Parv Dasani 9 years This inspiring poem celebrates bravery as a choice reflected in everyday actions and extraordinary moments alike. It encourages readers to face fears, stand for truth, help others with courage, and discover the confidence, growth, and purpose that bravery brings. Bravery- strong, valiant, very audacious and fearless Those who embody it- they’ve got no stress Life savers, people who face their fears These people, their fortitude, intrepidity is sheer Be it saving lives, or telling the truth Bravery should find you like a master sleuth Miniscule or gigantic, every act of bravery should be lauded The colossal ones are always applauded Brave people see life from a different perspective They have no fear, they’re so positive They’re inquisitive, not irritating Disrespect them one time, and their alarm will ring Time and again, they show who they are When they’re recognized, they shine like a star Bravery is a choice- a risky one too Choose it- rewards, magic, recognition, all will come to you Be brave, noble, kind, and sympathetic Be brave in small situations and big ones, since the clock’s going tick-tick I’ll surely learn more about bravery Save someone, help in something, face your fears, and remember, brave you should always be

Sandeep Mishra Electrical Engineer, Gold Medalist, Senior Executive, Poet, Tabla Enthusiast. English Translation: The Rainy Season The rainy season has come again, Nature has swayed, and youth has embraced it. Clouds have gathered, and cool breezes are blowing, This carefree heart has become restless. Rainbow colours have spread across the horizon, Enthusiasm has begun to rise in every heart. Showers of happiness have poured down along with the rain, The rainy season has come again. — Sandeep Mishra वर्षा का मौसम आया है फिर वर्षा का मौसम झूम उठी प्रकृति छाया उसपर यौवन। उमड़ उठी घटाएं चले शीतल पवन हो गया है चंचल ये मतवाला मन। क्षितिज पर छाये हैं इंद्रधनुषी रंग हर दिल में उठने लगी है उमंग। बरस पड़ीं खुशियाली, बौछारों के संग आया है फिर वर्षा का मौसम। संदीप मिश्रा

Kiyaan Pradhan 10 years Step into the magic of a rainy day through a Kiyaan’s vivid imagination. Filled with playful sounds, comforting aromas, and joyful moments, this poem transforms an ordinary shower into an unforgettable celebration of nature and childhood wonder.

Photo by Hindustan Times on www.hindustantimes.com Avnish Anand LinkedIn; Medium A long suffering Indian sports fan’s homage to a great man who changed Indian shooting forever I am a 47 year old long suffering Indian sports fan and I fully understand the impact Jaspal Rana had on Indian sport. This is my personal homage to him. Firstly, it’s really sad for any human being to die at 49 in today’s day and age. Losing someone who made such a huge difference in a country starved of sporting success is almost catastrophic. Let me walk you through the moments of joy he gave me as an Indian sports fan. In 1990, we hit our sporting nadir at the Asian games in Beijing winning only one gold in Kabaddi and finishing well below Pakistan which actually won 4. We had no hopes of winning medals at the Olympics. The Asian Games were our only hope and in 1990 it felt as if that stage was also becoming too big for us. We watched the 1994 Games in Hiroshima with a a lot of trepidation therefore. Will we revive ourselves or fall further down the pecking order. Two men saved the day for me and countless other Indians. Leander Paes who helped us win two golds in tennis and Jaspal Rana who won a gold in shooting. We finished above Pakistan and we are at least back to our normal levels of Asian mediocrity and subcontinental dominance. Prior to this we had only won 1 Asian Games gold in shooting. The next 12 years weren’t so great. Rana didn’t win anything in Asia and failed big time at the Olympics. I had almost written him off. Am sure so had everyone else. Then he provided all of us wrong. At the 2006 Doha Asian Games, he won 3 gold medals including two in individual events. The only other Indian to win 3 golds at a single Asian Games before him was PT Usha. They remained in that exclusive club till two archers joined them in 2022. It was another unprecedented performance by Rana. Someone we all thought was done. Indians were not supposed to do such things at the Asian Games. Till date we have won 16 gold medals at the Asian Games. Rana won 4 of them himself and influenced most of the others. This is just part one of his legend. Part 2 is the Olympics Every time I would have high hopes for Rana at the Olympics and he would disappoint. I never quite understood why. Then I researched and figured out part of the answer. Rana did not win an Olympic medal primarily because his main events — the 25m Standard Pistol and 25m Center Fire Pistol — were non-Olympic disciplines. I would wonder why he wasn’t changing his events and focusing more on the ones which were part of the Olympics. How different could they be. I was sure he could have done well in them had he focussed on them. Why wasn’t he doing it ? Didn’t he have Olympic aspirations ? I got the answer much later and it made me respect him and love him even more. Rana openly admitted he prioritized events like Standard and Center Fire Pistol because medals at those levels were crucial for the country’s shooting identity at the time. :His long-time mentor Tibor Gonczol attempted to prepare him strictly for the Olympics, but Rana was unwilling to abandon the events he heavily dominated. This was maturity and foresight of the highest order. An unselfish individual who thought of the greater good of the sport. In his own words — “ For 16 years, I performed in the Commonwealth Games and Asian Games. Tibor tried to prepare me for the Olympics. I did not have the mindset to give up on something I was so good at, and which gave Indian shooting such an identity, and pursue something in which I was not so good. Had I compromised my time with other events, I may not have been that good in anything. Those two events were important in getting Indian shooting the recognition and the progress that it has made thus far. All the support for shooting was triggered because of that. I didn’t want to change any of that just because I had to be at my best in the Olympics, for which there was no guarantee. It was not meant for me, and I have no regrets.” He was proven right and his sacrifice was worth the effort as the sport took off in India and we have now won 7 Olympic medals including 3 in the last one. It has happened because more and more money and other types of support has poured into the sport. Part 3 of his legend is Rana the Coach and mentor Indian sport has a long history of Individuals excelling inspite of the system without much support. Unfortunately, very few of these individuals go on to do something which changes the lives of the next generation. There are two big exceptions to this. Pullela Gopichand in badminton and Jaspal Rana in shooting. Only 3 Indians have won both the Arjuna Award for Individual excellence and the Dronacharya Award for coaching. Pullela Gopichand in badminton, Sanjeeva Singh in archery and Jaspal Rana in shooting. His most famous and successful story is his coaching and mentoring of Manu Bhaker who sensationally won two medals at the Paris Olympics in 2024. Unbeknownst to most, Rana started coaching in 2012 and spent more than a decade coaching young Indian shooters. Even though he was a strict disciplinarian and a stickler for details, the young shooters he coached absolutely loved him. He may have failed to win a medal as a shooter himself but he more than made up for it as a coach. His passing leaves a serious void and there’s absolutely no one who can fill his massive shoes. A short but GREAT life Jaspal Rana died young. He was only 49. Which is only two years older than me. It saddens me to think of how soon he left us and how much more he could have done. But then I think of everything he did. Only a handful of people achieve greatness as an individual performer, as a coach and inspire generations. He did more than anyone ( and that includes Abhinav Bindra who by the way also played a big role ) to nature the fortunes of Indian shooting. Every time an Indian shooter will stand on an Olympic podium, lots of us will think of Rana. That is truly a great great life. RIP Jaspal Rana. Om Shanti

Anay Rathi 9+ Years Splish Splash celebrates the playful magic of a rainy day, where dancing flowers, paper boats, joyful splashes, and the aroma of hot buns come together to capture the wonder, excitement, and simple happiness of childhood. Leaves swinging here and there, I’ve not seen this anywhere. Everyone goes to their place, At their fastest pace. And when it starts raining, All the pretty flowers start waving. Children come out in their raincoats, To start sailing their colourful paper boats. While the gardener’s work is done, Thanks to the hiding sun! The children are splashing water in fun, And the mothers are baking hot buns. The lightning makes me shiver, Just like a piping hot fritter. Just as the rain stops, It’s time for the sun to pop!

Avyan Bahety 10 years A heartfelt celebration of the rainy season through a child's eyes—filled with the joy of raindrops, the fragrance of wet earth, colourful umbrellas, cozy moments, and the simple excitement that only rain can bring. Rain is a gift of nature to all of us. Whenever raindrops splatter on the windowpane, I am filled with happiness and excitement. When I hear the raindrops falling gently on the soil, I feel calm and relaxed. The rainy season is very important for all of us. It brings happiness to the farmers. It is a much-needed relief after the hot and humid days of summer. The earth is covered with a beautiful green carpet. I particularly love the sweet fragrance of the damp soil. The pitter-patter sound of the raindrops creates a soothing rhythm. I love watching colourful umbrellas and people walking in the rain. During the rainy season, I enjoy playing indoor games like badminton and chess. I also love sipping warm soup while watching the raindrops splash on the ground. I always look forward to the rainy season because I enjoy playing in the rain. There is also the exciting possibility of an unexpected holiday from school on an extremely rainy day.

Manjusha Arora Mom, EI Website Contributor Every mother knows these moments—the tiny hands she once held, the first steps she cheered, the quiet wish to pause time. These poems gently capture the love, pride, and bittersweet beauty of watching a little boy grow while forever remaining her little one. The Clock Vine The rain is gone, the game is done, He pauses play, my little son. He brings a Clock Vine wet with dew, A piece of time he gave to you. The blossom twists to meet the day, While childhood quickly slips away. You hold the flower in your hand, The sweetest gift in all the land. You wish that you could freeze the clock, Right there upon the cricket walk. To keep him small, to hold him tight, Save this moment in the light... The Orange Bike I held the seat of your bright orange bike, To help you find balance, the feeling you'd like. But the clouds opened up, And the rain started falling, And the puddles around us Were suddenly calling. We forgot all the lessons, We forgot all the rules. We jumped in the water Like two happy fools. The rain brought us magic, And pure joyful play. You found your new courage And smiled through the gray. You pushed on the pedals And started to glide. And just like magic, You learned how to ride! No hands there to hold you, You flew down the lane. My proudest moment, In the beautiful rain.

Kriti Rathi Poet There were days filled with cheers, And a mind to think without fear, Running around the courtyard, Jumping high towards the sky. Never thinking how and why? Playing under the sun, And having unlimited fun. Dirty hands and dirty feet, Filled every moment with wishes sweet. Looking forward to watching Jungle Book on Sundays, Filled my heart in every way. Gazing at the stars in the sky, Wondering how the years flew by. The child in me still wants to sing, With childhood dreams on colourful wings. Finding joy in everything, Life feels fast each day. Clinging on to my dreams the old way!

Idea & Event Lead: Kanak Aggarwal Creative Support (Leaf Props): Anita Oberoi Organized by: EI Library, coordinated by Harinath A simple idea, a grateful heart, and a tree filled with messages reminded us that the greatest gifts often come in a few heartfelt words. This Father's Day, EI Library brought residents together through the Gratitude Tree—a beautiful activity where children and adults expressed their love for their fathers by writing heartfelt messages on leaf-shaped cards, creating a tree filled with appreciation and memories. The Story Behind the Tree Some celebrations begin with months of planning. Others begin with a simple idea and a willing heart. For Kanak Aggarwal, Father's Day has always been special. Being a true daddy's girl, she loves celebrating the occasion in meaningful ways. Inspired by the Mother's Day event organized earlier at EI Library, she wondered if fathers too could be celebrated through a community activity. "I always enjoy celebrating Father's Day," Kanak shared. "When I shared the idea with Harinath, he immediately trusted me to lead the event. That confidence gave me the motivation to make it a success." The concept was simple yet beautiful—a Gratitude Tree where residents could write messages for their fathers on leaf-shaped cards and place them on the branches, allowing the tree to slowly bloom with love and appreciation. Special thanks also go to Anita Oberoi, who helped prepare the beautiful leaf props that became the heart of the activity. When Gratitude Filled the Branches On the day of the event, children, parents, and grandparents stopped by the tree, picked up a leaf, and wrote messages that came straight from the heart. Each leaf carried a unique story. Some thanked their fathers for being their strongest support system. Some called them their superhero, their everything, or simply the best dad in the whole world. Others expressed gratitude for life lessons—teaching them to stay simple, kind, peaceful, and courageous. Some appreciated the little joys: chocolates, surprise gifts, family trips, ice creams, and the precious time fathers always find despite their busy schedules. A few messages wished only one thing: "Stay healthy." One beautiful note simply read: "Whatever I am today, it's because of my Dad." By the end of the evening, the once-bare tree had transformed into a vibrant canopy of gratitude, carrying dozens of heartfelt messages from across the community. A Father's Day at Home When I asked Kanak how she celebrated Father's Day with her father, her answer reflected the very spirit of the Gratitude Tree. With a smile, she shared that although she rarely cooks, she made French fries especially for him. Later, the family went out for momos—his favorite—and she gifted him ice cream. When I jokingly asked whether her father had given her a return gift, she laughed and said, "Yes... we're going out for dinner!" Sometimes, the most meaningful gifts aren't wrapped in boxes—they're shared over a simple meal, laughter, and time spent together. More Than an Event Reflecting on the day, Kanak shared that the happiest part wasn't organizing the activity—it was watching people participate. Seeing children and adults thoughtfully write messages for their fathers and proudly place them on the tree made the entire effort worthwhile. What began as one resident's idea became a beautiful community memory—one that reminded us that gratitude grows when it is shared. Looking at the Gratitude Tree covered in heartfelt messages, Kanak felt that every hour spent planning the event had been worthwhile. One simple idea had encouraged an entire community to pause, reflect, and say two words we often leave unsaid—"Thank you, Dad." Event Credits Idea & Event Lead: Kanak Aggarwal Creative Support (Leaf Props): Anita Oberoi Organized by: EI Library, coordinated by Harinath

Harinath Story Teller EI Outlook Editor, Linkedin Profile, Blog Part 1: Describe The Rain The world they imagined together. Part 2: Describe Sight The world that pulled them apart. Sight brought possibilities neither had imagined. Yet while Aarav found purpose in building, Mira found joy in exploring. Somewhere between shared dreams and separate journeys, they stopped introducing themselves to each other. Describe Memory The separation happened quietly. No dramatic goodbye. No final declaration. No moment that could later be blamed. Just fewer calls. Fewer messages. Fewer attempts to explain things that neither seemed able to explain anymore. Then one day, they simply stopped trying. For a while, both felt relieved. Which surprised them. Aarav no longer had to wonder why Mira felt distant. Mira no longer had to wonder why Aarav seemed unable to understand what she was trying to say. The constant tension disappeared. Life became simpler. And both mistook that for peace. Years passed. Aarav built the life he had always imagined. He worked with visually impaired children. Trained mobility instructors. Helped families navigate fears he understood better than anyone. The work mattered. Every evening he returned home feeling useful. One afternoon, a young student asked him: "Sir, were you always this patient?" Aarav laughed. "No." "What changed?" Aarav thought for a moment. Then smiled. "I met someone who asked too many questions." The student looked confused. Aarav decided not to explain. Some stories take too long. Meanwhile, Mira built a very different life. Her work took her everywhere. Delhi. Jaipur. Ladakh. Kochi. Kathmandu. The world she once imagined through descriptions now unfolded before her own eyes. She photographed festivals. Markets. Mountains. People. Stories. Every city offered another horizon. Every horizon revealed another one beyond it. Exactly as she had hoped. One evening, standing on a mountain trail, someone asked her: "What's your favorite view?" Mira looked toward the valley below. Then surprised herself with her answer. "A train station." The person laughed. "A train station?" Mira smiled. "It's a long story." And left it at that. Over time, new people entered their lives. Good people. That was the difficult part. Neither found villains. Neither found mistakes. Aarav met someone kind. Someone dependable. Someone who admired his work. Someone who listened carefully. Mira met someone adventurous. Someone curious. Someone excited by the same possibilities she chased. On paper, everything made sense. The relationships were healthy. Comfortable. Adult. And yet. Now and then, something strange happened. Aarav would hear a question. A genuinely interesting question. And instinctively think: Mira would have loved this. Then remember she wasn't there. Years later, the habit still remained. Meanwhile, Mira would see something unusual. A street performer. A sudden rainstorm. A child asking impossible questions. And her first thought would be: Aarav would have had an answer for this. Then remember he wasn't there either. Neither spoke about it. Neither considered it important. Just an old habit. Nothing more. At least that was what they told themselves. The real surprise came later. Not from loneliness. Not from regret. But from comparison. Because their new partners understood them. They understood who they were. What they liked. What they wanted. What they feared. Yet something still felt different. One night, while returning home after dinner, Aarav realized what it was. His partner knew the man he had become. But not the boy who had once described red as a train arriving too fast. The thought arrived unexpectedly. And refused to leave. Hundreds of kilometers away, Mira arrived at a similar realization. Her partner knew the traveler. The photographer. The woman who chased stories across the country. But not the girl who had once spent an entire monsoon arguing about the sound of rain. For years, both had searched for people who understood them. Only to discover something unexpected. Understanding who a person is... is not always the same as understanding how they became that person. And some histories cannot be recreated. No matter how much love follows afterward. Describe the Rain Rain tapped softly against the restaurant window. Aarav looked at Mira. Twenty years had passed. Yet somehow the question felt unchanged. "Describe the rain." When she had asked it a few minutes ago, he had frozen. Not because he didn't know the answer. Because suddenly there were too many answers. Twenty years earlier, the question would have been easy. Back then, they had spent entire evenings describing rain. Arguing about rain. Laughing about rain. Trying to understand rain. Then life happened. Sight happened. Dreams happened. Distance happened. And somewhere along the way, they stopped describing things to each other. The strange part was that neither had noticed when it happened. Mira waited. Patient as always. Outside, rainwater raced down the glass. Headlights stretched into golden streaks. Mumbai hummed beneath the storm. Finally Aarav smiled. "Do you remember Churchgate Station?" Mira laughed immediately. "The platform that smelled like wet newspapers?" "And bad tea." "The tea was excellent." "It was terrible." They both laughed. For a moment they were sixteen again. Then silence returned. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just familiar. Aarav looked toward the rain. "You know..." "What?" "I used to think we spent all those years trying to describe the world." Mira tilted her head. "And now?" Aarav took his time answering. Because some answers need decades. "I think we were trying to describe ourselves." The rain continued falling. Neither spoke. The sentence settled gently between them. A memory finally finding the right name. Every conversation about fear. Every conversation about success. Every conversation about loneliness. Every conversation about home. They had never really been discussing those things. They had been showing each other who they were. Mira smiled. "We were terrible at explaining the world." Aarav laughed. "We were." "We kept getting everything wrong." "The color red." "The sea." "Sunsets." "Relationships." That last one made both of them smile. Outside, a train rattled somewhere in the distance. The sound barely reached the restaurant. Yet both noticed it. Some habits survived the years. Mira wrapped her hands around her tea cup. "Do you know what I finally understood?" Aarav shook his head. "When you got your sight, I thought you had changed." He listened. "When I got mine, I thought you couldn't understand me anymore." Aarav looked down. Neither statement felt untrue. Neither felt completely true either. Mira continued. "I spent years thinking we drifted apart because we became different people." "And?" She smiled. A sad smile. A peaceful smile. "I think we drifted apart because we stopped introducing those people to each other." Aarav stared at her. Of all the explanations they had considered over the years... that one felt closest. Not because it solved everything. Because it didn't. It simply explained enough. The rain grew heavier. For a few moments they watched it together. Just two people sitting beside the lives they had chosen. No regrets. No grand declarations. No impossible dreams of returning to the past. The past had already done its job. It had made them who they were. Mira smiled again. "You still haven't answered." Aarav looked outside. Rain slid down the glass exactly as it had twenty years ago. He listened. Not to the rain itself. To everything hidden inside it. Churchgate Station. Marine Drive. The Description Game. The promises. The arguments. The silences. The laughter. The years. Then he smiled. "It sounds like home." Mira didn't ask him to explain. She understood immediately. Outside, trains arrived. Trains departed. Rain continued falling across a city that had witnessed every version of them. The blind children. The dreamers. The lovers. The strangers. The people they became. Inside the restaurant, neither was trying to explain the world anymore. They were simply listening. And perhaps that had been the point all along. Read the Complete Journey Part 1: Describe The Rain The world they imagined together. Part 2: Describe Sight The world that pulled them apart. Part 3: Describe the Memory The world they finally understood.

Harinath Story Teller EI Outlook Editor, Linkedin Profile, Blog What does rain sound like? Can a train be impatient? And why would anyone describe a mango as sunshine? Aarav and Mira have spent years arguing over impossible questions, terrible answers, and cups of tea that always seem to arrive at exactly the right time. Describe The Rain Mumbai was drowning again. Rain slid down the restaurant windows in crooked lines, blurring headlights into streaks of green, gold and red. Outside, people hurried beneath umbrellas that seemed far too small for the evening. Inside, the restaurant was warm, crowded, and noisy in the familiar way Mumbai always was during monsoon. Aarav arrived ten minutes early. Some habits survive longer than relationships. He chose the table by the window and immediately smiled at the irony. Years ago, he would never have cared where he sat. A window had meant nothing to him then. Now he found himself watching raindrops race each other down the glass. He checked his watch. Then checked it again. Then laughed quietly at himself. Some habits survive longer than pride too. The waiter arrived. "Sir, would you like to order?" Aarav shook his head. "I'm waiting for someone." The waiter nodded and disappeared. Aarav turned back toward the rain. He had imagined this meeting many times over the years. In some versions, it was awkward. In others, emotional. In one particularly dramatic version, she threw a glass of water at him. Fortunately, Mira had always been far too sensible for that. The restaurant door opened. A gust of damp air entered with it. Aarav looked up. And forgot every version he had imagined. She stood near the entrance, folding her umbrella. For a moment she scanned the room. Then her eyes found him. Neither smiled immediately. Neither waved. Neither moved. They simply looked at each other. It was strange. For years they had recognized each other instantly. Not by sight. By footsteps. By breathing. By the rhythm of a sentence. By silence. Now they sat there like strangers, using eyes for something that once required none. Mira walked toward the table. The same steady pace. The same slight tilt of her head when she was thinking. Some things survived longer than time. "You're early." She said Aarav smiled. "And you're still late." She pulled out the chair opposite him. "Three minutes isn't late." "It is when you've kept someone waiting for eight years." Aarav teasing her For the first time, she laughed. The sound landed somewhere deep inside him. Familiar. Dangerously familiar. The waiter appeared. Menus were offered. Ignored. Tea was ordered. Automatically. Neither needed to ask. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was crowded. Filled with things neither knew how to begin saying. Outside, rain hammered the city. Inside, two people who once knew everything about each other searched for a place to start. Mira looked toward the window. "Still raining." Aarav followed her gaze. "Some things never change." She smiled. "That's not true." Neither of them said anything after that. Because both knew exactly what she meant. The tea arrived. Neither of them touched it immediately. Outside, the rain had become heavier. Water streamed down the restaurant windows, turning the city into a blurry painting. Mira watched it for a moment. Then she smiled. "Do you remember the rain game?" Aarav looked up from his cup. Of all the things he expected her to mention, he hadn't expected that. "The rain game?" "You know exactly which one." Mira replied Aarav laughed. "The day you spent two hours arguing that rain sounded lonely?" "Because it does." Mira protested "It doesn't." "See? Eight years later and you're still wrong." Outside, thunder rolled across the city. Then she turned toward Aarav. "Describe the rain." Aarav stopped moving. The teaspoon froze halfway to his cup. For a moment he simply stared at her. Not because he didn't understand the question. Because he understood it too well. A smile appeared on Mira's face. Small. Sad. Knowing. Aarav looked back toward the rain. And suddenly he was no longer sitting inside a restaurant. He was sixteen years old again. Standing on a crowded station platform. Listening to rain. Listening to laughter. Listening to a girl who always had one more question. Twenty years earlier... Describe a Train The platform smelled of wet concrete and chai. Rain hammered the metal roof overhead so loudly that station announcements dissolved into static. Aarav sat on a cold steel bench, listening. That was one of his favorite things to do. Listen. The city always revealed more through sound than people realized. Footsteps. Train brakes. Vendors. Arguments. Laughter. Everyone was telling a story without knowing it. Somewhere nearby, a train arrived. Aarav smiled. "Borivali slow." A voice immediately answered. "No." Aarav sighed. "You're late." The voice laughed. "You're wrong." Mira sat beside him, folding her white cane. "Churchgate fast." "It is not." "It is." "It's Borivali." Aarav repeats "It's Churchgate." They sat silently for a moment. The train doors opened. Passengers poured out. A few seconds later, the announcement finally arrived. Churchgate Fast. Mira grinned. "I win." "You cheated." "How?" "You probably heard someone say it." "I did not." "You definitely did." She nudged his shoulder. "You just hate losing." "I don't hate losing." "You do." "I hate being wrong." "That's the same thing." Aarav opened his mouth to argue. Then stopped. Because she was right. Unfortunately. Rain crashed against the roof above them. For a while, neither spoke. Then Mira suddenly asked, "Do you think rain sounds the same to everyone?" Aarav groaned. "There it is." "What?" "The impossible question of the day." "It isn't impossible." "It is." "No." "Fine. Ask." Mira tilted her head slightly, listening to the storm. "Do you think it sounds the same to everyone?" Aarav thought about it. "No." "Why?" "Because people hear different things." "What do you hear?" He listened for a moment. The rain struck metal. Concrete. Train tracks. Umbrellas. The city answered in a hundred different voices. "It sounds busy." Mira laughed. "Busy?" "Yes." "Rain can't be busy." "Why not?" "It just falls." "Exactly." "That doesn't explain anything." Mira puzzled "It sounds like Mumbai." Mira considered that. Then shook her head. "No." "What does it sound like to you?" She waited a few seconds before answering. "Lonely." Aarav nearly choked. "Lonely?" "Yes." "How can rain be lonely?" "Because it keeps falling." "So?" "And nobody ever catches it." For a moment, Aarav didn't know what to say. Only Mira could listen to a thunderstorm and feel sorry for it. He laughed. "That's ridiculous." "It isn't." "It absolutely is." "It isn't." "It is." "It isn't." They continued arguing until a train arrived and drowned both of them out. Neither noticed. Neither cared. The argument was never really about rain. Not that they knew it then. Years later, Aarav would remember that evening differently. Not because of the station. Not because of the storm. Not even because Mira had won the train argument. He remembered it because it was the first time someone had shown him that two people could stand in the same place, listen to the same rain, and still live in completely different worlds. For reasons he couldn't explain, that made him want to know hers. Describe Red The game started by accident. At least neither of them could later remember who invented it. One evening, while waiting for a delayed train, Mira asked: "Describe a mango." Aarav frowned. "A mango is a mango." "That's not describing." "Then what is?" "You have to make me understand it." "You've eaten mangoes." "That's not the point." Aarav groaned. Mira laughed. "Go on." He thought for a moment. Then said, "It's like sunshine that became a fruit." Mira smiled. "See? That wasn't so hard." The next day she came prepared. "Describe a train." "A train?" "Yes." "A metal animal that's always in a hurry." Mira nodded approvingly. "Better." A week later, the game had rules. No obvious answers. No repeating descriptions. And no giving up. The game followed them everywhere. Train platforms. Tea stalls. Bus stops. Marine Drive. Hospital waiting rooms. Sometimes they played for five minutes. Sometimes for hours. "Describe the sea." Aarav listened to the distant waves. "It sounds like a giant breathing." Mira tilted her head. "A tired giant or an angry giant?" "A tired one." "Good answer." "Describe fear." This time Aarav answered immediately. "Missing your station and not realizing it." Mira became quiet. For reasons he couldn't explain, that answer felt true. A few days later he got his revenge. "Fine. Your turn." Mira smiled. "Ask." "Describe loneliness." The confidence vanished from her voice. She took longer than usual. Finally she said, "Talking when nobody is listening." A train thundered past. Neither spoke for a while. As months passed, the game became less about objects and more about people. "Describe success." Mira answered, "Reaching a place you once thought was impossible." "Describe home." Aarav thought for a moment. Then shrugged. "The place where nobody asks you to explain yourself." For the first time, Mira had no joke ready. Somewhere along the way, they stopped noticing how much time they spent together. Their families noticed. Their friends noticed. The tea vendor near the station noticed. Everyone except them. To Aarav, Mira was simply the first person who made ordinary things interesting. To Mira, Aarav was the first person who treated her questions seriously. One evening they sat beneath the shelter of a closed shop while rain battered the streets. The city smelled of wet earth, diesel, and tea. Mira was unusually quiet. Aarav nudged her shoulder. "Your turn." She smiled. "Fine." A long pause followed. Then she asked: "Describe red." Aarav laughed. "How am I supposed to do that?" "You always complain first." "Because your questions are impossible." "That's why they're fun." He listened to the rain. The traffic. The distant train. The heartbeat of a city neither of them had ever seen. Then he said softly, "Red sounds like a train arriving too fast." Mira laughed. "That's terrible." "It's brilliant." "It isn't." "It is." "It isn't." The argument continued all the way until her bus arrived. Years later, neither of them would remember who won. But both would remember waiting for the next question. Because somewhere between describing rain, trains, fear, loneliness, and colors, they had started doing something neither of them understood. They weren't just describing the world. They were slowly learning how the other person lived inside it. Describe Home The older they grew, the harder it became to find time. There were classes. Assignments. Part-time jobs. Family responsibilities. The endless list of things adulthood seemed determined to add to every day. For the first time since they had met, there were days when Aarav and Mira didn't speak. Then weeks when they met only once. Neither complained. Neither needed to. The absence did the complaining for them. One Saturday evening, they found themselves sitting on the promenade at Marine Drive. The sea was unusually calm. Waves rolled toward the rocks and retreated again. The city buzzed behind them. Cars. Conversations. Footsteps. Vendors. Mumbai never truly became quiet. It simply changed the sounds it used. Aarav handed Mira a paper cup of tea. She accepted it. "You're late." "You've become impatient." "I've always been impatient." "No," Mira said. "You've become impatient with me." Aarav laughed. "You are impossible." "I know." The conversation drifted away. As it often did. Silence never felt uncomfortable with Mira. Most people filled silence because they were afraid of it. With her, silence felt like part of the conversation. After a while, Mira spoke. "Describe home." Aarav sighed immediately. "There it is." "What?" "The impossible question of the day." "It isn't impossible." "It absolutely is." She smiled into her tea. "Answer it anyway." "I already answered this." "When?" "Months ago." "I've changed since then." Aarav laughed. "You're exactly the same." "No one stays exactly the same." He thought about that. The sea continued breathing in front of them. Finally he asked, "What's your answer?" Mira didn't hesitate. "Home is where I can be annoying and nobody leaves." Aarav burst out laughing. "That explains a lot." "It does." "What about the people around you?" "What about them?" "They deserve compensation." Mira nudged his shoulder. "Your turn." Aarav leaned back. The breeze carried salt through the air. For once, he took longer than usual. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. "Home is where I don't have to explain myself." Mira stopped smiling. Not because the answer was sad. Because it wasn't. It was true. She knew exactly what he meant. There were people who listened. And there were people who understood. The difference mattered more than most people realized. The sea filled the silence between them. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed. A vendor shouted. A motorcycle roared past. The city continued exactly as it always had. Yet something felt different. Neither could explain why. Eventually Mira spoke again. "You know what's strange?" "What?" "We've spent years describing the world to each other." "That's because your questions are terrible." She ignored him. "I have no idea what you look like." Aarav smiled. "Probably handsome." "Confidence is attractive." "That's fortunate." "Why?" "Looks clearly aren't helping me." Mira laughed. The sound lingered longer than the joke deserved. Then she became thoughtful. "I wasn't wondering what you look like." "What were you wondering?" She turned her face toward the sea. "If we'd met any other way..." She paused. "Would we have noticed each other?" The question hung between them. For the first time in years, Aarav didn't have a clever answer. He thought about crowded trains. Busy streets. College classrooms. Thousands of strangers passing each other every day. Then he thought about Mira. The impossible questions. The arguments about rain. The descriptions. The endless conversations. The feeling of never needing to explain himself. "No," he said honestly. Mira smiled. "Neither would I." Strangely, neither of them sounded disappointed. They sat there for a while, listening to the waves. Two people who would probably never have noticed each other. Yet somehow had become part of each other's idea of home. Neither called it love. Neither needed to. Some things become true long before they are spoken aloud. Describe Tomorrow The idea came from a newspaper article. Mira found it first. Which was unusual. Most things in their friendship arrived through questions. This time it arrived through hope. They were sitting at their usual tea stall near Churchgate station when Mira unfolded a newspaper and placed it between them. "Listen to this." Aarav was suspicious immediately. "Every time you say that, my day becomes complicated." "That's because your imagination is weak." "My imagination is excellent." "You once described red as a train arriving too fast." "It was a brilliant answer." "It was terrible." "It was art." Mira ignored him and began reading. The article was about a young man who had regained partial sight after an experimental procedure. Neither spoke while she read. The sounds of the city continued around them. Trains. Conversations. Tea glasses. Life moving forward. When she finished, silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. Aarav broke it first. "Do you think it'll happen?" "What?" "Something like that." Mira folded the newspaper carefully. "I don't know." Another pause. "Do you?" Aarav listened to a train arriving in the distance. The familiar screech of brakes. The rush of passengers. The rhythm of a city he knew better than most sighted people. For years, he had imagined what seeing would be like. Not often. But enough. Enough to wonder. Enough to dream. Enough to be disappointed whenever the dream felt impossible. "Sometimes." Mira smiled. "Only sometimes?" "I'm trying to sound mature." "You've never sounded mature." "That's fair." The conversation drifted away. But the idea remained. Lingering. Quietly occupying the space between them. That evening they walked to Marine Drive. The sea breeze was stronger than usual. Waves crashed against the rocks below. People filled the promenade. Families. Couples. Vendors. Tourists. Everyone watching a sunset neither of them could see. Mira sat on the seawall. Aarav beside her. For a while, neither spoke. The city felt larger than usual. Full of possibilities. Then Mira asked softly, "If you could see for one day..." Aarav smiled. "There it is." "What?" "The impossible question of the day." She laughed. "Answer it." He thought carefully. "What would I see first?" "Yes." The answer came surprisingly quickly. "You." Mira became quiet. Aarav continued before he could think too much about what he'd just said. "I've spent years listening to you." A smile appeared on her face. "That's a dangerous amount of patience." "It really is." "What about after that?" Aarav considered it. "The sea." "Why?" "Because everyone keeps talking about it." "Reasonable." "What about you?" Mira didn't answer immediately. The waves filled the silence. Finally she said, "Everything." Aarav laughed. "Everything?" "Everything." "That's not possible." "I know." "But I'd try." The answer didn't surprise him. It was exactly the kind of answer Mira would give. The city lights slowly came alive behind them. Though neither knew it. The air became cooler. The crowd began thinning. After a while Mira spoke again. Quieter this time. Almost as though she were talking to herself. "If it ever happens..." Aarav turned toward her. "If what happens?" "If either of us gets to see." The breeze carried her words away for a moment. Then she continued. "Promise me something." "What?" "Promise me we'll experience it together." Aarav smiled. The request felt unnecessary. The kind of promise that didn't need making because it was already true. "Of course." "No." Mira shook her head. "I mean it." For once there was no teasing in her voice. No joke. No impossible question. Just sincerity. "If one of us sees before the other..." She paused. "We wait." Aarav frowned. "Wait?" "For each other." "Why?" Mira smiled. Because if anyone else had asked that question, she would have struggled to answer. But Aarav already knew. "Because then who would I argue with about it?" The waves crashed below them. The city breathed around them. And somewhere inside Aarav, something shifted. Not dramatically. Not enough to name. Just enough to remember. He extended his hand. "Fine." Mira laughed. "That's your serious face?" Aarav feeling her face "You can't see my face." "Exactly." She took his hand anyway. "Deal." "Deal." Years later, both of them would remember that evening. Not because of the promise. But because of how easy it had been to make. Some promises are difficult because they ask too much. Others are difficult because they seem impossible to break. At the time, neither Aarav nor Mira could imagine a future in which they would want different things. The possibility never even occurred to them. And perhaps that was the most beautiful part of being young. End of Part 1 Continue Reading... Part 2: Describe Sight Part 3: Describe the Memory What Lies Ahead? A miracle arrives, followed by possibilities neither imagined. As sight expands their worlds, Aarav and Mira begin discovering something far more complicated than darkness—change.

Harinath Story Teller EI Outlook Editor, Linkedin Profile, Blog Previously in... Part 1: Describe The Rain They spent years describing rain, colors, fear, and home to each other. What began as a game became friendship, then something deeper. Before life could change them, they made a promise about the future. Next Part.. Part 3: Describe Memory Describe Sight The phone call came on a Tuesday afternoon. Aarav was helping his father at work when it arrived. An unknown number. Normally he ignored those. For reasons he would never fully understand, he answered this one. The call lasted less than five minutes. Yet it divided his life into two parts. Before. And after. There was a new procedure. The doctors were cautiously optimistic. Nothing was guaranteed. The surgery could fail. The improvement might be limited. There were risks. Many risks. Aarav heard almost none of it. One sentence kept repeating in his head. There is a chance. That evening he called Mira. "What happened?" She immediately knew something was different. His breathing had changed. His voice had changed. Years of friendship had taught her to hear things others missed. "They called." Silence. "The hospital?" "Yes." The silence stretched. Neither wanted to be the first to say it aloud. As though naming the possibility might scare it away. Finally Mira asked, "Is there a chance?" Aarav smiled. The exact same words. "Yes." For a moment neither spoke. Then Mira laughed. Then Aarav laughed. And suddenly they were both talking at once. Questions. Possibilities. Fears. Dreams. Hope. Years of hope. That night neither slept much. Months later, the surgery happened. Aarav remembered very little about it. Hospitals have a way of making extraordinary moments feel ordinary. Forms. Machines. Instructions. Waiting. More waiting. The real memory began days later. When the bandages finally came off. The room was quiet. A doctor stood nearby. A nurse. His parents. Everyone waiting. Aarav blinked. Once. Twice. At first there was nothing. Then confusion. Then shapes. The world arrived slowly. Like a radio finding the correct frequency. Blur. Light. Movement. Color. Color. For years people had described colors to him. Mira most of all. Red was supposed to sound like a train arriving too fast. Blue was supposed to feel calm. Yellow was supposed to feel warm. None of them had been right. And somehow all of them had. Tears rolled down his face before he realized he was crying. The doctor was speaking. Someone else was speaking. His mother was crying. Aarav barely heard any of it. Because for the first time in his life, there was simply too much to look at. The following weeks felt like being born late. Every ordinary thing felt impossible. Traffic lights. Trees. Shop signs. Clouds. Faces. Faces fascinated him most. For years he had built people from voices. Now he could see them. And nothing matched. One evening he stood outside during the first rain of the season. Drops struck the pavement. Cars hissed through puddles. The familiar sounds remained unchanged. Yet everything felt different. For years rain had been something he listened to. Now it filled the sky. Endless. Moving. Alive. He stood there for almost an hour. Simply watching. That night he called Mira. Immediately. "Describe it." Mira laughed. "Describe what?" "The rain." "You've heard rain your whole life." "Not like this." Aarav Said He searched for words. The same way they had done a thousand times before. But something strange happened. For the first time in his life, words felt insufficient. "It's..." He stopped. "What?" Aarav looked at the dark clouds. The streetlights. The silver streaks falling from the sky. "It's impossible." Mira laughed. "You've finally started asking my questions." He laughed too. But the feeling remained. Because for the first time, he had experienced something he couldn't fully describe. And for the first time, Mira couldn't experience it with him. Neither noticed it then. It was too small. Too subtle. Just a tiny crack. A tiny distance. A tiny shift in the way they understood the world. The kind of thing nobody notices when it begins. The kind of thing people only recognize years later. When they are trying to remember where everything changed. Describe Change At first, everything felt better. That was what made it so difficult to notice the change. Aarav called more often. Visited more often. Described more often. For years, he had imagined what it would be like to see the world. Now that he finally could, he wanted Mira to experience every bit of it. The first sunset. The first rainbow. The first time he saw the sea stretching endlessly into the horizon. The first time he watched rain fall against a streetlight at night. He described everything. Every detail. Every color. Every shape. Every expression. Mira listened patiently. The way she always had. One evening they sat at Marine Drive. A place that had witnessed most of their important conversations. The sea was restless that day. Waves crashed hard against the rocks. Spray drifted through the air. Aarav was unusually excited. "The sky is orange today." Mira smiled. "Is it?" "Not just orange." He pointed instinctively before remembering. "There's purple too." "Purple?" "Near the clouds." Mira listened. "And the sea looks silver." "Silver?" "Yeah." Aarav paused. For a moment he searched for words. "It's beautiful." Mira laughed softly. "You sound like everyone else now." "What does that mean?" "Nothing." Aarav continued. Describing. Explaining. Sharing. Everything he could see. Yet something felt different. Though neither could quite name it. Years earlier, the Description Game had always started with a question. Describe rain. Describe fear. Describe home. Describe loneliness. Now the questions appeared less often. The descriptions arrived before they were asked for. The game had changed. Quietly. Almost invisibly. Neither noticed. A few weeks later, Aarav brought Mira a small gift. A music box he had discovered while wandering through a market. When opened, it played a simple melody. Mira listened carefully. Then smiled. "It's lovely." Aarav felt relieved. He always felt relieved when she liked something. Lately he had been bringing her things more often. Books. Music. Recorded documentaries. Audio tours. Anything he thought she might enjoy. Everything came from love. Yet after he left that evening, Mira sat alone holding the music box. Listening to the tune repeat itself. Something felt missing. Not because of the gift. The gift was thoughtful. Not because Aarav had changed. He hadn't. At least not intentionally. The feeling was harder to describe. She missed being part of the discovery. She missed asking questions. She missed wondering. Most of all, she missed contributing. A week later they met again. This time at a small café near Churchgate. Halfway through their tea, Mira suddenly asked: "Describe success." Aarav laughed. "We're playing that game again?" "Just answer." He leaned back. Thinking. A few years ago he would have answered immediately. Now he took his time. Finally he said, "Seeing things I never thought I'd see." The answer felt right. At least to him. Mira became quiet. "What?" "Nothing." "No. What?" A faint smile appeared on her face. "A few years ago, you said something different." Aarav frowned. "Did I?" "Yes." "What did I say?" Mira looked down at her tea. "Reaching a place you once thought was impossible." Aarav tried to remember. Couldn't. The conversation moved on. But the answer stayed with Mira. Not because it was wrong. Because it revealed something. Success had changed. And perhaps Aarav had changed too. Just a little. Or maybe he hadn't. Maybe life simply looked different from where he stood now. That evening, Aarav walked her to the bus stop. The city was crowded. The air smelled faintly of rain. As they waited, Aarav asked: "Are you happy?" Mira smiled immediately. "Of course." And she meant it. Mostly. The bus arrived. People began boarding. Mira stepped forward. Then stopped. For a brief moment, she almost said something. Something important. She wasn't sure what. Only that it had been growing quietly inside her for months. A feeling. A distance. A question she couldn't quite put into words. But the bus conductor shouted. The crowd moved. The moment disappeared. "See you tomorrow?" Aarav asked. "See you tomorrow." She boarded. Aarav stood watching the bus disappear into traffic. Certain everything was fine. Mira sat beside the window. Certain something was changing. Neither was wrong. Neither was right. And neither yet understood that relationships rarely break because of a single moment. More often, they drift. One unspoken thought at a time. Describe Wonder The call came three years later. On a Thursday. At 11:17 in the morning. Aarav remembered the exact time because Mira screamed into the phone before he could say hello. "They called." Aarav froze. For a moment neither spoke. Neither needed to. The meaning arrived before the words did. "The hospital?" "Yes." The silence that followed felt familiar. A memory. A reflection of another phone call years earlier. Except this time, the hope belonged to Mira. And somehow that felt different. Months later, she sat in a hospital room holding Aarav's hand. The same hospital. The same uncertainty. The same impossible possibility. Only the roles had changed. "Are you nervous?" Aarav asked. "Terrified." "Good." "What?" "You make better decisions when you're terrified." Mira laughed. "That might be the worst encouragement in medical history." "You're welcome." The surgery happened. Then recovery. Then waiting. More waiting. Mira hated waiting. She had always hated waiting. Finally, the day arrived. The bandages came off. Light entered first. Not sight. Not understanding. Just light. Then color. Movement. Shapes. The world arrived slowly. Aarav watched from the corner of the room. Trying not to watch. Failing completely. He remembered his own first day. The confusion. The wonder. The exhaustion. Mira blinked repeatedly. Then suddenly laughed. Not because anything was funny. Because the world existed. And somehow that felt absurd. A nurse stood nearby. Mira stared at her for several seconds. "People are much smaller than I imagined." The nurse burst out laughing. Aarav smiled. That sounded exactly like Mira. A week later, they met outside Churchgate station. The city was loud. Busy. Chaotic. Beautiful. For the first time in her life, Mira could see it. Aarav had prepared an entire plan. Marine Drive. The Gateway. The sea. The sunset. All the places they had dreamed about. "What do you want to see first?" he asked. "The station." Aarav blinked. "The station?" "Yes." "Why?" Mira looked around. People rushed past them. Trains arrived. Announcements echoed overhead. Life moved in every direction at once. For years she had imagined Churchgate. Built it from sound. Constructed it from footsteps. Announcements. Memories. Descriptions. Now she wanted to compare imagination with reality. For nearly an hour she wandered around the station. Touching railings. Looking upward. Watching crowds. Watching trains. Watching people. Watching possibilities. Aarav noticed something. When he had first gained sight, he had looked for familiar things. Mira looked for unfamiliar ones. Every time something caught her attention she moved toward it. A bookstore. A street artist. A flower vendor. A billboard. A stray dog sleeping beneath a bench. The city seemed endless. And Mira wanted all of it. That evening they sat at Marine Drive. The sea stretched across the horizon. Orange light covered the water. The city slowly prepared for night. Aarav waited. Eventually he asked, "Well?" "What?" "You've seen the world." Mira laughed. "One day is not the world." "Fair." "So?" She thought for a moment. Then smiled. "It's bigger." "Bigger?" "Much bigger." "Than what?" "Than us." Mira amazed The answer lingered between them. Years ago, Aarav would have immediately asked another question. Describe bigger. Describe possibility. Describe wonder. But he didn't. Instead, both sat quietly watching the sea. For the first time. Not listening to it. Watching it. Neither noticed the difference. Neither noticed that they were no longer describing the world to each other. They were simply looking at it. And sometimes the most important changes are the ones that feel completely natural while they are happening. Describe Success The first year after Mira gained sight felt like a celebration. There was always somewhere to go. Something to see. Something to learn. Something they had both spent a lifetime imagining. They visited museums. Watched sunsets. Took ferry rides. Got lost in parts of Mumbai neither had explored before. Sometimes they laughed at how wrong their imagination had been. Sometimes they laughed at how surprisingly accurate it was. One afternoon, standing near the Gateway of India, Mira stared at a flock of pigeons taking flight. Hundreds of wings rose together. For a moment, the sky seemed alive. "That's unfair," she said. "What?" Aarav asked. "The world." "The world is unfair?" "Nobody told me there was this much of it." Aarav laughed. "That's because nobody knew how to describe it." Mira smiled. But her eyes remained fixed on the sky. For the first time, Aarav noticed something. Whenever they went somewhere new, Mira always walked slightly ahead. Not far. Just enough. As though the world was pulling her forward. At first he found it charming. Later, he found himself noticing it more often. Months passed. Then years. The excitement of seeing slowly became ordinary. As all extraordinary things eventually do. The difference was what happened next. Aarav began looking inward. Mira began looking outward. Aarav started volunteering with an organization that trained visually impaired children. Teaching them mobility. Helping them navigate train stations. Helping them believe that blindness did not have to limit their lives. He loved it. Every evening he came home with stories. "There is a boy who can identify every train by sound." Mira laughed. "So, a younger version of you." "He is much more annoying." "Impossible." Aarav smiled. The work made him feel useful. Grounded. Needed. Meanwhile, Mira seemed to be collecting experiences. Photography. Travel workshops. Storytelling courses. Weekend trips. New friends. New ideas. Every time Aarav met her, there was another story. "I met someone from Ladakh." "I'm thinking about applying for a fellowship." "There is a workshop in Delhi." "There is an exhibition in Bengaluru." "There is a travel program in Nepal." The world seemed to keep opening doors. And Mira wanted to walk through all of them. One evening they met at their usual spot at Marine Drive. The city lights stretched along the curve of the bay. The sea was calm. Aarav handed her a cup of tea. "There's a workshop in Pune next month." "Oh?" "You should come." Mira hesitated. "I can't." "Why not?" "I'll be in Delhi." "For what?" "A photography course." Aarav laughed. "You've become impossible." Mira smiled. "I've always been impossible." The answer sounded familiar. Yet somehow different. They sat quietly for a while. Then Aarav suddenly asked, "Describe success." Mira looked surprised. "We're playing again?" "Maybe." She thought for a moment. Then said, "Standing somewhere you've never been before." Aarav smiled. "That's success?" "For me." "What if there is nothing there?" Mira laughed. "Then I'll find somewhere else." The answer amused him. But it also stayed with him. Because a few years ago, Mira had described success differently. Back then it had been about reaching a place she once thought impossible. Now it seemed less about arriving. And more about continuing. The sea breeze carried silence between them. Comfortable. Familiar. Yet underneath it, something neither acknowledged had begun to grow. Aarav wanted to build. Mira wanted to explore. Neither dream was wrong. Neither dream excluded the other. But neither was exactly the same. As they got up to leave, Mira pointed toward the horizon. "You know what's funny?" "What?" "When we were blind, I thought the world was small." Aarav looked out at the dark sea. "And now?" Mira smiled. "Now I think it's endless." Aarav nodded. He understood what she meant. Or at least he thought he did. Years later, both of them would remember that conversation. Not because of what was said. But because of what wasn't. Neither asked the question hiding beneath everything. When two people begin walking toward different horizons... how do they make sure they are still walking together? Describe Distance The conversation began with celebration. Which made everything that followed feel unfair. They were sitting in an old café near Churchgate. One of the few places that had survived all the changes around it. The same wooden chairs. The same chipped cups. The same impatient waiter. Mira arrived ten minutes late. For once, she looked nervous. Aarav immediately smiled. "What did you do?" "What makes you think I did something?" "You only look innocent when you're guilty." Mira laughed. Then placed an envelope on the table. "What is this?" "Open it." Aarav unfolded the letter. Read the first line. Then the second. Then looked up. "You got it." Mira nodded. Unable to stop smiling. "You actually got it." "I did." The fellowship was one of the most competitive programs in the country. A year-long opportunity. Travel. Photography. Storytelling. Research. Everything Mira loved. Aarav stood up and hugged her. Without hesitation. Without thinking. "I'm proud of you." Mira smiled. For a moment, everything felt exactly the way it used to. Then Aarav looked back at the letter. "When did you apply?" The question sounded harmless. Mira looked away. "A few months ago." Aarav blinked. "A few months?" "Yes." "You never told me." "I wasn't sure I'd get selected." The answer made sense. Yet something inside him remained unsettled. "A few months is a long time." Mira stirred her tea. "I didn't want to make it a big thing." Aarav laughed softly. Not because it was funny. "You didn't think I'd want to know?" The smile disappeared from Mira's face. "I knew you'd want to know." "Then why didn't you tell me?" The waiter arrived. Placed two cups of tea on the table. Left. Neither touched them. The café suddenly felt smaller. I don't know." Mira answered honestly. Aarav looked at her. The honesty somehow hurt more than an excuse. Because it meant she truly hadn't thought to tell him. Not immediately. Not first. Not the way she once would have. Outside, trains came and went. People hurried past. Life continued. Inside, something old and fragile was beginning to crack. "You tell me everything." Mira looked up. "No, I don't." "You used to." The words escaped before he could stop them. Silence. A dangerous silence. The kind that arrives when both people suddenly realize they are talking about something larger than the conversation itself. Mira leaned back. "A lot has changed since then." "Has it?" The question sounded sharper than he intended. Mira noticed. "Yes." Aarav looked away. Toward the station. Toward the city. Anywhere except her. "Sometimes I feel like I hear about your life after everyone else does." Mira frowned. "That's not fair." "Isn't it?" For the first time, irritation entered her voice. "No." "Why?" "Because you're keeping score." The words landed heavily. Aarav immediately hated hearing them. Because a part of him knew she was right. Yet another part knew that wasn't the whole story. "This isn't about keeping score." "Then what is it about?" The answer came too quickly. "I miss you." Everything became quiet. The anger disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. Because neither of them had expected that answer. Least of all Aarav. Mira looked down at the table. "I haven't gone anywhere." Aarav smiled sadly. "That's exactly what scares me." The sentence lingered. Neither fully understood it. Yet both felt it. After a long silence, Mira finally spoke. "When we were blind..." Aarav looked up. "When we were blind, I never had to explain myself to you." The café disappeared. The city disappeared. Everything disappeared. "Now I explain everything." Her voice remained calm. "And somehow you understand me less." The sentence landed harder than anger ever could. Because it was not an accusation. It was grief. Aarav stared at her. Searching for a response. Searching for the right words. Nothing came. Finally he spoke. "Nobody will ever know you the way I know you." The moment the sentence left his mouth, something felt wrong. Not the words. The meaning behind them. Mira's expression changed. Not anger. Not hurt. Disappointment. "Then why do I feel so unseen?" Aarav had no answer. For years, answers had come easily between them. Now they sat on opposite sides of a table. Separated by a distance neither knew how to cross. The tea had gone cold. Outside, evening was arriving. Finally Mira stood. "I should go." Aarav nodded. Neither apologized. Neither asked the other to stay. Because both sensed the conversation wasn't ending today. It had begun years ago. In small silences. Small assumptions. Small things left unsaid. Mira picked up her bag. Then paused. For a moment, Aarav thought she might say something. Something that would fix everything. Instead she smiled. A tired smile. A familiar smile. And walked away. Aarav remained at the table long after she left. Watching people move through the station. Watching trains arrive and depart. Watching a city that never stopped moving. For the first time in his life, he wished the world would stand still long enough for him to understand what had just happened. But the world kept moving. And so did they. End of Part 2 Previously Published Part 1: Describe The Rain Continue Reading... Part 3: Describe Memory What Lies Ahead? A miracle arrives, followed by possibilities neither imagined. As sight expands their worlds, Aarav and Mira begin discovering something far more complicated than darkness—change.