🎀

The following morning was quieter, the house steeped in the gentle rhythm of Mandwa’s unhurried life. Hardik woke early, drawn by the soft golden light streaming through his window. Outside, the world was alive with birdsong and the distant crash of waves. He decided to step out for a run, eager to clear his head and get his body moving after days of idleness.

The beach stretched out in front of him as he jogged along the shore, his footprints sinking into the wet sand. The ocean breeze tousled his hair, carrying with it a sense of freedom he hadn’t felt in years. For a brief moment, he forgot who he was—forgot the cameras, the expectations, the weight of the life he’d left behind.

When he returned to the house, sweat-soaked and pleasantly exhausted, he found Ira sitting on the veranda steps. She was sketching, her pencil darting across the page with quick, precise strokes. Her focus was so intense that she didn’t notice him at first.

"Morning," he called, breaking the silence.

Ira looked up, startled. Her gaze flicked to his disheveled appearance, lingering for a moment before she returned to her sketch. "Morning."

"What are you working on?" he asked, leaning against the wooden railing.

"Nothing you’d be interested in," she replied without looking up.

Hardik chuckled, unbothered by her brusque tone. "You don’t know that."

For a moment, she hesitated, then turned the sketchpad toward him. The drawing was a rough but striking depiction of the ocean, the waves rendered with a chaotic energy that felt alive.

"Wow," he said, genuinely impressed. "You’re good."

Ira’s lips twitched, almost a smile. "Thanks."

"Do you sell your work?" he asked, curious.

"Sometimes," she admitted. "Mostly to tourists. It pays the bills."

Hardik nodded, sensing there was more to her story but knowing better than to press.

🎀

The day unfolded lazily, the air heavy with the promise of rain. Hardik found himself spending most of it in the common room, reading an old book he’d picked up from the shelf. Occasionally, he’d glance out the window to see Ira flitting about—painting on the terrace, sorting through art supplies, always in motion.

By late afternoon, the sky had darkened, and the first drops of rain began to fall. Hardik stepped onto the veranda to watch the downpour, the scent of wet earth filling the air. He wasn’t surprised to find Ira there too, standing barefoot on the steps with her arms crossed, staring out at the storm.

"You like the rain?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"It’s fine," she replied, her voice low.

He smirked. "That’s the least enthusiastic answer I’ve ever heard."

Ira shot him a sidelong glance, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "What about you? Does the great Hardik Pandya enjoy getting wet?"

He laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "It’s not so bad."

A comfortable silence settled between them as they watched the rain together.

🎀

Later, during dinner, the Mehtas joined them at the small wooden table, their chatter filling the room. Shekhar regaled them with stories of his youth, his booming laughter contagious. Shefali fussed over everyone’s plates, making sure they ate their fill.

"Did you know," Shekhar began, pointing his fork at Hardik, "that Shefali once threw a chappal at me when we first met?"

Hardik burst out laughing. "Seriously?"

Shefali rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile. "He was being an idiot."

"I was being charming," Shekhar corrected, winking at her.

Ira, who had been quietly eating, surprised everyone by laughing. It was soft, barely audible, but unmistakably genuine.

Hardik glanced at her, something warm stirring in his chest.

🎀

After dinner, Hardik found Ira on the terrace, her sketchbook open on her lap. He hesitated for a moment before joining her, settling onto the bench beside her.

"You’ve been here a while, haven’t you?" he asked.

Ira nodded. "A few months."

"What brought you here?"

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around her pencil. "I needed a change."

Hardik recognized the guarded tone, one he’d used himself many times. He didn’t push.

"Mandwa’s a good place for that," he said instead.

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "What about you? Why Mandwa?"

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I needed a break. From everything."

She looked at him then, her eyes searching his face. "That’s vague."

He chuckled. "It’s complicated."

"Isn’t it always?" she murmured, her voice softer now.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the sound of the waves filling the air.

"Do you ever feel like you’re running away?" Ira asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hardik turned to her, surprised by the vulnerability in her tone. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But I think it’s more about finding something. Peace, maybe."

She nodded, her expression unreadable.

"Do you think you’ll find it here?" she asked.

"I don’t know," he said honestly. "But it feels like a good place to start."

Ira didn’t reply, but the faintest hint of a smile touched her lips.

🎀

As the night deepened, Hardik found himself lying awake in bed, his mind replaying the day’s moments. He thought about Ira—her sharp wit, her guarded nature, the way her laughter had lit up the room. She was unlike anyone he’d ever met, and though she kept him at arm’s length, he couldn’t help but feel drawn to her.

He didn’t know what it meant yet, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The morning began with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the gentle hum of Shefali Mehta’s voice as she bustled about in the kitchen. Hardik stretched lazily, the sound of rain from the night before still echoing in his ears. He was starting to enjoy the unhurried pace of life here—a stark contrast to the whirlwind he had left behind.

When he made his way to the kitchen, he found Shefali pouring tea into delicate ceramic cups, the kind that looked older than him. She glanced up and smiled warmly.

"Good morning, beta. Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have in weeks," he admitted, running a hand through his hair.

She handed him a cup of tea and gestured toward the dining table, where Shekhar was already seated with a newspaper spread out in front of him. Ira was there too, flipping through her sketchbook with a thoughtful expression.

"Good morning," Hardik said, his voice cheerful.

Ira glanced up briefly, muttered a polite "Morning," and returned to her sketches.

🎀

Breakfast was a mix of soft idlis, fragrant coconut chutney, and Shekhar’s endless stories.

"You know," Shekhar began, pointing his fork at Ira this time, "when Shefali and I first got married, she couldn’t cook to save her life."

Shefali rolled her eyes but smiled. "And yet you still ate every bite without complaint."

"Because I valued my life!" Shekhar said with a booming laugh, earning chuckles from both Hardik and Ira.

"Do you two always bicker like this?" Hardik asked, amused.

"Only every day," Ira said dryly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

"That’s the secret to a long marriage," Shekhar said, winking at Ira. "Never stop arguing."

"You’d think the secret would be love," Hardik quipped.

"Love, patience, and a lot of forgiveness," Shefali said, her tone softer now.

Something about her words struck a chord in Hardik. He glanced at Ira, wondering if she felt it too, but her gaze was focused on her plate.

🎀

Later in the day, the rain returned, heavier than before, trapping everyone inside. The Mehtas insisted on making pakoras and chai, a combination that reminded Hardik of his childhood.

"I’ll help," Hardik offered, rolling up his sleeves.

"You?" Ira asked, one eyebrow raised.

"What? I’m not bad in the kitchen," he said defensively.

Shefali chuckled. "Let him help, Ira. It’ll be fun to see a cricketer try his hand at pakoras."

"Don’t say I didn’t warn you," Ira muttered, leaning against the counter to watch.

As Hardik attempted to mix the batter, Shefali guided him patiently, her tone gentle. But Ira couldn’t resist making sarcastic comments every time he fumbled.

"Are you making pakoras or cement?" she teased as he stirred the thick batter.

"Very funny," he shot back, a mock glare on his face.

By the time the pakoras were fried to golden perfection, the kitchen was filled with laughter and the comforting aroma of spices.

🎀

The four of them gathered in the common room with plates of steaming pakoras and cups of chai. The rain beat against the windows, but the warmth inside the house made it easy to forget the dreary weather outside.

"Hardik," Shekhar began, "what’s the craziest thing a fan has ever done for you?"

Hardik grinned. "That’s a tough one. There was this time a guy got my face tattooed on his chest. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified."

The room erupted into laughter. Even Ira, who usually stayed quiet during such conversations, looked genuinely amused.

"And you, Ira?" Shefali asked, her eyes twinkling. "What’s the craziest thing you’ve done for your art?"

Ira hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "I once painted an entire mural on a building in the middle of the night. It wasn’t exactly legal."

"Rebel artist, huh?" Hardik teased, his eyes gleaming with interest.

"I prefer the term dedicated," she retorted, her tone playful.

🎀

As the hours passed, the conversation turned more personal. Shefali shared stories of her younger days, of how she and Shekhar had built this house together, one piece at a time. Shekhar spoke of his travels and the people he’d met along the way, his words painting vivid pictures of a life well-lived.

Hardik found himself drawn to their stories, their wisdom. It reminded him of his grandparents, of a time when life had been simpler.

Ira, too, seemed to relax as the evening wore on. She laughed more freely, her usual guardedness slipping away, if only for a while.

"Do you ever feel like you’re chasing something, but you don’t know what it is?" Hardik asked suddenly, his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window.

The room fell silent for a moment.

"All the time," Ira admitted softly, surprising everyone.

Hardik turned to her, their eyes meeting. For the first time, he felt like he was starting to understand her—just a little.

🎀

As night fell, the Mehtas bid them goodnight, leaving Hardik and Ira alone in the common room.

"Do you miss it?" Ira asked, breaking the silence.

"Miss what?"

"Your old life. Cricket. The fame."

He thought for a moment before answering. "Sometimes. But it got... overwhelming. I needed a break."

She nodded, as if she understood.

"What about you? Do you ever miss... people?" he asked cautiously.

Ira’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Not really. People disappoint you. It’s easier to be alone."

"Not everyone’s like that," he said quietly.

She looked at him, her eyes unreadable. "Maybe."

They sat in silence after that, the only sound the distant roar of the waves.

For the first time in years, Hardik felt like he didn’t need to fill the silence. With Ira, it felt okay to just... be.

🎀