The air hangs thick and humid, smelling of jasmine and dust. A single, bare bulb illuminates a small, cluttered chai stall on a narrow, cobbled street. Rain slicks the stones, reflecting the yellow light in shimmering pools. Two young men, dressed in simple kurtas, sit opposite each other at a tiny, wobbly table. One nervously fiddles with a chipped ceramic cup, his gaze fixed on the other’s hands as they expertly pour steaming chai. There’s a palpable tension in the air, a hesitant energy that vibrates between them. They don’t speak, but the silence is heavy with unspoken words, with a longing that seems to ripple outwards into the damp night. A stray dog curls up near the stall, oblivious to the quiet drama unfolding.