The Quiet Magic of Time

Mumbai is a city of millions. A place where lives crisscross every day — in locals, on footpaths, at railway platforms — often without us realizing how close we come to the people who will one day matter the most.

 Priya and I grew up just like any other kids in a typical Maharashtrian middle-class household. We both lived in Mumbai — in fact, not just the same city, but often in the same parts of it. Our lives mirrored each other in ways that still leave us amazed. We did our engineering in the same year from colleges just a few kilometres apart. We attended the same centralized admission center at VJTI, standing in similar queues, probably minutes apart. We both took crash courses at Vidyalankar in Dadar — sat through the same lectures, possibly in the same classrooms.

Our fathers worked in Cuffe Parade, their offices in buildings adjacent to each other. Everyday, they probably had their tea breaks around the same time, perhaps even nodded at each other without knowing their children would one day share a life.

And yet, somehow, we never met.

In a city known for its chaos and coincidences, we remained invisible to each other for decades — living parallel lives, unknowingly sharing spaces, routines, and even dreams. It wasn't until we decided to marry — through an arranged setup — that we finally came face-to-face. No meet-cute, no dramatic crossing of paths. Just a quiet, grown-up realization that sometimes, destiny doesn’t rush. It waits. It weaves.

Now, years later, we laugh about it. How many times did we brush past each other? Did we ever share a train compartment? Stand in the same canteen line? We’ll never know.

But today, we grow older together — two people who unknowingly grew up together all along.

And that, I think, is the quiet magic of time and destiny.