“They say you’ve forgotten us. That you’ve become a different person. But I know you, Saras. You’re still the man who wrote poetry on my palm in the rain. Come back. Please.”
Saraswatichandra arrives in Mumbai. Instead of going to his own family home, he goes straight to the Desai mansion. He stands outside the gate in the rain (symbolic parallel to the night he left).
Slow motion: Rain. Lightning flashes. Through the iron gates, she sees a figure – wet, tired, but unmistakable. Saraswatichandra.