Another one for you all✨✨.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle, the kind that made Mumbai’s skyline look like it was hiding behind a translucent curtain. Arjun stepped out of the gallery that night, camera in hand, feeling strangely… alive.
It wasn’t the art — it was her.
He couldn’t shake off the image of Aanya standing before a painting, her hair slightly damp, eyes tracing brushstrokes as if she could feel the emotions beneath them. There had been hundreds of people there, but only one who had looked at art like it was breathing.
He chuckled under his breath. “Calm down, Arjun. You sound like one of those dramatic poetry guys from Kala Ghoda.”
The city roared around him — cabs honking, chai vendors shouting, and the rhythmic clatter of local trains in the distance. The air was heavy with the smell of rain, rust, and roasted corn. He slipped his camera strap tighter over his shoulder and walked toward Bandra station, water splashing under his shoes.
He’d taken plenty of pictures that night — some of the art, some of the crowd, a few candid shots. But one, he hadn’t meant to take: a slightly blurred image of Aanya, her face tilted toward the light. It wasn’t perfect technically — too soft, too accidental.
But it was real.
He looked at it now on his camera screen, smiling. “Perfectly imperfect,” he murmured.
By the time he reached home, it was almost midnight. His flatmate, Sameer, was sprawled on the couch surrounded by empty Maggi bowls, acrylic paints, and what looked suspiciously like a half-painted mannequin leg.
Arjun groaned. “Bhai, tu isko apartment bana raha hai ya art attack ka episode?”
Sameer grinned without looking up. “Art has no boundaries, my friend. Tujhe samajh nahi ayega yeh !.”
“I understand that I can’t sit without touching wet paint,” Arjun shot back, carefully moving a paintbrush off the couch. “And what’s with this leg?”
“Project for a client,” Sameer said proudly. “Theme: Fragmented Identity.”
Arjun snorted. “Fragmented Maggi packets everywhere, more like.”
Sameer threw a cushion at him, and both burst into laughter.
The next morning, Arjun woke up to the smell of burnt toast and Sameer humming Chaiyya Chaiyya. Their apartment overlooked a narrow Bandra lane filled with honking rickshaws and school kids running late.
He checked his phone — three missed calls from Nisha, his editor friend from Mumbai Vibe Magazine.
He called her back, still half-asleep. “Kya hua, madam? Subah-subah drama?”
“Drama?” she said. “You promised me Worli market photos by yesterday!”
“I’m sending them,” he lied instantly.
“Arjun, if you ghost this deadline again, I’ll replace you with Ramesh from Dadar. He sends photos and recipes with them.”
“Please, don’t insult my art like that,” Arjun said dramatically. “Also, Ramesh once sent a photo of a dead fish as ‘human emotion.’”
Nisha laughed. “Okay fine. But I want the photos by noon. Also—” she paused. “I heard you were at the Kala Art Gallery last night?”
“Word travels fast.”
“So, did you finally meet your muse?” she teased.
Arjun hesitated for half a second. “Maybe,” he said softly.
“Oooh,” she sang into the phone. “He said maybe. Interesting.”
“Bye, Nisha.”
He hung up, grinning, but the moment lingered. Muse. It sounded filmy, but maybe she wasn’t wrong.
By noon, he’d submitted his photos and decided to step out. The sky was a clean blue for once — rare in Mumbai monsoon season. He slung his camera over his shoulder and took the local to Churchgate.
He loved traveling in the locals — the chaos, the strangers, the shared exhaustion. A man selling peanuts pushed past, a college student fell asleep standing, and someone’s ringtone was blasting Tip Tip Barsa Pani.
“Perfect,” Arjun muttered to himself, smiling. “Mumbai romance starter pack.”
When he got off, he walked along Marine Drive, clicking photos — a couple sharing chai under one umbrella, an old man feeding stray dogs, kids jumping in puddles. Every face, every reflection told a story.
And then he saw her.
Aanya was sitting alone on the sea-facing wall, a sketchbook open on her lap. Her hair fluttered in the wind, a few strands sticking to her cheek. She was drawing something — maybe the sea, maybe her thoughts.
For a second, Arjun froze. Of course, the universe would pull this stunt.
He debated walking away. But his legs didn’t listen.
“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, as he approached.
She looked up, surprised, then smiled. “Photographer from the gallery, right?”
“Wow, you remembered. I was going to pretend I’m a random guy with a camera who happens to appear at every scenic place you visit.”
She laughed — soft, genuine. “That would be creepy.”
“Only slightly,” he admitted. “Do you mind if I sit?”
She nodded, and he sat beside her, leaving just enough distance for comfort.
“So,” she said, closing her sketchbook, “you always carry your camera like it’s part of your body?”
He grinned. “Occupational hazard. You never know when Mumbai will give you a moment worth stealing.”
“And how many moments have you stolen so far?”
He pretended to think. “At least fifteen street cats, two rainbows, and one mysterious painter from a gallery.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You took my photo?”
“Accidentally,” he said quickly. “But it came out nice. You look like you’re arguing with the painting.”
“I probably was,” she said, laughing. “Sometimes art and I don’t get along.”
“Then it’s true love,” he replied. “Real love is always messy.”
Aanya laughed, a quick sound that the wind carried over the sea. Arjun smiled back before he realized it.
“Messy, huh?” she said, brushing her hair away from her face. “That’s one way to describe it. My paintings are usually more chaos than composition.”
“Then you and Mumbai fit well together,” Arjun said. “This city thrives on beautiful chaos.”
A group of college kids ran past, shouting and splashing through puddles. One of them yelled something about the chai stall nearby, and the smell of ginger tea wafted toward them.
“Chai?” Arjun suggested. “You can’t do Mumbai monsoon without chai.”
She pretended to think. “Only if it’s not one of those five-rupee paper-cup ones that taste like cardboard.”
“Excuse me,” he said, standing up. “Cardboard chai is an acquired taste. Very aesthetic. Matches my broke-artist vibe.”
She laughed again, shaking her head. “Fine, one cup. But I’m paying for mine.”
He grinned. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Real Mumbai guys never let someone else pay for the chai they spilled half of while walking.”
They walked to the stall together, avoiding puddles. The vendor poured tea into small glasses, steam curling up between them. Arjun took a sip and immediately winced.
“Hot?” Aanya teased.
“No, no, I enjoy the feeling of my tongue disintegrating,” he said, fanning his mouth. “Adds spice to life.”
She giggled, and for a second, Arjun thought he could listen to that sound forever.
He looked at her sketchbook resting against her side. “What were you drawing before I interrupted your serious artist moment?”
“The sea,” she said. “Or maybe how it feels to look at it when you’re tired.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s… deep. You’re one of those metaphor people.”
“And you’re one of those who turn everything into a joke.”
“It's a defense mechanism,” he said lightly, then shrugged. “But you’re right. Sometimes you need metaphors to survive.”
The rain began again, a fine, misty drizzle that softened everything. They moved to stand under the half-shelter of the chai stall.
Aanya spoke after a moment. “So, Mr. Photographer, what do you shoot besides random girls at galleries?”
“Guilty,” he said. “Mostly street stories. People who don’t realize they’re part of a story yet.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s kind of beautiful.”
He wanted to share how he’d learned to see that beauty—how his childhood home in Indore had been so quiet it felt suffocating, how his father had thought art was a waste, how the only way Arjun had coped was by noticing the small details everyone else ignored: a shadow, a stray smile, the way light fell on dust. But he didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he said, “You’d be surprised how much truth hides in an unposed photo.”
Aanya looked at him for a long moment, her expression hard to read. Then she smiled. “Maybe you’ll teach me someday.”
The sky darkened, and thunder rolled low in the distance. They walked together toward the road, sharing the same umbrella he’d borrowed from a street vendor for fifty rupees. It was too small, so her shoulder kept brushing against his.
“Are you always this prepared?” she asked.
“Always,” he said. “My life motto: never trust Mumbai clouds.”
When they reached the main street, Aanya checked her phone. “I should go. My mom’s already texted twice.”
“Strict family?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Just… traditional.”
He noticed the change in her tone but didn’t press. “Okay then, Miss Traditional. Thanks for the company and the fancy cardboard chai.”
She smiled, waving as she stepped into a rickshaw. “Bye, Mr. Photographer.”
The rickshaw pulled away, its red tail-light glowing through the mist. Arjun watched until it turned the corner.
He stood there a moment longer, umbrella forgotten, rain soaking his hair. Then he laughed softly to himself.
“Tu toh gaya, Arjun.”
By the time Arjun got home, his hair was soaked and his jeans clung to his knees. Sameer looked up from the couch, paintbrush in his mouth, with a happy expression.
“Wah bhai wah! Look at this hero. Rain-soaked, lost in thought—kahani mai twist agaya kya?”
Arjun dropped the umbrella into the bucket by the door. “Met her again.”
Sameer gasped as if he had just seen a big reveal. “The gallery girl?”
Arjun nodded, trying not to smile. “Marine Drive. Totally random.”
“Random? Please. This is the universe playing matchmaker because even Tinder gave up on you.”
Arjun tossed a towel at him. “Shut up. It was just chai and conversation.”
Sameer grinned. “And that’s exactly how every love story starts—chai, rain, and one overconfident photographer.”
Arjun laughed and collapsed onto the couch. The flat smelled like turpentine and leftover Chinese food. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling fan that wobbled dangerously with each turn.
“You know,” he said, “sometimes I feel like this fan represents my life—barely balanced but somehow still moving.”
Sameer tapped his brush against the mannequin leg. “Philosophy before dinner? I'm scared.”
Arjun smiled faintly, but his mind was already wandering.
Later that night, as Sameer snored with his headphones still on, Arjun sat at his desk, sorting through the day’s shots. His laptop hummed softly, and the rain outside tapped steadily against the window.
He clicked through images—street kids playing cricket, reflections in puddles, the chai vendor’s wrinkled hands. Then he saw her again: Aanya, half-smiling, umbrella tilted, hair caught in the wind.
Something about the picture made him stop. It wasn’t perfect; it was full of life.
He saved it in a separate folder and named it “02-Barish.”
For a while, he just stared at the photo, feeling that familiar ache he could never fully explain.
His phone buzzed.
Nisha : You’re awake? Or editing existentially again?
Arjun : Both. You?
Nisha: Just saw your photos. Beautiful, as usual. You somehow make puddles look poetic.
Arjun: Occupational hazard.
Nisha: Also, who’s the girl?
He froze. Of course, she’d notice.
Arjun: A friend.
Nisha: Liar. Your “friends” never end up framed in golden light. Spill tomorrow, ok? I’ll buy you coffee.
He smiled at the screen. Nisha had known him for years—part colleague, part therapist, full-time teaser. She had seen him go from a broke intern to a semi-known freelancer who still couldn’t pay rent on time.
He typed back: Deal. But I’m choosing the coffee place. No overpriced soy nonsense.
The next afternoon, they met at Prithvi Café. The air smelled of rain and samosas; theatre students were rehearsing near the entrance, shouting lines into the drizzle.
“Arjun Bose,” Nisha said as he arrived, “you look suspiciously happy. Spill.”
“Nothing dramatic,” he said. “Met someone at the gallery, then again at Marine Drive. That’s it.”
She leaned in, eyes shining. “Two coincidences already? Bro, even Yash Raj Films stops at one.”
“Please,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure.” She sipped her cappuccino. “Anyway, you could use some excitement. All your photos lately scream melancholic artist with commitment issues.”
Arjun snorted. “That’s my brand.”
Nisha laughed. “Exactly why I’m worried.”
They talked about work, upcoming exhibitions, and Sameer’s strange new art phase (“He painted a scooter seat pink,” Arjun confessed. “Claims it’s a metaphor for displacement”). Between jokes, Nisha quietly studied him.
“You’ve changed,” she said finally.
He raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“No,” she said softly. “That hopeful.”
He didn’t respond, but her words stayed with him long after she left.
That evening, as he walked back through Juhu’s narrow lanes, the smell of rain-washed soil brought back memories of home—Indore, monsoon 2008. He was sixteen, standing on the roof with a camera in hand, trying to catch lightning. His father’s voice had cut through the rain:
“Photography won’t put food on the table, Arjun!”
He had flinched but kept clicking anyway. The flash had gone off, capturing his father’s silhouette in the doorway—angry, blurred, unforgettable.
Now, years later, the sound of the sea replaced the shouting. He smiled faintly.
"Still taking photos, Dad. Table’s fine."
He got home to find Sameer balancing the mannequin leg on the balcony railing.
“What are you doing?”
“Testing perspective,” Sameer said. “Also drying paint. Don’t worry, the neighbors already think we’re crazy.”
Arjun laughed and shook his head. “They’re not wrong.”
Arjun finally settled at his desk. His laptop was open, the camera beside him, and his chai cup was half-full and slowly cooling. The city outside hissed softly with distant trains, honking rickshaws, and a dog barking somewhere down the lane.
He scrolled through his photos again. Each image seemed to remind him of her: the tilt of her head, the faint laugh he could almost hear again, and the way she stubbornly insisted on paying for her chai.
His phone buzzed. It was Sameer, of course.
Sameer: Bhai, last night ka episode suna do. Rain hero moment?
Arjun: Shut up. It’s nothing.
Sameer : Nothing? Tumhare dil ka “nothing” usually comes with dramatic thunder, monsoon, aur poetic dialogue.
Arjun smirked : “You really have too much free time.”
Sameer : Nahi yaar, I call it being invested in my roommate’s love life. Consider it a civic duty.
He laughed quietly and shook his head.
Then a ping came from Nisha:
Nisha : I need a full report. Did the muse leave permanent prints on your photography soul?
Arjun typed back slowly: She’s… inspiring. That’s all I’ll say for now.
Hours passed in a blur of editing and adjusting exposure. Each photograph of puddles, streets, and stray cats felt dull until he thought of her again. She saw more than just the surface; she noticed the unseen layers of life and the emotions hiding in plain sight.
He paused at one shot — a boy playing cricket in a puddle, splashing water everywhere. It reminded him of his childhood: him on the Indore terrace, trying to photograph lightning, soaked to the bone, his father yelling from inside the house.
He smiled. Still chasing the storm.
Sameer appeared behind him, holding a sketchbook. “Bro, did you know we have a pigeon that performs magic tricks on the balcony?”
Arjun glanced up. “Really?”
“Yep. Also, it steals snacks. Our snack thief is a bird.”
Arjun laughed. “Of course. Perfect roommate. You, me, and the magical pigeon in Mumbai. Truly cinematic.”
Sameer nodded seriously. “Someday, someone will make a film about our lives.”
“Let’s hope they hire a better editor,” Arjun said, sipping the cold chai.
The night deepened as Arjun leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He thought about Aanya — her laughter, the way she argued with a painting like it owed her something, and how stubbornly she held her umbrella.
Without realizing it, he whispered to the empty room: “You’re going to make things complicated, aren’t you?”
The ceiling fan wobbled above him. Sameer snored softly from the couch. Outside, Mumbai continued its symphony: rainwater dripped from roofs, a horn blared in the distance, and laughter came from a distant street corner.
Arjun closed his eyes for a moment, feeling that strange flutter again — the one that made hearts light, even in chaos.
He didn’t know what the future held. But he knew one thing: for the first time in a long time, he was excited to find out.
Somewhere deep down, he felt a story was beginning — a story not about deadlines, exhibitions, or crowded galleries. It was about something far more unpredictable: the rain, the city, and the girl who had somehow captured his lens and his heart.
Aanya's Pov
The rickshaw drove off, leaving Aanya standing under the light drizzle of Marine Drive. The air smelled of wet sand and street food—roasted corn, samosa, and damp earth. She pulled her sketchbook closer and exhaled slowly.
Why do I feel like that meant something? she wondered, shaking her head. She hated admitting that her heart could deceive her so clearly.
Aanya had always been cautious. She was careful about her friends, her art, and every word she said around her ents. Yet, something about Arjun made her want to be bold—not loud or dramatic, just real. Real enough to laugh openly, tease back, and even lower her guard for a moment.
She began walking home, the cold drizzle soaking through her shoes. Her thoughts replayed the chai, the umbrella, and his silly jokes about cardboard chai and broken umbrellas. She chuckled softly, drawing curious looks from people nearby.
What is wrong with me? she thought. It’s just one person.
Back in her apartment, the familiar hum of the ceiling fan did little to settle her racing thoughts. She flung her wet dupatta onto the chair and opened her sketchbook, trying to capture the fleeting feelings the evening had stirred. But her pencil felt awkward and uncertain.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Rhea, her best friend since college, lit up the screen:
Rhea : Your smile at Marine Drive? Come on, Aanya! Who was with you?
Aanya smiled as she typed. Just… someone I met at a gallery. Nothing serious.
Rhea : Ha! Nothing serious, my foot. You’re blushing. And wait, I thought you hated guys like him?
Aanya groaned. “Rhea, I told you, stop assuming things. He’s not like that. And I don’t even—”
Rhea : —have to finish. I know. Just… be careful, okay? Your mom's already planning another dinner with Mr. Banker.
Her smile faded. The words hit harder than she expected. Mr. Banker—stable, respectful, exactly what her parents wanted. He didn’t understand art like Arjun did. He didn’t grasp her obsession with colors, her restless sketches, or her dreams that soared beyond the flat walls of their apartment.
Of course they don’t get it, Aanya thought bitterly, closing her sketchbook. Her parents had always favored her older brother, Rohan. He was everything they admired: disciplined, obedient, academically successful. She had grown up watching them note every little mistake she made while downplaying her accomplishments, while her brother’s minor victories were celebrated like national holidays.
The unfairness stung, but she had learned to laugh it off and hide her frustration behind polite smiles. But tonight, after Marine Drive, after Arjun’s teasing and warmth, it felt like a crack in her carefully built walls.
Dinner that night was another reminder. Her mother fussed over the food, asking pointed questions about her job, her future, and even subtly hinting at Mr. Banker.
“Art is good, beta,” her mother said, carefully cutting a piece of paneer. “But you should also think about stability. Your brother will get married soon, and you…” She trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging heavily in the air.
Aanya nodded, smiling politely as usual.
Her father didn’t look up from his newspaper. “Focus on your job. Don’t waste time on… nonsense.”
Yes, father, she thought, tasting the bitterness in her mouth. The words weren’t meant to sting; it was just how her family had always shown love—selective, conditional, and tied to duty.
After dinner, she escaped to her small studio corner in the apartment. Rhea had insisted she bring her paints, claiming that a “sad girl needs art therapy.” Aanya chuckled quietly as she poured colors onto the canvas. Reds, blues, yellows—all of them messy, uncontrolled, vibrant, like the feelings she refused to express.
Maybe I don’t have to explain everything, she thought, picking up her brush. Maybe the colors can speak for me.
Yet, Arjun lingered in her thoughts. His easy laughter, his teasing, his unique understanding of life—he unnerved her, excited her, and made her feel bold in the safest way possible.
Her phone buzzed again. Another message from Rhea:
Rhea : Also… by the way, he’s texting you, right? He’s totally thinking about you.
Aanya rolled her eyes, letting out a small laugh. “Rhea, I don’t even know if I want him to…” she whispered to herself, shaking her head.
But deep down, she knew. Somewhere in her chaotic, colorful heart, something had shifted. The world felt a little bigger, a little brighter. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about doing what her family wanted for her anymore.
For now, she let herself paint, let herself dream, and let the monsoon drizzle outside soothe her into a quiet, cautious hope.
~~ Dual Pov ~~
The next morning, Aanya woke to the soft sound of rain against her window. Mumbai felt alive again, the city that never really sleeps, just pauses briefly between storms. She stretched, looked at her sketchbook, and noticed that last night’s colors had stained the edges of her sheets, almost as if the city itself had joined her in painting.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Rhea:
Rhea: Okay, spill. Did he survive the Marine Drive monsoon, or did the chai drown him?
Aanya laughed. “Rhea, you’re impossible,” she said softly. She typed back: He survived. Barely.
Her laughter filled the apartment, and for a moment, the walls, the rules, and the expectations felt less overwhelming.
Meanwhile, across town, Arjun was trying to have a “normal” morning. Sameer was already doing what he called yoga-for-creative-vision, his arms flailing, a half-eaten biscuit hanging precariously from his mouth.
“Bro, do you even know what stability is?” Sameer asked, wobbling on one leg.
“Stability is not watching you almost break your neck every morning,” Arjun replied, grabbing a mug.
Sameer laughed, nearly losing his balance. “See? That’s why I need art in my life. It keeps me alive.”
Arjun shook his head, sipping his chai. Then his phone buzzed. It was a message from Nisha.
Nisha: You should smile more. Maybe someone’s watching.
Arjun smiled quietly. He looked out the window at the rain-slicked streets and thought about Aanya, the girl who somehow turned puddles into poetry and chaos into something he wanted to remember.
At her office, Aanya found it hard to focus. She sat in front of her computer, trying to finalize a client’s graphics for a magazine ad, but her mind kept drifting back to Arjun.
Her colleague, Priya, nudged her. “You’re staring out the window again. Planning a rain-inspired disaster?”
Aanya laughed and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Something like that.”
Priya smirked knowingly. “Uh-huh. Or maybe planning how to meet that photographer again?”
Aanya gave her a mock glare. “Priya, stop imagining things.”
Priya leaned in closer. “Right, because your sketches have nothing to do with how many times you’ve thought about him since the gallery.”
Aanya groaned and spun in her chair. “You know everything!”
Priya shrugged. “It’s a friend’s duty. Plus, your family is too boring — you need someone interesting in your life.”
Later that evening, Aanya came home and slipped off her shoes at the entrance. The apartment smelled faintly of incense. Her mother was in a good mood, humming a tune from an old Bollywood film. Her brother, Rohan, was on a video call with a client, laughter and praise echoing through the living room.
Aanya sighed softly. Same old.
She went to her corner studio, picked up her brushes, and began painting the memory of Marine Drive. The umbrella, the drizzle, his teasing grin — each stroke added color to her quiet rebellion.
Maybe I don’t need to explain myself to anyone, she thought, blending red into yellow, orange into blue. Maybe some things are just for me.
Her phone buzzed again. It was a message from Rhea, reminding her of life beyond family expectations:
Rhea: By the way, he texted about you this morning. I might’ve teased him a little… okay, a lot.
Aanya smiled faintly. She hadn’t replied yet. Not because she didn’t want to, but because the excitement of waiting, the uncertainty, felt alive.
Across town, Arjun sat on his balcony with his camera in his lap, reviewing the photos from the past few days. He felt restless, tapping his fingers against the lens cap, his mind replaying small details about her — how she looked at the painting, how her laughter echoed in the drizzle, and how she insisted on paying for her chai despite his protests.
He clicked through the shots repeatedly, finally selecting one of her at Marine Drive, a sketchbook tucked under her arm, her hair damp from the mist.
“Beautiful,” he whispered to himself. Then he chuckled. “Okay, Arjun. Calm down. She doesn’t even know you exist yet… technically.”
Just then, Sameer poked his head out from the kitchen. “Bro, either you’re in love or losing your mind. Maybe both.”
“Shut up,” Arjun said, grinning despite himself.
Sameer laughed. “Hey, if you fall, call me. I’ll narrate your dramatic monsoon story to the neighbors.”
Arjun shook his head, smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re hopeless,” Sameer said, walking away, humming a Bollywood tune.
Arjun looked at the city lights reflecting off the wet streets below. Somewhere, a rickshaw splashed through a puddle, a couple laughed under an umbrella, and the monsoon played its familiar tune.
He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining her there — sketchbook, umbrella, laughter — and felt a quiet thrill of hope.
This is just the beginning, he thought. And somehow, I think it’s going to be worth it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To be Continued.....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TA-DAAAA....!!!!!!!!
Lo jii chapter - 2 is here for y'all.
What's your opinion on this chapter ?
Do you like the individual pov ? Or do you want me to write only in thrid person Pov ?.
Do like the chapter and comment 🫶🏻.
Phir Milenge ✨.
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