I still remember those two moments.

The first was at Victoria Terminus—rain slashing sideways, people scrambling under newspapers, and then—our eyes met across the platform. You, Dolly, with your dupatta half-blown away, laughing as you tried to catch your hat. Me, frozen, heart skipping like a scratched cassette tape.

The second was last week, in the tea stall near Crawford Market. You looked at me like you knew my soul. Like you were waiting for me to say something—anything.

But I didn’t.

Now, Veljibhai’s sitting across from me, stirring his chai like he’s decoding the universe. 'Beta,' he says, 'love isn’t measured in years. It’s measured in moments. You’ve already had two. What will you do with the third?'

My hands tremble. The phone rings. It’s your mother. She wants to confirm the wedding date—with the man she chose.