Litti and Latte

The humidity of a Varanasi dusk doesn't care about your boundaries. It settles over the ancient stone steps, thick and unyielding, smelling faintly of river silt, burnt camphor, and roasted clay.

On the terrace of the old Singh house, a piece of green glass caught the last dying ray of the saffron sun. Mishri adjusted her grip, her fingers steady against the worn wood of her slingshot. Her breath hitched in a moment of absolute, wicked focus. She wasn't aiming for a mango this time. She was aiming for the absolute, royal arrogance sitting across the boundary wall.

Two meters away, on the adjacent balcony, Raiden didn't move. He sat in the shadows like a dark, silent silhouette carved out of American marble. The hood of his black sweatshirt was pulled low, a pair of sleek, glowing noise canceling headphones isolating him from the chaotic symphony of temple bells and barking street dogs below. He was thousands of miles away from the life he had left behind, yet his eyes were entirely vacant.

He wanted quiet. He wanted to disappear.
Thwack.
The small pebble struck the iron railing of his balcony with a sharp, metallic screech, missing his shoulder by a mere inch.
Raiden's head snapped up. His jaw clenched, his dark eyes narrowing through the messy strands of his hair as he pulled one side of his headphones down.
Across the gap, Mishri didn't flinch. She simply slung the wooden weapon over her shoulder, her bright dupatta fluttering in the sudden evening breeze, and flashed him a sharp, teasing smirk that completely defied the strict discipline of her household.

"Oye, America return Kanhaiya!" she called out, her voice a flawless blend of local slang and pure, unadulterated defiance. "Earphones nikaalo. In Banaras, if you don't listen to the noise, the noise comes looking for you."

Raiden stared at her this local whirlwind in a faded salwar-suit who had just shattered his carefully constructed armor. In that single, heated glance, the quiet of the night evaporated.