Chapter 5: Ghosts of First Love

Ritika and I were high school classmates, though not in the same class.

Our school was a sprawling government campus, where everyone knew everyone else's business. She was always surrounded by friends, laughing in the canteen. I watched her from afar for months before making my move.

In twelfth standard, I pursued her. It didn’t take much effort.

I was a bit of a star—captain of the basketball team, winning medals every year. Teachers and juniors looked up to me, and I thought I could have my pick of girls.

Back then, as an athlete, I was really popular.

Every annual day, my name would be called for prizes. Even the principal would greet me with a smile. Ritika would always watch from the sidelines, clapping with her friends.

When Ritika agreed to date me, there must have been quite a few girls crying in the girls’ hostel at St. Xavier’s.

My friends teased me, 'Arjun, tu toh hero hai.' For a while, I believed it. Life felt easy, as if nothing could go wrong.

I realised Ritika was materialistic after the board exams.

We sat at the juice centre near school. I talked about dreams, she talked about money. For the first time, I noticed the gap between our worlds.

She applied for a finance major.

When college forms came, she ticked 'B.Com (Finance)' without hesitation. I asked why, and she just shrugged.

Because I had a distant relative who did career counselling, I knew something about this major.

Chacha warned me, 'Beta, finance ka scope hai, but only if you have connections or money.' I tried to explain this to Ritika.

This major is for rich people; if your family isn't well-off, it's basically a waste, and you won’t get a job after graduation.

But Ritika scoffed at my advice.

She laughed, flicking her hair. 'Tu na, Arjun, overthinks everything.'

'I'm a girl, getting married is the most important thing in life. Didn’t you just say all the people who study this major are rich? I’ll just pick one carefully, and after graduation, why would I need to work?'

Her words stunned me. Was I just a placeholder in her plans?

I was dumbfounded.

I thought love was about loyalty, about building a future. But for her, it seemed like another subject to study and move on from.

Because I was her boyfriend at the time.

I felt like a fool. I’d introduced her to my parents, told friends we’d get married. I couldn’t believe she could talk about marriage so casually.

What hurt me more was that she didn’t care I knew her real thoughts.

She was blunt, almost proud of her attitude. I began to feel invisible.

That summer, we fought countless times, and every time we fought, she’d bring up breaking up.

Arguments became routine. I’d buy her chocolates or take her to the movies, but nothing worked.

But I was unwilling, because she was my first love.

In our culture, first love is supposed to be sacred, something you remember forever. I couldn’t accept losing her over money.

Shouldn’t one’s first love be passionate, and if you break up, it should only be for unavoidable reasons?

My friends said, 'Arrey, move on, yaar.' But I couldn’t. I was stuck, unable to let go.

How could we break up just because I was poor?

My parents struggled to put me through school. I worked part-time, skipped meals to save money. For her, it was always about the next shiny thing.

So, even when she brought up breaking up, I never agreed. I even enrolled in the same university as her.

I worked hard to get in, picking a course I didn’t like, just to be near her. My parents thought I was ambitious, but I was just lovesick.

I told myself, 'Mehnat ka phal meetha hota hai.' But reality was harsher than any exam.

It turned out I still underestimated her.

No matter what I did, it was never enough. I saw the cracks, but couldn’t admit it.

After entering college, even though I never agreed to break up, whenever someone asked, she’d say, 'Just a fanboy.'

That stung. Her friends giggled, and I pretended not to care. But inside, my heart broke a little more each time.

What was even more infuriating was that in the third month, she started dating a guy from our department.

I saw them together in the canteen, sharing samosas. I wanted to confront her, but didn’t have the courage.

That guy was rich. I struggled to buy a cycle, but he drove to college every day.

He wore branded clothes, hair perfectly styled. Compared to him, I felt like a nobody.

Every time I saw them together, I wanted to punch something.

But my rationality told me: 'Where there is life, there is hope.'

My mother always said, 'Sabra ka phal meetha hota hai.' I held on to that.

It turned out patience really does bring a turnaround.

Three months later, I saw her crying on the college lawn, mascara streaked down her cheeks. I knew my moment had come.

She was with him for only three months before he dumped her.

He barely acknowledged her as he left campus. I watched from afar, feeling a strange sense of triumph.

I remember, it was raining that day, and when she appeared in front of me looking like a drenched kitten, how pitiful she was.

I took her to the tea stall, ordered hot chai and pakoras, let her vent. For a while, it felt like old times.

It's true that girls are most easily moved when they're vulnerable.

My friend once said, 'Aansu sab kuch theek kar dete hain.' That day, I believed him.

After that day, with my aggressive pursuit, she finally agreed to get back together.

I didn’t waste any time. Flowers, gifts, heartfelt messages—I pulled out all the stops. She finally relented.

After reconciling, not only did I not mind she’d been with someone else, I cared for her even more. To stop her disliking my poverty, I found all kinds of excuses every month to ask my family for extra money.

I lied to my parents—said I needed books, had to pay lab fees, anything for more money. I felt terrible, but for Ritika, I was ready to do anything.

Whenever I thought of my father rubbing coconut oil into his cracked hands, or my mother counting coins at the kitchen table under the tube light, I felt guilty.

But for her, I felt it was all worth it.

Love makes fools of us all. At least, that’s what I told myself every night.

But what I never expected was that less than half a year after getting back together, she broke up with me again.

This time, it came out of nowhere—a simple text message: 'Let’s take a break.' I didn’t even get a chance to plead.

The reason was another guy from our college started pursuing her. He wasn’t as rich, but his family had connections, and after graduation, he could go straight into an investment bank.

I did my research—asked around, checked his background. Everyone said he was 'well-settled.'

But this time, I wasn’t worried. The night she broke up, I asked around about him.

He was a playboy—flashy watches, always a new girl on his arm. Ritika was just his latest conquest.

In just the first semester, he’d already changed girlfriends five times.

It was almost a joke among the seniors. I knew Ritika wouldn’t last long with him.

So, I waited patiently. Every day, I checked her status updates, waiting for the breakup.

My judgement was right.

Two months later, she was alone again, posting sad quotes on Instagram. I made my move immediately.

He was with her less than two months before breaking up.

I didn’t even need to try hard. She messaged me first, asking if we could meet for coffee. I agreed instantly.

I struck decisively and got her back again.

This time, I set the terms—no more games, no more secrets. She agreed, at least for a while.

After these two rounds, I became completely calm.

I realised Ritika was like a pendulum, always swinging back to me when things went wrong. I stopped taking it personally.

Because I realised something: these rich kids, deep down, don’t care for girls like Ritika, who are poor like me. They’re just playing around.

So, even if Ritika brought up breaking up again, I didn’t need to be as heartbroken as before.

My heart had hardened. I learned to expect the worst.

And things turned out exactly as I expected.

We kept breaking up and getting back together, like a never-ending serial. My friends stopped asking for updates.

Throughout college, Ritika and I broke up and got back together seven times, but on graduation day, she was still my girlfriend.

We posed for photos, arms around each other, pretending to be the perfect couple. But I knew it wouldn’t last.

After graduation, my parents sold everything to get me a job as a PE teacher in Kaveripur.

They sold land, pawned jewellery—everything. The job was stable but meagre.

Ritika, unable to find a job, returned home.

She spent her days watching TV, scrolling her phone. I’d visit in the evenings, bringing sweets or flowers.

To buy a house and marry Ritika, I worked even harder, taking a night job as a coach.

I barely slept, juggling two jobs. My friends called me crazy.

I thought everything would go as I planned.

I had a vision of our future—a small flat, a simple wedding, maybe a child or two.

But unexpectedly, Ritika broke up again.

This time, she didn’t even meet in person—just a cold WhatsApp message.

This time, it was because she met a rich guy from Indore online.

She showed me his photo once—broad-shouldered, fair, dressed in expensive clothes. I felt jealous, but hid it.

At first, I thought it would be the same—after he got bored, she’d come back to me.

I kept my phone close, waiting. Days turned to weeks—nothing.

But one day, while scrolling WhatsApp Status, my world collapsed.

I saw her wedding photos—red lehenga, gold jewellery, a forced smile. My hands shook as I stared at the screen.

Because she posted her wedding photos.

The captions were full of hashtags and heart emojis. Friends congratulated her; I sat in silence.

I stared at the screen for over ten minutes before my trembling fingers typed to ask what was going on.

She replied with short answers, growing more distant with each message.

After a few exchanges, she blocked me.

The finality hit me like a slap. I tried calling, but the line was dead. It was over.

Later, I asked her best friend and found out the Indore guy really did marry her.

Her friend sounded apologetic. Ritika had moved on.

Now Ritika was a rich lady.

Her social media was full of travel, luxury brands, fancy dinners. I stopped looking after a while.

From then on, she disappeared from my world.

I deleted her number, unfollowed her everywhere. But memories have a way of sneaking back.

I remember, in the years after I lost Ritika, I was heartbroken and wandered like a lost soul.

My parents worried, but I couldn’t explain the emptiness. I stopped meeting friends, stopped playing sports. Life lost its colour.

Not only did I lose my job, I even thought about ending my life countless times.

I’d often go to the flyover at Kaveripur, the city lights blinking below, the smell of petrol in the air, and the distant sound of a chaiwala calling out to late-night customers. I thought I might as well just jump.

But every time I was about to, I didn’t dare.

Some voice inside held me back. Maybe fear, maybe hope. I’d return home, exhausted and ashamed.

Then, one day on the flyover, I heard a loud crash—a car accident.

The screech of tyres, the crunch of metal jolted me out of my thoughts. People started shouting, but no one moved.

A white car was already on fire, a girl trapped in the driver’s seat.

Flames grew quickly, smoke billowing. The girl inside screamed, banging on the window.

Cars stopped, but as the fire grew, no one dared approach.

Bystanders shouted, 'Arrey, mat jao bhai!' but I ran toward the burning car, the heat singeing my arm hairs.

I thought, since I was planning to die anyway, why not die heroically? I hesitated, then walked over.

My legs felt heavy, but adrenaline pushed me forward. I shattered the window with a rock, pulling the girl out just as the flames reached her seat.

Years of athletic training helped me in the rescue.

I lifted her easily, carrying her to safety. The crowd cheered, someone patted my back. For the first time in months, I felt alive.

Just as the flames were about to reach the driver’s seat, I miraculously got the girl out.

She clung to me, coughing, tears streaming down her face. I felt a strange connection.

I was exhausted, panting, not realising that from that moment, the gears of fate had started turning.

The girl I saved was called Meera.

She introduced herself, voice shaky but grateful. Her family arrived soon, showering me with thanks and promises.

For some reason, even though her face was blackened by smoke, I immediately felt attracted to her.

There was a spark in her eyes, a warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. She smiled, and I found myself smiling back.

She was small, but her big eyes were especially lively, like a beautiful girl straight out of a comic book.

Her laughter was infectious, even in chaos. I felt drawn to her, unable to look away.

After this, Meera started pursuing me.

She’d send a box of homemade laddoos with a thank you note, and her father would invite me for chai. At first, I hesitated, but her persistence wore me down.

I already liked her looks, and after learning her family was rich, I agreed without hesitation.

Her father owned several buildings, her mother wore diamond bangles. For the first time, I felt like I had something to look forward to.

Less than a year after dating, we got married.

The wedding was lavish—three days of rituals, hundreds of guests, a DJ playing all night. My parents beamed with pride.

The day after the wedding, I had a job everyone envied—collecting rent.

No more struggling. I drove around, visiting tenants, counting money, feeling like a king.

Her parents owned so many flats that even if I collected rent from three tenants a day, I’d never finish.

My friends joked that I was the luckiest man alive. I smiled, pretending to agree.

Even better, her parents didn’t take a cent of the rent—they gave it all to us.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Every month, my bank balance grew, and for the first time, I felt secure.

So, less than three years after getting married, our savings reached over thirty lakh rupees.

We bought a new car, redecorated the flat, took holidays to Goa and Kerala. Life was good, or so it seemed.

If not for this pregnancy, my relationship with her was pretty good.

We had our fights, but Meera was generous, loving. She made sure my parents were cared for, even sending gifts to my relatives in the village.

Though she was spoiled and unreasonable when she lost her temper, overall she treated me very well.

From socks to clothes, what she bought for me was always more expensive than what she bought for herself.

I felt pampered, sometimes embarrassed by her generosity. She’d brush off my protests, saying, 'Tum mere ho, toh sab kuch tumhara hai.'

During Diwali, she’d give my parents cash gifts of at least five figures each.

My mother would call, overwhelmed by her kindness. I didn’t know how to respond.

Sometimes her generosity made me feel awkward, but I didn’t dare say it, fearing she’d think I wasn’t a good son.

I thought life would go on like this.

I imagined growing old with her, raising our child, building a future. But fate had other plans.

Even though her behaviour after getting pregnant annoyed me, I always thought if I just endured, it would pass.

But fate decided to play a joke on me.

Life has a way of bringing the past back. The day I saw Ritika again, I knew nothing would be the same.

The Ritika who once broke my heart appeared again.

I tried to act casual, but my mind was racing. Old feelings, old wounds, all came rushing back.

And judging by her state, she didn’t seem to be doing well.

She looked tired, her clothes plain. I wondered what happened to the rich life she flaunted.

The stubbornness in my bones was awakened uncontrollably.

I told myself I just wanted closure, but deep down, I knew I was still searching for something I lost years ago.