitated for a moment outside his door, hearing faint music from inside, before lightly tapping. When he appeared, a little surprised but smiling, it was as if the night had conspired to pull them both into a small, private world. She mumbled something about not being able to sleep; he tilted his head toward the kitchen in invitation, already moving with a casual ease that made it seem as though he’d been expecting her.
Inside, the kitchen was dimly lit, the warm glow from a single overhead lamp casting soft shadows on the whitewashed walls. He rummaged through the small fridge and emerged with eggs, onions, and butter, announcing, “Midnight omelets — it’s a thing here.” She perched on a stool, watching him slice onions with swift, sure motions, the rhythmic sound of the knife tapping the board blending with the low music from a portable speaker. Soon, the scent of sizzling butter and onions curled through the air, rich and comforting, wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He poured two small glasses of feni, sliding one toward her with a playful, “Go on, it’ll help you sleep.” The first sip burned a little, fruity and sharp, making her grin despite herself. Their conversation stumbled easily between light teasing and comfortable silences — about how she could never flip an omelet without tearing it, about the absurd things tourists asked him, about the strange comfort of being awake while the world slept. At one point, as she reached past him for the salt, their shoulders brushed, an electric little spark that made her pulse quicken. Neither of them acknowledged it, but both seemed aware, their movements slowing just slightly, as though reluctant to step too far from the charged stillness of the moment.
By the time the omelets were plated, steam rising in delicate wisps, the clock had long slipped past one. They ate leaning over the counter, forks clinking softly against ceramic, their knees brushing now and then under the narrow space. Conversation had thinned into something quieter, deeper, the air between them stretching taut. He leaned in slightly, his voice low, telling her about the first time he’d ever cooked for someone late at night — a story that made her laugh softly, her gaze lingering on his face a moment too long. The warmth of the kitchen, the mellow feni in her veins, the closeness of his voice — it all seemed to press them closer until their faces hovered a breath apart. For a suspended moment, the world outside ceased to exist; she could see the faint curve of his smile, feel the subtle shift of his breath. But then, just as gravity seemed ready to pull them together, she leaned back, breaking the spell with a small, almost apologetic smile. He didn’t push, only nodded, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he offered her the last bite of omelet. They lingered a little longer, talking about nothing in particular, until she finally rose, thanking him for “the best midnight snack ever” before slipping back into the moonlit quiet. The night air felt cooler now, her restlessness replaced by a soft, steady hum she couldn’t quite name.
Eight
The monsoon storm came without warning, rolling over the horizon in an angry mass of black clouds that seemed to devour the pale afternoon light. Ishani had barely stepped out of the car when the first drops began to fall—heavy, warm, and urgent, as if the skies were desperate to empty themselves all at once. Within minutes, the rain was no longer falling in drops but in sheets, pounding the tiled roof of Rafael’s villa like an unrelenting drumbeat. Palm trees bent under the force of the wind, and the road outside quickly transformed into a rushing river of brown water. Rafael, sensing her hesitation at the threshold, pulled her inside, closing the heavy wooden door against the storm’s roar. “You’re not going anywhere tonight,” he said, his tone calm but resolute, and she knew he was right—there was no way through the flooded roads. The villa, with its dim, warm lamps and faint scent of sandalwood, felt like an island adrift in a turbulent sea. She left her wet scarf on the back of a chair, her pulse still thrumming from the chaos outside, and wondered what it meant to be stranded here, with him, for the night.
Hours passed in a strange, almost suspended quiet once the worst of the storm had blown through. The power had flickered out, leaving them with the soft, flickering glow of candles Rafael had set on the floor between them. The rain’s roar had softened to a gentle patter on the windows, and somewhere deep in the villa, the steady ticking of a grandfather clock filled the spaces between their words. They sat cross-legged on the thick rug, sharing a blanket Rafael had brought down from an upstairs room, its warmth a comforting shield against the damp chill. Conversation drifted easily at first—fragments of travel stories, half-formed jokes, the kind of small talk that seems to hover between strangers and something more. But in the dim light, with shadows brushing across his features, Ishani found herself studying the details of his face—the way his hair curled slightly at the edges when damp, the faint crease near his left eyebrow, the way his voice softened when he asked her a question. There was an intimacy in the air, something unspoken but undeniable, as if the walls themselves were leaning closer to listen.
When his hand moved to brush hers—a light, almost questioning touch—her instinct was to pull away, as she always had before, to retreat to the safety of distance. But this time, she didn’t. The contact was gentle, steady, and strangely grounding, like a promise made without words. Her breath caught, and when their eyes met, she saw not just the man who had once unsettled her with his easy confidence, but someone who had, slowly and without her noticing, begun to feel familiar. Rafael didn’t rush, didn’t lean forward with the hunger of impulse; instead, he waited, giving her the space to decide. She found herself leaning in before she had even realized it, drawn by the quiet gravity between them. The kiss, when it came, was unhurried—more an exploration than a claim. It carried the softness of surrender, the warmth of a moment neither of them had planned but both somehow knew was inevitable. Outside, the rain whispered against the windows, and inside, beneath the candlelight and the lingering scent of sandalwood, the world seemed to narrow to the space between them.
Nine
The monsoon in Goa had a way of making the world smaller, softer, and strangely intimate. Ishani and Rafael found themselves wrapped in its rhythm — waking to the smell of coffee percolating while rain tapped the windows, sharing steaming plates of poha at the kitchen table, and wandering barefoot through the garden’s wet grass. It wasn’t a romance built on grand gestures but on unspoken understandings: the way he’d slice mangoes without asking because he knew she loved them, or how she’d hum old Hindi songs while chopping vegetables, making him pause mid-task just to listen. The rain became their constant soundtrack, a curtain between them and the outside world, making the house feel like a safe, floating island. They cooked together most evenings — Rafael chopping onions while Ishani stood beside him, stirring a pot, their arms occasionally brushing. Sometimes they walked to the nearby market under a single umbrella, laughing when puddles splashed their legs, returning home with bags full of fish, fresh herbs, and stories from the shopkeepers. In those moments, Ishani began to see love not as a blazing fire but as the slow, steady warmth of coals — dependable, patient, quietly powerful.
Yet, the quiet was disturbed one afternoon when a knock on the door brought in a gust of damp air and a figure from Rafael’s past. His old bandmate, Miguel, stood there — clothes drenched, guitar case slung over his shoulder, his eyes carrying the weight of unsaid things. Over cups of tea, Miguel spoke in a language half-coded in music and half-wrapped in nostalgia. They talked about the days when their band played till sunrise, the arguments that split them apart, and a night that neither fully named but which hung heavy in their silences. Ishani caught fragments — phrases like “we should have stayed” and “I still see it when I close my eyes” — and though Rafael laughed, his smile never quite reached his eyes. That night, after Miguel left, she noticed Rafael standing by the window long after the rain had stopped, staring out at nothing in particular. It was as if a locked door inside him had been cracked open, letting out a chill she hadn’t felt before.
In the days that followed, Ishani wrestled with questions she had never dared to ask. She loved the Rafael who brewed her tea exactly the way she liked it, who danced with her in the kitchen when the power went out, who never hurried her silences. But now, she saw that he also carried a shadow — a past he had made peace with, or perhaps simply learned to coexist with. She wondered if loving him meant accepting that part too, even when it remained unspoken. One evening, as they walked in the drizzle, she slipped her hand into his, feeling the dampness between their palms. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” she said quietly, “but don’t shut me out.” He looked at her then, eyes dark and searching, and for a moment she thought he might finally speak. Instead, he squeezed her hand and smiled faintly, and the two kept walking, the rain blurring the edges of the world around them. Ishani realized then that love wasn’t always about solving the puzzle of another person — sometimes it was about choosing to stay, even when the picture was incomplete.
Ten
The rains had thinned to a gentle drizzle by the time evening came, the air holding that lingering scent of damp earth and fading monsoon blooms. Ishani stood by the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, slicing ripe tomatoes for the curry while Aarav chopped fresh coriander with the slow, deliberate rhythm of someone who wanted time to stretch just a little longer. Outside, the tin roof caught the rain’s final applause, a soft percussion that filled the silences between them. The lamps in the living room cast pools of gold across the walls, catching the steam from the simmering pot, and for a moment it felt as though the house itself was breathing with them. Her sabbatical would end in a week, and the city was calling — emails piling up, projects resuming, life ready to resume its familiar pace. Yet, every time she imagined the glass towers and traffic-laced air of Mumbai, it felt like envisioning exile from something that had only just begun to take root. Aarav didn’t ask her to stay; he didn’t have to. Instead, he moved close, brushing the back of her hand as he passed her the salt, their fingertips meeting for a fraction of a second that felt heavier than words.
Dinner was unhurried, the kind of meal where the pauses were as full as the bites. They sat by the open window, the last threads of rain blurring the line between the garden and the night. Aarav poured them both glasses of wine, and Ishani noticed how the candlelight caught in his hair, making him seem both entirely familiar and suddenly distant, as though she was looking at a memory forming in real time. Conversation meandered — small, ordinary things, the way the mango tree outside seemed to hum with cicadas, the possibility of repainting the kitchen cabinets, the absurdity of a goat that had wandered into the garden last week. Beneath it all, there was an unspoken understanding that this was their final evening as they knew it. The rain softened into a mist, and the quiet between them began to feel like a shared heartbeat. She thought of asking what would happen next — if she stayed, if she left — but the words dissolved before reaching her lips. Instead, she let the silence stretch, holding it as carefully as one might hold a bird, knowing it could vanish the moment it was named.
Later, when the dishes were done and the last candle had guttered out, they lingered in the living room, neither ready to say goodnight. Aarav sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, and Ishani curled into the cushions behind him, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his shoulder. Outside, the rain finally stopped, leaving the air thick and still, as if the entire world was holding its breath. No grand declarations were made, no promises etched into stone — only the slow, steady knowing that some seasons, no matter how brief, carve themselves so deeply into you that they keep reshaping you long after they’ve passed. Ishani didn’t decide that night whether she would return to Mumbai or stay; perhaps the decision didn’t matter in the way she thought it did. What mattered was this — the warmth of his skin beneath her hand, the echo of the rain still in her ears, and the quiet certainty that whatever form it took in the future, this season would remain part of her, unchanged. And in that moment, with the summer pressing gently against the windows and the last traces of monsoon in the air, they let themselves forget everything else.
