The Prediction

It was raining cats and dogs - not the light, misty drizzle Mumbai usually teased with, but a full-throated, sky-cracking downpour. Ramesh stepped off the last local at Virar, the final ghost of a train that still ran despite the city being half-underwater.

He wasn't from here. Just another man from a village in Uttar Pradesh, carried into the belly of this city with a dream in his pocket and dust on his boots. But tonight, even dreams took shelter. The station was nearly shut, its stalls dark, shutters clanging in the wind. His stomach growled, sharp and hollow.

He stepped outside into knee-deep water, the streetlights flickering like dying fireflies. That's when he saw him - an old man crouched by the gate, drenched but calm, devouring a vada pav with both hands. The smell - warm, fried, spicy - cut through the rain and hit Ramesh like a memory.

Something about the man. Something about the air. Something was off.