You begin in the early afternoon, the air thick with the promise of rain. The local train from groans into the station, a mosaic of elbow jostles, chai thermoses, and the hum of life packed into compartments. You wedge yourself in, back pressed against peeling advertisements—"Lose weight with magnet therapy!" one reads. Outside, the city scrolls by: satellite dishes, water tanks, kids playing cricket in alleys barely wide enough for breath.
At Churchgate, the monsoon bursts open like a secret revealed too soon. You dash through the drizzle, umbrella flipping inside-out, toward the black-and-yellow cab stand. The driver squints at you through a cracked rearview, nods when you say "Colaba Causeway," and the journey continues.
The cab slips past Marine Drive, the sea a boiling sheet of mercury. Rain taps steadily against the window, then accelerates, smearing the outside world like a painting left in the storm. You pass Regal Cinema, its marquee half-lit. You notice a woman in a sari holding a blue balloon, just standing in the rain. You blink. She's gone.
You finally reach Colaba Causeway, disembarking just opposite the art deco façade of Leopold Café. Your feet splash into a puddle that feels deeper than it looks. You dodge umbrella ribs and hawkers selling embroidered bags, anklets, and "authentic" Ray-Bans. Incense lingers in the air, somewhere between lavender and forgotten prayers.
And then you see it: the little stall you've never noticed before—half-sunken into shadow between a leather goods stand and a dreamcatcher seller, just under a flaking sign that says "Yesterday's Curios."
The rain intensifies.
And your story begins.