ISHQ IBAADAT 💗

4. Reunion 💗

𖥸❃ 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻 𝓟𝓞𝓥 ❃𖥸

Evening — “Golden Sunrise Café”

The gentle orange hue of sunset faded into warm fairy lights that sparkled across the café walls. Outside the café, a small crowd gathered, some peeking through the glass windows with hopeful eyes.

“Chal bhai, jaldi! Show miss ho jaayega...”
A man nudged his friend, both in semi-formal office clothes, breathing heavily from their hurried steps.

“Konsa show bhai? Aur kiska?” his friend asked, confused, brushing sweat from his forehead.

“Are bhai, wahi singing show! That girl who sings three times a week!”

The other’s eyes widened in recognition.

“Are haan! The girl with the voice of a cuckoo... kya sur hai uske! What a melodious voice... her singing gives goosebumps.”

“Haa bhai, usi ladki ka show. Come quickly warna jagah nahi milegi café mein!”

Excitedly, the two rushed toward the door — but were gently stopped at the entrance.

“Sorry sir, all tables are booked. Aap andar nahi jaa sakte.”
Suman Tai stood firm, her silver hair tied in a neat bun, her warm eyes apologetic but strict.

Yes, Suman Tai — the ever-dependable helper of Verma’s Café, still guarding the place like a family treasure.

“Par ma’am kyun? Sirf khade hi toh reh lenge.”

“Sir, kuch couples aur bude log pehle hi booking kar chuke hain. It’s a full house today.”

The two men exchanged a defeated glance, then looked back inside longingly before turning away, disappointment heavy in their steps.

---

Inside the Café...

The air inside was different — still, soft, filled with anticipation and a gentle hum of reverence. Every table was full. Some customers leaned forward, elbows on tables, hands cupping their cheeks. Others simply sat with eyes closed, heads swaying softly.

A single spotlight bathed the center of the café.

There she sat.

A girl.
Poised. Calm. Magical.

Adhrika.

Her back was straight, but her fingers gently cradled her guitar — like it was part of her soul.
Her long, curly hair cascaded around her shoulders in soft waves, catching the light with every subtle movement.

She wore a light pink Anarkali, delicate embroidery at the cuffs and hem glimmering gently. A matching scarf was loosely wrapped around her neck, her signature style. Her skin glowed like porcelain under the lights, and her naturally pink lips moved gracefully with every word.

Her eyes — deep black, long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks — were closed, lost in the rhythm of her heart.

And when she sang...

---

> Lag ja gale ke phir ye...
Hasin raat ho na ho
Shaayad phir is janam...
Mein mulaaqaat ho na ho...

Her voice — it wasn’t just music.
It was emotion wrapped in sound.
It clutched hearts, healed wounds, and filled the room with warmth.

Adhya, Shriddha, and Ridhanvi stood to the side, clapping along softly, their eyes glowing with pride.
They weren’t just sisters — they were her pillars, her sky, her silent strength.