Here's the chapter - 1.
Let's get a glimpse into their story.
(Aanya’s POV)
The first raindrop hit the window just as I put down my brush. It felt almost poetic, as if the city was waiting for me to finish before starting its own masterpiece. I smiled faintly and dipped my fingers into the leftover colors on my palette, a messy mix of blues, oranges, and pinks that somehow captured the chaos of my day.
Outside, Mumbai stirred beneath the monsoon clouds. The skyline blurred, trains hummed in the distance, and somewhere far off, I heard a street vendor's voice calling, “Garam bhutta, garam bhutta!”
This was my favorite part of the city—the moment before the rain completely took over. The air was thick with promise, and the streets seemed to hold their breath.
The clock on the wall read 6:40 p.m. I was already running late. I wiped my hands on an old rag, tossed my brush into a jar, and stepped back to look at the unfinished sketch on my desk—a woman standing in the middle of Marine Drive, her hair wild, her eyes half-closed against the wind.
She looked free. I wasn’t sure I could say the same about myself.
“Just five minutes,” I muttered as I rushed to my cupboard. I had spent all afternoon deciding what to wear but still ended up changing twice. It wasn’t a date; it was an art gallery opening. Yet my heart raced as if I were going on stage.
I slipped into a light blue kurta with small mirror work and put on silver earrings that caught the light when I moved. My reflection in the mirror looked confident, but I knew better. Behind the steady smile was the familiar whisper—Don’t mess this up, Aanya.
Downstairs, the landlord’s kids played cricket in the corridor.
“Didi, baarish ho rahi h!” one shouted as I opened the gate.
I laughed. “I can see that, hero. Don’t break another window, okay?”
As soon as I stepped outside, the rain greeted me like an old friend—messy, loud, and full of life. I pulled out my dupatta and tried to shield myself. Rickshaws sped past, splashing water everywhere. The city smelled of wet earth, samosas, and exhaust fumes. A typical Mumbai mix.
By the time I reached Kala Ghoda, my kurta was half-soaked, and my hair was a mess. The gallery stood like a glowing lantern against the dark street, its glass doors fogged from the humidity, warm light spilling out like an invitation.
I hesitated at the entrance, brushing rain off my sleeves. This was it. My first time showcasing my work alongside other artists—a small digital collection called “Shades of the City.”
When I stepped in, the atmosphere changed. I heard the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the faint sound of an old Kishore Kumar song playing softly in the background. The scent of fresh paint and perfume mingled with something sharper—ambition, perhaps.
I walked slowly through the crowd, smiling at familiar faces. A few college friends waved; someone from my old internship nodded politely. I pretended not to notice the man near the corner who gave me a quick once-over before turning away—the art scene had its own kind of judgment.
Then I saw it—my artwork, hanging on the far wall under a soft yellow light.
It stopped me in my tracks.
The piece depicted Mumbai during rush hour, rain blurring everything—cars, umbrellas, people. I had spent weeks creating it, trying to capture what the city felt like, not just how it looked. Seeing it framed and surrounded by strangers quietly discussing it stirred something in my chest.
My eyes stung a little.
“Beautiful work,” a voice said behind me.
I turned around.
And there he was.
Tall and lean, with a camera casually slung over one shoulder and a smile that felt both confident and kind. His hair was still damp, the kind that probably didn’t stay in place no matter what he did. He wasn’t dressed like the others—no crisp blazer or shiny shoes. Just a plain white shirt rolled up to the elbows and faded jeans.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound composed. “It’s... my first exhibition.”
He stepped closer, studying the piece. “You’ve captured something most people miss. The city doesn’t stand still, but your work made it pause.”
I blinked, surprised. “That’s exactly what I wanted,” I said softly.
He grinned, and there was something easy about it. “Then you’ve succeeded.”
I walked alongside him almost without noticing. The gallery lights shimmered behind us while the monsoon drummed steadily on the roof. I pulled my dupatta tighter around my shoulders, trying to shake off the chill that clung to my kurta.
“Do you come here often?” I asked, filling the silence more than out of genuine curiosity.
He chuckled softly. “Not really. Mostly I follow the exhibitions I want to photograph. Galleries aren’t my playgrounds, yaar. But I like watching people get lost in art. It makes me feel less lonely, somehow.”
Lonely. That word hit me harder than expected. For a moment, I wanted to tell him how my evenings often ended—sitting in a quiet apartment, scrolling through designs and emails, feeling invisible even to my own family. But the words caught in my throat. There was something gentle about him, something safe. I didn’t want to taint that with my baggage just yet.
“So, you photograph people?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
He nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Stories. Not just faces. Everyone has a story, Aanya. Sometimes you catch it in a glance, sometimes in the way they hold their coffee, or the way they avoid eye contact. It’s all subtle. But it’s there.”
I glanced at him. He was serious, but there was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes—as if he knew secrets the world didn’t.
“You make it sound so poetic,” I said with a smile. “I wish I could see the world like that.”
“You do,” he said softly. “You capture it in your colors. I saw your piece—the Mumbai rain with all the umbrellas. You didn’t just paint the street; you painted how it felt. That’s rare.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. Compliments didn’t come easily for me, especially from strangers, yet here was someone who made me feel seen—truly seen.
We moved toward the small seating area near the café stall inside the gallery. Steam rose from cups of chai and coffee, curling into the air like wisps of warmth. He held out the cups to me with a shy grin. “Chai?”
I hesitated. “I shouldn’t… people are watching.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Let them watch. We’re not performing. Trust me, galleries are full of people pretending to understand art anyway. Just sip.”
The chai was hot and perfectly spiced—cardamom and ginger fighting off the dampness of my rain-soaked clothes. I took a careful sip and felt it warm me from within.
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “what brought you to Mumbai?”
He leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drift toward the glass walls where rain streamed down like silver rivers. “Work, mostly. Life, partly. I needed a change. Delhi was too small for me. And too predictable. Mumbai feels alive, you know? It challenges you. Breaks you a little. Then gives you something back.”
His words resonated. Mumbai had broken me many times—the late trains, the office politics, the feeling of being overlooked in a crowd of ambitious people. Yet it had also given me the courage to pursue my art, even when my parents doubted its value.
“You make it sound magical,” I murmured, watching him cradle the cup in his hands.
He smiled, almost shyly. “It is if you know how to look.”
For the first time that evening, I allowed myself to relax. The city’s chaos, the rain, the crowd—none of it felt overwhelming. I sensed a flutter of anticipation that something significant was starting.
Then, just as if the universe had heard my thought, a sudden power flicker dimmed the gallery. The lights stuttered, and the room murmured in confusion. Some laughed nervously while others grumbled, but we just looked at each other and laughed.
“Classic Mumbai,” I said, shaking my head. “You can’t have an exhibition without a dramatic monsoon moment.”
He chuckled, his laughter deep and genuine. “Maybe the city’s testing us—seeing who belongs here.”
There was a pause. In that pause, I felt the world shrink. Just the two of us, the rain drumming outside, the smell of wet asphalt and chai, and the soft glow of lights that refused to go out.
“Maybe I belong,” I said softly, almost to myself.
“You do,” he replied, meeting my gaze. There it was again—that sense of being seen and understood, as if he could read the words I didn’t speak.
The rest of the evening blurred together. We wandered through the gallery, pointing out our favorite pieces and debating colors and techniques. Occasionally, we burst into fits of laughter that caught the attention of nearby patrons. At one point, he picked up my sketchbook from my bag and flipped through the pages, his expression thoughtful.
“You’re good,” he said finally. “Not just talented—you feel it. Every stroke has intention.”
I bit my lip, feeling a mix of pride and embarrassment. Compliments still felt unfamiliar to me, especially when they carried that depth of sincerity.
Eventually, the gallery began to thin out. The rain outside hadn’t let up, and the street lamps reflected in puddles, making the city glow in a way I hadn’t noticed before. He turned toward me.
“Coffee?” he asked, sounding a bit tentative this time. “Or chai again?”
I hesitated. My mind raced—I didn’t usually accept invitations from strangers, but something about him, the way he made the rain feel less lonely, made me nod.
“Okay,” I said, smiling.
We stepped outside together. The rain had grown stronger, drumming against the umbrella we shared. My hair stuck to my cheeks, and water soaked through my shoes, but I didn’t mind.
“You’re enjoying this too much for someone who’s soaked to the skin,” he teased.
I laughed, feeling warmth that wasn’t just from the chai. “You don’t understand—this is the best part of Mumbai.”
He glanced at me, his eyes soft. “Then let’s enjoy it together.”
At that moment, standing under a shaky umbrella, our shoulders brushing, I felt a spark—delicate, tentative, but real. The city around us continued its symphony of honking cars, splashing water, and monsoon laughter, but in that moment, everything else faded.
I didn’t know it yet, but this night—this rainy gallery evening—was the first brushstroke in a story I had never dared to imagine.
And somehow, I felt it was only just beginning.
The auto ride home was a blur of rain on the windows and the faint smell of wet asphalt. I sat next to him in the backseat, my sketchbook resting on my lap. I tried not to get ink on my damp kurta. He didn’t say much; he let the city talk around us. The horns, the laughter of children splashing in puddles, and the rumble of the train overhead filled the air.
Somewhere between Girgaum Chowpatty and my apartment in Andheri, I realized I didn’t want the night to end. I felt a comfort in his presence that I hadn’t expected. There was a quiet ease that contrasted with the usual tension in my life. Normally, evenings felt stuck in work, family discussions, or loneliness. Rarely did they feel alive.
“Thank you,” I said softly as the auto stopped outside my building.
“For what?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.
“For being easy tonight. For the laughter, for noticing the little things.” I hesitated, then added, “I don’t get that a lot.”
He smiled faintly, as if he understood without needing me to say more. “Then don’t let it be rare.”
I laughed softly, though my heart was pounding. The auto rickshaw driver honked impatiently, reminding me that the world outside this bubble still existed.
I climbed the stairs slowly, dripping water on the dusty floor of the lobby. My neighbors barely glanced at me; the monsoon had made everyone lazy and irritable. Inside my apartment, I peeled off the wet kurta and hung it over a chair to dry. The city lights shimmered faintly through my window, but I couldn’t focus on anything but the night’s strange, luminous magic.
I sat cross-legged on the floor with my sketchbook, tracing the lines I had drawn earlier that week. Yet my thoughts kept drifting back to him—his eyes, the way he saw things, the subtle way he made me feel important. Not admired for my work alone, but for just being me.
For the first time in years, I let myself think about something I had buried under layers of caution: maybe someone in my life wouldn’t want to control me. Someone who wouldn’t make me feel like I had to justify my dreams or choices.
The thought made my chest tighten and flutter at the same time.
I shook my head, laughing quietly at my own foolishness. Slow down, Aanya. But the smile lingered.
Later, lying in bed, I replayed the evening over and over. Every detail—the smell of the wet streets, the chai, the laughter, his voice describing life through his lens—had etched itself in my memory.
Yet beneath the warmth, a shadow lingered, almost unseen but still there. My parents. Their constant expectations. The unspoken disappointment when I chose art over something stable. The favoritism toward my older brother. The whispered comparisons. The casual neglect that made me feel like I had to earn their love silently.
I didn’t want tonight to be overshadowed by that. Still, I knew reality awaited me in the morning.
But tonight… tonight was mine.
I closed my eyes and let the city hum me to sleep. The rain continued outside, relentless and beautiful, washing the streets clean and somehow washing away the heaviness I carried inside.
In my dreams, I wasn’t invisible. I was seen. I was understood. And somewhere in the haze, his smile lingered like a brushstroke of warmth across a grey canvas.
For the first time in a long time, I felt that life could surprise me. That maybe, just maybe, I could choose it for myself.
As the city slept, wrapped in the monsoon’s embrace, I made a quiet promise: I wouldn’t let anyone dim the colors I carried or the person I was starting to become.
The night was far from over, and I realized my story was still unfolding.
So here it is.
The story that has been resting in my draft is finally out here for you all to read and give your opinion.
Hope you guys will like it.
Do let me know what you think of this chapter. Your reviews in any form are accepted.
Phir Milenge ✨.
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