🎀

The morning in Mandwa began like any other—slow and unhurried. The scent of fresh earth still lingered from last night’s rain, and a crisp breeze drifted through the house. The sky was painted in soft pastels, streaks of sunlight breaking through heavy clouds, as if deciding whether to bring another downpour or let the day stay dry.

Inside the Mehta household, however, the atmosphere was anything but calm.

Shekhar Mehta leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes squinted in suspicion as he regarded Hardik and Ira, who sat across from him at the dining table. Shefali stood nearby, amused yet unimpressed, shaking her head at her husband’s theatrics.

"Tell me, Hardik beta," Shekhar began, voice low as if he were interrogating a criminal. "Are you sure you didn’t steal my mangoes?"

Hardik, halfway through sipping his chai, choked. He coughed, setting his cup down. "Mangoes? What?"

Ira smirked from beside him, casually stirring her coffee, looking completely at ease while Hardik struggled under Shekhar’s scrutinizing gaze.

"I counted them yesterday. There were six. Now there are four." Shekhar tapped the table for emphasis. "That means two are missing."

Hardik lifted his hands in surrender. "Uncle, I swear on my cricket career, I did not touch your mangoes!"

Ira, who had been silent thus far, finally spoke, her tone laced with amusement. "Well… technically, you didn’t steal them. But you did eat one last night when the lights went out."

Hardik’s head snapped toward her. "You were the one who handed it to me!"

She gave him an innocent look, taking a slow sip of her coffee. "Did I?"

"You did! You cut it up and gave me the plate!"

Shekhar gasped dramatically. "So it was you!" He turned to Shefali. "See? I told you! The boy is a mango thief!"

Shefali rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Are you seriously starting your day by fighting over mangoes, Shekhar?"

"This is not just about mangoes, Shefali. This is about trust." He narrowed his eyes at Hardik. "And I trusted you, son."

Hardik groaned. "Oh my god, this is ridiculous." He pointed at Ira. "And what about her? She ate one too!"

Shekhar waved him off. "Oh, she’s always been a troublemaker. This is expected behavior from her."

Ira grinned. "See? I get a free pass."

Hardik looked genuinely betrayed. "This is unfair."

"Life is unfair, beta," Shekhar said solemnly, shaking his head.

Shefali, having had enough of her husband’s nonsense, finally intervened. "Okay, that’s enough. Shekhar, leave the poor boy alone and go fetch me some fresh vegetables from the market."

"But—"

"No buts. Go."

Shekhar huffed but obeyed, mumbling under his breath about injustice and betrayal as he left.

With Shekhar gone, Shefali sat at the table, giving Hardik and Ira a knowing smile. "You two are getting along well, aren’t you?"

Hardik and Ira exchanged a glance.

"I wouldn’t call it getting along exactly," Ira said, taking another sip of coffee.

Hardik nodded. "Yeah, it’s more like… tolerating each other."

Shefali chuckled. "You remind me of me and Shekhar when we were younger. We fought about everything, but in the end, we couldn’t imagine life without each other."

Ira snorted. "Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here."

Hardik leaned back, smirking. "Exactly. Ira would probably set me on fire if she got the chance."

Ira tapped her fingers on the table, pretending to think. "Not a bad idea, actually."

Shefali laughed. "You two are impossible." Then, after a moment, she turned serious. "But jokes aside… it’s nice to have company in this house. The last few months have been quiet with just Ira here. And now with both of you around, it feels… lively again."

Hardik glanced at Ira, who looked away, focusing on her coffee. She wasn’t the kind of person who liked sentimental conversations, he had noticed. But Shefali wasn’t wrong—despite all the banter and teasing, there was an undeniable comfort in their little group.

"Anyway," Shefali continued, "I have to go check on some things in the backyard. You two behave."

As she left, Hardik stretched his arms above his head. "Well, that was an interesting morning."

Ira smirked. "You mean, you getting accused of mango theft? Yeah, very interesting."

"Next time, I’m blaming you immediately."

"You can try, but Shekhar uncle will always take my side."

Hardik groaned. "Unbelievable."

🎀

Later that afternoon, the two found themselves in the living room, Hardik flipping through a book he had no intention of reading, and Ira sketching in her notebook.

"You draw a lot," Hardik commented.

Ira didn’t look up. "I’m an artist. It’s what I do."

"Do you sell them?"

"Sometimes," she said vaguely.

He studied her, noticing how focused she was, the way her brows knitted slightly as her pencil moved across the paper. "Can I see?"

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before closing the sketchbook and handing it to him.

Hardik flipped through the pages, genuinely impressed. "These are really good."

Ira simply shrugged.

He paused at one particular sketch—it was the view from the terrace, the way the sky melted into the sea, captured in delicate pencil strokes.

"You really like this place, huh?" he asked.

Ira finally met his gaze. "Yeah. It’s quiet. Peaceful."

Hardik nodded, understanding. He had come here seeking the same thing.

For a moment, there was silence. Not an awkward one, but something softer, more comfortable.

Then—

"I knew you two could have a civilized conversation if left alone!"

They both turned to find Shefali standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, a triumphant smile on her face.

Hardik groaned. "Are we ever going to get privacy in this house?"

Shefali winked. "Not if I can help it."

And just like that, the peace was gone.

But neither of them minded as much as they pretended to.

🎀

The afternoon stretched on lazily, the kind that made time feel slower in a place like Mandwa. Outside, the rain clouds had disappeared, leaving behind a humid warmth in the air. Inside the house, however, the ceiling fans whirred softly, filling the silence between two unlikely companions.

Hardik and Ira sat on opposite ends of the living room, the large wooden coffee table between them cluttered with an assortment of things—an open sketchbook, a half-read newspaper, and an abandoned cup of chai that had long since gone cold.

Hardik, now thoroughly invested in flipping through Ira’s sketches, pointed at a particular drawing. It wasn’t of the ocean or the house this time—it was a portrait. Of an older woman. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, and there was something about the way Ira had captured the softness in her eyes that made the image feel… personal.

"Who’s this?" he asked.

Ira hesitated, then shrugged. "My mother."

Hardik glanced up at her. She was looking at the sketch, but her expression was unreadable.

"You draw her often?" he asked carefully.

"Not really." Ira reached forward and pulled the sketchbook from his hands, closing it before leaning back against the couch. "It just… happens sometimes."

Hardik understood that tone—the kind that meant she didn’t want to talk about it. So he let it go. Instead, he smirked. "You’ve drawn Shekhar uncle twice, but not Shefali aunty. That’s going to cause problems."

Ira chuckled. "Shefali aunty poses for sketches. Shekhar uncle doesn’t, so I have to catch him off guard."

"Why do I feel like you enjoy messing with him?"

"Because I do." She smirked. "But then again, so do you."

Hardik couldn’t argue with that.

Just then, Shekhar’s voice rang out from the kitchen. "Ira! Hardik! Where’s Shefali? This woman left me in charge of making chai, and I think I’ve started a fire!"

Ira groaned. "Not again."

Hardik’s eyes widened. "Wait, again?"

Before she could answer, they heard Shefali’s voice from outside. "Shekhar, if you’ve ruined my kitchen, I’m throwing you in the sea!"

Hardik burst out laughing, while Ira sighed dramatically. "Come on, let’s go stop a potential disaster."

They hurried to the kitchen, where Shekhar was standing in front of the stove, looking entirely too calm for someone who had nearly set the kettle on fire. The smell of burnt tea leaves filled the air.

Shefali marched in, arms crossed. "Shekhar!"

"Relax, relax," he said, waving her off. "The house is still standing, isn’t it?"

"Because I am the one keeping it standing," Shefali shot back.

Ira, unimpressed, turned off the stove and looked at the mess. "Uncle, how did you even manage to mess up chai?"

"It’s an art," he said solemnly. "A skill only few can master."

Hardik smirked. "By that logic, you should never make chai again."

Shekhar clutched his heart dramatically. "Et tu, Hardik?"

Shefali rolled her eyes. "I should have just left Ira in charge."

Ira grinned. "See, aunty? You finally admit that I’m the most responsible one here."

Hardik scoffed. "Yeah, okay, let’s not get carried away."

Shefali ignored them and pointed to Shekhar. "You’re banned from the kitchen for the next month."

"A month? That’s excessive!"

"You almost burned my kettle, Shekhar!"

Hardik leaned in and muttered to Ira, "Should we leave them to this?"

She nodded. "Absolutely."

As they sneaked out of the kitchen, Shekhar’s dramatic protests continued, and Shefali’s scolding followed right after.

Back in the living room, Hardik and Ira flopped onto the couch.

"Living here is never boring," Hardik remarked.

Ira smirked. "You can still run back to Mumbai, you know."

Hardik glanced at her, then shook his head. "Nah. I think I’ll stick around."

And for the first time in a while, he actually meant it.

🎀