The bus didn't stop properly.
It slowed just enough for Aarav Mishra to jump down with his metal trunk scraping the red dirt road, kicking up a cloud of fine dust that clung to his sweat-damp skin and tasted faintly of dry earth on his tongue. Two sacks of rice thudded beside him with dull thumps. Before he could steady himself, the bus groaned forward again, its engine rumbling away, leaving behind swirling dust, oppressive heat that shimmered off the ground, and the unmistakable feeling of being abandoned.
The village road stretched ahead—narrow, uneven, bordered by fields that shimmered vibrant green under the late afternoon sun. Paddy fields, he guessed. Water pooled between neat rows, reflecting the sky like broken mirrors, and a faint, fresh scent of wet soil and growing rice wafted toward him on the hot breeze.
Aarav wiped sweat from his neck, feeling it trickle down his back under his shirt, and exhaled deeply, the air thick and humid in his lungs.
"So this is it," he murmured.
No honking cars. No concrete buildings. No crowds that made you feel lonely even when surrounded.
Just the relentless chorus of cicadas buzzing in the nearby trees, a high-pitched drone that filled the air like an electric hum, mingled with distant bird calls and the gentle rustle of wind through the leaves. Time moved slower than he was used to.
The house was worse than he remembered.
His grandfather's old place stood at the edge of the village, half-swallowed by tall weeds that scratched against his legs as he pushed through. The gate creaked like it hadn't been opened in years, a rusty, protesting squeal. One wall bore a long crack, running from the roof down to the window like a scar, rough and jagged under his fingertips when he touched it.
Aarav dropped his trunk near the steps—its metal clanging against the stone—and sat down heavily, the wooden step warm from the sun.
He was twenty-two years old, with no degree, no city prospects, and hands that had never held a plough, soft and uncalloused. Back in town, people like him were invisible. Here… he wasn't sure what he was yet.
He looked at the fields beyond the house—dry patches of cracked earth, uneven soil that smelled faintly of manure and damp clay.
What was I thinking?
He had come here believing he was giving up on everything else—especially on love. Women like the ones he admired belonged to another world. A world of money, confidence, and security.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, despair settling quietly as the cicadas' song swelled around him.
That was when he felt it.
A presence.
"You're late."
The voice wasn't sharp. It wasn't angry either. Just… observant, carrying softly over the low hum of insects.
Aarav looked up.
She stood by the low fence separating the two houses, holding a steel tumbler in one hand, her dupatta tucked neatly over her shoulder, fluttering lightly in the breeze. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, maybe older—he wasn't good at guessing. There was a calm maturity to her face, the kind that came from responsibility rather than age, her skin glowing with a subtle sheen from the heat.
Her eyes were steady. Curious.
"I was told the bus comes by four," she added.
"I—uh—traffic," Aarav said reflexively, then realized how stupid that sounded out here.
Her lips twitched, revealing a hint of white teeth.
"In villages, we blame the bus," she corrected gently. "Not traffic."
That small smile eased something in his chest, like a cool breath on heated skin.
"I'm Meera," she said. "Sharma. I live here."
She gestured with her chin toward the neighboring house.
"You must be the Mishra boy. The one who left the city."
The way she said left—not failed, not ran away—made him straighten slightly.
"Yes," he replied. "Aarav."
She studied him for a moment longer than politeness required. Not rudely. Thoughtfully. Like she was trying to understand the shape of his silence.
"You look thinner than city boys usually do," she said. "Hungry?"
His stomach answered with a low, audible growl before his mouth could.
She smiled properly this time, her laugh lines crinkling softly.
"Come," she said, already turning. "At least drink some water. The land doesn't like it when people arrive empty."
Her house smelled richly of turmeric, cumin, and freshly boiled rice, mingled with the earthy scent of wood smoke from the chulha stove and faint hints of jasmine from a small altar in the corner.
Aarav stood awkwardly near the door, the cool mud floor soothing under his dusty sandals, while Meera poured water into a steel glass from a clay pot. The water was cool, tasting faintly mineral-sweet as he drank. When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed—just for a second—but it was warm, grounding, her skin slightly rough from years of work.
He flinched inwardly.
She noticed, her eyes kind.
"Relax," she said lightly. "I don't bite."
He laughed before he could stop himself, the sound echoing oddly in the quiet room.
"Good," he said. "I bruise easily."
That earned him a soft chuckle. Not loud. Not restrained. Real, warm like the steam rising from the kitchen.
She watched him drink, the cool liquid sliding down his parched throat, then gestured for him to sit on the wooden chair near the window, its surface smooth and worn from use.
"You'll need help with the land," she said. "The soil here is stubborn. First year is always cruel."
"You sound experienced."
"I've lived here fifteen years," she replied. "Widows don't get transferred."
The word landed between them—heavy, but not sharp, accompanied by the distant lowing of a cow and children's laughter outside.
"I'm sorry," Aarav said quietly.
Meera waved it away, but her eyes softened.
"Don't be. Life doesn't stop because someone leaves." She paused, then added, "It just… becomes quieter."
Outside, a group of children ran past, their bare feet pattering on the dirt, laughing shrilly. Somewhere, a radio played an old Lata Mangeshkar song, her voice melodic and tinny through the speakers, blending with the evening calls of peacocks in the fields.
Meera leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, the faint scent of her sandalwood soap lingering.
"You'll hear gossip," she warned. "A young man, alone, from the city. Some will think you're proud. Others will think you're dangerous."
"And what do you think?" Aarav asked.
She met his gaze.
"I think you look tired," she said. "And decent. That's rare enough."
His ears warmed, a flush creeping up his neck.
As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Meera walked him back to his gate. She pointed out landmarks—the well with its cool, echoing splash when buckets were drawn, the temple where faint bells tinkled even now, the ancient banyan tree where men argued about politics every evening, their voices rising and falling like the wind.
"Tomorrow is Amavasya," she said. "Bad day to start ploughing—the moonless night brings quiet for reflection. But good day to clean the house, sweep away the old."
He nodded, trying to memorize everything, the air growing cooler as dusk settled, carrying the scent of impending night—damp earth and distant wood fires.
At the gate, she hesitated.
"If you need anything," she said, then stopped herself, smiling faintly. "No—when you need something, come."
She reached out, brushing dirt from his shoulder with her fingertips. The touch was brief, practical… and yet it lingered long after her hand withdrew, warm against his cotton shirt.
"City dust," she teased. "Doesn't belong here. It smells of smoke and hurry."
"Maybe it'll learn," he replied, inhaling the cleaner, greener air.
She looked at him for a moment—really looked—then laughed softly, the sound blending with the first evening chirps of crickets joining the fading cicadas.
"Careful, Aarav," she said. "You talk like someone who stays."
As she walked back, her footsteps soft on the path, the evening air felt different. Warmer. Fuller, rich with the scents of cooling soil and blooming night jasmine.
Aarav stood alone again—but not empty.
The land stretched before him, patient and waiting, breathing quietly in the twilight.
And for the first time since his life unraveled, he felt something unexpected take root.
Not hope.
Something gentler.
Belonging.