Taste Of Tears
The heavy monsoon air of Old Delhi smelled of roasted cumin, wet asphalt, and the sharp tang of copper. Seventeen-year-old Karan stumbled through the suffocating midday crowd of Chandni Chowk, completely separated from his touring family. His phone was dead, swallowed by the relentless humidity. Panic tasted like ash in his throat as he pushed past fruit vendors and cycle rickshaws. A sudden, violent downpour burst from the sky. Seeking shelter, Karan ducked into a collapsing archway of an ancient, forgotten haveli. There, shivering in the shadows, sat Meera. She was a traveler from Mumbai, utterly lost in the labyrinth of the walled city, her eyes wide with fear. In that damp, stone sanctuary, surrounded by the roar of the rain, their desperation anchored them together. Karan shared his last bottle of water; Meera shared a packet of biscuits. They spent hours talking over the sound of thunder, trading stories of their lives, their fears, and their dreams. By the time the rain sl...
