02-02-2026, 09:08 PM
Chapter 3
The monsoon had arrived in Mumbai like an uninvited yet welcome guest, drenching the city in sheets of
relentless rain. The skies over Andheri turned a perpetual shade of bruised gray, and the streets transformed
into shimmering rivers where autorickshaws splashed through puddles with defiant honks. Water seeped
into every corner—dripping from corrugated tin roofs, pooling in the courtyard around the tulsi plant, and
turning the narrow lanes into slippery adventures. Yet, within the Sharma household, the rains brought a
strange intimacy, forcing the family closer together under one roof, where the patter on the windows became
a constant, soothing backdrop to their lives.
It was late July, and the city had been under the spell of the southwest monsoon for weeks. Power cuts were
frequent, the air thick with humidity, and the scent of wet earth—petrichor—mingled with the everyday aroma
of Deepa's cooking: sizzling onions in hot oil, the sharp tang of ginger-garlic paste, and the comforting
earthiness of boiling rice. Deepa had taken to rising even earlier these days, lighting the diya at the small
home altar before dawn, her prayers whispered against the drumming rain. She wore simple cotton sarees
now—light blues and soft pinks that clung slightly in the dampness—her dupatta dbangd loosely over her
shoulders as she moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
Rahul's college schedule had become erratic with flooded tracks and delayed locals. Some days he returned
home soaked to the bone, his shirt plastered to his chest, hair dripping like a monsoon-fed tap. Deepa would
be waiting with a towel warmed on the gas stove, scolding him gently as she rubbed his head dry. "Rahul,
how many times have I told you to carry an umbrella? Look at you, catching a cold again." Her voice held that
familiar mix of exasperation and care, but lately, her hands lingered a fraction longer, tracing the line of his
jaw as she tucked a stray lock behind his ear.
One such evening, the rain came down in torrents, turning the evening into an early night. Mr. Sharma had
called to say he would be stuck at the office due to waterlogging on the roads; the trains were running late,
and even the office cab couldn't navigate the chaos. The house felt smaller, quieter without his presence.
Deepa prepared a simple yet hearty meal—khichdi with ghee-tempered cumin, kadhi thickened with besan,
and crispy papad roasted over the flame. Rahul helped set the table, his movements mirroring hers in silent
harmony. They ate in the dim glow of an emergency lamp, the flame flickering shadows across their faces.
After dinner, with the dishes washed and the kitchen tidied, they retreated to the small living room. The
ceiling fan spun lazily, stirring the humid air. Rahul sprawled on the divan, scrolling through his phone, while
Deepa sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a pile of old photographs she had pulled out from the
steel almirah. The rain hammered harder, thunder rolling like distant drums.
"Didi, look at this one," Rahul said, leaning over to show her a meme on his screen—something silly about
Mumbai rains and endless chai. She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made his chest tighten. He shifted
closer, their shoulders brushing.
Deepa held up a faded photo: their mother holding a toddler Rahul on her lap, Deepa standing beside them
with a proud smile. "You were so small then. Always clinging to Ma." Her voice softened with memory.
Rahul took the photo gently, his fingers grazing hers. "And you were always the one taking care of me. Even
back then." He looked at her, really looked— the way the lamplight caught the curve of her cheek, the faint
sheen of sweat on her collarbone from the kitchen heat. "Didi... do you ever think about your own life?
About... getting married?"
The question hung between them like the humid air. Deepa lowered her eyes, tracing the edge of another
photo with her fingertip. "Sometimes. But Papa needs me. And you... you're still studying. Who will look after
the house if I leave?"
Rahul swallowed. "I don't want you to leave." The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and
honest. He felt heat rise to his face.
Deepa met his gaze, her almond eyes searching his. For a moment, neither spoke. The rain filled the silence,
steady and insistent. Then she reached out, placing her hand over his on the divan. "I won't go anywhere,
Rahul. Not as long as you need me."
The touch was electric, innocent yet charged. Rahul's thumb moved almost imperceptibly, brushing the back
of her hand. Deepa didn't pull away. Instead, she squeezed gently before letting go, standing up with a small,
shaky smile. "Come, let's watch something. The power might go any minute."
They settled on the old sofa, an ancient Bollywood film playing on the small TV—Mughal-e-Azam, the colors
vivid even in low light. Deepa sat with her legs tucked under her, Rahul beside her, closer than usual. During
a rain scene in the movie, mirroring the one outside, Rahul's arm dbangd casually over the back of the sofa.
His fingers brushed her shoulder, then rested there lightly.
Deepa tensed for a second, then relaxed, leaning ever so slightly into him. The scene on screen was one of
longing, unspoken love between Salim and Anarkali. Rahul felt his heart pound in rhythm with the thunder.
He could smell the faint jasmine in her hair, mixed with the rain-scented air drifting through the open window.
When the film ended and the credits rolled, the house was plunged into darkness—a power cut, as predicted.
Only the emergency lamp remained, casting a warm, golden pool of light.
Rahul lit a candle from the altar, placing it on the low table. They sat on the balcony, watching the rain
cascade off the railing. Water dripped from the eaves in steady streams. Deepa pulled her dupatta tighter
around her shoulders against the cool breeze.
"Rahul," she said quietly, "do you remember when we were kids, and Ma would tell us stories during power
cuts? About brothers and sisters who protected each other no matter what?"
He nodded. "Like Rama and Lakshmana. Or Krishna and Subhadra."
Deepa smiled wistfully. "I always liked those stories. They made me feel... safe. Like family is everything."
Rahul turned to her. In the candlelight, her face was soft, vulnerable. "Didi, you're more than family to me.
You're... everything."
The confession hung there, heavier than the rain. Deepa's breath caught. She looked away, toward the dark
street where a lone streetlight flickered through the downpour. "Rahul... we can't say things like that."
"Why not?" His voice was low, urgent. "It's true."
She turned back, eyes glistening—not from tears, but from the weight of unspoken truths. "Because...
because society, Papa, everything. It's not right."
"But it feels right," he whispered. He reached for her hand again, this time interlacing their fingers. She didn't
resist.
They sat like that for what felt like hours, hands clasped, listening to the rain. No more words were needed.
The touch said enough—warm, forbidden, yet achingly familiar. When the power finally returned, flooding the
house with harsh tube light, they separated slowly, reluctantly.
The next morning dawned clearer, the rain reduced to a drizzle. Deepa prepared breakfast as usual—poha
with peanuts and curry leaves, hot chai—but there was a new awareness between them. Glances lingered
longer. When she handed Rahul his plate, their fingers brushed deliberately.
As the monsoon continued its dance over Mumbai, the subtle shifts deepened. During a family visit to
Siddhivinayak Temple one less rainy afternoon (Ganesh Chaturthi preparations were already underway in the
city, with pandals rising like colorful mushrooms), Rahul bought Deepa a small silver Ganesha pendant. "For
protection," he said, fastening it around her neck himself. His fingers grazed the nape of her neck, sending
shivers down her spine.
Deepa, in turn, surprised him with a new pair of jeans she had saved for, ironed and folded neatly on his bed
with a note: "For my favorite engineer. Study hard."
Evenings brought more stolen moments: helping each other fold laundry, their hands meeting over a
bedsheet; sharing earphones while listening to old Kishore Kumar songs on Rahul's phone, heads close
together; or simply sitting in silence on the rooftop terrace, watching the city lights blur in the mist.
One particularly heavy night, when thunder shook the windows, Rahul found Deepa in the kitchen, unable to
sleep. She was making warm milk with turmeric—haldi doodh—for comfort.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, stepping behind her.
She shook her head. "The storm..."
He took the glass from her, setting it aside. Then, gently, he turned her to face him. In the dim kitchen light,
he cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "I'm here, Didi. Always."
Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling. No kiss— not yet—but the proximity was intoxicating, a promise
of more. Deepa closed her eyes, leaning into him, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his
heart matching hers.
As the chapter drew to a close, the monsoon raged on outside, mirroring the storm building within. The
Sharma siblings, once bound only by blood and duty, now navigated a dangerous, delicate line—affection
blooming into desire, loyalty tested by longing. The rains washed the city clean, but they could not wash
away the whispers of what was awakening between them. The journey ahead promised both ecstasy and
heartache, hidden behind the facade of everyday life in their modest Andheri home.
The monsoon had arrived in Mumbai like an uninvited yet welcome guest, drenching the city in sheets of
relentless rain. The skies over Andheri turned a perpetual shade of bruised gray, and the streets transformed
into shimmering rivers where autorickshaws splashed through puddles with defiant honks. Water seeped
into every corner—dripping from corrugated tin roofs, pooling in the courtyard around the tulsi plant, and
turning the narrow lanes into slippery adventures. Yet, within the Sharma household, the rains brought a
strange intimacy, forcing the family closer together under one roof, where the patter on the windows became
a constant, soothing backdrop to their lives.
It was late July, and the city had been under the spell of the southwest monsoon for weeks. Power cuts were
frequent, the air thick with humidity, and the scent of wet earth—petrichor—mingled with the everyday aroma
of Deepa's cooking: sizzling onions in hot oil, the sharp tang of ginger-garlic paste, and the comforting
earthiness of boiling rice. Deepa had taken to rising even earlier these days, lighting the diya at the small
home altar before dawn, her prayers whispered against the drumming rain. She wore simple cotton sarees
now—light blues and soft pinks that clung slightly in the dampness—her dupatta dbangd loosely over her
shoulders as she moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
Rahul's college schedule had become erratic with flooded tracks and delayed locals. Some days he returned
home soaked to the bone, his shirt plastered to his chest, hair dripping like a monsoon-fed tap. Deepa would
be waiting with a towel warmed on the gas stove, scolding him gently as she rubbed his head dry. "Rahul,
how many times have I told you to carry an umbrella? Look at you, catching a cold again." Her voice held that
familiar mix of exasperation and care, but lately, her hands lingered a fraction longer, tracing the line of his
jaw as she tucked a stray lock behind his ear.
One such evening, the rain came down in torrents, turning the evening into an early night. Mr. Sharma had
called to say he would be stuck at the office due to waterlogging on the roads; the trains were running late,
and even the office cab couldn't navigate the chaos. The house felt smaller, quieter without his presence.
Deepa prepared a simple yet hearty meal—khichdi with ghee-tempered cumin, kadhi thickened with besan,
and crispy papad roasted over the flame. Rahul helped set the table, his movements mirroring hers in silent
harmony. They ate in the dim glow of an emergency lamp, the flame flickering shadows across their faces.
After dinner, with the dishes washed and the kitchen tidied, they retreated to the small living room. The
ceiling fan spun lazily, stirring the humid air. Rahul sprawled on the divan, scrolling through his phone, while
Deepa sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a pile of old photographs she had pulled out from the
steel almirah. The rain hammered harder, thunder rolling like distant drums.
"Didi, look at this one," Rahul said, leaning over to show her a meme on his screen—something silly about
Mumbai rains and endless chai. She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made his chest tighten. He shifted
closer, their shoulders brushing.
Deepa held up a faded photo: their mother holding a toddler Rahul on her lap, Deepa standing beside them
with a proud smile. "You were so small then. Always clinging to Ma." Her voice softened with memory.
Rahul took the photo gently, his fingers grazing hers. "And you were always the one taking care of me. Even
back then." He looked at her, really looked— the way the lamplight caught the curve of her cheek, the faint
sheen of sweat on her collarbone from the kitchen heat. "Didi... do you ever think about your own life?
About... getting married?"
The question hung between them like the humid air. Deepa lowered her eyes, tracing the edge of another
photo with her fingertip. "Sometimes. But Papa needs me. And you... you're still studying. Who will look after
the house if I leave?"
Rahul swallowed. "I don't want you to leave." The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and
honest. He felt heat rise to his face.
Deepa met his gaze, her almond eyes searching his. For a moment, neither spoke. The rain filled the silence,
steady and insistent. Then she reached out, placing her hand over his on the divan. "I won't go anywhere,
Rahul. Not as long as you need me."
The touch was electric, innocent yet charged. Rahul's thumb moved almost imperceptibly, brushing the back
of her hand. Deepa didn't pull away. Instead, she squeezed gently before letting go, standing up with a small,
shaky smile. "Come, let's watch something. The power might go any minute."
They settled on the old sofa, an ancient Bollywood film playing on the small TV—Mughal-e-Azam, the colors
vivid even in low light. Deepa sat with her legs tucked under her, Rahul beside her, closer than usual. During
a rain scene in the movie, mirroring the one outside, Rahul's arm dbangd casually over the back of the sofa.
His fingers brushed her shoulder, then rested there lightly.
Deepa tensed for a second, then relaxed, leaning ever so slightly into him. The scene on screen was one of
longing, unspoken love between Salim and Anarkali. Rahul felt his heart pound in rhythm with the thunder.
He could smell the faint jasmine in her hair, mixed with the rain-scented air drifting through the open window.
When the film ended and the credits rolled, the house was plunged into darkness—a power cut, as predicted.
Only the emergency lamp remained, casting a warm, golden pool of light.
Rahul lit a candle from the altar, placing it on the low table. They sat on the balcony, watching the rain
cascade off the railing. Water dripped from the eaves in steady streams. Deepa pulled her dupatta tighter
around her shoulders against the cool breeze.
"Rahul," she said quietly, "do you remember when we were kids, and Ma would tell us stories during power
cuts? About brothers and sisters who protected each other no matter what?"
He nodded. "Like Rama and Lakshmana. Or Krishna and Subhadra."
Deepa smiled wistfully. "I always liked those stories. They made me feel... safe. Like family is everything."
Rahul turned to her. In the candlelight, her face was soft, vulnerable. "Didi, you're more than family to me.
You're... everything."
The confession hung there, heavier than the rain. Deepa's breath caught. She looked away, toward the dark
street where a lone streetlight flickered through the downpour. "Rahul... we can't say things like that."
"Why not?" His voice was low, urgent. "It's true."
She turned back, eyes glistening—not from tears, but from the weight of unspoken truths. "Because...
because society, Papa, everything. It's not right."
"But it feels right," he whispered. He reached for her hand again, this time interlacing their fingers. She didn't
resist.
They sat like that for what felt like hours, hands clasped, listening to the rain. No more words were needed.
The touch said enough—warm, forbidden, yet achingly familiar. When the power finally returned, flooding the
house with harsh tube light, they separated slowly, reluctantly.
The next morning dawned clearer, the rain reduced to a drizzle. Deepa prepared breakfast as usual—poha
with peanuts and curry leaves, hot chai—but there was a new awareness between them. Glances lingered
longer. When she handed Rahul his plate, their fingers brushed deliberately.
As the monsoon continued its dance over Mumbai, the subtle shifts deepened. During a family visit to
Siddhivinayak Temple one less rainy afternoon (Ganesh Chaturthi preparations were already underway in the
city, with pandals rising like colorful mushrooms), Rahul bought Deepa a small silver Ganesha pendant. "For
protection," he said, fastening it around her neck himself. His fingers grazed the nape of her neck, sending
shivers down her spine.
Deepa, in turn, surprised him with a new pair of jeans she had saved for, ironed and folded neatly on his bed
with a note: "For my favorite engineer. Study hard."
Evenings brought more stolen moments: helping each other fold laundry, their hands meeting over a
bedsheet; sharing earphones while listening to old Kishore Kumar songs on Rahul's phone, heads close
together; or simply sitting in silence on the rooftop terrace, watching the city lights blur in the mist.
One particularly heavy night, when thunder shook the windows, Rahul found Deepa in the kitchen, unable to
sleep. She was making warm milk with turmeric—haldi doodh—for comfort.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, stepping behind her.
She shook her head. "The storm..."
He took the glass from her, setting it aside. Then, gently, he turned her to face him. In the dim kitchen light,
he cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "I'm here, Didi. Always."
Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling. No kiss— not yet—but the proximity was intoxicating, a promise
of more. Deepa closed her eyes, leaning into him, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his
heart matching hers.
As the chapter drew to a close, the monsoon raged on outside, mirroring the storm building within. The
Sharma siblings, once bound only by blood and duty, now navigated a dangerous, delicate line—affection
blooming into desire, loyalty tested by longing. The rains washed the city clean, but they could not wash
away the whispers of what was awakening between them. The journey ahead promised both ecstasy and
heartache, hidden behind the facade of everyday life in their modest Andheri home.
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