It started drizzling sometime around noon — the kind of light, teasing rain that felt more like a suggestion than a statement. It tapped gently against the windowpane beside Tara, soft enough that she barely noticed it until the breeze brought in the scent of wet earth and stirred the corner of a newspaper left on the table.
She closed her laptop, which had spent the last hour displaying a blinking cursor and a very judgmental blank page.
"No words today?" she muttered to herself.
She leaned her head against the window glass, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders. The city below looked softer in the rain — rooftops glistening, cars slowing, strangers sharing awkward umbrella space as puddles formed by the curb. She smiled. There was a kind of reluctant romance in it.
Her phone buzzed.
Rhea: "On my way. Bringing umbrellas and bad decisions".
Tara texted back:" Bring pakoras instead. I already have bad decisions".
A few minutes later, there was the unmistakable sound of someone loudly humming the Titanic theme down the hallway.
"Every night in my dreams…"
Tara opened the door before Rhea could attempt the high note.
"You're getting weirder with age," Tara said, stepping aside.
Rhea, soaked and dramatic, shook her umbrella like a golden retriever.
"Rude. I bring joy and snacks into your otherwise beige emotional landscape."
She kicked off her wet slippers and tossed a bag of groceries on the counter like it was contraband.
"What's this?" Tara asked.
"Rainy-day survival kit," Rhea declared. "Onions, green chillies, potatoes, and one very expired packet of instant gulab jamun mix I found in your drawer. We're making pakoras."
Tara blinked. "You know you're the guest, right?"
"You're the one who owns a cozy window and artisanal mugs. It's your responsibility to feed poetic energy into this day."
Tara couldn't argue with that.
They put on music — old Hindi songs with too much echo and too much emotion — and started chopping. Rhea kept dancing while slicing onions, which led to a minor incident involving a dropped knife and a near tear-induced existential crisis.
"I forgot onions betray you," she sniffled, mascara slightly smudged.
"They always do," Tara agreed solemnly.
Twenty minutes later, the flat smelled of turmeric, rain, and comfort. Pakoras sizzled in hot oil, and chai brewed on the back burner, humming like a promise.
Rhea leaned against the counter and looked at Tara carefully.
"So… you ever going to tell me about him?"
Tara didn't need to ask who she meant.
Kunal.
That name still hung in her chest like a drawer she refused to open.
She stirred the chai, watching the tea leaves bloom. "What's there to tell? It ended before it properly began."
"But you still write about him."
"I write about the version of me who thought we had time," Tara said quietly. "Not about him."
The oil crackled in the pan. Rhea didn't push. That was the thing about her — she had mastered the art of backing off just one second before it got too much.
Tara finally looked up and smiled. "We're not talking about him today."
"Deal," Rhea said, popping a pakora into her mouth. "But only because these are excellent."
They ate by the window, warm plates in their laps, legs curled beneath them. The rain was louder now, steady and drumming, like a soundtrack to something quietly unfolding.
"So," Rhea said, mouth full, "I have news."
"Oh boy."
"I may have sort of accidentally signed us up for a weekend pottery class."
Tara choked on her chai. "*What*?"
"Yep. We're making tiny bowls and pretending to be emotionally well-adjusted."
"I don't even like clay."
"You like metaphors. This is just a metaphor with mud."
Tara groaned. "What if I'm terrible at it?"
"You were terrible at yoga and that didn't stop you from doing a very slow downward dog in front of strangers."
"That's not the memory I wanted today."
"I'm here to serve."
They both laughed. The kind of laughter that made your ribs feel looser. Lighter.
Outside, the clouds lingered, but the storm felt far away now.
And somewhere between chai, pakoras, and pottery threats, Tara realized — she hadn't thought about that blinking cursor once.