🎀

The house was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic drumming of rain against the windows. It was one of those nights when the world outside seemed like a different place entirely—shrouded in darkness, washed clean by the relentless downpour. Shefali and Shekhar had gone out earlier in the day to visit a nearby relative and weren’t expected back until the following morning.

Hardik sat on the couch in the living room, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. His baggy sweatshirt and joggers hinted at how he was leaning into the slower pace of life here. Ira was at her usual spot near the window, her sketchbook balanced on her lap as she worked on something that seemed to demand her full attention.

“You’ve been quiet,” Hardik remarked, breaking the silence.

“I usually am,” she replied without looking up, her pencil moving deftly across the page.

Hardik smirked but didn’t press further. He had learned in the past few days that Ira had her rhythms, and pushing her never yielded anything productive. Instead, he turned his attention back to his phone, but before he could unlock it, the lights flickered.

“Uh-oh,” he muttered.

As if on cue, the house was plunged into complete darkness.

“Great,” Ira murmured, closing her sketchbook with a sigh.

“Looks like the storm took out the power,” Hardik said, his tone lighter than the situation warranted.

Ira stood and walked toward the kitchen. “There should be some candles here somewhere. I’ll find them.”

“I’ll help,” Hardik offered, grabbing his phone to use its flashlight.

They rummaged through the drawers in the kitchen, Ira’s movements purposeful while Hardik shuffled behind her.

“You seem oddly calm about this,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Power outages are normal in places like this. You’ll get used to it,” she replied, pulling out a box of candles. “Here, light this.”

Hardik fumbled with the matchbox, managing to light a candle on his third attempt. The flame cast a warm, flickering glow over the room, softening the sharp edges of Ira’s features.

“Not bad for a city boy,” she said, a hint of teasing in her voice.

He chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The storm raged on outside, the rain pounding harder as thunder rolled in the distance. They carried the candles to the living room, placing them on the coffee table. The dim light gave the space an intimate, almost otherworldly feel.

Hardik plopped back onto the couch, stretching his legs out. “So, what do people in Mandwa do when the power goes out?”

“They wait,” Ira replied, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table.

“Sounds riveting,” he said, leaning forward. “Come on, you must have something to pass the time.”

She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I usually sketch or read. Sometimes I just sit and listen to the rain.”

“Sounds... peaceful,” he admitted.

“It is,” she said, her tone softer than usual.

The thunder grew louder, a particularly sharp crack making Ira flinch ever so slightly. Hardik noticed but said nothing, choosing instead to lean back and watch her as she absently traced patterns on the edge of the coffee table with her finger.

“You’re not scared of storms, are you?” he asked after a while.

She shot him a look. “Of course not.”

“Really?” he pressed, grinning. “Because that jump earlier said otherwise.”

“I didn’t jump,” she said firmly, though the faint color rising to her cheeks betrayed her.

He laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. “It’s okay to be scared, you know. Thunder can be pretty intimidating.”

“I’m not scared of thunder,” she insisted, rolling her eyes. “I just... don’t like sudden loud noises.”

“Fair enough,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

The conversation drifted from the storm to lighter topics—travel, food, and random memories from their lives. Hardik shared a story about his first match in a tiny local league, where he’d bowled three wides in a row before finally taking a wicket.

“And the crowd went wild,” he said, gesturing animatedly.

Ira chuckled, a sound that felt rare and precious. “Sounds like you were born for drama.”

“Not drama,” he corrected. “Passion.”

“Same thing,” she teased.

He shook his head, grinning. “What about you? Any dramatic art stories?”

She hesitated, then said, “Once, I spent an entire month working on a painting for an exhibition. The night before it was due, I hated it so much I painted over the whole thing.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Ended up submitting something I finished in two hours. It actually won an award,” she said, her tone equal parts bemused and proud.

“Impressive,” he said, genuinely. “You’re braver than I thought.”

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“Good or bad?”

“Not sure yet,” she said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

The storm seemed to intensify as the night wore on, the wind howling like a living thing. Hardik stood and walked to the window, watching the rain blur the world outside.

“You ever feel like storms are alive?” he asked, his voice thoughtful.

Ira looked up from where she was doodling in the corner of her sketchbook. “What do you mean?”

“Like they have moods. Personalities. This one feels... angry.”

She joined him at the window, standing a few feet away. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just nature being nature.”

“Always so practical,” he said, glancing at her.

“Someone has to be,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the storm.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the distance between them feeling smaller than it had in days.

When the power finally returned, the sudden brightness was almost jarring.

“Looks like the storm’s losing its edge,” Hardik said, turning back toward the room.

Ira nodded, but her expression was thoughtful, as if she were still caught in the rhythm of the rain.

“Thanks for the company,” he said, his tone light.

“Don’t get used to it,” she replied, though her words lacked their usual bite.

As they cleaned up the candles and prepared to head to their rooms, Hardik couldn’t shake the feeling that the storm had done more than just cut the power. It had shifted something between them—a subtle change, but one that felt significant.

And for the first time since he’d arrived in Mandwa, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow.

🎀

The morning sunlight filtered through the palm trees, dancing across the living room floor of the Mehta house. After last night's rainstorm, the air smelled fresh, the heavy humidity replaced with a crispness that hinted at a perfect day ahead. The atmosphere inside the house was equally bright, buzzing with the warmth of camaraderie.

Shefali bustled around the kitchen, humming an old song, while Hardik lounged at the dining table, nursing his coffee. Shekhar sat nearby, reading the newspaper, occasionally grumbling about the headlines. Ira emerged from her room, bleary-eyed and clutching her sketchpad.

“Good morning,” Ira muttered as she joined the others, sliding into the chair across from Hardik.

“Morning, Rathod,” Hardik said, grinning at her disheveled appearance. “Rough night?”

“Let’s just say sketching by candlelight isn’t ideal,” she shot back, resting her head on the table.

“Shekhar, why don’t you get the generator fixed?” Shefali quipped, setting a plate of steaming parathas on the table.

Shekhar looked up from his newspaper. “The generator works fine! It’s just... picky.”

“Picky?” Ira raised an eyebrow. “It’s a generator, not a gourmet chef.”

Hardik chuckled. “I think the real reason is he doesn’t want to spend money on it.”

“Exactly!” Shekhar said, as if that were a valid argument. “Why fix something that works... occasionally?”

“Your logic is bulletproof,” Shefali said sarcastically.

The breakfast table turned into a battlefield of banter. Hardik leaned back, watching the dynamic between the Mehtas and Ira unfold like a well-rehearsed comedy.

“You know, Rathod,” Shekhar began, addressing Ira, “you’ve been here for months, and I’ve yet to see you help in the kitchen.”

“That’s because I’d probably burn it down,” Ira replied, unbothered.

“She’s an artist, Shekhar,” Shefali defended. “Her talent lies elsewhere.”

“She’s also lazy,” Shekhar muttered under his breath.

“I heard that,” Ira said, throwing a piece of paratha at him.

Hardik laughed, shaking his head. “This place is better than any reality show I’ve seen.”

“Careful, Pandya,” Ira warned, pointing her fork at him. “You’re next.”

“Me?” Hardik feigned innocence. “I’ve been nothing but a model guest.”

“Model guest, my foot!” Shekhar exclaimed. “You’re always raiding the fridge at midnight.”

“That’s because your food is irresistible,” Hardik shot back.

“See?” Shefali interjected, patting Hardik’s shoulder. “At least someone appreciates my cooking.”

Shekhar looked betrayed. “Traitor.”

“I’m just stating facts,” Hardik said, smirking.

As the conversation veered into a friendly debate over who was the most chaotic in the house, Ira suddenly spoke up. “Alright, teams. Shefali and Hardik on one side, Shekhar and me on the other. Let’s settle this.”

“Settle what?” Shekhar asked, looking intrigued.

“Who’s the most useless in the house,” Ira replied with mock seriousness.

Shefali gasped dramatically. “How dare you!”

“She’s not wrong,” Hardik said, winking at Shefali. “But I’m clearly the MVP here.”

“Excuse me?” Ira said, narrowing her eyes. “You think you contribute more than me?”

“Absolutely,” Hardik replied, leaning forward.

“Alright,” Shefali said, clapping her hands. “Let’s settle this with a game of carrom.”

“Perfect,” Ira said, her competitive spirit ignited. “Prepare to lose, Pandya.”

The carrom board was set up in the living room. Shefali and Hardik took one side, while Ira and Shekhar sat on the other.

Shefali turned out to be surprisingly skilled, sinking coins with ease. “Experience beats youth, every time,” she said smugly after scoring a difficult shot.

Hardik grinned. “And teamwork,” he added, offering Shefali a high-five.

Ira scowled. “They’re getting cocky, Shekhar. We need a strategy.”

“Distract them,” Shekhar suggested, winking.

“I’m on it,” Ira said. As Hardik lined up his next shot, she let out an exaggerated yawn. “Boring!”

Hardik’s hand wavered, and he missed.

“That’s cheating!” Hardik exclaimed.

“All’s fair in carrom and banter,” Ira said with a smirk.

The game continued with intense focus and more playful sabotage. Shefali and Hardik narrowly won, much to Ira and Shekhar’s frustration.

“This isn’t over,” Ira declared as she cleared the board.

“Anytime, Rathod,” Hardik replied, grinning.

As the laughter settled, Shekhar leaned back, looking at the group. “You know, this house hasn’t been this lively in years.”

“It’s because we’re awesome,” Ira said, nudging Shekhar.

Shefali smiled warmly. “You two have definitely brought a new energy to this place. It’s like having a family again.”

Hardik glanced around, his heart warming at the sentiment. For the first time in a long while, he felt a sense of belonging that went beyond the cricket field.

“Here’s to more banter wars,” he said, raising his glass of chai.

“Cheers to that,” Ira replied, clinking her glass with his.

The room filled with laughter once more, the sound blending with the distant waves crashing against the shore.

🎀