Chapter 2 – The Ghost Photographer
1383 Words
The plane cut through the clouds, and the skyline of Mumbai appeared like an old wound that refused to heal.
Aarav Mehta hadn’t planned on coming back.
He had told himself he’d stay away—keep moving, keep shooting, keep running until every memory blurred into another country, another face, another nameless sunrise.
But here he was.
Back in the city that had once swallowed him whole.
He pressed his forehead against the cold airplane window, watching the glittering sprawl below. The city looked different, yet it hadn’t changed at all—still restless, still loud, still pretending to be alive.
But here he was.
Back in the city that had once swallowed him whole.
He pressed his forehead against the cold airplane window, watching the glittering sprawl below. The city looked different, yet it hadn’t changed at all—still restless, still loud, still pretending to be alive.
He turned his camera on and took a single shot through the glass.
A habit. A reflex. A way to remind himself he still existed.
The airport smelled like metal, coffee, and impatience. People moved in hurried lines, dragging their lives in suitcases. Aarav slipped on his headphones, volume low, music just enough to drown out the noise.
He walked past the welcome signs and smiling faces, but no one waited for him.
No one ever did anymore.
Outside, a cab driver waved.
“Taxi, sir?”
He nodded, sliding into the backseat. The city lights stretched in long golden ribbons as the car sped down the highway. Billboards glared with impossible promises—luxury homes, perfect lives, instant happiness.
Aarav smirked. “Nothing changes,” he muttered.
The driver glanced in the mirror. “First time in Mumbai, sir?”
“Not really.”
“Back home then?”
Aarav looked out the window, where the city unfurled like an old film reel.
“Something like that.”
He rented a small apartment downtown—bare walls, one window, one creaking table. It suited him. He didn’t need comfort; he needed silence.
On the table sat his only constants:
Two cameras. A stack of worn notebooks. A postcard from Prague he never sent.
He unpacked slowly, each item a ghost from another life—
The lens that cracked during his last assignment in Syria.
The faded scarf his mother had knitted before she died.
The small photo of his brother, Vikram, smiling stiffly at his wedding—before the silence between them grew too wide to cross.
Aarav placed that photo face-down.
He made coffee, black and bitter. The first sip burned.
The city outside was awake, honking, shouting, living.
He hadn’t missed this chaos.
Or maybe, deep down, he had.
Later that evening, he walked the streets with his camera slung across his shoulder. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and exhaust. Vendors shouted, trains roared in the distance, neon signs flickered in rhythm with traffic lights.
He lifted the camera and clicked. Once. Twice. Again.
The world looked different through a lens—more bearable, more honest.
He caught fragments:
A couple arguing near a tea stall.
A child laughing as water splashed his feet.
An old man reading under a streetlight, oblivious to the noise.
He froze mid-step when he saw her.
A woman standing by the corner, half-hidden by the crowd.
Blazer, loose hair, tired eyes—watching a street performer play the violin. She looked out of place in the rush, as if time had slowed for her alone.
He raised his camera.
Click.
The moment was gone.
She walked away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving only the faint echo of the violin behind. Aarav lowered the camera, frowning slightly. He didn’t know why he took that picture. He just… did.
Maybe it was instinct.
Maybe it was recognition of something familiar—the quiet loneliness she carried like armor.
Back at his apartment, he uploaded the photos onto his laptop. The screen glowed in the dim light.
Street lights. Faces. Shadows.
And then—her.
He zoomed in.
She wasn’t looking at the performer. Not really.
She was looking past him—lost, detached, as if the city was moving too fast for her heart to keep up.
Aarav stared at the image longer than he meant to.
“Strange,” he murmured. “You look exactly how I feel.”
He closed the laptop.
Sleep didn’t come easily. It rarely did. The memories came instead—
Sand. Smoke.
The crash of an explosion that stole his best friend during an overseas documentary shoot.
The silence afterward. The guilt. The headlines calling it “an accident.”
He hadn’t picked up his camera for months after that.
When he finally did, it was no longer about beauty. It was about ghosts—the kind that live in light and shadow.
He turned on the small desk lamp, pulled out his old notebook, and began to write:
“Back in the city. Nothing feels real. Maybe I’m not supposed to fit anywhere anymore.”
He stopped, pen hovering midair.
Outside, thunder rolled across the skyline.
He smiled faintly.
“Welcome home, Aarav.”
Morning found him sitting by the window, sipping stale coffee and staring at the rain. The streets below were slick mirrors, reflecting umbrellas, tires, and rushing feet.
His phone buzzed—an unknown number. He ignored it.
A message followed:
“Aarav, it’s Vikram. I heard you’re back. We need to talk.”
He stared at the screen. The message stayed unread for ten minutes before he deleted it.
He wasn’t ready for that conversation. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Instead, he grabbed his camera and stepped outside again.
The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and clean. The city shimmered like it had been freshly painted. Aarav wandered until he reached the old bridge near Marine Drive—a place he used to visit with his brother before everything fell apart.
He lifted his camera again. The lens captured everything—raindrops clinging to iron rails, reflections of strangers, the rhythm of motion that defined the city.
As he reviewed the photos, one caught his eye.
In the reflection of a puddle, faint and blurred, was the same woman from last night—crossing the street, head down, phone in hand.
“What are the odds?” he whispered.
He flipped the image upright and studied it. The shot wasn’t perfect, but it was alive.
Unscripted. Real.
Maybe that was what drew him to her image—she didn’t pose for the world. She moved through it like she didn’t belong, just like him.
He smiled faintly, the first real smile in months.
That night, Aarav sat in his apartment, photos scattered around him like puzzle pieces.
For the first time since returning, the city didn’t feel entirely hostile.
Maybe because he’d found something—or someone—worth noticing again.
He picked up the camera, turned it toward the mirror, and took a photo of his own reflection.
The face that stared back looked older, wearier, but a little more awake.
Ghosts fade when you start to see the living again, he thought.
The phone buzzed once more. A text from an unknown number this time:
“Hi, this is Mira Kapoor from D.S. Architects. You were at the plaza yesterday, right? I think you accidentally took my umbrella.”
He blinked, confused. Then glanced at the corner of the room—where, indeed, a small black umbrella leaned against the wall.
He hadn’t even noticed picking it up.
Aarav’s lips curved into a half-smile.
“Guess fate has a strange sense of humor.”
He typed back:
“Looks like I did. My apologies, Ms. Kapoor. I can return it tomorrow.”
Seconds later, three dots appeared. Then her reply:
“No hurry. It’s just an umbrella.”
He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary, the faintest spark of something warm breaking through his usual detachment.
Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t feel so empty after all.
The rain began again, soft at first, then steadier.
Outside, the city shimmered, alive in its beautiful, endless chaos.
And for the first time in years, Aarav didn’t feel like a ghost.
He felt like he was coming back to life.
- Writer
