Chapter 1: The Jaipur Encounter
It was the kind of day that begged to be remembered.
The Jaipur sky glowed a soft amber as the late afternoon sun dipped closer to the horizon. The air buzzed with celebration—kites soared overhead, marigold garlands swayed with the breeze, and the scent of roasted peanuts mixed with the distant sweetness of jalebis sizzling in hot oil. It was the Teej Festival, and the Pink City was dressed in its finest.
Meera adjusted the strap of her dusty brown leather satchel as she wandered through the crowds near Hawa Mahal, her Nikon camera swinging gently at her side. Her dark curls were pulled into a messy bun, a bright scarf wrapped around her neck to combat the desert sun. The sleeves of her hand-embroidered cotton kurta were rolled up to her elbows, and a notebook peeked out from the satchel—half-filled with scribbles, location notes, and sudden bursts of poetry.
Travel wasn’t just a hobby for her—it was a hunger. An ache to feel, to learn, to belong everywhere and nowhere at once. Her blog, Footprints & Fireflies, had gained quiet popularity for its personal, raw storytelling and evocative photographs. But success was secondary. The world was her story, and she was here to write it.
She crouched low, focusing her lens on a pair of puppeteers performing in front of a sandstone archway. The marionettes—dressed in vivid purples and greens—danced to the beats of a dhol, their painted faces eerily lifelike. Meera held her breath and clicked. Then again. And again.
A sharp nudge from behind.
Her balance faltered. The strap slipped. The camera jerked free from her hands. It all happened in a flash.
"Oh no—"
A hand darted out from beside her, swift and sure, catching the camera just inches from the cobblestone.
“Got it!”
The voice was unmistakably male—cheerful, confident, laced with apology.
Meera turned sharply, half-relieved, half-irritated.
A stranger stood in front of her, her Nikon now cradled in his hands like a rare artifact. He had a slight stubble, windswept hair that refused to obey gravity, and a mischievous grin that didn’t quite match the sheepishness in his eyes. A well-worn Canon film camera hung around his neck, and his off-white shirt had ink marks near the cuff.
"I am so sorry,” he said, brushing off invisible dust from her lens. “That map vendor just rolled out a 17th-century Mughal cartography—my weakness, I guess. Didn't see you."
Meera raised an eyebrow, taking the camera back. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
"But I also saved your camera," he said, with a smirk that shouldn’t have been charming—but was.
A beat passed.
“I’m Arth,” he added, extending a hand.
“Meera,” she replied, shaking it firmly. “Travel blogger. Photographer. Moment survivor.”
He chuckled. “I’m sort of a travel junkie too. I collect lost places. And books I never finish.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Poetic. Do you often knock strangers over in heritage cities?”
“Only the special ones.”
Her smile widened before she could stop it.
Around them, the festival carried on—drums beating, bangles jingling, the peacock-green lehenga of a twirling dancer brushing past them like a whisper.
“So…” he gestured towards the bustling market. “Let me make up for the near-collision. There’s a rooftop near Johari Bazaar. Great view, better chai, and if you're lucky, they have mango kulfi.”
Meera hesitated. She wasn’t one to take random detours with strangers. But something in his voice—calm but curious, sincere yet playful—made her pause.
She glanced at her watch. The sun would set soon, painting the Aravalli Hills in lavender and gold.
"Alright,” she said, tucking the camera into her bag. “One chai. And no more jumping into me.”
“No promises,” he said, grinning.
The rooftop café was everything he promised—terracotta tiles underfoot, cane chairs, cushions in block-printed fabrics. The view overlooked the sprawl of Jaipur, the domes of ancient temples rising above the pink skyline. In the distance, Nahargarh Fort stood like a silent sentinel, watching over centuries of stories.
They sat across from each other, sipping steaming cups of ginger masala chai as the sky exploded into colors.
“So, what’s on your bucket list?” he asked, leaning back, elbows on the table.
Meera stirred her tea slowly. “Too many things. Some simple—like learning how to make Italian pasta from scratch. Some wild—like skydiving in New Zealand. And a few impossible.”
“Impossible is just misunderstood,” Arth said, matter-of-factly.
She looked at him, genuinely intrigued.
“Alright then. What’s on yours?”
He smiled, his voice quiet but sure. “To fall in love with a city—and someone—in the same moment.”
Meera blinked.
And just like that, in a rooftop café in Jaipur, with chai between their fingers and history all around them, something small and unspoken passed between them. A glance too long. A heartbeat too loud.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But that day, Jaipur didn’t just give them stories—it gave them each other.
m. A glance too long. A heartbeat too loud.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But that day, Jaipur didn’t just give them stories—it gave them each other.