Mumbai rains were never just about water falling from the sky — they were a full-blown assault on the senses.
The clouds had already gathered above Nariman Point, heavy and brooding like the thoughts in my head. Soon, the downpour would begin — sudden, unforgiving. Drains would overflow with black water, mixing filth and plastic, and the streets would disappear beneath knee-deep floods. Rickshaws would stall, traffic would freeze, and that familiar smell of wet garbage and diesel would rise again — pungent and inescapable.
I stood up to get us a chai — two cutting glasses, strong and sweet.
Disha didn’t want to leave just yet, and I didn’t have it in me to argue. We were going to part ways soon. Letting her have this — even in the looming chaos of Mumbai’s monsoon — felt like the least I could do.
As I walked toward the hawker, I thought he’d be looking to maximize sales before the rain hit.
“Two cutting. It’s going to pour soon — hope you’ve made enough for the day?” I asked.
He smiled and handed me the two cups.
I came back to where Disha was sitting and joined her. She wasn’t bothered by the Mumbai rain. In fact, she loved it. Her hair blew gently in the wind. It looked beautiful — even with a few strands of silver showing. Or maybe, because of them.
“All these years of living here, and today’s the first time we’ve come here alone. Just the two of us,” I said, breaking the silence.
She sipped her tea and looked at me. “We were so focused on being a team that we forgot how to be a couple.”
I smiled, looked at a flight on the horizon and said, “And now that she’s gone… I don’t know where we are.”
“I thought we’d made up our minds about where we want to be,” she said, almost teasing.
I nodded with a faint smile.
“You always thought I didn’t know you. I always tried — or at least I thought I did. But you were a mystery,” I said, sipping the tea.
“Mystery? As in?” she asked, with a mischievous smile.
“Like this chai. You only like it in places like this, during the rains. Otherwise, you prefer coffee.”
I blurted out the first thought that came to my mind. For some reason, I didn’t have to measure my words anymore.
“You weren’t that easy to figure out either. I mean — who sings when they’re stressed?” she returned the favour. We both laughed out loud. She rested her head on my shoulder.
I had butterflies in my stomach.
“Acha, listen... tell me three things about me,” she said, tying her hair back with the band that had been sitting on her wrist.
“Gosh, she was beautiful,” I thought to myself. The thought of losing her soon crept into my mind — and it hurt.
She snapped her fingers, bringing me back.
“Oh… yes, sorry… uhh… one — you like chai here, but at home, it’s always coffee. Two — you’re a water baby. But more than being in the water, you love watching it from the shore. And three — you love watching cricket.”
“Not bad, Mr. Sharma. Not bad at all,” she said, making that cute face.
Why did I not notice her all this while? I cursed myself.
“Your turn,” I said.
She sipped the last of her tea and looked at me. “You love playing cricket. You hum songs when you’re working or stressed. And… you secretly enjoy Hindi daily soaps.”
We both laughed out loud. Together. Again.
I gathered the courage to bring up what had been hovering between us.
“I never really looked at you… not like this. Not until today.”
She glanced at me and asked softly, “What do you mean?”
I was sure she knew. I could hear her almost blushing.
“I noticed the little lines near your eyes when you smiled. The dimple on your left cheek — it’s deeper when you’re amused, not just polite. I think I spent the last two decades living next to you, not with you.”
She nodded slowly, still looking out at the ocean. “We got married before we even knew who we were — let alone who we were to each other. Then Anya came along, and everything shifted. She became our glue… and sometimes, our wall.”
She paused, watching the sun melt into the sea.
I feared I might sound cheesy, but I said it anyway. “There were so many nights I wanted to reach out — after a fight, after one of those long silences — but I didn’t know how.”
There was a brief pause. I sat there, embarrassed by the weight of what I’d said. She was supposed to walk away in some time — forever. And I didn’t want her to.
“Neither did I,” she said. “I was always tired, always trying to be strong. I thought maybe that’s what love looked like after a while — just endurance.”
“And now here we are,” I said, looking into her eyes. “The day we promised we’d go our separate ways.”
My eyes were almost pleading. I looked away, afraid of what she might say. And then I asked, “Do you still want that?”
“I used to think I did. I used to think once Anya left, I’d finally breathe freely. But today… I don’t want to leave with this hole in my chest.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but she interrupted.
“Somewhere in the mess, I think I still care about you. Not out of duty. But because… I see you now.”
I reached out and held her hand gently. With a lump in my throat, I said, “And I see you. Not as Anya’s mother, not as my co-parent… just as you. Maybe it’s too late to start over. But maybe we don’t have to start over — maybe we just start from here.”
She smiled through her tears. “From here sounds good. No promises, no expectations. Just... honesty. And time.”
“And maybe next time, I’ll notice the dimple before the distance,” I said, like a teenage boy in love.
It began to rain before she could respond. She rested her head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her. We stayed there, unmoved, as the rain fell harder.
I was in love with the Mumbai rains.
The empty nest had finally become our happily ever after!
React
