chapter 14

The skies over Ahmedabad turned a moody gray as heavy monsoon clouds rolled in. Rain began to pour in sheets, splattering against the windows and filling the air with the earthy scent of wet soil. Aarti stood on her balcony, hugging her cup of chai, watching the rain dance on the city below. The tulsi plant Kabir had gifted her seemed to glisten under the downpour.  “Enjoying the view, Mehta?” Kabir called out from his balcony, stepping out with his own cup of steaming chai. He had draped a towel around his neck, his hair slightly damp from the drizzle.  “More like reminiscing,” Aarti replied, turning to him. “There’s something about rain that feels nostalgic, doesn’t it?”  Kabir leaned on the railing, sipping his chai. “Absolutely. Rain and memories go hand in hand. For me, it’s all about chai and pakoras. What about you?”  “Uttarayan,” Aarti said with a wistful smile. “Every year during the kite festival, my family would gather on our terrace, and we’d spend the whole day flying kites and shouting ‘Kai po che!"”  Kabir’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the ultimate Gujarati experience! Did you ever win?”  “Obviously,” Aarti said, pretending to look offended. “I was the champion in our society. I’d cut at least ten kites every Uttarayan. My dad and I made the perfect team.”  Kabir chuckled. “I can picture it - Aarti Mehta, the kite-fighting warrior.”  She laughed. “It’s a serious skill, Singh. You’d never survive.”  “Oh, challenge accepted,” Kabir said, raising his cup in mock defiance. “You’ll see. Next Uttarayan, I’ll beat you.”  “Big words for someone who probably hasn’t even flown a kite before,” Aarti teased.  “Excuse me,” Kabir replied, feigning indignation. “I grew up in Delhi. We have kite flying competitions during Lohri too, you know. I may not be Gujarati, but I know how to fly a kite.”  As the rain grew heavier, Aarti leaned on the railing, looking at the water pooling below. “You mentioned chai and pakoras earlier. Is that your monsoon thing?”  Kabir nodded, a fond smile on his face. “It’s a tradition in my family. Every time it rained, my mom would make crispy onion pakoras with mint chutney, and we’d all sit by the window, eating and laughing. I swear, nothing tastes better than that.”  “That sounds amazing,” Aarti said. “We didn’t do pakoras, but my mom would make steaming hot thepla with mango pickle whenever it rained. I can still smell it just thinking about it.”  The conversation turned quieter as they both watched the rain together. Aarti broke the silence. “You know, rain always makes me think about my childhood. Life was simpler then—no responsibilities, no heartbreaks. Just joy.”  Kabir glanced at her, sensing the emotion behind her words. “Heartbreaks are tough, huh?”  She nodded. “It’s why I moved here. I needed a fresh start after… well, after things didn’t work out.”  Kabir stayed silent for a moment before saying, “I get it. The rain has a way of digging up old memories, good and bad. But maybe it’s also about making new ones.”  Aarti looked at him thoughtfully. “You’re surprisingly insightful, Singh.”  “I have my moments,” he said with a small grin. “So, let’s make this monsoon a memorable one. What’s next on the agenda? Flying kites in the rain?”  Aarti laughed. “Kites and rain don’t mix. "As they stood there, the rain finally easing into a gentle drizzle, both Aarti and Kabir realized something—they were no longer just neighbors sharing a balcony. The monsoon had brought with it not just memories but also a sense of connection, growing steadily stronger with every shared moment.. To be continue...