Channa Mereya!

I was just the guy with the guitar, sitting on the campus steps day after day, strumming the same old chords, like I was waiting for something—or maybe someone—to happen.

And then, one day, there she was. Amira.

Bright yellow notebook in hand, she strolled over like she was picking up right where we’d left off, only we hadn’t met yet. She was the kind of person who noticed everything, who’d sketch shadows cast by street lamps or scribble down the way rain hit her window. I’d seen her around campus, of course, but we’d never spoken. That first time, she just looked at me, tilted her head, and said, “Play me something.”

I laughed, a little embarrassed. “I only know bits and pieces.”

“Then play me those,” she said, settling down beside me with this look, like she trusted me not to mess it up.

I remember thinking, I hope I don’t mess this up.

I played the shaky half of “Hotel California” I’d managed to pick up, and I could feel her watching, listening, like she really cared about every note. When I glanced over, she was there, nodding along, her smile soft and easy, and I knew, right then, that I wanted her there beside me, every evening, guitar or not.

After that, our routine settled in. I’d play, she’d listen or jot down something in that bright yellow notebook of hers. We’d talk—about everything, about nothing. She told me about her dreams to travel, how she’d love to live by a lake someday, where it was quiet, where she could write and sketch in peace. And somewhere in that mix of dreams, I knew I wanted to be part of them. I’d catch myself thinking about that future, visiting her in that cabin, bringing my guitar and a ratty old beanie, spending days in silence or laughter. But I kept it all to myself, hoping my quiet was enough to make her stay a little longer each day.

One night, there was this beach party, a wild, chaotic kind of night. The sky was black with stars, and she pulled me into the crowd with this energy I didn’t know I needed. She danced, barefoot, with the waves nearly at her toes, laughing like the whole world belonged to her in that moment. She twirled and spun, completely free, and I just… watched her, feeling like I was seeing someone step into their own dream.

This is it, I thought, heart pounding. This is the moment I tell her. But my words froze in my throat. All I managed was a laugh, and she beamed, probably oblivious to the storm raging in me.

I realized then, I was terrified. Not of her, or rejection, but of the way she made me feel like I could let go. Because if I did, and she wasn’t there on the other side, then what?

The next day, we were at our usual café. She stirred her coffee slowly, like she had something on her mind. I could tell from the way she tapped her fingers that this was going to be one of those conversations that stay with you.

“Remember that guy I told you about? From home?” she asked softly.

I nodded, my stomach twisting, like I knew what she’d say before she even said it.

“Well,” she said, glancing down, her voice barely above a whisper. “He proposed.”

And just like that, everything shifted. The café, the laughter, the warmth—all of it faded, leaving only this heavy quiet between us. I smiled, or tried to. Forced the words out: “That’s… amazing, Amira. Really. Congratulations.”

I wanted her to be happy. But right then, I couldn’t quite keep the ache out of my voice. She kept talking, sharing details about the wedding plans, her family’s excitement, the dresses and decorations. And I nodded along, my mind trying to stay with her, but somewhere along the way, I lost her.

This was the moment I knew— I’d spent all this time, this whole year, wrapped in these small, perfect moments, believing that somehow, this was just the beginning. But it was the end I hadn’t seen coming.

I was invited, of course. Friends don’t get left out. So there I was, back row of the ceremony, watching her walk down the aisle in that red dress I’d described, the one she’d laughed off one night, saying she’d never dare wear it. But here she was, radiant and stunning, and for the first time, I realized just how much she’d taken in over the years, little pieces of my words woven into the biggest day of her life.

I’d never seen her look more beautiful or more distant. She was a thousand miles away from the life we’d made in those quiet moments, and I was just another face in the crowd, clapping politely.

The service blurred by, and I clapped along with the rest, my hands heavy, my heart somewhere I couldn’t reach.

I wanted to tell her—do you remember that beach night? The laughter, the dancing? Do you remember those quiet evenings with my guitar, the dreams we never said out loud? But I knew that was mine to carry alone.

She’d moved on. Moved into a new life, one she’d only let me see the edges of, and maybe that was all we’d ever have.

As people filed out, I lingered behind, watching the guests laugh and hug, and the newlyweds smile. I thought about the quiet dreams we’d once shared and how they’d slipped away, and for the first time, I felt the weight of a future where she was just a memory.

I left before the lights dimmed, before the laughter faded. She’d go on, write a new story with someone else. And me—I’d stay behind, guitar in hand, replaying our same chapters, hoping for an ending that never really had a beginning.

Half-done Verse

There’s something almost sacred about meeting someone in a place you don’t belong. That’s how it felt with Aaruhi—I was just the office’s quiet poet, a guy whose mind wandered more than his emails sent, and she was… well, she was bright, effortless, like she’d been written into a world of work plans and deadlines just to give it some life.

She’d find me sitting alone in the cafeteria sometimes, jotting down a thought that needed catching or scribbling some half-done verse onto a napkin. My words rarely made it out of my notebook, but she noticed. And one day, she stopped by my table.

“What do you write in there?” she asked, glancing down at my mess of half-formed lines.

“Just… poems,” I replied, shrugging, a little self-conscious.

“Read me one?” She smiled, but it was more of a dare.

I looked down at the words on the page, feeling the vulnerability settle over me, then read, “From tum pasand aane lage ho, to… isn’t the sunset beautiful?”

For a moment, I thought she might laugh, but she didn’t. Instead, she held my gaze, her eyes narrowing just a bit like she was trying to see past the words, into what they were hiding. And at that moment, I knew—this wasn’t just an office crush. It felt deeper, like two people who found each other in an unexpected, quiet way.

After that, she started joining me on those lunch breaks, listening to poems that felt as raw as they were unfinished. And each time, her eyes would linger a little longer, her smile a little softer. That line kept echoing in my mind: “Tum pasand aane lage ho…”

One rainy evening, I found myself walking her to the metro. It had been a long day, full of projects and deadlines, and we were both tired. But there, under the dim streetlights, everything felt different, like the world had slowed just for us. She nudged my shoulder with hers, breaking the silence.

“Write about this,” she said, twirling under her umbrella.

“About a metro walk?” I laughed, shaking my head.

She grinned. “Yes. About simple things. Who’s to say simple things can’t be beautiful?”

Her words settled over me, like a quiet challenge. So I did. I went home and wrote about rain and streetlights, about two people just… being there, nothing extraordinary, just calm and real. And I realized, somewhere between the lines, that this was becoming my favourite part of each day.

After that, it became easy with her. In the middle of our crowded office, she’d find ways to carve out moments, passing me sticky notes with quick scribbles—“lunch?” or “catch you in 5?” And in return, I’d slip her tiny, folded poems I’d written on the backs of meeting agendas. It was our quiet world, a poem no one else could read.

One Friday night, the office organized a big team dinner. People mingled, laughed, and, of course, drank. She and I ended up off to the side, half-hidden from the bustling crowd. She sipped her drink slowly, watching everyone with this faraway look, like she belonged and didn’t belong at the same time. It made her feel like she was from another world—maybe that’s why I found her so captivating.

“You ever write something that you know no one will read?” she asked, her voice soft, almost drowned out by the laughter around us.

“Yeah, all the time,” I replied, smiling. “Sometimes, those are the best ones.”

She nodded, staring into her glass, then looked at me. “Read me something. One of those.”

And so I did. I recited a quiet poem I’d written just a few nights before, something raw, something vulnerable. She listened intently, her expression softening with each line, and I could see her guard lowering, if only a little. At that moment, I knew this was as close as she’d let anyone in. But it was enough—it was more than enough.

The next few weeks went by in a blur. She was busy with projects, and our lunch breaks became sporadic. The notes stopped coming. She was still there, but the space between us grew a little wider each day. It felt strange, and yet, I couldn’t bring myself to ask why.

Then, one morning, she was gone. Someone mentioned in passing that she’d left for another job, a new start in a different city. She’d told no one, not even me.

I found myself sitting at her empty desk, looking through the few things she’d left behind. There, tucked beneath her notepad, was a single note, written in her familiar handwriting: “Write about this. Even the goodbye.”

At that moment, I knew there’d never been anything simple about us—not her laughter, not the quiet conversations, not the way she’d understood my words better than I had. She was a poem I’d never get to finish.

Cold Fingers

It was the 24th of December, and the streets were alive with the hum of Christmas lights and the chill of winter. She wore a red turtleneck sweater, the kind that made her cheeks flush just a little more. Her lips—unadorned yet soft, reminded me of the evening wine I’d chosen for later. Everything tonight had been planned, orchestrated. The dinner reservation, the flowers I’d ordered to be placed at our table, the balloons that hung subtly at the entrance to the restaurant. It wasn’t much, but it felt like it would all mean something tonight.

I was going to propose.

We’d been on a few dates before, each one special, but this one felt… monumental. She had no idea, and that filled me with a sweet, anxious thrill. She looked perfect, the red of her sweater dancing with the ambient glow of the holiday decorations.

We walked into the restaurant, the warmth of the place contrasting sharply with the cool air outside. I held the door open for her, making sure to pull her chair out when we sat. She smiled, a small but knowing gesture as if to say, you don’t have to do all this, but I wanted to. She deserved it.

Dinner started with pasta, and I noticed how she tried eating it with chopsticks—probably to match the high-end setting, but I could see her discomfort. Her fingers clutched the chopsticks, but it wasn’t her usual grace. I chuckled and switched to a fork, breaking the pretense. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave me that look—like she was thankful for me noticing without her saying a word. She followed my lead and switched to a fork too.

But then, in her usual playful way, she took a bite of pasta, and it was a bit too hot. I could tell by how she winced slightly. I cut a small piece for her, blew on it gently, and offered it to her like you would to a child. She giggled, leaning in to take the bite, her eyes smiling at the warmth.

The evening continued effortlessly. The conversation flowed, though I barely remember what we talked about. We were just there—lost in each other, the warmth of the evening, the wine that was richer and deeper than the December night outside.

Then, she demanded ice cream.

It was freezing outside. Her cheeks were already pink from the cold, and the idea of ice cream made me roll my eyes, half jokingly. I warned her about the cold—how she’d lose her voice, but she pouted, her lips forming that small frown like a child who wasn’t getting what they wanted.

Of course, I gave in.

After dinner, we stepped out of the restaurant, the cold biting into us once more, and I found a small ice cream vendor nearby. I bought her a scoop, and she laughed at the absurdity of it all, while I stood there, pretending to be exasperated but secretly loving how she could turn every moment into something light, something memorable.

We walked slowly now. The streets were lit with holiday decorations and the noise of distant chatter, but between us, there was a gentle, soothing silence. She slipped one hand into my jacket pocket, and instinctively, I reached in too. Our fingers met—cold against cold—but the touch brought warmth. She pulled closer to me, her head lightly resting against my shoulder as we walked.

It was strange, how much we didn’t need words. The world felt far away, even with the bright lights and bustling street. The wind picked up a little, and without thinking, I shrugged off my jacket and placed it around her shoulders. She smiled, shy but appreciative, her cheeks glowing with that same childlike blush that made her look even more beautiful. I tucked her in, my fingers lingering a little too long at the edges of the jacket.

She slipped her hand into the other pocket of my jacket and froze.

Her fingers brushed against something small and cool—a ring. Her eyes widened, and she pulled it out slowly, holding it in front of her, her breath catching in the cold December air.

She looked at me, her lips parting slightly in surprise, her cheeks already flushed from the chill and from the evening itself. I hadn't planned for her to find it like this. I imagined something more ceremonious, maybe when we reached the park by the Christmas tree or during a quiet moment over dessert. But seeing her now, standing under the twinkling lights of the street, looking at me like that… it felt perfect.

I smiled, my heart beating faster as I stepped closer, taking her hand gently, my fingers trembling just a little from the weight of the moment.

"You weren’t supposed to find that yet," I said, my voice soft, almost playful. She smiled, that same shy, slightly mischievous smile that always made me weak, her fingers still lightly gripping the ring.

I took a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill my lungs, but also the warmth between us, the connection we shared—stronger than any winter chill. Slowly, I knelt down on one knee, right there on the quiet street, as the festive lights glimmered above us and the world around seemed to fade into the background.

Her eyes widened even more, and her free hand went up to her mouth in disbelief.

“I was going to wait until the perfect moment, but I guess there's no moment more perfect than right now.” I looked up at her, her face soft and radiant, like the night itself had paused just for us. "I've loved you from the moment we met, from the way you always laugh at my worst jokes, to the way you somehow make everything feel... easy."

She blinked, her eyes filling with that unmistakable sparkle that I had come to know so well. She was listening with her whole heart, every word settling in her like the first snowflake of the season.

“I don't want just another date with you,” I continued, my voice steady now, every word filled with certainty. “I want every day. I want every moment, every winter, every Christmas Eve, every random Tuesday. I want it all—with you.”

I took the ring from her hand, my fingers brushing lightly against hers as I held it up between us. "Will you marry me?"

For a moment, there was silence—a silence that wasn’t empty but full. Full of everything we’d shared, every memory, every laugh, every quiet walk just like this one. Her face softened even more, her eyes locked on mine, and then, with a breathless smile, she nodded.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely above the sound of the winter breeze, but it was enough. It was everything.

I slid the ring onto her finger, my hands shaking slightly—not from nerves, but from the overwhelming feeling of joy, of love, of knowing that this was the beginning of something even more beautiful. When I stood up, she was already stepping closer, her hands finding mine, and before I could say anything else, she wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a kiss.

Her lips were soft, warmer than the night, and the world seemed to disappear around us. The lights, the noise, the cold—they were all distant now, as if we were standing in our own little pocket of time, just the two of us.

When we finally pulled away, she laughed softly, her forehead resting against mine, our breath mingling in the cool air. “You really couldn’t wait, huh?” she teased.

I chuckled, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “What can I say? You’re impossible to keep secrets from.”

She held up her hand, looking at the ring glittering in the soft light. "It's beautiful," she said quietly, her voice filled with awe. "But you know what's even better?"

"What?" I asked, already knowing the answer but loving the sound of her voice in that moment.

She leaned in close, her hand resting against my chest, feeling the steady beat of my heart beneath her fingers. “This,” she whispered. "Us."

We started walking again, but everything felt lighter now. She was still holding the ice cream in one hand, the ring glinting with each movement. We strolled down the street slowly, her hand once again slipping into my pocket, this time just for the warmth. I wrapped my arm around her, pulling her even closer.

As we passed the twinkling lights, I thought about everything that had brought us to this moment—every late-night conversation, every date, every small gesture that made me fall more and more in love with her. And now, here we were, on Christmas Eve, walking through the city as if it belonged to us, the night feeling more magical than any holiday movie ever could be.

"I still can't believe you bought me ice cream in this weather," she said, smiling as she took another bite, her voice playful.

"I couldn’t say no to you," I replied with a smirk. "Besides, you love it when I spoil you."

She laughed and bumped her head lightly into my shoulder, a gesture so familiar yet so endearing that I couldn't help but smile. "You’re right. I do."

We didn’t need to say anything more. The night was perfect, and so was she.

As we reached the park, the large Christmas tree stood tall in the center, its lights glowing softly in the distance. We paused for a moment, just standing there, taking it all in. She turned to me, her eyes shining with happiness, and I leaned in, pressing my lips to her forehead, holding her close.

“I love you,” I whispered, the words falling between us like snow, soft and delicate but carrying the weight of everything I felt for her.

She looked up at me, her cheeks glowing, her smile wide and full of love. “I love you too.”

And in that moment, under the glow of the Christmas lights, hand in hand, I knew—this was it. This was everything I'd ever wanted, and more.

Orange Kissed

I showed up at her door just before sunrise, a little earlier than I had promised. The street was quiet, and the soft pre-dawn chill gave everything a stillness. But my heart was far from calm. I had told her I'd pick her up at 5, and there she was, already ready, standing by the door in her joggers, hair loose, and her signature smile that hadn't changed in all these years. It was the kind of smile that always made me feel at ease like everything was just a little bit better in the world.

“Early bird,” I teased, and she replied with a grin that lifted her cheeks, bubbling them up like they held secrets, hiding a laugh she was about to let out.

We started jogging toward the lake, the air crisp and cool around us. She moved ahead of me, as usual, her energy unstoppable, like she was always ready to embrace whatever came next. Every now and then, she’d look back with a playful look, as if daring me to catch up. When we reached the lake, the sky was just beginning to blush with the first hints of sunlight. The water was still, reflecting the hues of pink and orange as if it was holding its breath for the day to begin.

We found a spot by the bank and sat down, our feet dangling just above the water, the cold brushing our toes. She placed her hand on the ground beside her, fingers splayed, and without thinking, I cupped it gently with mine. Not holding, just… touching. She glanced at me, but there was no awkwardness. It felt like we had done this a thousand times before, like we’d been meant to sit here together in this moment. Her hand fit into mine naturally, and for a while, neither of us said anything. The silence felt good, and comfortable, filled only with the soft rustling of the water and the faint sounds of birds waking up.

Her head gently bumped into my shoulder, and I could feel her relax as if this closeness had been inevitable. It was her way of saying she was comfortable, without needing to say anything at all.

We sat there until the sun had fully risen, casting its golden light across the water. It felt like a perfect beginning to the day, and I couldn’t help but smile when I noticed how she closed her eyes for just a moment, soaking it all in, her face glowing in the soft light.

By 6:30, we decided to head back. She led the way, and this time, I didn’t lag behind. We jogged side by side, her laugh breaking through the morning stillness whenever I threw in a random memory or joke. It felt like school days all over again, except better, somehow more real.

When we got back to her place, we hopped on her scooter, and I drove us to the outskirts where the orange farms were. The sun was fully up now, casting a bright glow over the fields. We picked fresh oranges together, her laughter filling the space every time I tried to catch her off-guard with a photo. She looked radiant, like she was part of the morning light itself, her skin catching the sun just right, making her look almost... glowing.

“You’re glowing, you know,” I said, half-joking, half-serious.

She raised an eyebrow, teasingly, “Like an orange?”

“Exactly like one,” I replied, grinning.

Back at my place, we decided to juice the oranges ourselves and prepare a simple breakfast. But, of course, things didn’t go quite as smoothly as planned. As she tried to squeeze the first orange, it slipped out of her hands, bounced off the table, and splattered juice right onto her face.

She froze, shocked for a split second before we both burst into laughter. The sight of her standing there, orange juice dripping down her cheek, was just too perfect.

“Hold still,” I said, grabbing a tissue. I moved closer, gently wiping the juice from her face. Her skin was warm from all the running around, and as I dabbed at her cheek, she looked up at me with that familiar twinkle in her eye, half-amused, half-something else. For a second, I thought she might pull away, but she didn’t.

“Thanks,” she said softly, her voice quieter now as if the moment had shifted into something more.

We finally managed to squeeze enough juice without any more accidents, and I toasted some bread while she spread butter on it, laughing about how messy we’d gotten. The simplicity of it all—just fresh orange juice, bread, and butter—felt perfect. We sat at the small kitchen table, side by side, our arms brushing occasionally as we ate. The sunlight streamed in through the window, casting a soft glow on everything, making even the crumbs on the table seem like they were part of something special.

After breakfast, we both freshened up. I could hear the faint sound of jazz coming from my speaker as I stepped into the living room, and I didn’t think twice before asking her to dance.

She hesitated for a second, smiling shyly, but then stepped into my arms. Her head found its way to my shoulder naturally, her cheek pressing gently against me as we swayed slowly to the music. The song was soft, almost like it was playing just for us. My hand rested lightly on her back, and I could feel her relax into the rhythm, her body moving in time with mine. It was intimate without being overwhelming, like we were just two people perfectly in sync, at that moment and no other.

I don’t know how long we danced. It felt like time had slowed down, the world outside fading into the background. All I could hear was the soft music and the steady sound of our breathing, in sync with each other.

I stepped away for a moment, reaching behind the counter where I had hidden a small bouquet of sunflowers. When I handed them to her, her face lit up in surprise, that same bubbling smile I’d come to know so well. Her cheeks turned a light shade of red as she took one and brought it to her nose, smelling the petals.

“Sunflowers?” she asked, her voice soft, almost in disbelief.

“Yeah,” I replied, trying to act casual, “they remind me of you.”

She looked at me for a long moment, her cheeks still flushed, and then, without a word, bumped her head gently into my shoulder again. Just like she always did.

We didn’t need to say anything more. The music, the sunflowers, the quiet moments between us—they said everything.

Ghazal Ki Leher (English Version Below)

Us din, jab maine usey ghazal event par invite kiya, mere dil mein ek umeed thi, ek chhoti si khushi thi. Ham dono ko ghazal ka shauk tha, aur shayad isi liye hamare taar aur vichar milte the. Pop songs bhi sunte they, lekin jab ek hi earphone mein ghazal sunte, toh wo lamha kuch alag hi hota. Uska sir mere kandhe par jhuk jata, aur ek sukoon sa mehsoos hota, jaise sab kuch theek hai.

Woh meri flat-mate thi, kuch waqt se meri dost bhi ban gayi thi. Hamare beech ka rishta dheere dheere badh raha tha, par dono ne kabhi us mod par baat nahi ki thi. Shayad, hum dono ko ek dusre ka saath hi kaafi lagta tha, bina kisi social Tag ke.

Jab maine usse dekha, toh lagbhag ek pal ke liye meri saansein tham gayi. Vo ek traditional suit mein behadd khubsurat lag rahi thi. Aaj kal ke is Gen-Z zamane mein, aise events ke liye kya pehna jaye, ye toh samajh hi nahi aata. Maine hamesha ki tarah jeans aur t-shirt pehni, toh usne muskurate hue kaha, "Ghazal event hai, club nahi. Jeans utaaro." Uski aankhon mein ek mazak tha, lekin meri dil ki dhadkan tez ho gayi thi.

"Utaar doon?" Maine mazak mein usey chidaate huye kaha. Vo halka sa blush karte hue boli, "Traditional wear karo, tumse badi hun, baat mana karo." Wo mujhse ek saal badi thi. Bas isi baat ko le kar najaane kitni baatein usne manvayi this. However, us pal mein mujhe laga, vo sirf muskura rahi thi, par us muskurahat ke peeche there was something else, jaise wo mere dil ki baat jaanti ho. Maine bhi chupchap uski baat maan li, aur apne kapde badalne chala gaya.

Wapas aaya, toh usne change karke ab saree pehni thi. Pehle toh behadd khubsurat lag rahi thi, now she was looking "Stop Eating Hot" which is like the highest level of hotness. Uski saree ke paloo se khushbu aa rahi thi, aur har ada mein ek naya andaaz tha. Ye vo ladki thi jise maine hamesha dosti ki nazar se dekha tha, lekin aaj, har baat alag lag rahi thi. Hamara rishta, jo hamesha dosti tak simit raha tha, aaj kuch aur kehne ko tayar tha.

Jab hum ghazal event par pahunche, shayari hawa mein thi, aur har nazar ek khoj mein thi. Uski aankhon se ek ajeeb sa sukoon mere dil mein utar gaya. Maine notice kiya, uski chhoti chhoti harkatein—jaise uska latt sawarna,  ya shayari sunte waqt halke se hami bharte huye hath uthana—ab mujhme ghul raha tha. Ek ghazal ke beech main ‘waah waah’ kar raha tha, aur vo nazre jhuka kar anand le rahi thi. Uski muskurahat mere dil ke har kone mein dard aur khushi ka ehsaas chhod jaati thi.

Lekin phir, jab ek ghazal ne use emotional kar diya, vo meri bahn ko pakad kar qarib aayi aur usne apna sir mere kandhe par jhuka diya. Mujhe laga, shayad uske dil mein bhi kuch hai. Mere labh uske maathe se chhu gaye, aur ek ashq bhi us ki maang par gir gya. Us pal laga jaise hum ek pal mein bandhe hue ho. Us pal mein kuch badla tha, lekin hum dono chup the.

Uska sir uthana, aur phir halki si sharmaahat... jaise usne mehsoos kiya ho ke hamare beech kuch badal raha hai. Lekin, us sharmaahat mein thoda confusion bhi tha. Kya hum dono yahi chaahte hain? Kya ye sirf meri feelings thi? Kya wo bhi ye sab mehsoos karti thi? Shayad wo apni feelings ko samajhne ki koshish kar rahi thi, jaise main kar raha tha.

Aur tab, ek ghazal ki line aayi: "Sir kis taraf jhukayun, tujhe dekhne ke baad." Is par usne zyada zor se ‘waah waah’ ki, jaise wo ghazal ke har shabd mein apne jazbaat khoj rahi ho. Maine bhi, apne dil ki dhadkanon ko dabaane ki koshish ki, par jo baat dil mein thi, use chupana aasan nahi tha. Shayari ke beech, kab hum ek dusre ke saaye ban jaate hain, kabhi samajh nahi aata. Thoda vo mujh mein, aur thoda main usme dikhne lagta hoon. Ham dono ek hi raag ke sur ban chuke thay.

Raat ko jab hum wapas flat aaye, maine notice kiya ki uske chehre par ek shanti thi. Usne apna dupatta sambhalte hue ek chhoti si muskurahat di, jaise uss raat ke baad sab kuch badalne wala ho. Main apne andar ke lafzon ko sametne ki koshish karta raha, lekin keh nahi paya. Shayad abhi waqt nahi tha, ya shayad... waqt yahi tha. Aur main bas dekhta rah gaya, ek naye safar ki shuruaat ka intezaar karte hue, jaise ghazal ki ek nayi leher ka aaghaaz ho raha ho.


(Same but in English)

When I invited her to the ghazal event that day, I had a small hope in my heart: a quiet happiness. We both shared a love for ghazals; maybe that’s why our thoughts and feelings often resonated. We listened to pop songs too, but when we would listen to a ghazal together, sharing the same earphone, it felt different. Her head would rest on my shoulder, and I’d feel a sense of calm like everything was just right.

She was my flatmate, and over time, she had become my friend too. Our relationship was slowly growing, but neither of us had ever spoken about what it could become. Maybe we both felt that just having each other's company was enough, without needing any social label for it.

When I saw her that day, my heart skipped a beat. She looked stunning in a traditional suit. In today’s Gen-Z world, deciding what to wear to such events is hard. I was in my usual jeans and t-shirt, and she smiled and said, “It’s a ghazal event, not a club. Lose the jeans.” There was a playful glint in her eyes, but my heart raced.

“Should I really take them off?” I teased her back. Blushing slightly, she replied, “Wear something traditional, I’m older than you. Learn to listen.” She was a year older than me, and she’d made me follow so many of her whims based on that fact. However, at that moment, I felt she was smiling, but behind that smile, there was something else, as if she knew what was in my heart. I quietly went and changed into something more traditional, just like she asked.

When I returned, she had changed too, and now she was wearing a saree. She had already looked beautiful before, but now she was looking “Stop Eating Hot”—which is the highest level of hotness. The scent of her saree’s pallu filled the air, and every movement of hers had a new grace. This was the girl I had always looked at as a friend, but today, everything felt different. Our relationship, which had always stayed within the bounds of friendship, now seemed ready to say something more.

When we reached the ghazal event, poetry filled the air, and every gaze seemed to be searching for something. There was a strange sense of peace that settled in my heart from her presence. I noticed the small things she did—like the way she would tuck her hair behind her ear, or lightly raise her hand in agreement while listening to a couplet—they all started to blend into me. In the middle of a ghazal, I was praising it out loud with a “waah waah,” while she sat quietly, her eyes lowered, savouring the poetry. Her smile left both pain and joy in the corners of my heart.

Then, one ghazal made her emotional. She grabbed my arm and leaned closer, resting her head on my shoulder. For a moment, I thought maybe she felt something too. My lips brushed against her forehead, and a single tear from my eye fell on her hair parting. In that instant, it felt as though we were bound together in a single moment. Something changed between us, but we both remained silent.

She lifted her head, and there was a slight shyness on her face, as if she too had felt that something was changing between us. But in that shyness, there was a bit of confusion as well. Was this what we both wanted? Were these just my feelings? Was she feeling the same? Maybe she was trying to understand her own feelings, just as I was.

And then, a line from a ghazal played: "Sar kis taraf jhukaun, tujhe dekhne ke baad (Which way should I bow my head, after having seen you?)" On this, she applauded louder, as if searching for her own emotions in every word of the ghazal. I, too, tried to calm the racing beats of my heart, but it was too loud to hide what was so deeply felt. Amidst the poetry, there comes a point where we become shadows of each other, without even realizing it. A little bit of her was in me, and a little bit of me was now showing in her. We had become the same notes of a melody.

Later that night, when we returned to the flat, I noticed a certain peace on her face. Adjusting her dupatta, she gave me a small smile, as if to say that everything was about to change after that night. I tried to gather the words in my heart, but I couldn’t say them. Maybe it wasn’t the right time yet, or maybe... this was exactly the right time. And I just stood there, waiting for the beginning of a new journey, like the start of a new wave in a ghazal.