Chapter 5: Monsoon Healing

After the divorce, I went south and opened a guesthouse in a small town near Kaveripur.

The first time I arrived, the air was thick with the scent of marigolds and ghee, and somewhere, a child’s wail mixed with the dhol beats from a nearby temple. Coconut trees swayed gently, and every evening, temple bells rang in the distance. My guesthouse was a modest affair—whitewashed walls, bougainvillea over the gate, a couple of old wooden chairs on the verandah. It was nothing like the busy streets of Mumbai, but here, for the first time, I felt free.

The town is warm in winter and cool in summer, and the people are simple and kind.

Neighbours would greet me with a smile, bringing fresh dosas or bananas for breakfast. Children ran in after school, eager to play with the dogs or listen to stories. Life was slow, gentle, and my heart slowly began to heal.

Being with them, my mood gradually improved.

There were days when memories from Mumbai would haunt me, but here, I learnt to let go—bit by bit. The sunrise over the river, the laughter of the townsfolk, the peace of the temple grounds—they stitched me back together in a way no city ever could.

In less than a year, my little courtyard’s reputation spread, and business was no longer bleak.

Travelers from Chennai, Hyderabad, even Delhi began to show up, drawn by the homely food and quiet comfort. The locals started calling me “Tanvi akka,” and I finally felt like I belonged somewhere.

Kabir was the most withdrawn of all the guests.

He had a quiet energy, always polite but distant, eyes hidden behind sunglasses even indoors. Most guests mingled on the verandah over chai, but Kabir kept to himself, headphones in, lost in his own world. Still, I couldn’t help but notice him.

Most of the time, he stayed in his room alone and rarely came out.

Only when there were few people did he appear on the terrace.

At first, I worried something would happen to him, so I unconsciously paid extra attention.

One day, I was sunbathing in the yard when he walked over, half-smiling, and asked:

“Do I really look like someone who can’t get over things?”

I looked up at him in surprise.

He lay down on the rocking chair beside me, at ease and lazy.

“I heard you on the phone.”

I immediately felt embarrassed.

Last night, I’d called my best friend and mentioned Kabir.

I said, “That guy looks pretty good. It would be a shame if he really died.”

Unexpectedly, Kabir overheard!

As I fumbled for words, Kabir suddenly asked, “You don’t look like a local. Why did you come here to open a guesthouse?”

I made something up: “Too much money, nothing to do!”

A low laugh rumbled from his throat—a very pleasant sound.

I couldn’t help but look at him, and saw a very pleasing scene—

The man rested his head on his arm, gazing at the sky.

His jawline was clear, his profile almost sculpted.

Rohan was already handsome, but Kabir was something else.

Maybe sensing my gaze, he turned and caught my eyes.

I don’t remember who looked away first. All I know is, from that day on, something subtly changed between us.

The day everything changed, I went hiking with Kabir.

On the way back, the weather turned and it poured.

The downpour was sudden—we ran for cover under a banyan tree, laughing like kids bunking school. By the time we made it back, we were drenched, dripping water everywhere. I hadn’t laughed like that in years.

That night, I had a fever and broke a cup getting up for medicine.

Kabir broke in!

I’m not sure if I imagined it, but the moment he entered, he looked terrified.

But when he saw me, he clearly breathed a sigh of relief.

The illness hit me hard. I was bedridden for five days, and Kabir took care of me the whole time.

He made rasam, fetched medicines, even read the news in a funny voice. Slowly, the fever broke, and with it, some old fears inside me eased too.

He moved his equipment into my room, and I found out he was a singer!

“So you’re always ready to leave?” I asked, holding a cup of hot water.

He didn’t answer, but asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

I didn’t reply.

He took the cup from my hand and suddenly kissed me.

His hot breath burned every cell in my body. I grabbed his shirt, my heart nearly leaping out of my chest!

After that day, Kabir became the new master of the courtyard.

Changing tube lights, fixing tables—everything became his job.

The guests often teased: “You’re so handy, Tanvi akka should just marry you!”

Whenever that happened, he’d ask:

“When do you plan to marry me?”

I’d laugh it off.

He seemed unconcerned, but whenever no one was around, he’d find ways to tease me! Even if I begged for mercy, he wouldn’t let me off!

Sometimes I’d threaten to stop making his favourite upma, and he’d only grin wider. In the quiet of those village nights, the world felt small and safe and ours alone.

I thought life would go on like this, but one day, Kabir suddenly disappeared!

I asked the guests, and they said:

“Where else could he go? With looks like that, and being in the music industry, he probably ran off with some rich woman!”

The words stung more than I expected. The house felt empty, the evenings too quiet. I stopped opening the old harmonium, stopped singing, as if that might bring him back.