My name is Aarav, an aspiring writer with dreams as vast as the sky but pockets as empty as a plate at the end of each day. I was not the kind of guy who fits the mould of societal expectations. I wasn’t a high-earning professional, nor did I have the security of a government job that most families desired for their daughters. But what I did have was an extraordinary ability to feel, to dream, and to love deeply.
It was during one of those solitary moments when I found solace scrolling through Facebook, that I stumbled upon Trishna's profile. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was magnetic. Her pictures radiated confidence, her captions oozed charm, and her smile carried the warmth of a thousand suns. I couldn’t help but send her a friend request, which, much to my surprise, she accepted.
Over time, we started chatting, mostly about trivial things—movies, music, books—but with each passing day, I found myself falling for her. It wasn’t just her outer beauty that captivated me; it was her wit, her unapologetic ambition, and the subtle vulnerability she occasionally revealed.
One evening, after weeks of playful conversations and shared laughter, I decided to take the leap. Gathering every ounce of courage I had, I typed out a message that had been brewing in my heart:
"I think I’m in love with you. I want to marry you."
A few minutes later, her response came. My heart raced as I opened the chat, only to feel it sink instantly.
"I need a guy with a first-class government job," she replied bluntly.
For a moment, I stared at the screen, her words like daggers piercing through my hopes. I smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach my eyes, and typed back a single word:
"Bye."
I logged out and never messaged her again.
That night, I sat by my small desk, staring at the half-written story on my laptop. The protagonist, a wanderer searching for meaning, now seemed a reflection of myself—a man yearning for a love that might never be his.
Though my heart ached, I didn’t resent Trishna for her honesty. She was practical, shaped by a world where love often took a backseat to financial security. Yet, deep down, I couldn’t help but wonder: in a world dictated by societal norms and material needs, was there ever room for love like mine—raw, unfiltered, and unrelenting?
Little did I know, this seemingly small interaction would ripple through my life, setting the stage for a tale that would blur the lines between heartbreak, destiny, and the kind of love that lingers long after it’s gone.
A few months later, she called me.
"Got a job yet?"
"No."
"My wedding is fixed."
"Oh, congratulations."
"Can you elope with me?"
I was a little surprised to hear this. However, I composed myself and said, "No."
"Alright, give me your address. I'll send you the invitation card. You must come to my wedding."
"Sure."
And then she hung up.
Two days later, a neatly wrapped parcel arrived by courier. Inside was a handwritten letter from her.
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Dear Aarav,
You idiot! Anyway, my dad chose a guy for me. His name is Sunil. He’s a government job employee, recently joined, earns well, and is way smarter than you. He’s better looking, too. And, unlike your messy hair, he has a neat, albeit slightly balding head. He’s promised to keep me like a queen, shower me with jewels, and make sure I never have to lift a finger at home.
Ugh, look at me rambling about him! By the way, have you finished that story you wanted to write about me? Or did you just give up because I ignored you? This time, you must write it.
I have a request—although I know I have no right to ask anything from you. If possible, can you gift me a small vermilion box for my wedding? Nothing expensive, just something simple. I know fate didn’t allow you to put vermilion in my parting line, but surely you won’t mind if I use the box you gave me?
Yours,
Trishna
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Reading her letter left me both amazed and emotional. A girl actually loved this fool once! I remember once I promised to write a story about Trishna, which was a fictionalized reflection of our complex relationship—a tale of love, rejection, and unspoken emotions. I envisioned a protagonist inspired by Trishna: a strong, independent woman torn between her dreams of stability and the magnetic pull of a love that didn’t fit the traditional mold.
In this story, the protagonist, much like Trishna, would meet a struggling artist—someone passionate but with no concrete plans for the future. The artist, deeply smitten by her charm and spirit, would express his love, only to face rejection as she prioritizes practicality over emotions. But instead of ending sadly, my story would conclude in a Bollywood movie style, where love triumphs.
On her wedding day, I arrived at the venue. From the street itself, I could see the glittering decorations. Above the gate was a banner in shimmering letters: "Trishna Weds Sunil."
The atmosphere was bustling with excitement. Everyone was busy. But I couldn’t spot Trishna anywhere. In one corner of the courtyard, I saw the groom’s stage. A young girl fanned the groom, who was seated there in a finely decorated turban.
I walked up to him and said, "I was supposed to be the one sitting in your place."
The groom, startled, asked, "Who are you? How dare you say such a thing?"
Calmly, I replied, "The bride you’re about to marry wanted to elope with me. I refused. Now, think about why I had the courage to tell you this."
The groom, enraged, grabbed my collar and dragged me into an empty room. The chaos outside stopped, and a few minutes later, a man stormed into the room. His authoritative demeanour told me he was Trishna’s father.
He demanded, "Do you love my daughter?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Does she love you?"
"I don’t know. But she did ask me to run away with her when you arranged this marriage."
"What do you do for a living?"
"Currently, I’m trying to write a story."
"A story? And you think you can feed my daughter stories all her life?"
"No, sometimes I’ll recite poetry too."
He lost his temper. "You insolent boy! Get out of here right now!"
Before I knew it, a group of men threw me out of the house like a stray dog.
That’s when I woke up. It was all a dream!
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On January 20, I got dressed early in the morning. My heart was brimming with an inexplicable excitement.
Using the tuition fees I had saved, I bought a small gold vermilion box. By twilight, I reached the venue. The atmosphere was eerily calm, unlike the usual wedding chaos. The groom’s stage was empty except for a few new pillows on a white embroidered cloth.
In the courtyard’s centre stood a circular canopy adorned with red hibiscus patterns painted on white earthen plates. Two brass pots with mango leaves rested on the side, next to two low wooden stools.
I heard muffled sobs coming from inside the house. Curious, I followed the sound and entered a room.
Inside, Trishna’s mother was wailing, "Trishna, where are you, my child?"
Someone in the room pointed at me and whispered, "Isn’t this the boy?"
I stepped into the room and felt my heart stop. There she was—Trishna—lying still on the mahogany bed, draped in a crimson Banarasi saree that shimmered faintly under the dim light. She was dressed as a bride, but the life that once made her presence radiant was gone.
Her wrists, adorned with red bangles and white shankha bracelets, lay motionless by her side. Her hands, once so full of gestures and warmth, now seemed frozen in silence. Her forehead, where the vermilion should have marked the beginning of her new journey, was heartbreakingly bare.
Her face, once filled with mischief, hope, and a thousand unspoken words, now seemed pale and still, her lips curved into a faint, ghostly smile as if she were waiting for someone—waiting for me.
The room was heavy with the sound of muffled sobs, but I heard nothing. The world outside faded away as I stood there, rooted, my chest tightening with the unbearable weight of loss. It wasn’t just Trishna lying lifeless before me—it was every dream, every unsaid word, every fleeting moment we had ever shared.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The realization clawed at me—she was gone, leaving behind only echoes of what could have been.
A man asked me, "Are you Aarav?"
"Yes."
He handed me a letter, saying, "This was found on her bed. It’s addressed to you."
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Dear Aarav,
So, you came? I knew you wouldn’t stay away. Surprised to not see the groom? Let me tell you a secret—I fell in love with a vagabond once. Angry that I never told you? I had cancer, you fool. How could I confess that?
Did you bring the story? I really want to hear it today. Sit beside me and narrate it, won’t you? Listen, they’ll soon take me for my final bath. After that, would you fulfil your wish? Please, put a mark of vermilion on my parting line. Just once.
Yours,
Trishna
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I sat beside her, my hands trembling as I held the gold vermilion box tightly, my heart racing with the hope of fulfilling a dream that seemed so close, yet so distant. I longed to be the one to mark her forehead with the vermilion, to be the one who promised her a lifetime of love. But as I looked at her, lying there so still, so far away from me, fate cruelly snatched away that chance, leaving me to face the painful truth—that my wish would remain unfulfilled forever.
