Pawn Love

The street was quieter than usual that evening. One of those dusky hours in old cities when the sky turns brass and the air smells of burnt chai and cold iron gates.

Saher sat behind the rusted grill of her balcony, peeling an orange. The rind came off in a slow, curling spiral that dropped onto yesterday’s newspaper. Below, a man yelled into his phone, but his voice faded as he turned the corner. A dog barked twice, then stopped, as if deciding it wasn’t worth it.

It was almost dark.

She took another slice of orange, chewed slowly, and looked down at the street again.

Someone was setting up a stall by the wall where the temple’s shadow met the paan shop’s shutter. Not the usual kind. No tarpaulin. No plastic crates filled with belts or pirated books. Just a wooden crate, clean but old, and a white bedsheet laid over it like someone cared. Deliberate.

The boy behind it looked barely twenty. His kurta was creased at the sleeves, hair damp near the temples like he had just washed his face. He moved calmly, arranging objects on the crate—tiny glass vials, bits of folded paper, a fountain pen with its nib broken, a pocket-sized diary with tape on its spine. A cassette tape lay beside a tea-stained envelope.

But what caught her eye was the slate resting against the crate. Written in chalk:

"इश्क़ बिकाऊ है।"

(Love for sale.)

"अगर इश्क़ बेचने आए हो तो चले जाओ। मुझे नहीं चाहिए।"

(If you’re here to sell love, then leave. I don’t want it.)

"कोई कीमत नहीं है।"

(There’s no price.)

"अच्छा, मुफ्त में दे रहे हो?"

(Oh, giving it away for free?)

(Still don’t want it.)

(Some people leave their pain here. Some just a name. Yesterday, a girl left her torn wedding card. She got nothing in return. Just a little lightness.)

(If you want something, buy my heart.)

"आँसुओ से भरा है, यादों से लदा है... बांध कर दूं किसी बंधन में? कोई झोला लाए हो?"

(It’s full of tears, loaded with memories... should I tie it up for you? Did you bring a bag?)

"कागज़ में लपेट दो। बस नाम मत लिखना।"

(Wrap it in paper. Just don’t write a name.)

She narrowed her eyes. Read it again.

Some part of her wanted to ignore it. Walk away like she always did from things that stirred anything. But her fingers had already stopped peeling the orange. And her feet, at some point, had started moving.

She didn’t lock the door behind her.

The air smelled like first rain, though it hadn’t rained yet.

She walked slowly. No one else seemed to notice the stall. The boy didn’t call out. Didn’t wave. Just sat, barefoot, writing something in the corner of his diary when she reached him.

“What are you selling?” she asked.

He didn’t look up. “Ishq.”

She smirked.

He nodded slightly, as if he heard that line every day. As if rejection had long lost the power to sting.

“It’s free,” he said.

She folded her arms.

Still no reaction.

"फिर भी नहीं चाहिए," she added, this time quieter.

He closed the diary and looked up. Not at her face—at her hands. One of them still held half an orange slice. The other, loosely curled, thumb brushing against the edge of her ring finger like she was used to wearing something there.

“You’re still holding on,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“To whatever broke you.”

Saher hated strangers who spoke in metaphors. Worse were the ones who weren’t wrong.

He nodded toward a glass jar on the edge of the crate.

"कुछ लोग यहाँ अपना दुःख छोड़ जाते हैं। कुछ बस नाम। एक लड़की कल अपनी शादी का कार्ड फाड़ कर रख गई थी। बदले में कुछ नहीं मिला। बस हल्कापन।"

She didn’t say anything.

He waited. Quiet, patient. Not eager. Just present.

She bit into the rest of the orange slice. It was sour.

"तुम्हे चाहिए तो मुझसे मेरा दिल खरीद लो," she said eventually.

Now he almost smiled.

Saher laughed, low and tired.

He didn’t answer. Just opened his diary again. Tore out a page. Scribbled something down—quick, like he already knew the words.

Then he folded the paper carefully and placed it into the empty glass jar.

He struck a match and lit the edge.

The jar filled with quiet flame. Nothing dramatic. Just ashes curling like smoke from incense, barely rising.

Neither of them said a word.

She stood there for a while. Let the moment settle. The sun had nearly disappeared. A streetlight above them flickered and held.

Then she turned and walked away.

Didn’t give him anything.

Didn’t take anything.

But the next morning, when she stepped out for milk, the crate was gone.

So was the weight in her chest.

Not all of it.

But just enough.