Monsoon of Longing - A Table for Strangers

Everyone from small towns dreams of escape velocity. For some, it is to escape poverty; for others, the middle-class trap, the monotony of a safe but mediocre life, or the constant comparisons to someone more successful.

Nobody truly wants to leave home, but like a butterfly breaking free of its cocoon, one has to.

Unlike butterflies, though, humans never stop missing the place they came from. That is the reality for anyone born in a tier-2 or tier-3 city. To fly, you must sacrifice. Ayushman, Tanuja, Kavita, and thousands like them had all left home chasing that flight.

For Ayushman, Bengaluru had become home now. Coffee, dosa, late-night beer, the city’s restless hustle, these had replaced the warmth of family dinners and sleepy town evenings. Five years had passed since college.

He carried with him a steady job, a stubborn startup dream, and a scar where his first love once lived.

That Saturday night was meant to be ordinary, a casual dinner with friends. But halfway through, he heard it. A laugh. A woman’s laugh, warm and familiar, cutting through the clinking glasses and the chatter of the restaurant. He turned, catching a glimpse of hair over a shoulder. Something inside him knew before he even saw her face. His chest tightened, his throat went dry. In a flash, thousands of memories stormed through his mind. He could not think straight. Should I go? What if she is upset? What if she ignores me? What if… what if…

Minutes passed like hours. Her friends eventually stood up to leave. She was alone now, looking at her phone. Ayushman’s friends were still busy chatting, but his world had shrunk to a single point, her. Gathering every ounce of courage, he stood and walked toward her.

“Hey, Tanu,” he said softly.

Her head snapped up. For a moment, her eyes betrayed a rush of emotions, surprise, confusion, perhaps even longing. Millions of thoughts burst in her head: Should I smile? Should I look away? Why now? Her heart wanted to stare, her mind spun wildly.

“Hi,” she finally said.

Silence followed, thick with hesitation, almost unbearable. Ayushman cleared his throat, forcing casualness into his voice. “How are you? I… I didn’t know you were in Bengaluru.”

“I just got transferred from Pune,” she replied, a little too quickly. “Two months back.” She lowered her gaze to the phone in her hand. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been… okay,” he said, searching for words. “Working, surviving. You know, the usual.”

Polite smiles. Careful words. Each syllable was wrapped in hesitation. He wanted to ask her everything: Did you miss me? Did it hurt? Are you happy? She wanted to ask him the same. Instead, they sat with the safe questions, as if formality could mask the storm within.

“You look… good,” Ayushman said, his voice almost betraying him.

She met his eyes for a second, then looked away. “Thanks. So do you.”

Silence again. Not empty, but overflowing. The kind of silence where everything unsaid hangs between two people like electricity. Ayushman pulled out his phone almost instinctively. “Can I have your number?” he asked. She read it out and asked him to give her a missed call.

“Remember when a missed call was everything?” Ayushman said suddenly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “One ring meant I miss you. Two meant call me back. Three…”

“…meant urgent,” Tanuja finished, smiling faintly. “Yeah. Crazy how we lived the entire 4 years through landline rings.” They both laughed softly, the sound carrying years of memories in it.

“Kavita used to tease us about that all the time,” Ayushman added, almost wistfully. The name softened Tanuja’s expression. “I haven’t seen her in years. She is still in Pune.” Ayushman raised his eyebrows. “Both of you were in the same city and didn’t meet in all these years?”

The words landed heavier than he intended. Tanuja’s reply came quick, her voice edged with hurt. “We’re all in the same country, Ayushman, but you also never called me.”

“The day that train left, you left too. And unlike trains, you never came back.”

Ayushman froze at her words. The memory of that day, her standing on the platform, his face pressed to the window, both of them crying in silence, came rushing back, raw and uninvited. He looked down, fumbling for words. “Easy, easy…” he murmured, softening his tone. He forced a small smile, trying to change the subject. “We should… maybe visit her sometime.” The edge in Tanuja’s voice faded. She exhaled, her expression softening. “Okay. In fact, that is a good idea. A weekend trip. Stay at her place, catch up. Just like old times.” For a moment, both were quiet, lost in thought. Each wondered the same thing: would it feel the same? Maybe not. But perhaps it could still be something worth holding on to.

When they finally stepped outside the restaurant, the drizzle had turned the streets into golden reflections under the streetlights. Almost without thinking, Tanuja stepped forward and hugged him. It lasted only a moment, but it carried five years of silence, hurt, and longing. “It felt good to see you after such a long time,” she whispered. Ayushman nodded, unable to find words.

Two people who had found something precious again, yet knew it was fragile, like holding a glass already cracked.