The alleys of Chandni Chowk always buzzed with life, but inside Madaan Photo Studio, time seemed slower. The shop was dimly lit, the shelves crammed with cameras and old photographs. Ria stood behind the counter, her long braided hair pulled over one shoulder, her oval face glowing softly in the light of the overhead bulb. Her fingers absentmindedly traced a pattern on the counter's edge—small circles that mimicked the spins of her Kathak routine.
She often daydreamed of a different life. One where she wasn’t managing her father’s shop after he fell ill. One where she could dance freely, unburdened by Saharanpur’s whispered judgments. And one where she wasn’t hopelessly in love with someone she could never have—a man twice her age, married, and utterly unattainable.
The bell above the shop’s door jingled. A tall man stepped in, his lean frame cloaked in a crisp white kurta. His shoulder-length hair was tied loosely at the nape, and a thin beard framed his sharp features. He tiptoed, almost cautiously, carrying a faded photograph in his hands.
“Namaste,” he said, his voice low and measured. “I was hoping you could restore this.”
Ria straightened, taking the photo gently. It was of a man in his prime, sitting on a terrace surrounded by books. “Your father?” she guessed, her large, round eyes flicking up to meet his.
Iqbal nodded. “Lucknow. That’s where this was taken. He taught me everything I know.” His voice faltered slightly as if holding back more than just words.
Before Ria could respond, the bell jingled again. A shorter, muscular man with thick, unkempt hair strolled in, a camera slung casually over his shoulder. His presence seemed to fill the room instantly.
“Any vintage lenses here?” he asked, his deep voice carrying a hint of a Bengali accent. He scanned the shop, his sharp eyes taking in the cluttered shelves.
Ria glanced at him, her cheeks warming under his direct gaze. “Yes, a few. Over there.” She gestured toward a glass case.
Aamir grinned faintly and sauntered over. “Nice place. Feels like one of those forgotten corners of Calcutta. Chaotic, but it has character.”
Iqbal, still standing near the counter, raised an eyebrow. “You write too, don’t you?” he asked suddenly, nodding toward the small notebook poking out of Aamir’s pocket.
Aamir smirked. “Only when I’m bored. Writing’s a way to keep myself sane between assignments.”
“Assignments?” Ria asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Journalism,” Aamir replied, flipping open the glass case. “I shoot and write. Mostly fleeting stories. Nothing deep.”
“And you?” Iqbal asked Ria, his voice gentle, as if coaxing her out of hiding.
Ria hesitated. “I... dance. Kathak. But only when I have the time.” She didn’t mention the nights spent practicing secretly in the small backroom of the shop.
“You don’t sound very convinced,” Aamir teased, pulling out a lens to examine it.
“Does anyone sound convinced about anything?” Ria shot back, surprising herself with her sharpness. Aamir chuckled, amused.
---
As Ria wrapped Iqbal’s photograph for restoration, a strange silence fell over the shop. The fan stopped whirring. The air grew heavy, and the outside noises of Chandni Chowk faded abruptly. They all turned to the door. Through the glass, the bustling market was eerily still—rickshaws frozen mid-turn, vendors paused mid-shout.
“What the...” Aamir muttered, stepping toward the door.
Iqbal followed, his tall frame moving like a shadow behind Aamir’s solid one. Ria stood rooted, her round eyes wide. “What’s happening?” she whispered.
Outside, the world was frozen. A pigeon hung mid-flight. A woman’s sari fluttered in an invisible breeze, unmoving. On the wall of the shop, an inscription appeared, faint but legible:
“Seven days. Create what you cannot say. When time resumes, so must you.”
The next day, the three wandered the frozen streets of Chandni Chowk. Aamir was the first to speak, his camera clicking away at the strange beauty of the suspended world.
“Do you think this is real?” Ria asked as they stood by a silent chai stall.
Iqbal tilted his head, his thin beard framing a thoughtful smile. “Does it matter? It’s ours for now.”
Ria studied him, noticing the way his eyes lingered on the intricate carvings of a nearby haveli. “You’re not just an architect, are you?”
Iqbal shook his head. “I write. Stories. Observations. About people and places.”
“Romantic stories?” Aamir teased, leaning against the stall. “The tragic kind, maybe?”
Iqbal’s smile faltered, but he didn’t answer. Ria sensed a quiet ache in him, something unspoken yet familiar. She thought of her own secrets, of love that was impossible and yet all-consuming.
---
Over the next few days, they found themselves creating something neither had planned nor understood. Ria began dancing in the empty courtyards, her movements raw and instinctive. Aamir captured her through his lens, each frame reflecting her unfiltered passion. Iqbal, inspired by her rhythm, began to write—a story of a dancer caught in a world where time stood still.
Ria’s Kathak transformed, her spins more daring, her expressions more vulnerable. She realised she wasn’t just dancing; she was speaking. To herself, to the world, to the man she couldn’t have but couldn’t forget.
Iqbal watched her with quiet admiration. He didn’t want her; he wanted the fire she carried, the way she turned her pain into beauty. And yet, it created a divide in him—a longing for something he couldn’t define.
“You’re incredible,” Iqbal told her one evening as they rested on the steps of Jama Masjid. “You don’t even realize it.”
Ria shrugged, her large eyes fixed on the still sky. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just for now.”
Aamir, sitting nearby, looked up from his notebook. “Maybe that’s why it matters. Because it’s fleeting.”
---
By the sixth day, they had unwittingly created a film—Aamir’s visuals, Iqbal’s words, and Ria’s dance. It was raw and unpolished, yet hauntingly beautiful. None of them planned to share it, but as Aamir transferred the footage, it accidentally uploaded to his cloud.
---
When the seventh day came, the frozen world began to move again. The inscription on the wall faded, and the noise of Chandni Chowk returned. The three stood together in the shop, their connection unspoken but profound.
“I guess this is it,” Ria said quietly, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest.
Iqbal smiled faintly. “For now.”
Aamir, ever the realist, simply nodded. “We’ll meet again. Or not.”
---
Five years later, Ria still ran the shop. She hadn’t become a famous dancer, but she had learned to dance for herself. In small moments, in quiet rooms, she found joy in her art.
One day, Iqbal and Aamir walked into the shop by chance. They didn’t remember the seven days clearly, but as they talked, the sense of familiarity grew. By the time they left, they had promised to meet again.
This time, they would choose to stay.

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