strings of fate

the rain that changed everything

Avinash's POV

The rain fell in a steady rhythm, a curtain of silver that blurred the chaos of Mumbai. It was relentless, unyielding, yet strangely calming—drowning out the noise of the world, including the noise in my own head.

I walked aimlessly, my hoodie clinging to my skin, the guitar case in my hand a familiar weight. Tonight, I wasn’t Avinash Mishra, the rockstar, the household name. I was just a man searching for a moment of quiet in a world that rarely let me breathe.

When the smell of chai hit me, I stopped. The small chai tapri at the corner of the street felt like an invitation, its flickering bulb casting a warm glow in the cold rain. Without hesitation, I walked up to the counter.

“Ek chai,” I muttered, my voice low. (One tea.)

The chaiwala handed me a glass without so much as a glance. The anonymity was a gift I seldom received, and I savored it as much as the steaming tea in my hands.

And then, I saw her.

She stood at the edge of the awning, her scarf damp and clinging to her hair. Her posture was still, almost contemplative, as if the rain held answers only she could hear. She wasn’t seeking shelter, not really. She seemed to belong there, caught between the chaos of the city and the serenity of the storm.

I didn’t know why my gaze lingered on her. Maybe it was the way she seemed untouched by the rush around her, or the calm indifference in her eyes. Either way, I felt a pull—subtle but undeniable.

I leaned my guitar case against the pole beside me, my fingers instinctively brushing the strings. I wasn’t planning to play, but the rain, the chai, and her presence made it impossible not to.

“Phir le aaya dil, majboor kya keeje…
Raas na aaya rehna door, kya keeje…”
(Once again, the heart has returned, helpless, what can one do...
Staying apart didn’t feel right, what can one do...)

The song flowed out effortlessly, each note weaving into the rain. It wasn’t for an audience, and it wasn’t for her. It was for me—a fleeting escape into the only thing that had ever made sense: music.

Her head turned slightly, and for the first time, our eyes met. They weren’t wide with recognition, nor did they carry the curiosity I was so used to seeing. They were calm, steady, and entirely unbothered by who I might be.

It was strange—refreshing, even.

The chords deepened as I let the song guide me, my voice lowering with each verse.

“Yeh raaz hai, yeh baat hai, jo sabse chhupaye…
Na jaane kaise tumhe samjhaye…”
(This secret, this matter, that is hidden from everyone...
I don’t know how to explain it to you...)

She turned back to the rain, but she didn’t leave. She just stood there, sipping her chai, listening—not as a fan, not as someone who cared about my fame, but as someone simply sharing the moment.

The rain grew heavier, its rhythm mirroring the pounding in my chest. As I strummed the final chords, a strange sense of calm washed over me. I couldn’t explain it, but it felt like the kind of moment that changes things, even if you don’t realize it right away.

The chaiwala called out, breaking the silence. She moved to pay for her tea, but before she could, I stepped forward.

“Main de deta hoon.” (I’ll pay.)

Her head turned again, her eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing me. “Kyun?” she asked, her voice low and steady. (Why?)

I shrugged, not sure of the answer myself. “Bas aise hi.” (Just because.)

For a moment, she said nothing, then gave a small nod. She didn’t thank me, didn’t smile, just turned back to the rain as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

As she walked away into the downpour, her silhouette disappeared into the blur of the city. I stood there, holding my chai, the rain still falling around me.

I didn’t know her name, her story, or why she felt so significant. But as the last chords of my song echoed in my mind, I realized one thing: this rain wasn’t just cleansing the streets—it was marking a beginning.

Sometimes, fate doesn’t come with grand gestures or loud declarations. Sometimes, it’s as quiet as a melody in the rain and as simple as a glance shared under the glow of a chai tapri.

And tonight, I had a feeling fate had just started its song.
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