Aria Roy
1
The bus groaned and wheezed as it rounded the final bend, the narrow coastal road lined with swaying coconut palms on one side and the endless expanse of the Arabian Sea on the other. The salty wind carried with it the smell of the ocean, tinged faintly with fish, wet sand, and the sweet scent of mangoes ripening in the heat.
Ananya Deshmukh stared out of the dust-streaked window, her heart pounding with anticipation and dread. She had left Dariya Nagar ten years ago with a suitcase full of dreams and promises of never looking back. But here she was—returning to the very town she thought she had outgrown, the place that had shaped her, loved her, and perhaps, still haunted her.
The bus shuddered to a halt near the crumbling stone archway that bore the town’s name. Ananya stepped off, adjusting the strap of her worn leather satchel, the soles of her sneakers crunching against the gravel. The late afternoon sun painted everything in a soft golden glow.
She stood there for a long moment, drinking it all in. The narrow lanes, lined with colourful houses with tiled roofs and faded blue shutters. The familiar chatter of fishermen mending their nets by the docks. The temple bells chiming in the distance, mingling with the cry of gulls overhead.
The town hadn’t changed much. But Ananya had.
She walked slowly towards her grandmother’s house—a weathered but proud structure with whitewashed walls and a balcony that overlooked the sea. The house had been locked since her grandmother’s passing five years ago. Now, with her work granting her a few months’ leave, Ananya had decided to return, to write, to find inspiration… and maybe, to make peace with the ghosts of her past.
As she reached the house, she ran her fingers over the rusting gate, memories flooding back. How many evenings had she and Aryan leaned against this very gate, sharing secrets, laughter, and dreams under a sky full of stars?
Aryan Fernandes.
The name alone sent a rush of warmth and ache through her. The boy who had been her world. The boy she had left behind.
Ananya unlocked the door, the key creaking in protest. The smell of old wood and the sea filled her nose. Dust motes danced in the slanting rays of the sun as she stepped inside, dropping her bag by the doorway.
She didn’t bother unpacking just yet. Instead, she was drawn—almost against her will—to the beach.
The sand was still warm under her feet as she stepped onto the shore. The waves whispered to her, the same way they had when she was sixteen and foolishly in love. She walked, her fingers brushing against sea grass, her eyes searching the horizon where the sky kissed the sea.
And then she saw it.
Samundar Sapna.
Aryan’s boat. The same wooden sailboat he had built with his father, white paint peeling slightly now, but still sturdy, still proud. It was tied at the dock, gently rocking with the rhythm of the waves.
Her heart thudded. She almost turned back, but before she could, she heard it—a voice, soft, hesitant, and achingly familiar.
“Ananya?”
She froze. The world seemed to still for a moment, the only sound the rush of blood in her ears. Slowly, she turned.
There he was.
Aryan Fernandes.
He stood a few steps away, barefoot on the sand, the setting sun outlining him in gold. His dark hair was a little longer now, swept back by the wind. His skin was tanned from years under the sun. His sea-green eyes—the same eyes she had dreamed of in sleepless nights—held a mixture of surprise, confusion, and something deeper… something like hope.
For a moment, neither spoke. It was as if the years melted away, and they were just two teenagers again, meeting on this beach for the first time.
Finally, Aryan broke the silence.
“I didn’t think… I mean, I never thought I’d see you here again.”
Ananya’s throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure I’d come.”
A small, rueful smile touched Aryan’s lips. “But you did.”
She nodded, unable to trust her voice.
They stood in awkward silence, the waves lapping at their feet, the orange sun dipping lower on the horizon. The breeze carried the scent of jasmine from a nearby garden.
Aryan was the first to move, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always had when nervous. “The old house okay? I’ve been… keeping an eye on it. Making sure no one bothers the place.”
That surprised her. “You have?”
“Of course,” he said simply. “It was hers. And yours.”
Emotion welled in Ananya’s chest. The years hadn’t dulled his kindness.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aryan shifted his weight, glancing at the boat, then back at her. “You’re… staying long?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Their eyes met. So much unsaid. So much that words would never quite cover.
“Well,” Aryan said finally, his voice gentle, “welcome home, Ananya.”
And with that, he turned, walking slowly toward the dock, the breeze tugging at his shirt, the last light of day wrapping him in its glow.
Ananya stood there long after he was gone, the stars beginning to prick the indigo sky above. The sea whispered its secrets, and her heart whispered one of its own.
She was home. And maybe—just maybe—so was he.
2
The morning sun crept through the half-open shutters of the old Deshmukh house, casting golden stripes across the dusty wooden floor. The sound of waves breaking on the shore was a gentle lullaby that had once been as familiar to Ananya as her own heartbeat. But now, after years of sleepless city nights filled with honking horns and neon lights, this peaceful rhythm felt like a balm to her soul.
She stepped onto the balcony, hugging a steaming cup of chai between her hands. The town was waking up—the faint strains of a fisherwoman calling out the day’s catch, the clink of milk bottles being delivered, the soft hum of temple bells mingling with birdsong.
Ananya breathed in deeply. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and wet earth from last night’s dew.
But beneath the calm surface of the morning, her mind churned. Aryan.
She had dreamed of him—of his voice, of his smile, of those eyes that had once seen into the depths of her heart. Seeing him again had brought back memories so vivid, they felt like fresh wounds.
Later that morning, unable to resist the pull of nostalgia, Ananya set out on foot. The narrow lanes of Dariya Nagar were lined with houses painted in bright shades of blue, yellow, and pink, their balconies overflowing with bougainvillea and marigolds. Old women sat on woven mats, sorting fish or peeling vegetables, while children ran barefoot, chasing each other with shouts of laughter.
She passed the ancient banyan tree at the town square, where she and Aryan had once carved their initials into the bark. The marks had faded, but in her mind’s eye, she could see them as clear as day.
And then she saw him.
Aryan stood by a group of fishermen near the jetty, helping them untangle their nets. His shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing strong, sun-browned arms. He laughed at something one of the old men said, his head thrown back, carefree and easy.
Ananya hesitated. Part of her wanted to turn away, to retreat into the safety of memory rather than face the messy, complicated present. But another part—stronger, braver—urged her forward.
“Hi,” she said softly as she approached.
Aryan looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes, quickly replaced by a warmth that made her heart ache.
“Hi,” he echoed. He wiped his hands on a rag and stepped toward her. “Out exploring?”
She smiled, feeling awkward and shy, like the teenager she had once been. “I guess so. The town feels… smaller than I remember.”
Aryan chuckled. “It hasn’t changed much. Maybe you’ve grown.”
They fell into step together, walking along the beach, their footprints mingling in the sand.
“Do you ever miss it?” Aryan asked after a while, glancing at her. “City life. The noise. The rush.”
Ananya thought for a moment. “Sometimes. But being back here, I realize how much I missed this. The quiet. The sea. The… simplicity of it all.”
They passed a row of fishing boats, their names painted in bright red and green letters. Children waved at Aryan as they ran by, and he smiled, waving back.
“You belong here,” Ananya said, surprising herself with the words.
Aryan shrugged, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It’s home. I tried leaving once, after you did. Thought I’d go to Mumbai, maybe Pune. But something always pulled me back. The sea, maybe. Or… maybe I just didn’t have a reason strong enough to stay away.”
Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them.
“I’m sorry, Aryan,” she said quietly. “For leaving the way I did. For not saying goodbye properly.”
He stopped walking, turning fully to face her. “You don’t have to be sorry, Ananya. You followed your dreams. I was angry for a long time, but… I understand now. We were young. We thought love could hold everything together. Sometimes it can’t.”
His honesty brought tears to her eyes. “But sometimes it can?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.
Aryan smiled, soft and bittersweet. “Maybe.”
The path led them to a small coconut grove, where the palms swayed gently in the breeze. The shade offered relief from the rising heat of the day. They sat beneath one of the trees, the grass cool beneath them.
They talked then—of the years between, of the roads they had taken. Aryan spoke of his father’s passing, of taking over the boat business, of teaching local children to sail. Ananya shared stories of her travels—mountains climbed, cities explored, articles published.
But beneath their words lay all that was unsaid—the shared memories, the what-ifs, the yearning.
As the sun climbed higher, they reluctantly parted ways, promising to meet again soon.
And as Ananya walked back toward the old house, she realized something she hadn’t dared to hope: the tide had begun to turn.
3
The days in Dariya Nagar seemed to stretch and breathe, as if the town itself was slowing time for Ananya, urging her to linger, to listen to the rhythm of the sea and her own heart.
It was late afternoon when Aryan appeared at her gate, the sun casting a warm glow on his tanned skin, a breeze tousling his hair. He leaned casually against the fence, a familiar figure from the past, yet somehow new again.
“Feel like a sail?” he asked, his voice light but his eyes searching hers.
Ananya hesitated only a moment before smiling. “I’d love that.”
They walked together toward the dock, the town bustling around them as if unaware of the old magic quietly stirring between two souls. Fishermen hauled in their nets, women bargained over fresh prawns and pomfret, and children played cricket in the narrow lanes, their laughter ringing through the salt-kissed air.
When they reached the boat—Samundar Sapna—Ananya felt a wave of nostalgia. The vessel had aged, yes, but it remained as sturdy and graceful as she remembered. Aryan helped her aboard with an ease that made her heart flutter. His hand, roughened by work and sun, closed over hers just for a second too long.
The sail caught the wind, and soon they were gliding over the shimmering sea, the town growing smaller behind them. The water was a sheet of molten gold beneath the setting sun, waves lapping gently at the hull.
For a while, they spoke little. The silence between them was not awkward—it was comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of the sea, the creak of wood, the flutter of the sail.
Ananya closed her eyes, letting the breeze caress her face, tasting salt on her lips. This was freedom, but it was also homecoming.
“You always loved the sea,” Aryan said, breaking the quiet.
She opened her eyes and smiled. “And I always loved this boat.”
Aryan chuckled. “You once said it felt like flying, out here. Do you remember?”
“I do,” she said softly. “It still does.”
Night began to fall, the first stars pricking the indigo sky. The moon, a slender crescent, hung low over the horizon. Aryan anchored the boat and pulled out a small lantern, its glow soft and golden.
They sat side by side on the deck, their shoulders nearly touching.
“Sometimes I’d come out here alone at night,” Aryan confessed, his voice low. “When I missed you most.”
Ananya’s breath caught. The honesty in his words, the quiet ache beneath them—it was more than she deserved.
“I missed you too,” she said. The words felt like a release, like exhaling after holding her breath for too long.
Aryan turned to look at her, the lantern’s light dancing in his eyes. “Why did you never write?”
Ananya looked down at her hands. “I was afraid. Afraid that if I did, I’d want to come back. And I thought I needed to stay away to make something of myself. But no matter where I went, a part of me stayed here—with you.”
The sea rocked them gently, as if cradling their confessions.
Aryan reached out, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from her face. His touch was light, reverent, like a prayer.
“I’m glad you came back,” he said simply.
“So am I,” she whispered.
They sat like that for a long time, under the canopy of stars, the boat swaying on the tide, hearts slowly remembering the way to each other.
When they finally sailed back toward shore, the first hints of dawn painted the horizon pink. And as they stepped onto solid ground, Ananya knew that something had shifted between them—something quiet, but powerful, like the pull of the tide itself.
4
Chapter 4: The Festival of Lights
Dariya Nagar had always worn its festivals like a garland of joy, and the night of Kartik Purnima was no different. The entire town seemed to glow, lit by countless diyas floating on the sea and twinkling along narrow streets.
Ananya stood on the balcony of the old house, gazing out at the spectacle. The moon was full and silver-bright, casting a path of light across the gentle waves. The air smelled of jasmine and incense, mingling with the salty breeze. From somewhere nearby came the rhythmic beat of drums, the sound of conch shells, and the hum of voices chanting age-old prayers to the sea goddess.
It was Aryan’s knock at the gate that drew her from her thoughts. She had known he would come—she had felt it in her heart.
When she opened the door, there he stood, wearing a simple white kurta, a string of rudraksha beads around his neck, and that same easy smile that had once made her world brighter.
“Come with me,” he said. His voice was gentle but sure, as if he’d waited for this moment as long as she had.
Without a word, she nodded and followed.
They walked together through the lamp-lit lanes. Children danced with sparklers, women in vibrant saris carried trays of offerings, and men arranged paper lanterns that would soon float into the night sky. The town felt like a living dream.
At the shore, the townsfolk had gathered for the ritual of setting diyas afloat. Tiny clay lamps with cotton wicks flickered in the breeze, their flames reflected a thousand times on the rippling water.
Aryan handed Ananya a diya, his fingers brushing hers. “For a wish,” he said.
She looked at the flame, so small yet brave against the vastness of the sea. Closing her eyes, she whispered a wish she barely dared to believe in. When she opened them, Aryan was watching her, his gaze soft, searching.
Together, they knelt at the water’s edge and set their lamps afloat. The diyas drifted out, joining the river of light on the waves.
As they rose, a breeze caught Ananya’s hair, and without thinking, Aryan reached out to tuck it behind her ear. His hand lingered, warm against her cheek.
“I’ve thought about this night,” he murmured, “for so many years.”
“So have I,” she said, the words barely audible over the music and the sea.
Slowly, as if drawn by a force greater than themselves, they leaned closer. But before their lips could meet, the temple drums thundered, and fireworks burst overhead, scattering the sky with gold and red.
They drew apart, breathless, their hearts pounding. But their hands found each other’s, fingers entwining naturally, as if no time had passed at all.
They stayed like that, watching the night sky burn with light, the sea below aglow with a thousand tiny flames, and in their hearts, a promise—unspoken, but deeply felt.
When the last spark of the fireworks faded, Aryan turned to her. “Come sailing with me tomorrow. Just you and me.”
Ananya smiled, feeling the tide of her heart turning, pulling her closer to the shore she’d been searching for all along.
“I’d like that,” she said.
And as they walked back through the sleeping town, hand in hand, Dariya Nagar slumbered beneath the moonlight, cradling the hopes of two souls finding their way home.
5
The sea stretched out like a velvet blanket beneath the night sky, its gentle waves sighing secrets only the wind could hear. The town of Dariya Nagar glowed softly in the distance, its lights flickering like fireflies against the dark land.
Ananya sat at the bow of Samundar Sapna, legs folded beneath her, hair loose and wild in the breeze. The boat glided through the water, sails full with the soft wind, carrying them farther from shore and closer to the horizon where the sea kissed the sky.
Aryan was at the helm, his silhouette strong against the backdrop of stars. The lantern between them flickered gently, casting a golden halo that danced with the movement of the boat.
Neither spoke for a long while. The night was too beautiful, too sacred to break with hurried words. Instead, they let the sea speak for them—the lapping of waves against the hull, the creak of wood, the rustle of sails.
Finally, Aryan joined her at the bow, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched. He handed her a small flask of sweet lime water, cool and refreshing.
“I could stay out here forever,” Ananya said softly, her eyes on the endless water.
“So could I,” Aryan replied. “It feels like the world disappears out here. Like it’s just us and the stars.”
She turned to look at him. His face was half in shadow, half bathed in moonlight. His eyes, dark and deep, seemed to reflect the entire night sky.
“Do you ever wonder…” she began, hesitating, “…what would have happened if I hadn’t left?”
Aryan was silent for a moment, choosing his words with care. “Every day,” he admitted. “I used to imagine all the lives we might have had together. But then I’d remind myself—we can’t change the tide. We can only sail with it.”
His words touched something deep within her. She reached for his hand, fingers brushing his before clasping tight.
“I was foolish,” she whispered. “I thought I had to choose between you and my dreams. But now I see—I could have had both. I just didn’t believe it then.”
Aryan squeezed her hand gently. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
The boat drifted on, the sea calm and silver under the moon. They lay back on the deck, side by side, watching the stars wheel slowly overhead. A shooting star streaked across the sky, and without thinking, they both made the same wish.
The night grew cooler, the breeze carrying the scent of salt and distant rain. Aryan took off his shawl and draped it over Ananya’s shoulders. She turned her head, resting it lightly against his arm.
And in that moment, with the sea cradling them and the stars bearing silent witness, all the years of distance seemed to melt away.
They spoke then—of childhood dreams, of fears, of hopes they hadn’t dared voice before. Ananya told him of the loneliness of city life, the emptiness of success without love. Aryan spoke of nights spent at sea, of the quiet ache of missing her, of finding solace in the waves.
As dawn’s first light touched the horizon, painting it in soft pink and gold, Aryan turned to her.
“There’s still time, Ananya,” he said quietly. “If we want it. If you want it.”
Tears filled her eyes, not of sorrow but of relief. “I do,” she said. “I always have.”
And as the sun rose over the Arabian Sea, casting its warmth upon them, they knew that a new journey had begun—not just across the water, but toward a future shaped by love, forgiveness, and the tides of yesterday.
6
The morning after their night beneath the stars dawned bright and full of promise. The Arabian Sea was calm, its waves gentle and rhythmic, as if echoing the newfound peace in Ananya’s heart. She awoke to the sound of gulls and the soft knock of Aryan at her door.
“Ready for another sail?” he asked, his smile easy, his eyes warm.
She was. More than ready.
But as they set out, the sea told a different story. The breeze that had been a gentle caress the night before was stronger now, carrying with it the scent of distant rain and a tension that set the fishermen whispering on the shore. The sky, though still blue, bore streaks of steel grey on the horizon.
Undeterred, they pushed off in Samundar Sapna, the boat rocking slightly more than usual as they left the safety of the harbor.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go too far,” Ananya said, glancing at the clouds.
Aryan nodded, but she could see the restlessness in him—the sailor who’d lived too long on land, eager for the open sea. “Just a little way,” he promised.
For a while, the wind played with them, the sails straining, the boat cutting cleanly through the water. But soon, the breeze became a bluster, and the waves began to rise, their crests white with foam.
The first drops of rain came suddenly, cool against their skin.
“We should head back,” Aryan said, his voice raised above the sound of the wind.
Ananya nodded, pulling her shawl tighter around her as the storm gathered its strength.
The return was not easy. The sea, which had cradled them gently the night before, now seemed angry, tossing the boat, drenching them with spray and rain. Aryan fought the sail, his muscles taut, his face set in determination.
Ananya, though afraid, felt no panic. She trusted him—trusted the sea, even in its fury. But when a bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the churning water, she reached out and gripped his arm.
“I’m here,” Aryan said, shouting over the roar of the storm. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
It seemed to take hours, though it was likely less, before the familiar shape of Dariya Nagar emerged through the sheets of rain. The townsfolk were waiting at the shore, calling, waving, ready to pull them to safety.
When they finally touched land, the relief was overwhelming. The storm still raged, but on solid ground, it felt somehow less fearsome.
Soaked to the skin, hearts pounding, they stood for a moment, catching their breath. Then Aryan laughed—a deep, joyful sound that seemed to defy the storm itself.
And Ananya, unable to help herself, laughed too. They stood there, laughing in the rain, two souls tested by the sea and found stronger for it.
Later, as the storm passed and calm returned, they sat on the verandah of Aryan’s small home, wrapped in dry blankets, sipping steaming tea. The storm had left the world washed clean, the air sharp and new.
“I guess the sea wanted to remind us who’s in charge,” Aryan said with a grin.
Ananya smiled, her heart full despite the exhaustion. “Or maybe it wanted to see if we’d hold on—to each other.”
Outside, the dawn was breaking again, the storm’s rage forgotten, leaving behind a sea as calm as glass and a sky streaked with gold.
7
The rain had stopped, but its echo lingered in the wind. The next morning, Dariya Nagar felt oddly quiet, as if the storm had swept away more than fallen branches and wet sand. Something had shifted—between the town and the sea, between Ananya and herself.
She walked alone through the narrow lanes, past homes where women were stringing jasmine garlands and drying clothes in the sun. Children ran barefoot through puddles, laughing. A small boy waved to her. She waved back, her smile soft but distracted.
She had told herself this was only a short return—a break from her life in Mumbai, a pause to breathe. But with each passing day, that life felt further away. The urgency of corporate meetings, coffee-fueled mornings, and deadlines now seemed like a dream she had sleepwalked through.
That afternoon, Aryan came to her doorstep, holding a letter.
“This came for you,” he said, handing it over with a strange look in his eyes.
She recognized the envelope at once—her company’s logo embossed in sharp silver. Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
Mumbai Design Collective is pleased to offer you the role of Creative Director…
It was everything she’d worked for. The promotion. The dream. Recognition, power, a seat at the top.
She folded the letter without reading further.
“I guess you have to go,” Aryan said quietly, stepping back.
“I haven’t decided,” she replied.
“But you will. You always knew you would.”
Ananya looked at him—really looked. His eyes were calm, but there was pain in them, quiet and steady like the sea just before the tide turns.
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.
“But you’re scared to stay.”
He wasn’t accusing her. He was simply telling the truth.
That evening, she went to her father’s old study. The room hadn’t changed in years. Books lined the wooden shelves, his old harmonium sat in one corner, and the photograph of her parents on their wedding day still watched from the mantle.
She sat down with the letter again, and this time she read it fully. The salary was generous, the perks substantial. It was the culmination of everything she had told herself she needed.
But she thought about the boat, about drifting beneath the stars. About the taste of Aryan’s chai, about the warmth of his hands after the storm. About the girl she once was, who dreamed not only of design, but of love.
That night, she found Aryan where she knew he’d be—by the shore, mending a net in the golden light of a lantern.
“I’m not going,” she said.
He didn’t look up immediately. “Don’t say it if you’re not sure.”
“I’m not going,” she repeated, firmer now. “Not just for you. For me. I’ve been running so long, I forgot what peace felt like. This place… you… reminded me.”
Aryan set the net aside and stood. “You sure? No half promises?”
“No half promises,” she said, walking to him, her heart steady.
He reached for her, pulled her into his arms, and held her as if the sea itself could never take her again.
And under that same sky, with the ocean whispering its approval, Ananya made her choice—not just to stay, but to live the life her heart had always wanted.
8
Days turned into weeks, and the rhythm of Dariya Nagar became the rhythm of Ananya’s soul. She woke each morning to the sound of waves and the scent of salt on the breeze, her heart lighter than it had been in years.
Aryan and she worked side by side—repairing boats, helping with the fishermen’s co-op, teaching local children art with colors as bright as the dawn. The town embraced her as if she had never left, and slowly, the layers of the city life she had worn like armor fell away.
But the tides always return, and so did reminders of the world she’d left behind.
One evening, as the sun bled gold and crimson across the water, a sleek car arrived on the dusty lane leading to her home. Out stepped Meera, her colleague from Mumbai—dressed impeccably, a tablet clutched to her chest, the city still clinging to her like perfume.
“Ananya, what are you doing here?” Meera asked, bewildered.
Ananya welcomed her in, offered coconut water, and listened as Meera spoke of campaigns stalling, clients waiting, and the company’s hope that Ananya would reconsider.
“You can’t just vanish like this,” Meera said, not unkindly. “You worked so hard. Don’t throw it all away.”
That night, Ananya walked alone to the shore. The sea was calm, its waves kissing the sand in soft hushes. Aryan found her there, silent, waiting.
“She came to remind you of what you left,” he said gently.
“She came to remind me of who I used to be,” Ananya replied.
“And who are you now?”
She thought about it—the rush of the city, the clatter of ambition, the emptiness of rooms filled with trophies but not love. And then she thought of here: the warm chai, the laughter of children, Aryan’s steady hand guiding hers on the boat, the sea’s endless song.
“I am someone who has come home,” she said at last.
The next morning, she met Meera at the guest house.
“Tell them I’m grateful. But tell them my heart’s not in Mumbai anymore. I’ve found what I was looking for.”
Meera smiled, a little sadly. “I envy you, you know. I hope you find all the happiness in the world.”
As the car disappeared down the lane, Ananya felt only peace.
Weeks later, she and Aryan stood together on the deck of Samundar Sapna, watching the horizon where the sky met the sea. The boat rocked gently, as if cradling them in a promise.
“Are you sure?” Aryan asked, though his heart already knew the answer.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Ananya said.
And as the tides returned, so did love, weaving their souls together like the endless waves on the shore—forever part of the sea, forever part of each other.
End
