Chapter 1 The Mango and The Monsoon
Chapter 1 – The Mango Tree and the Monsoon
Arnav
If I were to describe Shantipur, I’d say it smells like rain and rebellion. Rain, because the clouds never quite know when to stop. Rebellion, because neither do I.
It was 1898, and everyone in this sleepy town had already decided who I was supposed to become — the heir to my father’s estates, a perfect son who signed documents, rode horses, and married a stranger with a dowry fat enough to buy respect.
The problem? I’d just returned from Calcutta with Shakespeare in my pocket and opinions that made elders cough into their betel leaves.
That morning, I was sulking under the old mango tree when a voice drifted over the drizzle — lilting, stubborn, impossibly alive. A sitar was being tuned.
And then I saw her.
Ananya
Every raindrop in Shantipur has an audience. Mostly, it’s me.
Father says I romanticize everything — “Even puddles, Ananya!” — but it’s not my fault the world insists on being poetic.
The Roys had hired Father to teach their youngest daughter music, and as usual, I was drafted to help. I didn’t mind. Music never judged me for my chatter. People did.
When we reached the courtyard, I saw him — the zamindar’s son. White kurta, careless hair, and a smirk that could probably colonize the world faster than the British ever did.
He was watching me like he’d discovered a new species. So I gave him the look I reserved for mosquitoes and arrogant men.
“What?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said, still staring. “Just wondering how someone managed to hide sunshine under this rain.”
I blinked. Then, because sarcasm is my religion, replied, “And I’m wondering how someone managed to fit that much ego under one umbrella.”
He laughed — a sound that didn’t belong to this century, too free for its time. The monsoon had officially found its favorite scene.
Arnav
She was fire disguised as melody. Every word of hers carried an untrained rhythm.
When she wasn’t teaching my sister the sitar, she argued with me — about music, about poetry, about whether Byron was overrated (he was, but I’d never admit it to win).
One afternoon, I asked, “Why do you keep correcting me?” She looked up, eyes dancing. “Because you keep being wrong.”
And I swear, in that moment, I fell — not gracefully, not gently — but headfirst, the way monsoon rivers fall off cliffs.
Ananya
He irritated me. Constantly. He’d appear wherever I went — by the lake, the corridor, even near the mango tree where I practised.
Once, I asked, “Don’t you have estates to manage or hearts to break?” He said, “Only one heart seems worth the effort right now.”
My pulse did something traitorous then. I told myself it was just the humidity.
But late at night, when I plucked my sitar strings softly, I’d imagine his voice finishing the tune. It felt like a duet that time had forgotten to compose.
Arnav
The town gossiped, of course. They always do. “A zamindar’s son and a tutor’s daughter?” they whispered. As if love were a matter of land titles.
I didn’t care. For the first time in my life, I wanted to defy something for the sake of joy.
Under the mango tree, I told her, “If I read you poetry, will you stay until the last line?” She smiled, pretending indifference. “Depends. How bad is your pronunciation of Ghalib?”
We both laughed. The rain joined in, soft applause on leaves.
And as the sky thundered, I thought: Maybe every storm begins when two souls recognize each other after too many lifetimes apart.
Ananya
The monsoon lingered that year, as if it, too, wanted to eavesdrop on us.
Every meeting began as an argument and ended as laughter. Somewhere between sarcasm and stolen glances, affection grew — quiet, relentless.
He wasn’t what I expected. He was worse — because he made me hope.
One evening, he said softly, “You’ll play for me someday, won’t you?” I teased, “And what will you give me in return?” He leaned closer, voice a whisper against the rain. “A promise — that you’ll never have to play alone again.”
I didn’t answer. But my sitar did — one long note that trembled like a heartbeat.
Arnav
If I could go back, I’d tell that foolish, hopeful boy to hold her hand right then.
But perhaps destiny enjoys irony — giving us the courage to love only when time is about to steal it away.
Still, that night, under the mango tree and the monsoon’s watchful eyes, we made an unspoken vow — one that the rain carried forward through centuries.
