▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Mumbai.

Mumbai is the city where dreams take flight alongside the crows perched on every wire, and where every monsoon, the streets don't just fill with water—they become rivers, complete with boats in the form of BEST buses and seasoned sailors in the form of everyday Mumbaikars.

It's the place where ambitions mingle with the aroma of vada pav, and where the local train rush isn't just a commute; it's a full sport, with its own league of champions who manage to flip through the morning newspaper while clinging to the edge of a moving train like it's a casual Tuesday.

Here, rain isn't just a weather pattern; it's a citywide event, one that has the power to turn a five-minute walk into a half-hour wade.

But no matter how much it pours, the spirit of Mumbai doesn't get drenched—it's water-resistant, like the cheap umbrellas sold on every corner, flimsy but somehow enduring.

The auto drivers will still haggle with you, the chaiwala will still have your cutting chai ready, and somehow, against all odds, everyone makes it to work—pants rolled up, shoes in hand, navigating the flooded streets with the determination of Olympic swimmers.

In this city, dreams are as tall as the skyscrapers that punctuate the skyline and as grounded as the stalls selling pav bhaji on the roadside.

Mumbai has a way of embracing everyone in its chaotic, loving arms, whether you're a Bollywood star or a dabbawala delivering lunch with the precision of a Swiss watch.

Here, whether you're chasing a lifelong ambition or just trying to survive the day, Mumbai ensures you're never really alone—it's a city that thrives on togetherness, even in its most frenzied moments.

Now, take Ishan Kishan, who, like most people new to the city, thought he could outsmart the rain. But in Mumbai, the rain doesn't just fall—it arrives like an uninvited guest, sometimes gently tapping at the window, other times crashing through the door with all the drama of a Bollywood entry scene.

You can't predict it, no matter how long you've lived here. The weather app? More of a gentle suggestion than a reliable forecast. You leave the house with both sunglasses and an umbrella, fully aware that you'll likely need them both—probably within the same hour.

Rohit Bhai had sensed that Ishan needed a break after yesterday's match, where the weight of missed opportunities hung over him like those monsoon clouds that never seem to move on.

Though the team had won, for Ishan, it was a hollow victory—one where personal defeat hid behind the collective triumph. So, here he was, given the rare luxury of time in a city that never really stops, even when you do.

But Mumbai, in all its unpredictable glory, wasn't about to let Ishan off the hook. He left his hotel that morning, the sun shining with a deceptive brightness, thinking the day was his to command. But as he wandered down Marine Drive, the sky decided to change its mind.

Dark clouds gathered with the kind of suddenness that only Mumbai can muster, and before he knew it, the first drops of rain were slapping against his face.

He takes shelter under the bus stand, the brim of his hat pulled low, shielding his face from the world. The rain pours down in sheets, masking everything in a silver haze, and for once, he's grateful for the solitude, glad there's no one else huddling beside him.

The usual bustle of the city is muted, softened by the rain, and he finds a rare moment of quiet in the heart of Mumbai. It's just him, the steady drumming of the rain on the roof above, and the distant hum of the city still moving, still alive, even in the midst of this downpour.

He feels a certain relief, a space to breathe, to let his thoughts settle like the raindrops on the ground, spreading out and finding their place.

Ishan watches the rain streak down, each drop tracing a different path on the grimy glass of the bus stand, merging and splitting like a crowd of Mumbaikars rushing through the station at rush hour.

His mind, much like the weather, is unsettled—clouded with thoughts that he can't seem to shake off.

He tries to focus on the sound of the rain, the rhythmic patter that usually soothes him, but today it's more of a background score to the replay in his head: that one ball, the one that swung just a little more than he expected, and the way his bat had connected—too early, too eager, like he was trying to chase something he couldn't quite reach.

It wasn't just getting out early; it was how it felt—like he'd let everyone down, like the disappointment was more than just his own.

The pitch had looked good, the ball had looked hittable, and for a second, he'd let his instincts override his patience.

One moment he was seeing the ball, seeing it clear and bright, and in the next, it was all wrong—a flicker of movement too late, a misjudged angle.

The sound of the bails being dislodged still echoes in his ears, faint but persistent, like a song he can't get out of his head.

"You'll never be good enough, Ishan. Not for me, not for your team, and not for anyone who actually matters. You think a few runs on the scoreboard make you something special? They don't. You're just another name, another face, easily forgotten the second you mess up. You're not the star you think you are—you're just a disappointment waiting to happen, and everyone's already seen it."

They're back. The words are back. No. No. No.

The words cut through Ishan like glass, sharp and cold, leaving him feeling exposed and raw. He grits his teeth, trying to push them away, but they swirl around his head, louder than the rain, louder than the city itself.

His breath catches in his throat, tight and uneven, and suddenly the air feels too thick, too heavy to pull in. His chest tightens as if bound by an invisible rope, squeezing tighter and tighter until every breath feels like a struggle, like he's trying to inhale through a straw.

His fingers twitch, searching instinctively for something to hold on to, something to anchor him, but all he finds is empty air.

His heart starts to pound, not in the familiar way it does when he's batting, adrenaline and focus coursing through him, but in a frantic, disorganized rhythm that sends waves of panic washing over him.

It's fast, too fast, and it's as if his own body is turning against him, betraying him at the worst possible moment. He knows what this is—he's felt it before, but knowing doesn't make it any easier.

He forces himself to count his breaths like he's been told, but the numbers slip away from him, scattered and jumbled, lost in the noise of his racing mind.

He fumbles for his pocket, his hands shaking as he realizes his meds are back in the hotel room, left behind in the rush to escape his thoughts.

He curses under his breath, feeling stupid and reckless, like he's somehow failed himself again. The world around him narrows, the edges blurring, and all he can hear are those words, each one echoing louder, pressing down on him with a weight that feels impossible to bear.

He leans forward, his hands on his knees, trying to steady himself, but his vision swims, dark spots dancing at the edges. He feels trapped—trapped inside his own head, trapped under this relentless rain, and all he wants is for it to stop.

The bench is cold and slick with rain, the dampness seeping through his clothes, but he doesn't care. He sits there, elbows on his knees, head bowed, trying to gather the frayed threads of his composure.

His fingers press against his temples as if he can squeeze the voices out, push them into silence, but they keep looping back, the same vicious cycle, the same doubts rearing up like they always do when he's at his lowest. He's been here before, knows this feeling too well, and that familiarity only makes it worse.

He stares at the ground, watching the rainwater pool at his feet, rippling with each drop, and it almost mirrors how he feels—unsteady, constantly shifting, never still. He focuses on his breathing, tries to find a rhythm in the chaos, anything to break the suffocating grip of his anxiety.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. Simple, right? But his chest still feels tight, like it's bound by invisible hands that refuse to let go.

He closes his eyes, counting each breath as best as he can, trying to drown out the noise in his head with the sound of the rain. One breath. Two. Three. But his thoughts keep slipping back, tangling around his attempts to calm down.

Ishan's vision blurs, the dark spots dancing at the edges of his sight. The rain continues its relentless downpour, and everything feels heavy—his chest, his limbs, his mind.

Just when he thinks he might be swallowed by the chaos in his head, a gentle voice breaks through, clear and soft like a warm breeze cutting through the storm.

"Halwa?"

The word is simple, yet it slices through the noise, grounding him for a brief moment. He blinks, his gaze shifting to focus on the steel container now in his line of sight, filled with what looks like suji ka halwa.

The comforting scent of roasted semolina and ghee wafts up, battling the damp, musty smell of the rain-soaked street.

He forces his eyes to travel upward, following the source of the voice, and his breath catches in his throat as he meets her gaze.

The woman before him is nothing short of ethereal, with delicate features that seem almost out of place in the middle of the pouring rain.

Her skin glows with a soft radiance, and her large, expressive eyes, framed by long lashes, are filled with concern. A small black bindi rests on her forehead, a striking contrast against her smooth, fair skin.

She's dressed in a deep purple anarkali, the rich fabric clinging to her frame, slightly dampened by the rain. The intricate silver embroidery catches the faint light, adding a subtle shimmer to her attire.

The dupatta drapes over her shoulder, flowing down her back with a grace that seems almost unreal, the edges adorned with tiny silver beads that tinkle softly with her movements.

Her hands, silver ghungroo kangan, hold the steel container with a gentle firmness, and each delicate bell swaying ever so slightly with her every gesture, producing a soft, almost musical chime somehow manages to calm the storm raging inside him.

He shifts his focus to her ears, where a pair of silver hoop jhumkas sway with every slight tilt of her head, catching the faint light and casting small, dancing reflections on her cheeks.

Ishan's mind, which moments ago was a cacophony of spiraling thoughts and chaotic emotions, suddenly feels like it's hit the pause button.

Everything around him fades into the background—the relentless rain, the distant honking of cars, the murmur of people rushing by—none of it seems to matter anymore.

All he can focus on is her, standing there like some ethereal being who's just stepped out of a forgotten myth.

For a second, he wonders if he's hallucinating. Maybe the rain has finally gotten to him, or perhaps his brain, in a desperate attempt to cling to sanity, has conjured up this vision.

Because really, who else could look so divine, so utterly out of place, and yet so perfectly at home amidst the chaos of a drenched street corner?

"Halwa?" she repeats, a tiny smile playing on her lips, as if she's amused by his bewildered expression.

Her voice is so soft, so gentle, that it makes Ishan think of the first rays of sunlight peeking through after a long, dark night. He blinks, almost afraid that if he does it too quickly, she might disappear.

But she doesn't. Instead, she waits patiently, holding out the container as if offering him some sacred elixir. And that's when it hits him. Suji ka halwa. Of course.

Because nothing says divine intervention like a bowl of warm, comforting halwa served by an apsara in the middle of a monsoon downpour.

Ishan watches, half in awe and half in disbelief, as she gracefully lowers herself onto the bench beside him, the rich purple of her anarkali pooling around her like a small, regal wave.

The rain continues to beat down, the world around them a blur of motion and noise, yet here, in this small bubble of shared silence, everything feels strangely still, almost serene.

She doesn't seem to mind the cold bench or the fact that her clothes are getting wetter by the minute. Instead, she sits there with an air of calm, like she's done this a thousand times before—sitting next to strangers in the rain, offering them halwa as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Ishan steals a glance at her from the corner of his eye, still half-expecting her to vanish or dissolve into the mist like some kind of rain-soaked mirage. But she remains, solid and real, the faint scent of her perfume mixing with the aroma of the halwa.

A tiny laugh escapes him before he can stop it, a soft, breathless sound that surprises him as much as it seems to amuse her. She turns her head slightly, the silver jhumkas swaying, and raises an eyebrow as if to say, 'What's so funny?'

And that's when he realizes how utterly absurd this entire situation is—two complete strangers, soaked to the bone, sitting together on a bench in the middle of a monsoon, bonding over a container of suji ka halwa.

Taking his hat off, Ishan shakes his head, his long damp hair falling messily over his forehead. He runs a hand through it, pushing the strands back, but the rain-soaked locks stubbornly fall forward again.

He's still smiling, though it's more of a bemused grin now, the kind that comes when you've finally surrendered to the unpredictability of life, when you realize that not everything needs to make sense to be beautiful.

"Kuch samajh nahi aa raha hai mujhe bhi," [Even I don't really know,] he admits, a chuckle escaping his lips as he shrugs, his shoulders relaxing a bit. "Yeh sab... it's just... ajeeb hai na? Baarish mein, koi kisi ko halwa kaise offer kar sakta hai?" [This is all so... strange, isn't it? How can someone offer halwa to a stranger in this rain?]

She smiles, the kind of smile that's both gentle and knowing, like she's seen this kind of bewilderment before and finds it endearing. Her jhumkas chime softly as she tilts her head slightly, the sound mingling with the rain like a subtle, delicate melody that only she knows how to play.

"Aapko udas baithe dekha, aur socha ki thoda halwa de doon," [I saw you sitting here looking sad, and thought I'd give you some halwa,] she replies, her voice as soothing as the rain itself. "Maa kehti thi ki agar koi dukhi ho toh usko meetha khilana chahiye. Dil halka ho jata hai." [My mother used to say that if someone's sad, you should give them something sweet. It lightens the heart.]

Ishan looks at her, a new kind of warmth spreading through him, something deeper than the comfort of the halwa or the rhythm of the rain. There's something about the way she talks, so effortlessly kind, as if she's offering not just the halwa but a piece of herself.

"Meetha... dil ko halka kar deta hai?" [Something sweet... lightens the heart?] Ishan repeats softly, letting the idea settle in his mind, turning it over as if trying to fit it into the fabric of this peculiar moment.

She nods, her expression a blend of warmth and certainty, "Haan, bilkul. Kabhi kabhi choti choti cheezo mein hi khushiyan hoti hai." [Yes, exactly. Sometimes, it's the little things that bring the greatest happiness.]

She extends the container toward him again, her eyes encouraging him to take it, as if this simple act of sharing could be the comfort he needs to navigate this rainy day and the bustling city beyond.

Ishan hesitates, his fingers brushing the cool steel of the spoon, hovering above the container like he's about to dive into a pool but isn't quite sure if the water's warm enough.

His eyes flicker up to Shivangi, looking for some kind of unspoken permission—a little nod or a reassuring smile, something that tells him it's okay to drop the cricketer facade for a moment and just be himself. Shivangi's gaze is calm and inviting, radiating a warmth, giving him his answer.

The first spoonful of halwa is like stepping back into his mother's kitchen, wrapped in the familiar embrace of home.

The ghee-laden sweetness hits his taste buds and instantly, he's transported to those mornings filled with the aroma of cooking, where the comforting clatter of pots and pans would mingle with his mother's playful scolding about him not eating enough.

He can almost hear her voice, chiding him with that affectionate exasperation only mothers have, insisting he's too skinny and that one more bite wouldn't hurt.

It's been a while since he's sat at that family table, surrounded by the chaos and love that only home can offer, and each bite brings back those small, cherished moments—the everyday rituals that make up the tapestry of home life.

As Ishan eats, there's a noticeable shift. He relaxes, his shoulders dropping, and a lightness spreads across his face, brightening it with a joy that feels almost youthful.

It's as if, with every spoonful, he's peeling back the layers of expectation and pressure, letting the boy who used to sneak into the kitchen for second helpings resurface.

He's not in a rush; he savors each bite, letting the rich, buttery halwa melt in his mouth, filling the space between them with the soft clinking of the spoon against the container.

And for these few moments, he's not the rising star of Indian cricket, constantly under the glare of the spotlight, but just a guy who misses his mom's cooking, who finds solace in these sweet bites of nostalgia.

There's a fleeting look of gratitude in his eyes, a quiet wish that maybe, just maybe, he could show his thanks with more than just words—like a soft kiss on the hands that made this halwa taste like a slice of home.

Shivangi watches him with a gentle smile, amused and pleased, letting him have the entire container without a word of protest.

She can't help but chuckle softly as he scrapes the bottom, trying to get every last bit, like a kid determined not to waste even a single drop of melted ice cream.

Ishan looks up, spoon still in his mouth, and for a second, they both just laugh. It's that kind of laugh that feels like you're in on a little secret together, a moment where everything feels light and uncomplicated.

Then he pauses, looking down at the now-empty container, a flicker of realization crossing his face as if he's suddenly aware of how far he's let himself go.

"Aaj mujhe shayad extra laps karni padegi," [I may have to do extra laps,] he mutters, his voice carrying a half-joking tone but laced with the genuine worry of an athlete who knows he's indulged a little too much.

Shivangi, standing there with an easy smile, laughs softly, her shoulders lifting in a casual shrug. "Arre, ek din halwa kha liya toh kuch nahi hoga," [Oh, having halwa just for one day won't hurt,] she replies, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture that suggests she's far too familiar with this kind of self-imposed guilt.

Ishan looks up at her, a grateful smile spreading across his face, the rain-soaked anxiety from earlier beginning to melt away. There's something about her ease, her nonchalance, that pulls him out of his own head. "Ishan," he introduces himself, extending his hand toward her, a simple gesture of friendliness and introduction. "Aur aap?" [And you?]

"Shivangi," she replies, her name rolling off her tongue with the kind of warmth that matches her earlier smile. She reaches out to shake his hand, but just as their fingers are about to touch, a sudden, unmistakable jolt of electricity sparks between them, causing both to pull back in surprise.

For a moment, they just stand there, their eyes locking in shared bewilderment, and then, almost simultaneously, they start to laugh, the kind of laughter that bubbles up from genuine surprise. Ishan rubs the back of his neck, still grinning as he tries to make sense of what just happened.

"Current."

"Static."

They both speak at the same time, their voices overlapping in a way that makes them pause, eyes meeting with an amused curiosity, as if this unexpected synchronicity is just another layer to the strange connection they've felt since the moment their hands nearly touched.

Ishan raises an eyebrow, his grin widening with a playful edge as he tilts his head slightly, studying her. "Toh aap aise sab ko halwa baant ti phirti hain?" [So, do you go around sharing halwa with everyone?] he teases, his tone light but carrying a hint of genuine interest, as if he's trying to piece together more about this girl who seems to have appeared out of nowhere.

"Nahi, main toh bas market se samaan lene jaa rahi thi, baarish hone lagi toh maine yahan scooty rok li," [No, I was just going to the market to get some things, but it started raining, so I stopped here,] Shivangi explains, her hand gesturing toward the white Vespa parked a few steps away under the bus stop roof. Her voice is casual, as if this whole encounter is just another part of her day, no big deal.

Ishan follows her gaze to the scooter, the small detail making him smile a little wider. There's something refreshingly ordinary about her, something that contrasts sharply with the high-energy, high-pressure world he's used to.

He almost forgets for a moment who he is, slipping into this easy, rain-soaked conversation with a girl who, by all signs, has no idea she's talking to a famous cricketer.

It doesn't take long for him to realize that she doesn't recognize him, which is both a bit surprising and strangely relieving. In a country where cricket is almost a religion, he's accustomed to the constant recognition, the eager eyes that light up when they spot him, the endless requests for selfies and autographs.

But here, with Shivangi, there's none of that. Instead, there's just a girl with a scooter, caught in the rain, sharing a genuine, unguarded moment with a stranger.

A beautiful girl, if he might add. Her laughter, her casual way of brushing off the rain-soaked inconveniences of life, and her relaxed demeanor all create a refreshing contrast to the high-energy, high-pressure world he's used to.

He finds himself drawn to her, not just because of her unexpected charm, but also because in this moment, he's not just Ishan, the cricketer. He's simply a guy sharing an umbrella with a girl who doesn't know him from any of the headlines or cricket statistics.

There's something about the simplicity of this encounter that soothes him. For the first time in what feels like forever, he isn't thinking about the next match, the next endorsement deal, or the endless scrutiny that comes with fame.

Instead, he's focusing on this unplanned pause in his hectic life, on the lightness of their conversation, and on the way the rain creates a soft, intimate backdrop around them.

"Baarish ruk gayi," [The rain has stopped,] Shivangi says, her voice breaking through his thoughts. She tilts her head up, watching as the clouds slowly part to let a few hesitant rays of sunlight seep through.

The rain, which had been a gentle accompaniment to their conversation, is now retreating, leaving behind a trail of glistening droplets on the leaves and the unmistakable scent of fresh earth that fills the air.

Ishan watches her, noting how her eyes light up with the changing weather, and he finds himself not quite ready to let go of this moment.

There's an undeniable hint of sadness that tugs at him, a reluctance to end this unexpected and surprisingly comfortable interaction. He knows he should be heading back to his usual routine, but part of him wants to linger here, caught in this gentle pause.

He glances at Shivangi's white Vespa, parked a few steps away, and then back at her. "Toh aap jaane wale hain?" [So, are you leaving now?] he asks, trying to keep the conversation going, even though he feels a touch of hesitance in his own voice.

Shivangi gives a light-hearted shrug, her smile lingering as she looks back at him. "Haan, mujhe market se kuch samaan le ke jaana hai," [Yes, I need to get some things from the market,] she explains, the practicality of her words contrasting with the warm, easy connection they've shared.

There's a brief silence as Ishan considers his next move. He's not sure what he's hoping for—maybe another chance to talk, or just a moment to savor this sense of uncomplicated companionship. Finally, he says, "Agar aapko zyada der nahi lagta, toh kya aap apke saath market jaa sakta hoon?" [If you're not in a hurry, can I accompany you to the market?]

Shivangi hesitates for a moment, her thoughts flitting between the growing list of tasks awaiting her at Devi and the familiar nagging of Malvika chachi, who, if Shivangi is late, won't hesitate to deliver one of her signature, thinly veiled taunts.

The rain, which had already thrown off her plans for the day, has now added an extra layer of delay to her vegetable shopping. It's a lot to juggle, and the last thing she expects is for Ishan to want to tag along for such a mundane errand.

She glances at Ishan, who's standing there with a hopeful expression, and it dawns on her that this is more than just an offer of company.

He seems to be seeking something—maybe a simple distraction or a moment of normalcy away from the pressure of his world. There's something in his eyes that speaks of weariness, a kind of silent plea to extend this moment of ease just a little longer.

Shivangi sighs softly, weighing her options. "Woh... thoda time lag sakta hai," [It might take some time,] she replies, giving him an easy way out if he realizes this might be more time-consuming than he'd anticipated.

After all, she can't quite figure out why someone like him would be interested in something as ordinary as shopping for groceries.

But instead of being deterred, Ishan's smile widens, as if her response has somehow reassured him that this small escape from his routine is exactly what he needs.

"Koi baat nahi," [No problem,] he says with a casual shrug, "Main waise bhi aaj free hoon." [I'm free today anyway.]

There's something in his relaxed tone that softens Shivangi's resolve. She chuckles, the earlier tension easing into a sort of amused resignation. "Theek hai, lekin main slow chalti hoon," [Alright, but I walk slowly,] she warns, already moving toward her Vespa, a small smile playing on her lips as she senses the lightness of the moment settling in.

"Main adjust kar loonga," [I'll adjust,] Ishan responds, effortlessly matching her pace as he steps alongside her.

Shivangi chuckles softly, the sound barely audible over the hum of the city around them. She secures her own helmet and then swings her leg over the seat of the Vespa, feeling the familiar, comforting grip of the handlebars beneath her hands. Ishan takes a seat behind, but he is unsure of what to do what his hands.

Shivangi can't help but notice his hesitation. She turns her head slightly, her hair falling in loose strands across her face, and sees him sitting there, almost stiff, his hands awkwardly hovering in the space between them.

There's a hint of amusement in her eyes as she takes in the sight of this confident-looking stranger, now suddenly unsure and a little out of his element. She's seen this sort of nervousness before in new riders, unsure of how to hold on, worried about overstepping some invisible boundary.

She reaches for his hands with a gentle but firm grasp, surprising him a little, and places them securely around her waist. "Yahan pakadiye," [Hold here,] she says softly, her tone matter-of-fact but with a hint of a smile.

Her touch is brief, but it's enough to break the awkwardness, enough to let him know it's okay to relax, to settle in.

Ishan nods, his smile returning as he adjusts, his hands finding a comfortable grip around her waist. It feels strangely normal, surprisingly easy, like they've done this a hundred times before.

There's a warmth that lingers where her hands were, a trace of something familiar yet new. He lets out a small breath, his earlier tension melting away as he leans forward just a little, the closeness between them feeling natural, almost seamless.

The Vespa comes to life with a gentle roar, and Shivangi eases them into the flow of the narrow street, weaving past the small puddles that the rain has left behind.

She's focused on the road ahead, her eyes darting between the shifting lanes of pedestrians and cyclists, but there's a noticeable softness to her posture, a kind of ease that wasn't there before.

She isn't quite sure why she's letting him tag along—maybe it's curiosity, or maybe it's just the comfort of having someone who isn't rushing through life, someone who seems genuinely content to be exactly where he is.

The wind picks up as they ride, sweeping through the damp strands of her hair and brushing against his face. There's a hint of leftover rain in the air, mingling with the earthy smell rising from the ground, creating a scent that's both refreshing and grounding.

Ishan can feel the city moving around him—the honks of impatient cars, the chatter of street vendors, the clinking of bicycle bells—yet here, riding behind Shivangi, it all feels a bit muted, like they're in their own little bubble, separated from the chaos of the outside world.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Ishan aur Shivangi ke haathon ka khana is a love story of its own.

Hopefully tum logon ko aacha laga, next chapter mein Ishan gets to see Shivangi buying veggies, following behind her around the market.

Vote and comment kar dena. Story mein kuch chahiye, toh bata dena.

Prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻