The white cloth was the first thing Priya noticed.
She had been waiting outside the chai stall near Faizabad Chowk since 5:30 in the morning — the old Ghanta Ghar clock visible down the lane, the sky still undecided about the day — when the old man came cycling around the corner. Thin, white-kurta, white topi, moving at the steady unhurried pace of someone who has been going to the same place for thirty years.
The sun was setting over the bustling city of Bangalore, casting long shadows as it dipped below the horizon. The summer heat was beginning to wane, giving way to a pleasant evening breeze that rustled the leaves of nearby trees. It was in this vibrant atmosphere that I, Rohan, an IT engineer, prepared for a family trip to Bhubaneswar.
“Rohan, are we all set for the journey?” my wife, Meera, called out as she checked our luggage. With her long, wavy hair and sharp features, Meera was always the organized one in our family, ensuring everything was in order before we embarked on any trip.