My Path On Your Map

My Path on Your Map

I. The Arrival – Mumbai
It was mid-August and the monsoons had arrived in Mumbai like a long-awaited lover—wild, unapologetic, and full of drama. Rickshaws splashed through puddles, vendors covered their carts with blue tarpaulin, the aroma of batata wada’s mingled with frying samosas and scents of incense from roadside shrines. Music blaring from loudspeakers reminded everyone of the on-going Ganeshotsav festival.

Meera Kapoor stepped off the train at Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, her dupatta clinging to her damp pink kurti. She was 26, born in Delhi, raised in a middle-class Punjabi household where ambition was encouraged—but only within the bounds of tradition. Her father was a retired bureaucrat, her mother a Kathak dancer turned homemaker. Meera had grown up surrounded by books, ghazals, in a protective family and the quiet pressure to marry well.

She had been engaged to Sameer Malhotra, an ex-IIT grad, ex-IIM now a successful finance executive who wore his ambition like a badge. Their relationship had been practical, predictable, and devoid of poetry. When Meera confessed, she wanted to take a sabbatical to travel and write, Rohan had laughed.
“Leave it. You’re not a character in a novel, Meera,” he’d said. “Grow up.”

So, she left. Not just him, but the life that felt like someone else’s script.

In her bag was the diary of her late grandfather and a letter from him to her. Her grandfather, Devendra Kapoor—a man who had once defied his own arranged marriage to travel across India in the 1960s, chasing stories, sunsets and love. He had married Neerja, a woman from a humble Marathi family in Mumbai. His letter spoke of a bookstore in Dadar, a tea stall near Shivaji Park, and a man named Yashwant Karmarkar who had changed his life. Thanks to her grandmother, Meera understood basics of that language.

“This is like a map with clues. I want you to find what I found,” the letter read. “Not the man, but the feeling.”

II. The Encounter – Dadar
The old-fashioned bookstore was tucked between a textile shop and a tattoo parlour, its sign faded: "Deshmukh & Sons Rare Books". Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and sandalwood.

“Looking for something rare?” asked a voice.

Meera turned to see Rohan Deshmukh—28, tall, lean, pleasant looking smiling man with a mop of unruly hair, casually wearing an ink stained kurta and blue jeans. His skin was sun-kissed, his eyes the colour of monsoon clouds. He wore a rudraksha bead around his neck and had a pen tucked behind his ear.

Rohan had grown up in Nashik, the son of a Marathi poet and a schoolteacher. His childhood was steeped in bhajans, Marathi literature, and long train rides to visit relatives in Konkan. He had studied literature at Oxford, but returned to India after realizing that the West could never offer him the chaos and colour he craved. He believed in destiny, in the poetry of coincidence, and in the idea that in every stranger was a story waiting to be read.

Meera showed him the letter.

Rohan read it slowly, reverently. “My grandfather spoke a lot about Karmarkar Kaka,” he said. “They used to sit right here, drinking cutting chai and arguing about Shirwadkar, and G A Kulkarni.”

Meera’s breath caught. “So, this place… it’s part of the map.”

Rohan nodded and said to himself. “And maybe I’m part of yours.”

Not a very expressive person, Rohan was surprised to be enamoured by this sweet girl he met a few moments ago. “Maybe there’s a connection.” He thought.

In the days that followed their first meeting, Meera found herself lingering in Rohan’s bookstore long after the monsoon rains had stopped, drawn not just to the books but to the quiet rhythm of his presence. They exchanged numbers. He used to quietly ask his uncle to take charge of the bookshop when she visited. They began sharing stories—hers about growing up in Delhi with a mother who danced to old Lata Mangeshkar records, his about sneaking into Nashik’s poetry festivals as a teenager and travelling to Delhi to attend Rekhta festivals.

Rohan introduced her to Marathi poets and temple architecture; Meera taught him how to read between the lines of her grandfather’s dairy. Over steaming cups of masala chai from the stall near Shivaji Park, they argued about whether love was a choice or a coincidence. Rohan showed her verses written in the margins of forgotten books. Reading those Meera felt something stir—like a door opening inside her.

One evening, during Ganpati visarjan, they stood shoulder to shoulder as the crowd chanted and danced, and Rohan leaned close to say, “There’s something holy about chaos.” She laughed, and the sound surprised her—it was full, unguarded, like a monsoon breaking after months of drought. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel forced.

He began to notice how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, and she noticed how he paused before reading aloud, as if words deserved reverence. Their silences grew soft and comfortable, their glances lingered. Around them, the city itself seemed to be protective about their togetherness.

III. The Journey – Pune
They travelled together to Pune, following the trail her grandfather had left behind. They visited the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, where her grandfather had once scribbled poetry on the backs of Sanskrit manuscripts. Rohan found one—still there, tucked inside a volume of Kalidas.

At Shaniwar Wada they tried to trace her grandfather’s route from the main entrance till the royal residences. In the evening, they watched sunset from Sinhagad fort overlooking Khadakvasla dam, the backwaters shimmering like molten gold. They shared a thali under a banyan tree.

“I think your grandfather was chasing beauty,” Rohan said.
Meera looked at him. “Or maybe he was chasing love.”
Rohan hesitated. “Do you think love is something you find? Or something you build?”
Meera thought for a moment. “I think it’s both. You find the person, and then you build the story.”

IV. The Philosophy of Rain
It was the end of the monsoon, they were on Bhandarkar Road, and the rain came in a small outburst turning the street into a water colour painting. They took shelter in a modest house converted into a café, its walls adorned with small sketches from the nearby art school students visiting the café.

Rohan pulled out his notepad and began to write.
“What are you writing?” Meera asked.
“A poem,” he said. “About rain. About how it’s both destruction and rebirth.”
She leaned in curiously. “Read it to me.” Rohan cleared his throat.

पावसाच्या थेंबात आकाशाची आठवण असते,
उत्कटतेनं खाली उतरलेली त्याची भावना असते.
ओले स्वप्नं, मोडलेले बेत, वाहून गेलेले रस्ते,
पण त्याच पावसात उमलतात नव्या आशेचे फुलस्ते.
प्रेमाने ... तुझ्यासारखे

“Rain is the memory of the sky,
Falling back to earth in apology.
It ruins plans, floods streets,
But it also makes things grow.
Like love.
Like you.”

Meera felt something shift inside her. A quiet unraveling.
“I used to think heartbreak was the end,” she whispered. “But maybe it’s just the beginning.”
Rohan looked at her, his eyes soft. “Maybe heartbreak is the map.”

They visited Sarasbaug Ganapati temple the next morning, where hundreds had gathered for the aarti. Meera watched as people folded their hands, eyes closed, surrendering to something larger than themselves.
“I envy their faith,” she said.
“Faith is just a kind of love. You believe in something even when you can’t see it.” Rohan replied.

V. The Revelation – Nashik
In Nashik, in the archives of an old photographer's shop, they found the final clue—a photograph of her grandfather and Yashwant Karmarkar, sitting on the ghats, laughing like boys. On the back was a note:
नदी आपल्याला सगळं शिकवते —
सोडून द्यायला, वाहत जायला,
आणि पुन्हा परत यायला

“The river teaches us everything.
Let go. Flow. Return.”

It was after dinner they had sat by the banks of Godawari, watching the cremation fires flicker in the distance. The air was thick with smoke, chants, and the scent of marigolds.
Rohan turned to her. “Do you feel it?”
Meera nodded. “I feel like I’m not lost anymore.”
And something unsaid passed between them—an understanding, a promise.

VI. The Goodbye – Mumbai
Back in Mumbai, Meera had to decide. Her old life was calling—job, family expectations, the weight of normalcy.
Rohan didn’t ask her to stay. He simply handed her his notepad. Inside was a poem and it’s English translation.

तुझ्या आठवणींचा नकाशा हातात आहे,
जणू प्रत्येक वळणावर तुझं प्रेम लपलेलं आहे.
पावसात भिजलेली ती जुनी वाट,
जिथे तुझं हसू अजूनही घेतं साथ.
वाऱ्याच्या झुळुकीत तुझं स्पर्श मिसळतो,
मनाच्या गाभाऱ्यात एक गंध दरवळतो.
शब्दांच्या पायवाटेवर चालताना,
तुझं नाव मनात गुंजतं सतत गाणं गाताना.
तू नसलीस तरी तुझं अस्तित्व आहे,
कारण हा नकाशा तुझ्याचकडे नेतो आहे.

Meera’s lips parted in a fragile smile. She turned around and started to walk. Unknown to her, tears slipped softly through her moistened eyes. While she was walking away, she didn’t realise she was crying. Not because she was sad, but because she had finally felt everything.

She returned to Delhi, resumed her job, and began writing again. Her stories were filled with ghats, monsoons, and men who wore ink-stained kurtas.

VII. The Return – Pune
Six months later, Rohan was shelving books in his new store in Pune when amidst unseasonal rains, he heard the bell ring.
Meera stood there, soaked from the rain, a diary in hand.
“I left the map,” she said. “But I kept the feeling.”
Rohan smiled. “Welcome home.”