Despite their vastly different worlds, fate throws Ishan and Shivangi together in an arranged marriage. It's a collision of two worlds - Ishan, with his star-studded cricket career and larger-than-life persona, and Shivangi, the grounded middle clas...
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Mumbai.
Mumbai is the city where dreams take flight alongside the crows perched on every wire, and where every monsoon, the streets don't just fill with water—they become rivers, complete with boats in the form of BEST buses and seasoned sailors in the form of everyday Mumbaikars.
It's the place where ambitions mingle with the aroma of vada pav, and where the local train rush isn't just a commute; it's a full sport, with its own league of champions who manage to flip through the morning newspaper while clinging to the edge of a moving train like it's a casual Tuesday.
Here, rain isn't just a weather pattern; it's a citywide event, one that has the power to turn a five-minute walk into a half-hour wade.
But no matter how much it pours, the spirit of Mumbai doesn't get drenched—it's water-resistant, like the cheap umbrellas sold on every corner, flimsy but somehow enduring.
The auto drivers will still haggle with you, the chaiwala will still have your cutting chai ready, and somehow, against all odds, everyone makes it to work—pants rolled up, shoes in hand, navigating the flooded streets with the determination of Olympic swimmers.
In this city, dreams are as tall as the skyscrapers that punctuate the skyline and as grounded as the stalls selling pav bhaji on the roadside.
Mumbai has a way of embracing everyone in its chaotic, loving arms, whether you're a Bollywood star or a dabbawala delivering lunch with the precision of a Swiss watch.
Here, whether you're chasing a lifelong ambition or just trying to survive the day, Mumbai ensures you're never really alone—it's a city that thrives on togetherness, even in its most frenzied moments.
Now, take Ishan Kishan, who, like most people new to the city, thought he could outsmart the rain. But in Mumbai, the rain doesn't just fall—it arrives like an uninvited guest, sometimes gently tapping at the window, other times crashing through the door with all the drama of a Bollywood entry scene.
You can't predict it, no matter how long you've lived here. The weather app? More of a gentle suggestion than a reliable forecast. You leave the house with both sunglasses and an umbrella, fully aware that you'll likely need them both—probably within the same hour.
Rohit Bhai had sensed that Ishan needed a break after yesterday's match, where the weight of missed opportunities hung over him like those monsoon clouds that never seem to move on.
Though the team had won, for Ishan, it was a hollow victory—one where personal defeat hid behind the collective triumph. So, here he was, given the rare luxury of time in a city that never really stops, even when you do.
But Mumbai, in all its unpredictable glory, wasn't about to let Ishan off the hook. He left his hotel that morning, the sun shining with a deceptive brightness, thinking the day was his to command. But as he wandered down Marine Drive, the sky decided to change its mind.
