Caught in a storm during their first drive together, Reema and Rohit find themselves stranded in a flooded street. Just as fear overwhelms Reema, three mysterious men appear, push their car to safety, and vanish without a trace. Reema believes it was divine intervention—proof that sincere prayers are always heard.
Monsoons in Bengal were more than just a season—they were magic woven into memories. From childhood joys of walking barefoot in waterlogged streets, sailing paper boats, and listening to ghost stories during power cuts, to savoring khichuri with Hilsa, these rains shaped a sensory-rich, soul-deep nostalgia that still lingers.
Still, monsoon arrives every year unfailingly with all her magic, soaking the asphalt-covered streets, the resonance of falling rain on tin sheds reminding one of the mellifluous notes of the Santoor and the urban poet is content in writing his name on the fogging glass facade of the airconditioned coffee shop.
