❝ 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔'𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 - 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒈𝒍𝒚. ❞
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Sometimes love doesn't knock on the right door. Sometimes it slips in through a misdial, a l...
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Author's POV-
The taxi rolled to a gentle stop at the far end of a narrow, tree-lined lane, its tires crunching softly over the uneven gravel and dried leaves that had settled on the roadside like scattered memories. The sudden halt made the old vehicle shudder once, as though exhaling after a long journey. The engine stuttered, sputtered briefly, and then fell into a heavy silence—one that felt deeper than just mechanical.
In its wake, the quiet was not empty, but full of texture—full of the sounds of Kanpur on a drowsy, sun-soaked afternoon. There was the distant jangle of cycle rickshaws navigating nearby bylanes, the metallic bell echoing in a lazy rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, a street dog let out a solitary bark—hoarse, tired, and unbothered, like he was more bark than bite in this summer heat. The faint phut-phut-phut of a passing scooter echoed down the alley, mingling with the occasional chirp of sparrows hopping across the dusty rooftops. The children nearby didn't care about the heat. They were playing.
And threading through it all was the soft rustle of old neem leaves, their faded green dancing gently in the warm breeze. They swayed overhead like a canopy of memories—each creak of a branch a whisper from the past, each shadow that flickered across the ground like a ghost of the childhood that once ran laughing under them.
Even the air seemed to pause. There was something sacred about this corner. Something too familiar to be just another street in the city. The scent of earth warmed under the sun. The subtle trace of incense from some faraway puja. The unmistakable aroma of dry mango pickle fermenting on a neighbour's windowsill.
It was Kanpur—but more than that, it was home soil. The place where cricket bats had first met rubber balls, where scraped knees and ice candies told stories better than any diary. And now, the place Arjun had finally returned to.
Arjun stepped out.
He moved slowly, like someone entering a dream they weren't sure was real. One hand rested lightly on the handle of the boot, and the other instinctively clutched the hem of his linen shirt—creased now from the long journey, but comforting all the same. As if gripping it tightly could anchor him to something—his present, maybe. Or perhaps the parts of himself he hadn't visited in a while.
Before him stood the house. His house. His childhood home. His bachpan.
But the walls seemed quieter now. The door slightly older. The veranda too still.
