THEM 'Ishman'

HOME 2

Ishan was writing, seated alone in a quiet room.

There were no harsh, glaring lights only the soft, warm glow of dim yellow bulbs, casting a gentle calm over everything.

His chair faced the balcony, and the glass doors stood open, inviting the cool breeze and moonlight inside.

It was a full moon night, and the moon poured its silver beams generously over the world, blanketing the city in a soft, ethereal light.

Everyone has their own way of admiring the moon, their own silent reason.

Some stared at it with heart shaped eyes, lost in thoughts of someone they loved deeply. Others gazed at it with eyes full of longing, as if screaming silently about someone they could never have.

The moon, quiet and constant, listened to it all.

Ishan had his own reason too.

He sat still, eyes drifting toward the balcony, watching the moving city below, a city that never truly slept, always alive, always pulsing.

Mumbai.

Accept it or not, everyone dreams of Mumbai at least once. And if you haven’t yet, someday, somehow, you will.

We don’t always realize when life begins to move so fast, when days blur into nights and we forget to pause, to see, to feel.

We forget to admire the very life we’re living. And then, one day, you stop. You pause. You look, really look at the world around you.

The lights, the roads, the skyline, the moonlight. You look back at who you were, and you see how far you’ve come.

In that moment, you exist, not for the world, not for deadlines or people, but just for yourself.

Ishan was doing the same, bunking his busy life for a while and spending time with himself.

He sat quietly, gazing out at Marine Drive from his balcony, the very place where everything had begun.

Where he and he started.

Where Ishan and Shubman started.

Marine Drive still looked just as beautiful as it did that evening. The only difference now was that Ishan was alone.

He let out a soft chuckle and bent down to scribble more lines onto the page in front of him.

There were many sheets spread across the table, some soaked in ink, some still blank, waiting patiently to be written on.

The candle resting in the holder beside him flickered weakly, its flame swaying in protest.

It was almost as if the candle, too, was ready to leave him.

A gentle breeze swept into the room, and hush....Ishan was alone again.

His pen paused mid-sentence as he stared at the fading flame.

“His choices are also like him.” Ishan muttered to himself, a small, nostalgic smile curling at his lips.

He remembered how Shubman had once convinced him to buy candles, right here in Mumbai, a city glowing like Diwali all year round.

Ishan sighed, thoughts slipping deeper into the spaces where Shubman still lived.

His eyes grew a little moist, a gentle ache settling in his chest.

Why him?

Why was it always him who could stir up so much without even being around?

“Mach mach nahin karne ka, lafda nahin karne ka
Subah subah dhoop mein, bhajiya nahin talne ka
Hata saavan ki ghata re, hata saavan ki ghata
Chal aa thopde ka candle jala,
Chal hawa aane de, hawa aane de…
Aa rela hai apun, bole toh kaan khol ke sunn
Aa rela hai apun, bole toh kaan khol ke sunn!”