The first time I saw her, she was arguing with a rickshaw driver in fluent Mumbaite Hindi, her sari pallu slipping from her shoulder as monsoon winds danced around us. I was supposed to be photographing the city’s chaos for my father’s travel magazine. Instead, I found myself capturing the way rain clung to her lashes, how her laughter cut through the downpour like sunlight. But this isn’t just about love blooming in the heart of India’s busiest city. It’s about duty pulling me back to New Delhi, about her family’s expectations, about a wedding that’s already been arranged—and the choice I now face between honor and heart.

The first time I saw you, the sky cracked open. Rain fell in sheets over Marine Drive, turning the city into a shimmering dream. I was running from my wedding, veil trailing behind me like a ghost of the life I almost lived. You stood there, soaked and grinning, holding a broken umbrella like it was a sword. In that moment, I knew—this wasn’t escape. It was beginning.