THE GOLDEN HOUR

Rain lashed against the windows of their Vizianagaram home, turning the world outside into a blurred painting of grey and green. Inside, the power had gone out—a common guest during the monsoon—leaving the house bathed in the soft, flickering amber of a single kerosene lamp.
Bangaram sat on a woven mat in the living room, trying to read by the dim light. The shadows danced on the walls, stretching tall against the high ceiling. She heard a soft creak of floorboards; Bhuvan was approaching, carrying two steaming bowls of spicy upma and a plate of crispy pappadams.
"The ultimate rainy day fuel," Bhuvan said, sliding down to sit beside her.
"You remembered the extra chilies," Bangaram noted, her eyes brightening.
They ate in a comfortable silence, listening to the heavy "thrum-thrum" of raindrops hitting the Mangalore tiles of the roof. There was something about the darkness that made the world feel smaller, as if the entire universe had shrunk down to just the two of them and the circle of lamplight.
"Do you remember the first time it rained like this?" Bhuvan asked suddenly. "When we were stuck under the awning of the sweets shop near the fort?"
Bangaram laughed, a sound that cut through the gloom. "You offered me half your umbrella, even though it was so small it barely covered your own shoulder. We both ended up soaked to the bone."
"I did it on purpose," Bhuvan confessed with a wink. "I wanted a reason to walk closer to you."
Bangaram leaned her head on his shoulder, the scent of rain and old wood surrounding them. Bhuvan reached out and took her hand, his thumb tracing the lines of her palm. In the quiet of the Vizianagaram night, away from the noise of the world, they didn't need grand gestures or bright lights.
As the storm began to settle into a gentle drizzle, Bhuvan whispered, "The house feels different in the dark, doesn't it?"
"It feels like a secret," Bangaram replied, closing her eyes. "A secret that only we know."

The sun hadn't yet cleared the horizon when Bhuvan kicked his old Royal Enfield into life. The rhythmic thump-thump of the engine broke the silence of the sleeping Vizianagaram streets. Bangaram stepped out of the front door, wrapping a light shawl over her shoulders against the morning chill, her damp hair smelling of hibiscus and sandalwood.
"Ready for the view?" Bhuvan asked, patting the pillion seat.
"As long as you're driving, I'm ready for anything," she smiled, hopping on.
The Climb to Punyagiri
They rode out of the town limits, leaving behind the stone walls of the fort and the quiet bazaars. The air grew crisper as they began the winding ascent toward the Punyagiri hills. As the bike leaned into the curves, Bangaram leaned into him, her hands tucked firmly into his jacket pockets.
The scenery shifted:
The Valley: A sea of green paddy fields veiled in a thin, milky mist.
The Sky: Turning from a deep indigo to a bruised purple, then finally a soft, glowing orange.
The Sounds: Only the wind whistling past their helmets and the distant call of a jungle fowl.
Gold on the Horizon
Near the hilltop, Bhuvan pulled the bike over at a secluded clearing. They walked to the edge of a rocky outcrop that looked out over the entire valley. Below them, Vizianagaram looked like a toy town, its lights flickering out one by one as the day took over.
"Look," Bhuvan whispered, pointing toward the East.
The sun finally broke over the jagged peaks of the Eastern Ghats. A flood of liquid gold washed over the landscape, catching the dew on the grass and making the world sparkle. Bhuvan turned to look at her, the sunlight catching the amber in her eyes.
"I brought you here to see the sunrise," he said softly, "but it’s not half as bright as you."
Bangaram leaned her head against his arm, watching the light reclaim the valley. "You always find a way to make me feel like the center of the world, Bhuvan."
"In this town, and on this hill," he replied, squeezing her hand, "you are."