कुछ मुलाक़ातें बेवक़्त नहीं होतीं, बस हम वक़्त पर नहीं होते।

♡♡♡♡♡

Tara
— 4 Years Ago. July. 6:40 PM —

One of those classic Bombay evenings where the humidity feels personal and your jeans start rethinking every decision that led them to this moment. The kind of Bombay evening where the air feels sticky and personal. My jeans are glued to my legs, and I can literally feel my bag strap leaving a sweat line across my shoulder. I Just finished trial shift at the art store in Colaba—the one that smells like Camlin glue and unasked-for opinions. I'm already late. Phone's dead. Of course it is. And this Uber guy is arguing with me over ₹30 like it's his family inheritance. He gave me wrong change and now somehow, I'm the problem.

I'm standing outside Regal Cinema, soaked head to toe, clutching my tote bag like it's about to run away, while he keeps waving the notes in my face and muttering like I've personally betrayed him. And I still have no idea how I'm getting home.

"No bhaiya, I gave you a hundred," I said again, with that kind of dead energy that only happens when you're fully soaked and emotionally bankrupt.

He gave me the usual routine blank stare, dramatic shrug, then started patting his shirt and jeans like the note might magically reappear if he performed the right puja.

"Aapne diya kya? Mujhe toh pachaas yaad hai."

"Main scanner hoon kya?" I snapped. "Note ka memory chip yaad rakhne ke liye?"

He squinted at me like I was the scammer. Full offended-uncle energy. Then came the classic move he pulled out his wallet and fanned out every note like it was Exhibit A. As if I'd suddenly go, 'Oh right, my ₹100 clearly shapeshifted into two ₹10s and a crumpled ₹20. Silly me.'

"Dekhiye madam, chhutta nahi hai," he said, holding up a lone ₹10 like he was offering gold.

"Toh main kya karoon? Change ka jugaad main karun?" I said. "Bhaiyya, I just spent six hours smelling Fevicol. Don't test me."

At this point, I was standing in an ankle-deep puddle, soaked from the shoulders down, holding my tote bag like I might actually use it as a weapon. And that's when the guy next to me chimed in, deadpan:

"You should tell him you work for Income Tax. It works sometimes."

I turned, ready to snap , honestly, anyone talking to me at that point was taking their life into their own hands. But I stopped. He's tall-ish. Fully soaked. Hair stuck to his forehead. T-shirt clinging like it's done trying. He's not smirking or trying to be clever—just standing there like this is his third argument of the day and mine's the only one that's mildly entertaining.

"What?" I snap, half glare, half confused.

He shrugs. "Just saying. Scares them more than logic."

I stare. One beat. Two. He doesn't look away, doesn't smile just holds his ground like this is normal.

"You actually think I look like someone from Income Tax?"

"Not even slightly," he says. "But you do look like you're two minutes away from throwing a slipper."

I don't mean to but I snort. Just a bit. It slips out. Fine. That was decent. The cab guy finally gives up and drives off, still mumbling like I just robbed him. I'm standing there, drenched, shoes squishing, air so thick I feel like I'm breathing through soup. My bag's digging into my shoulder. My brain's already done for the day. He doesn't walk away. Just stands there like maybe this is his stop too, or maybe he doesn't want to leave first.

I don't thank him. He didn't really do anything. And I don't have it in me to start a conversation. I'm somewhere between please leave me alone and if one more thing goes wrong, I'm crying in the middle of Colaba.

After a few seconds, he goes,
"You okay?"

I look at him. "Define okay. I'm 70% rainwater and 30% bad decisions right now."

He smiled. Not creepy, not flirty. Just one of those tired, "yep, same boat" smiles. Honestly, it made me feel less insane. We stood there under the Regal sign like two people waiting for life to buffer. No umbrella. No idea what we were doing. Just... damp and done.

"My Uber's stuck at Marine Lines," he said, checking his phone.

"Cool," I said. "My phone's dead, so I'm just kind of... existing."

He nodded. Like yeah, of course it is. Of course this is happening. Bombay monsoon logic.

Then he goes, "Want to share a ride?"
Very casual. "If you're okay with that. And assuming you don't think I'm a murderer."

I looked at him. "You don't look like a murderer."

He shrugged. "That's exactly what a murderer would want you to think."

Honestly, I said yes because I couldn't deal with thinking anymore. Not about Ubers. Not about life. Also, my left shoe was making this sad squelching noise every time I shifted weight, and I was starting to take it personally. And he had that kind of voice calm, dry, not performative. Like he wouldn't force a conversation just to fill the silence. That was rare. Plus, it was still raining, my jeans felt like they'd been soaked in regret, and my dupatta had fused to my neck like cling film.

We got into the Uber a tiny white WagonR that smelled like Dettol and like someone had tried to cover up sadness with an air freshener called "Summer Breeze." The driver gave us one of those looks — like he'd already had a long day and this wasn't going to help but he didn't say anything. Just started driving.

We sat in silence for the first few minutes. The rain was loud, hammering the roof like it was trying to start a fight. The windows fogged up instantly. I wiped mine with the side of my hand, then gave up and just doodled a smiley face in the mist. Out of nowhere, he pulled a travel-size pack of tissues out of his bag and held one out toward me. 

I took it. "Thanks," I said, like I hadn't already wiped my face with the sleeve of my kurta three times.

He nodded. "You looked like you were about to lose the will to live."

"Not yet," I said. "But close."

A small laugh. The normal kind. Not forced.

"Long day?" he asked.

"Trial shift. Colaba. My shoes gave up on me somewhere near Leopold."

He looked down at my feet. "You walked barefoot?"

"No, I emotionally manipulated them into surviving."

He laughed again. "That's very Bombay of you."

I shrugged. "I try."

More silence. But it was fine. He didn't do that thing some guys do where they try to fill every gap with questions or comments or unnecessary facts about cryptocurrency. I checked my phone. Still dead.

"Need a charger?" he asked.

"Nah," I said. "Let it die. I'm ignoring three people and a bank alert anyway."

"That's fair."

We hit a stretch of traffic near Churchgate, and the driver groaned loudly like this was news to him. The rain didn't let up. My jeans were sticking to the seat. The air inside the car felt like hot soup.

"My building's coming up," I said eventually, pointing.

He nodded. "Cool."

When we stopped, I opened the door, then hesitated for half a second. I don't know why.

"Hey," he said, before I could step out. "In case you ever want to emotionally manipulate your shoes again..."

He held out his phone. "Maybe I can be moral support?"

I blinked at him. It was such a weirdly specific thing to say, but somehow it made sense. I gave him my number. Took his too, even though my phone was still dead.

"Name?" I asked.

"Aarav."

"Tara."

We didn't shake hands. Nobody ever does in the rain. I got out. Landed straight into a puddle so deep I actually gasped. Just one final kick from the universe. I waved back at the car, mostly out of politeness. He waved too, like we were both aware of how oddly unawkward that whole thing had been.

Later that night, I dried off, made Maggi, and plugged in my phone. His name was still there in recent calls. I saved his name as Aarav - Uber guy. I didn't text him. He didn't text either. It wasn't a big deal. Just a very wet, very Bombay kind of evening. But I had his number now. And I kind of liked knowing that.

But then four days later, at 8:12 a.m., I got a text:

"Still alive in this monsoon?" No name. No hello. No weird opener. Just that. Like he'd resumed a conversation we never started. I stared at it for a second, smirked, and replied: "Barely. The city smells like a wet sock." And that was it. We didn't start talking. We just... talked. Little pings in the middle of boring afternoons. A "How do people in Bandra survive on one lung?" here. A "Chai at that Churchgate tapri still slaps" there. Some people barge into your life. He sort of knocked and waited, cup of tea in hand.

About two weeks after the Uber thing, he texted me at 5:30 p.m.: "Are you busy not liking people today?"

I replied: "Actively."

"Want to meet at the crossword on Kemp's Corner and judge book covers?"

"If there's tea involved." 

"Obviously."

~~~~~~~~~~~

We met again. Not a date. Just... whatever comes before it becomes one. I got there a little early. Was killing time by pretending to care about the sale bin. Picked up a book with such a cringe title I almost felt secondhand embarrassment. He walked in looking like the kind of person who spends ten minutes tying his laces but never notices his shirt's creased.

First thing he said: "That book cover should come with a warning."

I held it up. "Apparently there's a twist where the ghost becomes a motivational speaker."

He winced. "Who writes this stuff? IPC Section something-something. Immediate jail."

It was easy, being around him. We didn't do the whole 'let's get to know each other' thing. We judged books. Talked about ugly fonts. He picked up Kafka on the Shore, flipped a few pages, and went, "This one made me feel like I didn't know how to read anymore." We didn't even sit anywhere fancy. Just walked around for a bit. Got vada pav from that cart where the uncle always looks angry at the world. Found a random bench, the kind that always smells slightly like pigeons, and sat. The sky was doing that orange-pink thing it does right before it decides to pour again. 

Somewhere in between, I told him I sketch. He didn't react big. Didn't ask to see my work or say some fake line about how "that's so cool."

He just nodded and went, "Makes sense."

I asked what he did. "I design temporary stuff. Infrastructure stuff. Tunnels, bridges... not the exciting kind."

I laughed. "So basically the opposite of sketching."

He looked out at the road and shrugged. "Yeah. Probably why I like talking to you."

That night, when I got home, I pulled out my red sketchbook. I didn't really think about it. I just... drew his hand. The way he was holding that paper chai cup earlier. Napkin folded under it. Thumb tucked in a bit. That's all. Not sure why. It just felt like something worth keeping.

~~~~~~~~

We didn't really decide to keep meeting it just happened. Like how one chai break becomes two, and then suddenly you're the kind of person who knows someone's go-to order and the exact angle they tilt their head when they're pretending to listen.

We had our spots. The tapri near Churchgate with the chipped glasses. The bookstore with the broken A/C and weird cat. The park bench where someone had carved "Kunal ❤️ Tandoori Momos." Some weeks we met twice. Some weeks not at all. But there was a rhythm. A quiet consistency.

He'd send texts like: "I just saw a man walking a cat on a leash. Bandra is lawless." Or: "Which font says 'hire me' but also 'I'm chill'?" I'd reply with memes or voice notes or badly drawn doodles of chai cups with feelings.

It wasn't a thing. We never called it that. But I wasn't not thinking about him, either. Eventually, I started showing up at his place sometimes. He once made me watch a documentary about bridge collapses while I tried to sketch in peace. I told him he was the weirdest person I sort-of-liked. He didn't deny it.

Once, I accidentally fell asleep on his couch mid-conversation. Woke up to find he'd tossed a blanket over me, put my phone on charge, and left a sticky note on the table that said:
"Didn't want to wake you. Also you drooled. Slightly."

~~~~~~~~

Two, maybe three months after that first Uber ride, we were supposed to grab lunch — nothing fancy, just thali at this place he claimed was "better than it looked." Right before I left, he texted: "Can we make a quick stop? Need to drop something at my Ma's." I said sure. I wasn't dressed fancy just a kurta that didn't wrinkle too loudly and flats that had survived three monsoons.

We reached his building, took the stairs because the lift was "temperamental," and then we were at her door. She opened it before he could even knock properly. Wearing a simple cotton saree and a smile that looked practiced — not in a fake way, but like she'd hosted a hundred weddings and still remembered everyone's names.

"You're Tara?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yes, hi."

She looked at Aarav, smirked, and said, "She looks smarter than you."

He made a face. I smiled, half-nervous.

She let us in like she'd been expecting me all along. The house was tidy but lived-in — fridge magnets, two drying mugs near the sink, one corner with too many potted plants. Comforting. Familiar. She handed him a cloth bag and said something about sending pickles to his mama's house. Then she turned to me and asked:

"So what do you do, beta?"

I told her about the art stuff — not in too much detail, just enough.

"Freelance?" she asked, like she was confirming a rumor.

"Mostly, yeah."

She nodded. "Good. Flexible work. But tell me, do you believe in kundli matching?"

Aarav groaned. I blinked.

"Uh... not really," I said.

"Good," she replied. "Half the time the pandits just guess."

She handed me a plate of besan laddoos like we'd crossed some invisible test.
I ate one. It was excellent. Of course.

She kept going: "Your parents live in Mumbai?"

"Yeah, not too far."

"What's your birth time?"

Aarav: "Ma."

She waved him off: "What? I'm just asking!"

I didn't have a clear answer for the birth time, so she gave me a knowing look and said, "It's okay, I'll guess. You look like a Capricorn." I wasn't, but I nodded anyway.

Later, while we were waiting for the auto, I asked him, "Does she grill all your friends like that?"

He shrugged. "You're the first one she's grilled in like... three years."

I pretended not to hear that part. Things didn't change overnight after that. There was still no "us." Just more shared meals, badly timed jokes, inside memes. I started spending more time at his place. We didn't call it anything. Sometimes I'd sit on his balcony sketching while he read boring books about infrastructure. He made elaichi tea with way too much elaichi, every time.

"You know one day I'm throwing that spice jar into the sea," I told him.

He didn't even look up. "You're so dramatic."

I actually did hide the jar one day behind his Wi-Fi modem. He found it in ten minutes, rolled his eyes, and made tea anyway. No one mentioned it again.

One night, on his terrace, it had just rained. The tiles were still wet. We stood by the railing watching the lights flicker over Mumbai.

I asked, "Where do you want to go next?"

He said, "Maybe Singapore. Or Germany. Someplace where roads aren't made of lies and jugaad."

"You want to leave?"

He shrugged. "I just want options."

I didn't say anything. I didn't have anything smart to say.

We stood there for a long time, not talking much, listening to someone's loud TV in the next building and a scooter backfiring downstairs. I didn't know what this was between us. But I liked it. It wasn't loud or perfect or social-media-worthy. It just... was. And honestly? That was enough. Especially in a city where even silence feels like a luxury.

***********

Everyone thinks love starts with violins or dramatic rain-soaked confessions.
But honestly? Sometimes it starts with a weird Uber ride, stolen tissues, and two people silently judging book fonts. And suddenly you're on a bench that smells like pigeons, thinking, "Okay... this isn't terrible."

Anyway —
Ever had someone surprise you in a really low-effort, oddly cute way?
Like bringing you fries without asking. Or remembering your exact chai ratio?

See you in next chapter.