Hema’s mornings had become quiet. Almost ritualistic.
Her journal—old and worn—waited patiently on the table each day. She would sit in front of it, pen tapping against her fingers, a thousand thoughts swirling in her head, none quite landing. Then, slowly, the words would come. Fragments at first.
She would scribble, pause, read what she’d written. Then breathe. And write some more.
Days turned into weeks. The pages began to fill. Her handwriting, once tentative, now curved with a quiet confidence. Little by little, the fragments began to form something real—stories, characters, ideas slowly taking root. It felt like a quiet transformation. Her father had noticed.
One evening, while returning from the balcony with his usual mug of filter coffee, he paused outside her room, watching her scribble away.
“You’re writing again?” he asked, leaning lightly on the doorframe.
Hema looked up, startled. “Hmm? Yeah. Just… something.”
“What something?”
“Just a story. Maybe a novel someday.”
He didn’t say anything immediately. He sipped his coffee and stared at the floor like he was thinking too hard.
“Hmm,” he finally muttered. “You know... i used to write poems.”
Hema blinked. “You? Really?”
He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Silly stuff. Mostly about trees and trains. Nothing serious. Got published once in Kalki magazine. Your thatha saved the clipping.”
“Appa!” she smiled, surprised. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
He took another sip of coffee, not meeting her eyes. “Didn’t think it would matter.”
She smiled softly, something warm blooming in her chest.
The next morning, there was a stack of books on her study table.
A note on top, scribbled in his unmistakable handwriting:
“Every writer reads more than they write. Start here.”
One afternoon, Hema and Akila sat at their favorite café. Hema’s fingers danced over her laptop keys.
Akila peeked over her shoulder. “Ooh, what are you writing now? Another short story?”
“A novel,” Hema replied with a soft smile.
Akila raised her brows. “Is he in it?”
Hema paused for a moment. “He was,” Hema said, a small smile flickering. “But now it’s mine. All of it.”
Akila smiled, pride flickering in her eyes. “I’m so proud of you, Hema.”
Meanwhile, Siddharth buried himself in the weight of old words.
The smell of musty paper. The delicate palm-leaf manuscripts, centuries old. That’s where he felt most like himself.
He traced letters with reverence. Wrote essays. Gave lectures. Held conversations about forgotten Tamil poets.
But always, behind it all—was the shadow.
The ghost of someone he never truly met… and never forgot.
He searched for her—in the metro, on social media, in temples. But there was no trace. Like she’d been a figment of his imagination, a brief moment of magic the world had stolen back.
He tried to move on. Poured himself into research. Taught with passion. Wrote papers on Tamil women poets. But in quiet moments, his mind wandered—back to that laugh, that moment, that face.
He had moved forward, yes. But his heart… it had stayed behind.
One morning, on her way to work, Hema’s phone buzzed.
A new email. The subject line caught her breath.
“We’d like to invite you…”
A renowned publication had discovered her stories.
Recognition. A publication meet. Praise for her voice.
Her heart stuttered. The air around her shifted—light, alive.
She blinked back tears, smiling at the screen. Her fingers trembled as she clicked Reply, accepting the invitation.
Then, without thinking, she snapped a picture of the email and posted it to Instagram. The caption was simple:
“Finally. A step forward.”
“Akila!” she burst out. “You won’t believe this!”
Akila’s grin stretched wide. “I knew you’d get here.”
That evening, Hema did something rare. ,She reached home still buzzing, the email glowing on her screen like a trophy.
Without a second thought, she rushed into the living room where her father sat flipping through an old Tamil crime novel.
“Appa!” she called, breathless. “I got an email—look!”
She thrust her phone toward him. He adjusted his glasses, read slowly. Once. Twice.
His eyes didn’t change much. But his fingers tightened slightly around the phone.
“This publication...” he said. “They published Jayakanthan once. Serious people.”
Hema nodded, still grinning.
He stood abruptly, walked to the bookshelf, scanned a few titles, and pulled down three books—old but well-kept.
“These are from the same publication. Take them. Read them before the event. You should know the space you’re stepping into.”
She clutched the books, surprised.
“This is my gift, Hema,” he said, clearing his throat. “And... well done.”
Hema blinked, her heart full. “Appa... thanks.”
He gave a small, awkward nod. “Go tell Amma too. She’ll want to make something sweet.”
And her brother?
“Oh, so you have a hidden talent, huh? I thought all you knew was how to steal my food!”
For the first time since his accident, the whole family laughed—loud and long.
Her mom made her favorite sweet: hot, syrupy gulab jamun.
That week flew by.
Before she knew it, the day of the event had arrived.
Hema stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her kurta. It wasn’t designer. It wasn’t perfect. But it was hers. She wanted to show up as herself—a version she was still learning to believe in.
Her brother helped her get an auto. She was five minutes late.
Inside, her seat had a name card.
Hema.
She smiled, snapped a picture, and sent it to the family.
Appa (typing): Don’t forget to mention Kalki in your speech.
Hema: I’ll try, if I don’t freeze first.
Appa: Freezing is for people who didn’t read the books I gave.
The host—a bright, cheerful woman—took the mic.
“Our first speaker is Siddharth Subramanian, a scholar of Tamil literature, who has done exceptional work on Tamil women poets.”
Hema clapped along with the others.
Then turned.
And froze.
There he was.
Him.
Her heart stopped.
No. It couldn’t be.
Siddharth Subramanian?
Her stomach flipped. The sounds of the room faded. Walls closed in.
Not here. Not now. Why again?
Panic rose in her throat. She wanted to leave. To escape.
But something inside her shifted.
Why should I run?
She dug her fingers into the arms of her chair. Leather pressed against her palms.
The anger. The confusion.
None of it mattered now.
I’ve earned this. I belong here.
She steadied herself and listened.
Siddharth spoke with ease. Confidence. Threading history and poetry like silk.
He hadn’t seen her yet. Was lost in his words.
Three more speakers followed.
Then the host returned.
“And now, we would like to appreciate the young writers who have shown exceptional promise. Let’s begin by welcoming… Hema.”
Her name echoed across the mic.
She blinked. Then stood.
Applause thundered in her ears.
She walked to the stage. Her hand shook as she accepted the award. But her smile was radiant. Her eyes shone.
And then—
She saw him.
Siddharth.
Wide-eyed.
Staring.
Her name hovered silently in the space between them.
Hema?
Time paused. Just for a moment.
This wasn’t how she’d imagined seeing him again. She had buried him in a quiet corner of memory.
But there he was.
After the ceremony, people began to mingle.
Hema slipped out the back door. Her heart still racing.
Then she heard it.
A soft voice.
“Hema?”
She froze.
Didn’t turn.
Not yet.
“Hema, it’s me. Siddharth. We met… on the metro. Don’t you remember?”
She turned.
Slowly.
His face held hope. Guilt. Nervous energy.
“Do I know you?” she asked, her voice quiet but sharp.
He paused, taken aback. Then softened.
“We met. I never explained. I’ve thought about that day… every day.”
She exhaled. Eyes steady.
“I waited, Siddharth. And you… you vanished.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “I should’ve explained. I didn’t know how.”
He stepped closer.
“I know ‘sorry’ isn’t enough. But I mean it”
She looked at him.
Not the boy from the metro.
The man standing before her now.
Still unsure. Still late. But maybe… honest.
She didn’t respond right away.
Her silence wasn’t rejection. It was reflection.
Could she trust him?
Could she open that part of herself again?
She didn’t know yet.
But she didn’t walk away.
Not this time.
0 Comments