KATHA

9 KALKI - TEA STORY

After two days of staying out of the city and dealing with bloody issues at my ports in Surat, I kind of decided to end Bulbul Samrat sooner rather than later. I got home only to have Kiss in my face blabbering on about how our serial killer took down another middle aged man in the same way. Harshvardhan Sinha was a popular merchant and his death was all over the news. Somehow it was always men. Which screamed that the woman had somehow been the victim at the hands of these runts and this was her vengeance raining blood across the city.

Good.

"How's the investigation of their criminal records going on ?"

"No clues yet."

"Did you find anything except for the obvious, Kiss ?"

"No." With a bored look, I walked past him towards the grand marble staircase but stopped when he added,

"But I did find something about your newest obsession."

"I'm listening."

"A little birdie told me she runs a cozy little establishment downtown. Tea Story. Colaba Causeway."

The moment he spoke those words, I climbed up the stairs with a racing heart. I took a quick bath, dressed in a loose black shirt and slacks, slipped on my shoes and left the room after dousing myself in faint cologne. I was so desparate to see her, I didn't bother combing my hair the reason for which I was running my fingers through them like a madman. I ignored Kiss' narrowed eyes and endless questions about where I was off to. Like he didn't know.

We needed to visit a certain tea shop.

I paid no attention to the hustle of streets as I sped downtown Bombay. Parking a few blocks away from the establishment so as to not give away our same cars, I walked down across the street towards Tea Story.

Nestled amidst the bustling streets of the city, the tea shop stood as a serene sanctuary, a timeless ode to the charm of our beloved nation. The moment I stepped through the weathered but polished dark wood double doors, I was transported to a bygone era, where the air was redolent with an intoxicating blend of freshly brewed concoctions, baked morsels and fragrant spices.

Soulful voice of Mohammed Rafi and R. D. Burman greeted me as O Mere Dil Ke Chain played, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls, their surfaces aged gracefully by time presented by peeking bricks through the cracks, enveloped the space in an embrace that whispered tales of countless conversations and endless moments.

The interior was a captivating confluence of old-world minimalism and exotic allure. Carved pillars like sentinels held the establishment together, their rough textures softened by light filtering through vintage arched windows. A shelf held an eclectic collection of vintage teapots and cups, adding a touch of nostalgia to the scene. Wrought iron furniture, with it's intricate designs reminiscent of a forgotten era, was no less than art with cushions in rich fabrics that exuded a sense of faded luxury. Checkered tiles, worn and polished by the footfalls of countless visitors complimented the setting. Happy about there being not many patrons, I took a seat in a secluded corner. The sweet aromas of freshly ground coffee beans and tea concoctions wafted through my senses as they lingered in the air mixed with the fragrant spices that hinted at the exotic delights waiting to be savored.

The decadent symphony of scents enveloped me, beckoning me to surrender to the sensory pleasures. I sucked in a deep breath, picking up fragments of her scent lingering in the air, my desparate eyes scanning the area for a certain obsession.

Yes I'd seen her. Couldn't stop myself after whatever Kisan said. To put it simply, I was hers the moment I saw her.

And she was mine.