Chapter 1: Threads of the Past

The year the monsoon finally loosened its grip on Lucknow, Rohan and I took our first breaths in this world—again.

The smell of wet earth after rain lingered in the lanes, and the distant sound of a rickshaw bell cut through the morning hush. Nobody could guess what fate had already written for us, though the city’s skyline and the faces around us kept changing. Strange, na, how some ties stretch across lifetimes?

We had been a loving couple in our previous life.

Back then, our names carried weight in the mohalla; neighbours would talk about our jodi even while buying sabzi from the thela. Sometimes, as I pass the old Gomti bridge, my fingers trace invisible patterns on my dupatta, searching for the warmth of his absent hand. I remember the quiet way he’d steal glances at me over chai—those small, precious things that don’t get written in any diary, but live on in the heart.

But this time…

It was as if the world itself had shifted. I saw him, so close and yet so far, almost as if some unseen hand was keeping us apart. Sometimes, just hearing his laughter in the corridor made my stomach clench—a reminder that this life, though familiar, was not the same.

From the moment he topped the UPSC exams and quickly climbed the ranks, I waited for five whole years—yet he never came to my family to propose.

Every time the results came out, the entire Sharma household would celebrate with laddoos, and aunty down the lane would come over with shagun and congratulations. I kept expecting he’d walk up the steps with mithai and a ring. Five years passed like that, each festival more silent for me. Still, no rishta came from Rohan’s side.

Only then did I understand.

So that was it.

He wanted to live a different life.

A dull ache settled in my chest, heavy as an unspoken prayer. I understood, in that Indian way, the ache of waiting for someone who’d already let go. Like my dadi used to say, “Beta, kabhi-kabhi kismet palat jaati hai, chahe hum kitni bhi dua kar lein.”