✨ "In Another Life: A Love Story Left Unfinished" ✨

 

Chapter 1: The Meeting

It was one of those chilly Delhi evenings when the air smells like roasted peanuts and adventure. The college fest at DU was buzzing with music, laughter, and the usual chaos of youth trying to find meaning in noise. Aarav Mehta, a final-year engineering student from Jaipur, stood backstage, heart thumping like a tabla before a performance.

He wasn't a performer in the traditional sense—no guitar, no flashy dance. Aarav was a poet. A shy one. His friends had pushed him to participate in the open mic, saying, "Bhai, teri poetry sunke ladkiyaan fida ho jaayengi." He didn't care about girls, though—he only cared about words. Until he saw her.

Meher Qureshi. Eyes full of mischief, dupatta flying in rhythm with her laughter, standing in the front row with her friends. She wasn’t clapping out of politeness—no, she was feeling every line he recited, nodding as if she’d lived those words herself.

After his poem—about longing and the scent of first love—there was a moment of silence, followed by a loud cheer. But Aarav’s eyes searched for just one face. She was smiling, her eyes glistening, and he felt something shift in the air.

Later, when he was walking near the food stalls, Meher stopped him.
“Excuse me… You were the one who did the poem, na?” she asked, biting into a samosa.

“Yes,” he said, surprised by how calm she looked. His palms were still sweating.

“Beautiful it was, ya. That line—‘Your silence speaks in a language only my heart understands’—too good!”

Aarav smiled, awkwardly pushing his glasses up. “Thank you. It’s… rare to find someone who actually listens.”

Meher raised an eyebrow, her Lucknowi grace shining through. “I don’t just listen. I feel. I’m a literature student, by the way.”

And just like that, a connection sparked. They sat on the stairs of the college amphitheatre, drinking chai from plastic cups and discussing poetry, politics, and the tragedy of Indian hostel food.

Over the next few days, messages turned into long phone calls. Aarav started checking his phone every few minutes. Meher, who used to sleep by 10, now stayed up reading his texts under her blanket, smiling like a teenager in a Yash Raj film.

When he visited Lucknow for a tech event, they met at Hazratganj. He gifted her a notebook filled with his handwritten poems. She gave him her favourite book—“The Forty Rules of Love”—and told him, “Love should be mad, no? Otherwise what’s the point?”

Under the mellow light of Gomti River, their hands brushed for the first time. No filmi background score played, but something divine unfolded between them.

They didn’t say "I love you" yet.

But they knew.

Their story had just begun.

Chapter 2: The Bond

Love, once it takes root, doesn’t need grand gestures or declarations. For Aarav and Meher, it bloomed quietly—in shared silences, inside late-night voice notes, and in messages that always ended with “Take care, haan.”

Aarav would wait for her “Good morning ☀️” text like a schoolboy waits for the final bell. Meher, who used to roll her eyes at love stories, now found herself writing his name absentmindedly in the margins of her notes. He would send her poems typed in his sleepy handwriting. She would reply with voice notes, saying, “You know, if I ever disappear, you’ll find me inside your poems only.”

Their lives were different, yes. Aarav stayed in a boys' hostel with peeling walls and constant background noise—sometimes loud music, sometimes heartbreak. Meher, on the other hand, lived in a proper conservative household in Lucknow, where girls had curfews and "family reputation" was treated like a sacred ritual.

Still, they made it work.

Video calls happened during odd hours—when Meher’s family was busy watching serials and Aarav’s roommates were out playing PUBG. They celebrated each other’s small wins—his internship confirmation, her published article. They even had a favourite song—“Tera Yaar Hoon Main”—which they claimed was “their anthem.”

Sometimes they fought. About silly things. Why Aarav replied late. Why Meher didn’t pick up his call. But after every fight, they would come back, a little softer, a little stronger.

One rainy evening, Aarav messaged:“Kya tum sirf meri ho sakti ho, Meher?”

She didn’t reply immediately. Then came a voice note. Her tone was playful, but her words stayed: “Main hamesha tumhari thi, Aarav. Par duniya mera nahin hone degi.”

Those words, though dipped in love, carried weight. Because beneath all the sweetness, there was fear—of families, of society, of everything that made love in India a complicated affair.

Aarav came to Lucknow again, this time not for any event, but just to see her. They met at an old book café tucked away in a narrow gali. Meher wore a light green salwar kameez, looking every bit the poetry Aarav wrote.

“I wish I could keep you forever,” he said, as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Then do it,” she replied, her eyes misty. “I’m already yours. Only yours.”

He wanted to go speak to her parents, tell them how deeply they loved each other. But Meher laughed softly, a sad kind of laugh. “Yeh Hindi film nahi hai, Aarav. Yahan log pyaar se zyada surname dekhte hain.”

Still, they kept trying. Secretly searching for courage. Making plans. Dreaming of rented apartments and cutting chai. Of a small wedding, maybe court marriage. Of proving to the world that love was enough.

But deep down, both of them had begun to sense it.

Some loves are not meant to be easy.

Some stories… are destined to ache.

Chapter 3: Resistance

Every love story, sooner or later, has to step out of dreams and face reality. For Aarav and Meher, that moment came one Sunday afternoon, when she finally decided to tell her parents about him.

Her heart was thudding like a dhol as she stood in the drawing room, her father sipping chai, her mother busy with tulsi ka paani. She started slow, her voice trembling, “Ammi… Abbu… there is someone I want you to meet.”

The silence that followed was louder than a scream.

She tried to explain—how Aarav was kind, respectful, educated. How he respected her space, her faith, her dreams. How his love wasn’t some filmy drama, but real. But the moment she said his surname, “Mehta”, her father’s face changed colour.

“A Hindu boy?” he said slowly, as if the words themselves were filth. “Tumhein sharam nahi aayi, Meher?”

“Abbu, he’s a good man” “Bas!” her mother shouted. “We gave you freedom, not this shame! Log kya kahenge? Hamare rishtedaar, hamari izzat? You’re a girl. You don’t get to choose like this.”

They took away her phone. Her freedom. Her peace.

Meanwhile, Aarav was fighting his own battle in Jaipur.

He told his parents over dinner, a quiet, respectful confession: “There’s a girl… I want to marry her. Her name is Meher Qureshi.”

Silence.

Then his mother began crying like someone had died. “A Muslim girl? Have we failed so badly as parents?”

His father simply got up and left the table.

Over the next few days, home became a battlefield. “You think love is enough?” his father snapped one night. “You want your mother to stop talking to you? You want to see our relatives cut ties?”

Aarav tried to reason. “But she is my happiness.”

To which his mother replied, “Then you are our sorrow.”

Back in Lucknow, Meher was slowly breaking. Her family locked her dreams in silence. No calls. No college. Nothing. Just constant lectures on shame and honour.

But love is stubborn.

One night, she found her old phone hidden in the cupboard. With trembling fingers, she messaged:
“Aarav… I miss you. Every single second.”

He replied instantly, as if waiting in the dark:
“Meher, let’s run away. We’ll figure it out. I can’t lose you.”

The idea took root.

They planned everything—small town, court marriage, new jobs. Just enough money to survive. Not a big life, but one where they could breathe.

But fate has strange timing.

The night before she was to leave, her father had a heart attack. She watched him lying pale on the hospital bed, wires everywhere, her mother’s tears unstoppable.

She called Aarav from the hospital washroom.

Her voice was a whisper.
“I can’t come, Aarav. I just… can’t. He needs me.”

There was a long pause. Then he said softly,
“I understand. But I’ll wait. Even if it takes forever.”

She hung up, biting her fist to stop herself from crying aloud.

Outside, her father stirred in his bed.

Inside, her heart broke into pieces.

Chapter 4: The Goodbye

Aarav waited at the station, clutching a small brown backpack, his eyes scanning every person who passed by. It was 6:45 AM. The train to Bhopal was at 7:10. He had already bought the tickets. One for him. One for her. Seat numbers 21 and 22. Side lower and upper.

He checked his phone again. No new messages.

The sky was still waking up. Around him, chaiwalas were shouting, coolies dragging luggage, a baby crying somewhere in the distance. But for Aarav, the world had gone still.

At 7:04 AM, his phone buzzed.

Meher calling...

He answered in one ring.

Her voice was heavy. Drained. “Aarav… I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes, took a breath. “Don’t say sorry, Meher. Just tell me one thing. Do you love me?”

Her silence spoke first. Then softly “I will love you till my last breath. But I can’t come, Aarav. I can't leave Ammi, Abbu. Not after everything. They raised me, yaar. Unko chhodke kaise jaoon?”

His throat went dry. “And what about us?”

She broke then. Fully. “We will always be us, Aarav. Even if we are not together.”

The announcement blared. “Train number 12961, Mumbai-bound Avantika Express, arriving shortly…”

He whispered, “Will I ever see you again?”

She didn’t answer.

And he didn’t ask again.

Instead, he said something he’d written in one of his poems:
“Main tujhe har dua mein yaad rakhunga, Meher. Par dua kabhi maangunga nahi.”

The line made her sob.

The train arrived. People rushed. Life moved.

But Aarav… he just stood there, watching the coach that should’ve held her, now filled with strangers. His fingers clutched the edge of the ticket until it tore.

He didn’t board.

Instead, he walked out of the station slowly, like a man carrying the weight of an unfinished story.

Back in Lucknow, Meher sat near her window, holding the second ticket he had couriered days ago. Her mother thought it was a book parcel. She traced her name printed on the ticket“Ms. Meher Qureshi”as if it was a name from another world.

She cried. Not loudly. Quietly, into her pillow.

Outside, the azaan echoed gently through the streets.

They had chosen their families. But their hearts had already chosen each other.

And sometimes, in India, that’s the hardest thing.

Months later...

Aarav’s first poetry book was published. “Usne Kaha Tha”. A collection of letters and poems—some in Hindi, some in English, all about her.

The book spread like wildfire among young readers. One review read: “A love so raw, it bleeds through the pages.”

Meher saw the book in a shop near Hazratganj. She picked it up, her hands trembling, tears already forming.

She didn’t buy it.

She couldn’t.

Some wounds, you keep sacred.

Chapter 5: In Another Life

Years passed like pages flipping in a forgotten diary.

Aarav moved to Bangalore, joined a publishing house, and quietly built a life around words. His poetry book became a cult favourite among the young and heartbroken. He would often get messages from readers saying, “Sir, it felt like you wrote this from inside my heart.” But he never replied to them.

Because his heart still belonged to just one person.

He never fell in love again. He tried—went on a few dates, had polite conversations over coffee, but nothing ever touched him the way Meher’s silence used to.

Meanwhile, Meher stayed in Lucknow. Her father survived, but something in her didn’t. She got married eventually—an arranged setup. Her husband was a kind man, respectful, decent. But he didn’t know that he was sharing his wife with the ghost of another man’s poetry.

She had kept Aarav’s poems safely in a wooden box, hidden beneath her sarees. On nights when her husband snored softly beside her, she would take them out and whisper those lines under her breath, as if they were prayers.

One winter evening, seven years later, Aarav returned to Lucknow for a literature festival. He wasn’t expecting anything. He was just there for a panel on “Love & Loss in Modern India.”

As he walked toward the venue, he felt a strange pull. And there she was.

Meher.

Standing at the edge of the crowd, in a cream-coloured saree, holding her son’s hand.

Their eyes met.

She didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something passed between them—like a wind that carries the scent of old days.

He walked up, slowly. She bent down and whispered something to her child, who nodded and walked away.

They stood close, but not too close.

“You’re still writing?” she asked.

“For you,” he replied.

And for one fleeting moment, the world faded away. There was just them—two people who had loved each other beyond limits… but not beyond fate.

She touched his hand for a second. “In another life, Aarav…”

He nodded, tears welling up. “In another life, Meher. I would’ve married you the day I met you.”

A soft smile. A silent goodbye.

She turned and walked away, her son running toward her. Aarav stood still, watching her fade into the crowd.

No tears. Just peace.

Because some stories don’t need an ending.
They just need to be remembered.

The End.

💔 A tale for anyone who has loved deeply but lost quietly.

links

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 5): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals_23.html

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 4): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals_3.html

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 3): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals_97.html

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 2): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals_22.html

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 1): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals.html

Full story_ In another life : https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/in-another-life-love-story-left_14.html

In another life trailer: https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/in-another-life-love-story-left.html 

Intro of life in words: https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/life-in-words-home-for-heartfelt-stories.html