Monsoon Melodies: A Mumbaiya Lovestory
The monsoon arrived like a scorned lover-violent, unannounced, drenching Mumbai. Marine Drive hissed, the Arabian Sea clawing at the city. Somewhere between Kurla's chaos and Bandra's skyline, fate waited.
Priya Sharma, in a neon-yellow raincoat, dashed through puddles, balancing kande pohe and chai, teasing a vendor for unpaid snacks. Across the city, Arjun Rathod, trapped in his forty-third-floor office, shut his laptop against the ghost of his father. Investors could wait.
They collided at a flooded crosswalk. Priya's chai splattered Arjun's crisp shirt; his laptop bag soaked in rain. "Are you mad?" he snapped.
She grinned. "Mad? Haan. But you-" she eyed his laptop, wrinkling her nose "-look like you've never tasted sunshine."
Arjun scowled. "That laptop costs more than your existence."
Unfazed, she shoved soggy kande pohe into his hands. "Compensation. Spicy enough to melt that face."
And then, she vanished.
Nearby, a street kid giggled. "Bhaiyya, you look like a Balaji serial villain."
Arjun didn't smile. His laptop was dead-like the part of him that once believed in monsoons, miracles, and mad girls in yellow raincoats.
Somewhere in Colaba, Priya pinned a sketch to her wall: a brooding man with storm-cloud eyes, drowned in chai. She titled it Grumpy vs. Monsoon: Round 1.
