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Twenty years ago, he had stood outside this very shop, pocket money clutched in his fist. Back then, it was a cassette stall. He had saved for a month to buy the Mohabbatein audio cassette, just to hear the haunting “Humko Humise Chura Lo” on his Walkman. He had played it on loop the night before he left his village for the city, promising his childhood friend, Meera, that he’d return.
The soft strum of the guitar. Then, Lata Mangeshkar’s immortal voice. Suddenly, he was 17 again. He could smell the wet earth of his village. He could see Meera’s braid swinging as she ran through the mustard fields.
He closed his eyes. For exactly five minutes and twenty-three seconds, he wasn’t a tired, middle-aged man in a noisy city. He was home.