Vardhan's House - Opposite Gulmohar Villa, Nightfall
The ceiling fan made a tired, rhythmic sound overhead. A soft indie tune played from his phone, lying forgotten on the windowsill. Outside, the drizzle had returned - quiet and rhythmic like a memory tapping on glass.
Vardhan sat by the open window, sketchbook on his lap, charcoal pencil between his fingers.
His eyes weren't on the page.
They were across the road.
Through the leafy frangipani branches, he could see Gulmohar Villa - just like he remembered.
The clay-tiled roof, the faint glow of fairy lights strung along the verandah, and her silhouette... soft and familiar, moving between shadow and light.
Vardhan (to himself, almost a whisper):
"Aroha Roy... tum waise hi ho."
["Aroha Roy... you are just like that."]
He hadn't meant to speak aloud. But then again, he'd spent so many years carrying her name in silence - it was strange to hear it now, even in his own voice. The sketch on his lap was smudged, unfinished.
It was Aroha - not as she had been in school, but as she was now. Quietly grown, wrapped in a cotton kurta, still looking out of the same window she once leaned from as a teenager.
Back then, she used to drop paper planes from that window. Once, one had landed near his bicycle. He had never returned it.
He had kept it in his journal for three years.
Kabir (voice from phone, on speaker):
"So, Goa boy... reached?"
Vardhan startled, pulled out of his thoughts. He picked up the phone.
Vardhan (muttering):
"Haan...poch Gaya"
["Yepp...reached"]
Kabir:
"And? Kaisi lag rahi hai woh jagah jahan se tu bhaag gaya tha?"
["And? How is that place feeling from where you ran away?"]
Vardhan (pausing):
"Jaisi thi. Bas... thodi zyada khamosh."
["As it was. Just...a bit too much quite"]
Kabir:
"Aur Aroha? Usse mila?"
["And Aroha? Did you meet her?"]
There was silence. Outside, the rain made everything blur for a second.
Vardhan (softly):
"Nahi. Mila nahi... bas dekha."
["No. Not yet...just saw her"]
Kabir (smiling through the line):
"Tu pehle bhi usse bas dekhta tha. Kuch nahi badla."
["You used to just look at him earlier also. Nothing has changed."]
Vardhan:
"Sab kuch badal gaya, Kabir. Sirf woh aankhon ka haal ab bhi waisa hi hai..."
["Everything has changed, Kabir. Only the condition of those eyes are still the same..."]
He looked across the road again. Aroha was gone from the window.
But the curtain still fluttered - as if she had just been there.
Kabir:
"Tu usse bata de sab kuch is baar. Warna yeh Goa trip bhi baaki jagahon jaisa hi ban jaayega - adhura."
["You tell her everything this time. Otherwise this Goa trip will be just like the other trips-incomplete."]
Vardhan (half-smiling):
"Is baar... main bhaagne nahi aaya hoon."
["This time... I'm not going to run away."]
He cut the call and flipped to a fresh page in the sketchbook.
This time, he began again-her eyes first. He could never get them quite right, not because he didn't remember-but because they always said something new each time.
As the night deepened, and the rain played its lullaby across old roofs and silent streets, Vardhan drew the girl whose letters he never got.
The sketchbook now lay closed beside him.
Vardhan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the windowsill, eyes still drifting across to Gulmohar Villa. The light in Aroha's window had dimmed, but not gone out completely.
He imagined her there - maybe tying her hair up, maybe still talking to that wild, funny friend of hers-what was her name? Tara. Of course.
She hadn't changed either.
Vardhan smiled faintly, and without thinking, reached for the old camera case beside his desk.
Pulling out his analog camera - the one he rarely used now, the one he'd taken their last photo with, ten years ago-he ran his thumb over the shutter.
Then, quietly, almost guiltily, he whispered to the air.
Vardhan (softly):
"Aroha... main waapas aaya hoon. Lekin tu ab bhi wahi hai ya main sirf yaadon ko dekh raha hoon?"
["Aroha... I have returned. But are you still the same or am I just looking at the memories?"]
There was no answer. Of course not.
But outside, the wind picked up just a little, enough to sway the gulmohar tree between them.
As if brushing the gap in time.
---
Back at Gulmohar Villa - Aroha's Room, Same Time
Aroha sat cross-legged on her bed, a thin journal open on her lap. The room smelled of petrichor and rose attar - the scent Thakuma always dabbed behind her ears.
She held a fountain pen, the kind no one really used anymore.
But this was their ritual - hers and the version of Vardhan that lived in her letters.
She touched the tip of the pen to the page.
"Dear V..."
The words halted there.
Aroha (in a whisper):
"Main firse kaise likhun, jab tu ab saamne hai?"
["How should I write again, when you are in front of me?"]
She looked up, her eyes lingering on the curtained window.
For years, she had written to a memory.
But tonight, the boy behind the memory was breathing the same salty Goan air. Maybe even looking back.
She flipped back a few pages.
One letter, dated two years ago, stood out:
> "Tumhari yaadon ka mausam kabhi guzarta hi nahi, Vardhan.
Tum jaa chuke ho, par tumhari baatein... woh mere verandah ke kone mein ab bhi baithi hoti hain kabhi kabhi. Jaise tum ab bhi keh rahe ho -Aroha, baarish mein naache?"
[> "The season of your memories never passes, Vardhan.
You have gone, but your words... she still sits in the corner of my verandah sometimes. Just like you are saying now-Aroha, should we dance in the rain?"]
She shut the journal.
Too much.
Too soon.
---
Outside, the rain paused - as if holding its breath.
Inside both homes, two hearts beat with the same rhythm - hesitant, aching, hopeful.
And just before the clock struck midnight, both of them - without knowing - stepped out onto their verandahs.
Aroha to check the diya under the tulsi.
Vardhan just to feel the air again.
Their eyes met. Just for a moment.
No words.
No waves.
Just... stillness.
Then Aroha looked away first, quietly turning back inside.
Vardhan stood there a moment longer.
And then?
He smiled.
A soft, aching smile.
Vardhan (to himself):
"Tu ab bhi pehle palkein jhuka leti hai..."
["You still lower your eyelids..."]
---------------------
Next day-St. Joseph's Higher Secondary School-Monday Morning.
The school courtyard was still damp from the night's rain. Puddles reflected slivers of early sunlight, and the occasional sound of sneakers squeaking across wet floors echoed through the corridors.
Aroha walked in with Tara, clutching a cloth-bound book and a nervous energy she hadn't felt in years.
Tara (whispering dramatically):
"Aaj toh scene pakka hoga. Same English period. Same classroom. Aur Vardhan already staffroom se ho ke andar gaya hai."
["Today there will definitely be a scan. Same English period. Same classroom. And Vardhan has already gone inside from the staffroom."]
Aroha:
"Tu spy hai ya meri dost?"
["You're a spy or my friend?"]
Tara:
"Dost hoon. Par thoda Intel toh dena padega. Emotional surveillance is my love language."
["Friend. But I have to give some intel. Emotional surveillance is my love language."]
Aroha gave her a look, but her lips twitched into the tiniest smile.
They reached the door of their class - and froze.
Because there he was.
Vardhan.
Leaning against the last bench, flipping through a brown leather-bound journal. His camera bag rested at his feet, damp around the edges from the drizzle. His hair was slightly messy - not the Instagram kind, but the real, wind-tossed kind. And his smile?
God, that smile still had gravity.
As if sensing her, he looked up.
Their eyes met.
This time, no gulmohar tree in between. No curtain. No rain-blurred glass.
Just time.
Time that collapsed silently between two breaths.
Vardhan (smiling gently):
"Hi, Aroha."
For a moment, she didn't - couldn't - speak.
She wasn't ready for his voice. It had changed. Deeper, warmer. But still laced with something familiar.
She swallowed.
Aroha (softly):
"Hi."
Tara, standing beside her, blinked rapidly like she was watching her OTP go canon.
Vardhan stepped closer, his voice casual, but his eyes serious.
Vardhan:
"I was wondering if you'd remember me."
Aroha (tilting her head):
"Main bhoolti kab hoon?"
[""When do I forget?"]
He laughed, just once - a soft, surprised sound. And for a second, Aroha saw that boy again - the one who used to sneak mango slices into her lunchbox, the one who beat every boy in races just because she cheered loudest.
Vardhan (a little more serious now):
"You look... the same. But different."
Aroha:
"Tu... badal gaya hai. Par kuch toh waisa hi hai."
["You're...different. But something is there which is same."]
Their eyes held for just a second longer than normal. The rain began again - faint drops on the tin roof.
From behind, the teacher's voice called out.
Miss Rosario:
"Everyone inside! Pages open, pens ready. We're starting with metaphors today, class."
Tara nudged Aroha toward their desk, mouthing, "Metaphor toh tu khud hai!"
["You are the metaphor yourself!"]
Aroha rolled her eyes but didn't fight the smile.
As she slid into her seat, she glanced one more time toward the back bench.
Vardhan had already opened his notebook.
But when their eyes met again, he mouthed:
"Good to see you."
And for the first time in years, she let herself say it - even if only in her head:
"You too, Vardhan. You too."
The final bell rang, sharp and echoing through the corridor like a school-time sigh of relief.
Tara had already bounced off to her next class, whispering a dramatic "main jaa rahi hoon... tum dono baat karo" with a wink.
["I am going... you both talk"]
Aroha lingered at her desk, sliding her books slowly into her jute bag. She could feel Vardhan's presence behind her. Not looking at her - but not not looking either.
She finally stood.
Turned.
And their eyes met again - this time without the cushion of distance, or people.
Aroha (quietly):
"You're really here."
Vardhan (with a small smile):
"I wasn't sure you'd believe it till I said something."
Aroha:
"Main toh kal raat se hi yakin karne ki koshish kar rahi hoon."
["I have been trying to believe it since last night."]
He nodded, stepping forward just a little, close enough for her to smell the faint cedar and monsoon on him.
Vardhan:
"I came early today. Wanted to see the school before the noise started. Sab kuch chhota lag raha tha... ya main bada ho gaya hoon, pata nahi."
[Everything seemed small... I don't know whether I have grown up, i don't know.]
Aroha (smiling faintly):
"Yeh jagah time ke jaise hai - kabhi rukti nahi, kabhi badalti nahi."
["This place is like time - it never stops, never changes."]
Pause.
Vardhan:
"And you?"
Aroha (looking down):
"Main... yahi hoon. Gulmohar Villa mein. Jaise pehle thi."
["Me...I'm here. In Gulmohar Villa. Just like old times"]
He tilted his head gently, the way he used to when she surprised him with a poem in class ten.
Vardhan (softly):
"Main bhi wahi hoon, Aroha. Bas... duniya dekh aaya hoon beech mein."
["I am also the same, Aroha. I have seen the world on the beach."]
Silence again.
And then - a moment of courage.
Vardhan:
"Tumhare kamre ka diya kal raat tak jal raha tha."
["The lamp in your room was burning since last night."]
Aroha's eyes widened, the faintest flush blooming in her cheeks.
Aroha (defensive, but soft):
"Tum ab bhi dusron ke ghar jhaankte ho?"
["Do you still sneak other houses?"]
Vardhan (grinning):
"Sirf uss ghar ka... jahan main ka bhi belong karta tha."
["Just that house... where I used to belong once."]
She froze.
And he didn't push further. Just looked at her like the years hadn't really passed - like they were still those teenagers with unspoken hearts and monsoon stories.
Vardhan (changing tone, gently teasing):
"Waise... tum ab bhi paper planes banati ho?"
["By the way... do you still make paper planes?"]
Aroha looked at him, startled.
Aroha:
"Tumhe yaad hai?"
["You still remember?"]
Vardhan (tapping his chest):
"Ek abhi bhi mere sketchbook mein chhupa hai."
["There is one hidden in my sketch book"]
She laughed - a real, light laugh, like breaking a long-held breath. And for a moment, it felt like the rain outside was echoing it - softer now, gentler.
Aroha:
"Main... chai bana rahi thi shaam ko. Agar tumhara time Goa standard pe aa gaya ho toh... aana."
["I was making tea in the evening. If your time has come at Goa Standard then come."]
Vardhan (mock-thoughtful):
"Hmm... depends. Chai ke saath kya milega?"
["Hmmm... depends. What will I get with the tea?"]
Aroha (tilting her head):
"Silence. Aur barish."
["Silence. And rain."]
Vardhan (smiling):
"Perfect. Main laata hoon biscuits."
["Perfect. I'll bring biscuits"]
They stood there for another second - not moving, not rushing.
Like maybe the world was waiting on them this time.
Then they turned, slowly drifting in opposite directions down the hallway.
But both with the same thought:
Maybe this is how healing begins. Not with answers - but with conversations you thought you'd never get to finish.
-----------
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