Beautiful Nights Epilogue: Writer's Hubris - Night 0.5

 [Buldhana: 22nd July, 2024]

Five in the evening and I was sitting on the sofa in the Sky Freak Tattoo Studio. Dim ceiling lights cast a soft glow, and I stared blankly at the glass shield, watching the overcast sky. Akash was in the second chamber of the studio, at his usual spot, drawing tattoos.

Music played in the background, keeping time with my internal rhythm, yet I remained still. Thoughts swirled in my head like a whirlpool, but outwardly, I appeared calm and composed. Suddenly, Akash emerged from the second chamber, heading to the computer in the front chamber, where he noticed me sitting quietly.

"Stoicism doesn't mean not dealing with your emotions," Akash remarked, glancing at the tattoo on my right forearm. My gaze shifted toward him. "You're unusually unreactive to what happened to you in Pune."

I kept my steady gaze on him, a light smile playing on my lips.

"Your heart is broken, brother. At least react to it," Akash urged.

“I’m a stoic,” I answered calmly. 

“No, you are a human and emotional pain is not a joke. So take out that suffering,” he suggested concernedly. 

“I’ll do it with my usual style.” 

“Gonna write about it?” he asked. 

I nodded my head without speaking a word. 

“Writing 850 pages wasn’t enough for her?” he shook his head.

As he was walking by me I asked him, "For building your website, I want you to give me a tattoo of a river," My voice was steady and calm.

"A tattoo of what?" he asked in disbelief.

"River," I reiterated, still in my quiet mood.

"River?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Something to remember her by," I replied.

"And why would a river remind you of her?" he asked, puzzled.

"Because it's the meaning of her name," I answered, staring directly at him.

One Month Ago: [24th June, 2024]

"And on the 24th of June 2021, with 2,07,096 words count, amounting to nearly 850 pages, I conclude the writing of my new novel."

#third_book_is_coming  

The announcement of my new book circulated widely on social media and through countless WhatsApp chats. Soon, messages of congratulations began flooding my inbox. Amid the well-wishers, a call came from an unsaved but not unfamiliar number.

"Princess!" exclaimed a familiar voice when I answered. It was 11:10 p.m., and I was staring at my laptop screen. People in my life always seemed to give me nicknames. Abhijeet called me Sheldon Tharoor, Naval called me Walnut, Shikha Ma'am called me Sadu or Rotluram, and Aastha called me Chotu or King of Bad Decisions. People, in general, called me Author Sahab, and Chubby Cheeks, as if it's her right, called me Mr Writer. The only person who ever called me Princess was...

"Hello, Moumi," I responded.

"I'm so happy!" she almost shouted. "Finally, the writing of Beautiful Nights is over."

I chuckled. "My ass is still aching."

"Of course it is. You spent nearly 13-14 hours a day in that chair for the last six months. We, at the office, get back pain after working for a few hours," Moumi complained.

"Hopefully, I'll share the same suffering soon," I replied gently, hinting at the missing part of my life.

Her tone became serious. "You will get the job soon, Piyush."

"Everyone keeps saying that, but it's been a year since I quit my last job," I said.

"True," she sighed. "And now I'm really worried that you've finished your book."

"And why is that?" I asked curiously.

"Do you really want me to explain?" she countered, hinting at my recent past.

I thought deeply about her hint and uttered, still half in thought, "Mom expressed the same worry when I told her the book is finally over."

"Of course she did," asserted Moumi. "She witnesses your destruction every day."

"Moumi," I tried to calm her down.

"You need therapy, Piyush. You can't keep bursting out at your mother," she rebuked. 

For the past six months, Moumi has been a constant presence in my life, attuned to my every high and low. Ironically, while I found myself withdrawing from those closest to me, I opened up more to her. This shift in my confidence would undoubtedly puzzle some of my friends and lead them to question my judgment.

"It's not in my control. It just happens," I defended myself.

"She's already going through a difficult time," Moumi said, concerned.

"It's not fair to blame only Thorat Sir for all the wrongs when she kept her mouth closed during the time of making decisions in my life."

"Why blame in the first place?" she asked.

"Oh, you're the one to say that to me?" I questioned back, hinting at her issues with her father.

"Sorry," she apologized instantly.

"Look no matter what issues I have with my mother, I don't wish to badmouth them before you or anyone else but people's perspective about me is wrong and that is bringing me down. So I am setting the right perspective by clearly stating what I am and because of what. She also had her share in those acts and didn't support me when I needed her to counter that man. And now here we are, suffering the exact problems I warned about years ago, with no solution in sight. Nothing is working, and only damages are occurring," I vented.

"Piyush, I know your circumstances are really frustrating. Honestly, I'd be more worried if you didn't have any outbursts and quietly endured it all. That would be worse," Moumi said worriedly.

"Then what are you complaining about?" I asked, feeling puzzled by her logic.

"That you don't have to blame her in your outbursts. She's already carrying her guilt," Moumi suggested.

"Moumi, I don't blame her or hate her for what she did, like those petty people who hold grudges for what one once did. I hate her for what her actions in the past have resulted in my present. I'm unable to give her the life I promised. Their actions have left me completely incapacitated to shoulder these dire responsibilities. Look at me, damn it—I'm 31, unemployed, mentally messed up, emotionally detached, lonely, and antisocial, spending 22 hours a day in this lifeless room. Where are people my age? What are they doing?"

"Living their lives, giving a good life to family and settled with someone," she answered.

"Exactly. And look at my family. I can't think of marriage not only because I'm crushed by responsibilities but because my capacity to grow at the expected speed was hurt, by none other than my father's own actions. It is so messed-up situations at home that despite my efforts I seem to not get out of them." I sighed deeply, breathing heavily for a while, trying to maintain my composure. "People inherit wealth, prosperity, and security from their parents. My father left me with debt, trauma, insecurity, and no trust in the concept of family. My ex also contributed to my distrust in the family, I must add that too."

She mulled over for a moment and responded, "Did you tell her that you finished the book?"

"Who? My ex?"

"Chubby Cheeks," she corrected.

"I left her a text on Instagram, obviously before anyone else," I said.

"Yeah, yeah. Demonstrating that she comes before anyone else," mocked Moumi.

"SHE DOES COME BEFORE ANYONE ELSE." I accentuated on the point. "I have a unique way of showing people how important they are to me: I reflect their significance through my actions and the way I treat them in my life. But I do feel and believe that in everything regarding Beautiful Nights, she has the right to know first, even if she and I aren't together."

"And what does that tell about you?" she asked mysteriously.

"That I'm an obsessed writer?" I joked and laughed lightly.

"You are, no doubt in that. You write like you're running out of time to tell your stories," stated Moumi proudly. 

"Memento Mori," I emphasized, hinting at my stoic philosophy and the tattoo on my right wrist.

"Remember that you are going to die," she reiterated. It appeared from her voice that she was actually impressed with this kind of mindset of mine. 

"But it's been a couple of hours, and she still hasn't seen my text," I complained.

"You should call her directly," suggested Moumi.

"I deleted her number a year ago," I insisted.

"Come on, Piyush. Do you ever really lose a way to get back to people you love? Get it from your backups." She suggested that she was bored with my pretence. 

"I don't intend to hear her voice until we meet," I insisted.

Silence lingered for a moment, thoughts swirling in the air. Then, breaking the quiet, she asked, "You guys really didn't talk for a year?"

"Yeah," I confirmed. "The last time I met her was in June after I quit my job. I told her I was writing a book for her and then delved into this darkness of boredom and loneliness in Buldhana."

"Hopefully, when she holds that book, she will eliminate this phase of your life," Moumi suggested.

"Nope."

"What do you mean, nope?" she asked, taken aback.

"What's the point, Moumi? It's not gonna be me. It would be someone else. It's always someone else and never me." My voice didn't even tremble with pain. It was as stable as a rock, like it was some solid fact of my life, and I was no longer bothered by it.

"And despite that, you wrote this book for her."

"As much as I hate to admit it because people will make me feel embarrassed about it, it's true that I actually wrote it for her," I admitted hesitantly.

"She is one lucky girl, isn't she?" Moumi remarked, a dreamy look crossing her face as she imagined the girl’s expression.

"Why do you say that?" I asked. "Just because I wrote a book for her?"

"No," Moumi replied, a hint of envy in her voice. "Because she's being pursued romantically in a world full of casual relationships. She has a man who loves her unconditionally. Writing a book for her is just one of the many things you'd do because you love her so much."

"True," I admitted, "but it's a win-win situation for me. If she accepts my proposal, she makes me the happiest man in the world. If she doesn't, I still have a book that people will praise. As a writer, what more could I ask for?"

"An artist always seeks praise for their art," Moumi said, pondering. "Chubby Cheeks. It's a cute name, Piyush."

"She is the cutest," I said, a smile spreading across my face.

"Awww," Moumi teased. "But seriously, I'm amazed that someone loves someone enough to write an 850-page book just to express their feelings."

"That's still an understatement," I replied.

"What do you mean?"

"It's just 850 pages."

"Just 850 pages? Writing over 200,000 words is 'just'?" she mocked.

"Actually, words aren't enough to express what I really feel for her. So these 850 pages are still nothing," I said casually.

"You spent nearly two years writing this book," she confirmed.

"One year and ten months," I spoke, "and that too because of many problems I had to face during this time. Otherwise, around 10-11 months would have sufficed for me."."

"And yet it's not enough. Wow," she said, suppressing a laugh. "Where would I find someone who loves me this much?"

I chuckled. "I don't know why I face this question from many girls, but I'll say the same thing as I said to them, maybe someday someone will come along."

"When?" she asked desperately.

"That I don't know. You'll have to show your feminine self to attract someone's attention," I teased.

"I'm trying," she said weakly.

"I know. And one day, you'll find and create yourself at the same time," I suggested hopefully.

"Tell me, why do you help me, knowing that being friends with me might disappoint the other people who are important to you?" she asked.

"Aastha isn't in my life anymore," I said coldly.

"But other people like Apoorva, Sakshi, Soumya, Jayesh..."

"Yes, I know, what you are subtly hinting here. Despite distancing myself from ISBS people, some of them are still with me."

"You left all of them because of your Philosopher," Moumi said firmly as if she knew something others didn’t.

"Moumi..."

"You didn't get these friends because of Shikha Ma'am. You made your own efforts."

"I got everything at ISBS because of Shikha Ma'am, and that's a fact," I insisted.

"Agreed, but..."

"No 'but.' When I got everything because of her, then I shouldn't keep anything that I got because of her after her departure from my life."

"She didn't leave you. You walked away from her," Moumi said firmly.

"No, she had already gone. I just took too much time to realize it before I could walk away," I confessed, a thought of Aastha crossing my mind.

"But still, some people chose to hold onto you. Why help me?" she wondered.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, Moumi. If you're worried about my remaining friends questioning my connection with you, your changed self will be the shield to protect me. And please, recognize your potential. Your issues with your father aren't irreparable. Just drop your ego and make up with him before it's too late," I said hopefully. "And once you show improvement that others can notice, I'll be proud that I helped turn things around for you. The most detestable in our batch will become one of the most compassionate and thoughtful."

"Healer." She spoke with a deep thought. "Shikha Ma'am was right to call you a healer." she mocked. 

"Well, she was the only person at ISBS who truly understood me." 

"I'll try. I know you're going through difficult times, but despite that, you're helping someone like me to become a better person."

"True, and I am already dying because of the guilt that I am not able to do anything for Abhijeet, so if you really want to make my efforts count and spare me from the other guilt that I did not use my time and energy in the right place, you'll change the reputation you had at ISBS."

"I don't care what those idiots think of me," she said quickly and firmly.

"You do. You just don't want to admit it. They rejected you that's why you rejected them too. You never had anyone to understand what truly fuels your behaviour. And to be honest, how you behaved in ISBS wasn't right." I chuckled. "But your father isn't a bad person, Moumi. Tough, he might be, but I don't think he is a bad person. It's not an easy task to be a father. One day, you'll realize that. Then you'll also realize how silly it was to unleash your pain on people who had nothing to do with it. Someday, you'll learn."

"You seem confident."

"I'm confident in the goodness of people, but equally fearful of their darkness. But you'll do well," I expressed my hope.

"I will become good. You won't be disappointed."

"I really hope so. Because if you don't improve, I am sure to receive the fiercest criticism and disappointment from Aastha."

"Her views still matter to you?"

"It's Aastha, Moumi. Her criticism always matters to me."

"Benchod, hamse tarif hajam nahi hoti tumhe, uski galiya khane ke liye tayar ho." complained Moumi.

I chuckled. A silent pause lingered between us. "But then I'll feel better knowing I healed someone's life, even if I couldn't heal mine," I spoke gently.

"Your life will change too, Piyush. You have wonderful people who wish you happiness. And if I may say so, I'm one of them too."

I chuckled. "Thanks, Sarkar."

"One day, the sun will shine upon you," she said.

"Ahah, it seems somebody is reading Tender Intimacies."

She laughed heartily. "Yeah, I love it."

"Good. You must finish it soon. You have to read Beautiful Nights too."

"Finally decided to let me read it?" she teased.

"Well, eventually you'll read it when it's released. Why not let you read it six months before? At least you'll help me make rectifications. And once I meet Chubby Cheeks in Pune, I don't think it will matter much if you'll figure out her real identity."

"Why do I often feel like I know who this Chubby Cheeks is?" she asked, mulling over the notion.

"Moumi, she doesn't have to be someone you're familiar with. Your knack for seeing things in minute detail and your curiosity to explore other people's lives will help you connect the dots and figure out who she is. Like a quest."

"Right. That's another perspective."

"So, looking forward to it once I'm back from Pune."

"But will you be alright? I mean, after writing this book, you say she will still not be with you."

"No, she won't be," I said instantly. "My efforts never really mattered. Someone else with better circumstances will take her away, as always. What I truly care about is the fact that I got another book for myself. People will shower me with adulation, and I'll be proud to have another story credited under my name. As a writer, what else do I really want?"

"Her affection," she said gently. An austere silence fell between us.

"I don't care about superficial things. Deprivation, heartbreak, troubled life, and childhood trauma—all of these make a tasty recipe for creating writers. Losing Chubby Cheeks will make the story interesting to my readers. An unfulfilled love story will wrench their hearts and they'll read Beautiful Nights more intriguingly." I sighed. "Pain creates art, and it has."

"Don't act so casual about it. Especially before me. Have you forgotten that I have read the Last Letter for your Chubby Cheeks?"

My mind delved into the memory of another failure. I had written my heart out in those ten pages during a panic attack, intending to give them to her when I handed over the book. These panic attacks, episodes of depression, and loneliness—I didn't talk about them to anyone. They were terrifying and breaking me even more.

Two Months Back: [23rd April 2024]

It was 6:28 p.m. when I opened up a WhatsApp chat with an unsaved number and typed:

"I failed an interview today for the Business Analyst role at Jade Global Company in Pune, Baner, just 14 minutes from Manish's flat. I was in a foul mood and even argued with Pam. Here’s what’s going on in my head." I shared a link to my blog. "I wrote this on the 15th of April, just in case I keep my mouth sealed when I bid her goodbye."

I sighed, putting the phone aside on the table and looked miserably at the letter I had written on the computer screen. I remembered the moment I had written it, feeling sick of my life, at the breaking point of losing all hope, with fear driving me away from my courage.

With courage dwindling, I was losing hope and getting frustrated with all my failures, falling deeper into the inadequacy of changing my circumstances. Seeing others living in the comfort of happiness made my heart suffer more, realizing such luxury was far distant from me. Without envying others, I suffered silently, unable to speak up about my pain.

I missed her, that beautiful face that had made its home in my mind for the past two years. A fleeting time of my life was wasted in failures, and it terrified me. The life without her was approaching, and I feared dying without having lived my life with her.

At 6:49, I received a text from that unsaved number: "Well. If you were here, I'd take you to the rooftop late at night and sit in silence while you could feel and process these emotions, maybe cry it all out. But since that's not possible, here is a virtual hug and a pat on your back."

Reading that message from this friend, whom I had reconnected with a couple of months ago after a long period of punishment and disappointment, gave me a small comfort. In recent times, while I was getting isolated due to my adverse circumstances, this friend was a listening ear, while everyone else was busy.

I called that unsaved number, and it was picked up instantly.

"What does the letter say, Moumi?" I asked.

"It tells how a man has been crushed from all sides. Despite knowing that failure is inevitable, he kept trying, hoping he would win and..." Her words stumbled, a rare occurrence for her. "Are you going to fail even in this matter, Piyush?" she asked in disbelief. The grasp over my reality frustrated her, seeing how fate and life had tormented me over the last year.

"Not if my circumstances were different," I answered dejectedly.

"Are you going to meet her, whoever this mystery girl is who has consumed your heart?"

"Of course, I am going to meet her and I'm scared," I spoke weakly.

"You wouldn't be human if you weren't," she answered. "Considering your circumstances, they are really messed up. The worst part is that you weren't responsible for them, yet you're stuck in them, failing in life, and losing the most precious things because of it."

"Would she understand this?" I asked, vulnerably battling the slipping memory of her smile.

"She wouldn't be much human if her heart didn't wrench after reading this letter," she spoke gently and concernedly.

"I am dying to see her," I admitted.

"I can see that," she said. "Piyush, whoever this Cubby Cheeks is, I've seen how a mere mention of her brings you joy even when your life is hell. The most heart-wrenching thing for me or any of your friends is witnessing that despite being distant from relationships after your heartbreak years ago, you finally found this girl you truly love. That book you're writing is a testament to that love. But despite all your efforts, you may not be blessed with her affection. That's why I fear when you give her this letter, expressing how much you truly tried in these dire circumstances of your life. You failed, and losing her is killing you, but your mouth would remain sealed in those moments. You would rather swallow your sufferings to see her smile once. But that, my friend, would be the loneliest moment of your life."

"That's why I'm writing my novel more intensely and passionately. I'm just scared that before she gets engaged or married to someone else, I should be able to present this book to her and witness the joy on her face in that one fleeting moment."

"Even when you know she wouldn't become yours?" she asked.

"She is important enough for me to try, even when I know I will fail. The result never really mattered to me; what really mattered was whether I put enough effort in for her."

She sighed, feeling the disappointment in the situation. "People get the person they love with a lot less effort than you're putting in. Despite everything, you're not going to have her in your life."

"I know," I spoke coldly.

"This is so annoying. Even someone as cold as me was happy and even prayed to the universe that, please, this time, let it work out for you," she admitted furiously. "How many sufferings of your life would have been spared if only you were blessed with the love you were looking for," she sighed. "Everyone deserves love and happiness, and someone like you needs it the most."

"Perhaps for the sake of writing, I will be given the pain," I spoke laughing at the circumstances.

"Pain will create art?" asked Moumi. "This is what you would always say to Shikha Ma'am."

[24th June, 2024]

I snapped back from the memory, two months ago. My mouth was sealed and my mind was numb with thoughts. Heavy thoughts weighed upon my fragile will and tolerance.

"Pain will create art," I uttered, still half in thought.

"Why do I feel like it has some profound meaning in your mind?" she asked, giving it some thought.

"Only Shikha Ma'am can truly understand that," I spoke gravely.

"Even I can deduce what it means..."

"Good night, Moumi," I spoke abruptly.

Getting the hint for the boundaries she shouldn't cross. "Fair enough." She sighed. "Well, it's late and I have Corporate Majdoori tomorrow, so good night, Princess." She put the phone down.

I kept staring at the laptop screen, thinking about my protector, my philosopher, and how life was once bearable when she was there. Memories surged with agony.

All these people who were once so close to me were now so distant, and now this girl too, who had stirred my curiosity and vision, seemed to be a fleeting memory.

I checked my Instagram inbox, but still, she hadn't seen my text. However, many had already seen my Instagram story informing them about the completion of the writing of my third book. While the world was becoming aware of the book, she remained elusive from this information that there had been a book written about her.

I opened a tab on my laptop, sent a file to my phone, and picked up the phone. Quickly, I opened that file and shared it on my Instagram story with close friends, adding the music "The Scientist" by Tyler Ward. It was one of the songs from the Beautiful Nights playlist I had created on Spotify.

I looked at my Instagram story again, the music playing in the background, the lyrics moving on the screen, defining my emotions. There was that picture of both of us, standing and facing each other at 1:30 a.m. on that beautiful night of September 4th, 2022, clicked by Manish. Below the picture read a text:

Dear Chubby Cheeks, 

"I quickly fell in love with you on that dinner night, knowing that it wouldn't work out. But in my thoughts, I lived a love story with you, and I wrote it down. I hope you will like it." 

- Mr. Writer. 

 

I sighed, knowing that this effort would also go in vain. I closed my eyes as I laid back on the bed, and her glimpse from that night danced before my longing eyes. Soon, exhaustion put me to sleep without notice.

[25th June, 2024]

My eyes opened earlier than usual, and I felt a new surge of enthusiasm within my veins. I got freshened up and felt like breathing some morning fresh air, so I went downstairs and grabbed the key for the scooter. Mom saw me waking up earlier than usual.

"Black tea?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered quickly. "I could have it before leaving."

"Going somewhere this early?" she checked the time; it was merely 7:30 a.m.

"Yeah, feeling like going on a ride," I spoke, mulling over the strange change of behaviour within me. I was actually thinking about going out of my house and that damn room, into the real world.

"Finally," she said with great relief. "You've been spending all day in that murky room of yours; finally, you are getting out of it." She spoke while preparing tea for me. Suddenly, I was transported back to a childhood memory where I waited alongside her for her to cook me something for breakfast, eagerly jumping for joy to have my favourite meal.

All my life, I have seen her in this damn kitchen. Now, it pains me to see her there, my failures evident, and I cannot really see her free from these shackles of responsibilities and the mundane life she has been living all her life.

I want to give her a good life, take her out of this damn kitchen, and make everything possible for her to live the life she had sacrificed for her children. As her elder son, I wanted to take care of her and give her the life she never got to have. It broke me inside every day to see her this way. She was still living a deprived life as a direct result of my failures. Only if I had achieved success and earned money, then she would have had all the comforts in her life. But I failed, and I got angry. I was angry because I was hurt; my pain was reflected in my outbursts before her. And now I was going to Pune, leaving her here alone, my heart didn't feel right.

I wanted to take her to Pune with me and Abhijeet and keep her around her children, protected and safe, but circumstances were not favourable. It always kills me to see that circumstances are never favourable, nor could my efforts result in success in changing those circumstances so that I could provide a good life for my loved ones. I felt the weight of the whole world on my heart, but yet, my mouth remained sealed. I am a man; I am not allowed to cry, and I must not express my sufferings.

"Mom," I called her weakly.

"Yes, son." She turned around and looked at me attentively.

"One day I will take you away from here. One day we will live a happy life. One day the sun would shine upon us." I swallowed the pain of helplessness, pretending to be hopeful about a good future when, in fact, I had lost all hope about it.

She smiled at me like I was the most beautiful thing in the whole world. "One day you will get the result you are looking for."

I nodded, swallowing all my pain and suffering. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I hid them immediately by turning around and heading to my room. I had my tea there, and when I asked about breakfast, she suggested I go out and have samosas from my favourite spot.

Soon, I got on the scooter, squeezed the accelerator, and headed to the Dhandukiya Sweet Shop. It was around 8 in the morning when I asked for samosas, but they told me there were still 15 to 20 minutes to wait. Instead of wasting my time there, I chose to head to the canyons of Buldhana, the sunset point on Malkapur Road, outside the city crowd. It was a peaceful haven for the city people to escape from mundane life and have a moment of peace.

The morning breeze refreshed my lungs, and I experienced a new enthusiasm. Soon, I reached the green canyons. There was nobody at this hour; I was all alone, accompanied only by the chirping of the birds. I walked up to the fence, stood upon the wall, and took a deep breath, looking at the green canyon, the golden rays of the sun, and the fresh blue sky. Life felt so beautiful in this moment of sanctuary where the green carpet meets the blue horizon.

I couldn't resist the temptation of clicking some pictures on my phone and posting them on my Instagram story. For me, posting on Instagram stories was more about noting down the details of the moments rather than showing off to followers. According to my archives, it was around 8:18 a.m. when I posted these pictures on my story, which means I arrived here around 8:10 a.m.

The photos captured the serene beauty of the canyons, the golden sunlight filtering through the trees, and the expansive blue sky. As I looked at the images, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. This moment, this tranquillity, was a stark contrast to the turmoil that usually plagued my thoughts. It was a reminder that despite everything, there were still places and moments that could bring solace.

How would it be to see her again after all this time? What would be her reaction when she received the book? What would be my reaction after seeing her? Or would I fall silent in her presence, just like before?

After moments of contemplation, finding no consoling thoughts, I returned to Dhandukiya Sweet Mart, picked up the Samosa for myself, and headed back home. I ate it, listening music on my phone, and soon headed back upstairs.

I needed to read the last chapter I had written yesterday. Proofreading, making improvements and revising it so that I could make it a print-ready file for the one for whom this is written.

The day was consumed with meticulous planning for my upcoming social media posts, a strategy to introduce the characters of my book in a unique and engaging manner. I aimed to pique the curiosity of potential readers, drawing them into the world I had crafted, one intriguing post at a time.

As evening descended, I found myself engrossed in the final edits of the last chapter. The words I had written, the emotions embedded in them, overwhelmed me. For most readers, the story would be an exhilarating journey, but for me, revisiting my own words was a challenging ordeal. Each sentence carried fragments of my soul, memories, and the pain of experiences too personal to relive.

Yet, the task had to be done, and with a sigh of relief, I completed it. It felt as though the heavy burden of my emotions had been transferred from my heart into the pages of the book. I picked up my phone, hoping for a distraction, and scanned through the flood of congratulatory messages. Friends, family, and acquaintances had reached out, their words of encouragement a balm to my weary mind. But among all those notifications, one name was conspicuously absent. Her name. The absence gnawed at me, a silent reminder of the void that still lingered in my heart.

I texted Moumi, "She still hasn't seen my text on Instagram. It's nearly 21 hours now since I sent her the message."

Her reply was almost immediate, "Just call her. I told you already. Or at least text her on WhatsApp. She's more likely to check those."

I sighed, shaking my head. Moumi always had a way of making things sound so simple. Reluctantly, I opened my backup file on the computer, retrieved her phone number, and switched to WhatsApp Web on my laptop. 

"Check your IG DM," I typed quickly, sending the message at 7:27 p.m. As I hit send, I noticed her display picture was still visible, which meant only one thing: she still had my number saved.

Barely a minute later, at 7:28 p.m., her response appeared in my Instagram DMs.

"Quite a long time. Good to see your chat window."

Then she responded back to my message,

Hi Sejal,

I wanted to let you know that I've completed writing "Beautiful Nights" today. This is my longest book yet, with nearly 850 pages. I'm telling you first because you were the inspiration behind this story.

I'll be coming to Pune next week and hope to hand you the book in person. It feels fitting to conclude this journey where it all began.

If you don't mind, please keep an eye on my Instagram stories until we meet.

Looking forward to seeing you.

- Mr. Writer

"I cannot wait to read it! Well, this time I’ll have to keep Netflix aside and read the complete book." came her response to that text. "To keep an eye on the stories, I'll have to follow you."

At 7:29 she responded back on WhatsApp chat. "Hey! Just checked and replied back."

Seeing her texts pop up on my screen brought a wide smile to my otherwise melancholic face. I quickly messaged Moumi, "God damn it, she texted back immediately."

"See, I told you so," came her quick reply, accompanied by a few mocking stickers.

"Don't you mock me," I shot back.

"Oh, I am going to mock you a lot, princess. Just wait and watch," she teased.

I couldn't stop smiling. 

"So, what did she say?" Moumi asked.

"I haven't opened her texts yet."

"WTF, Piyush?" Her response was laced with surprise. "Since when did you start acting like those idiots who delay responses to seem important?"

"I need to calm my mind and prepare what I really want to say to her. I don't want to mess this up. Keeping things in perspective is wise."

"Fair enough, do what's right as per your calculations," she replied.

I turned off the tab for the character introduction posts that I planned to upload in a few days. But before heading to Pune, I needed to ensure she would meet me. After all, she was the reason I was going back. For the past year, we hadn't exchanged a single word. We had drifted apart, even on social media. I had deleted her number to establish personal boundaries and avoid the temptation to reach out. She, on the other hand, seemed to maintain control over her emotions, a trait often found in those who don't openly share them.

Finally, I gathered my courage and opened her message. My heart raced as I read her words, each one bringing back memories of the past year, of the silence, and the unspoken feelings that lingered between us.

My task before heading downstairs for dinner was to build the first few pages for the print-ready file. I had a call with Aditya, my cousin and the son of Sanjay Shinde, the man who designed the cover page of David, regarding the printing of the book. One of his connections would be using fine printing machinery to handle the long manuscript, ensuring it turned out perfectly.

After enjoying a delicious meal cooked by Mom—something I hadn't consistently experienced in Mumbai—my belly was satisfied. The good food over the past year had helped me gain weight, making me look quite different from how I did a year ago. Joining the gym after securing a job was my next goal, along with starting my fourth book even before Beautiful Nights was out.

I noticed from her recent Facebook pictures that she, too, had gained some weight but remained in perfect shape. Her smile was still as captivating as ever. I had created a new Facebook account for book promotions and came across her photos. Her smile was, and always had been, my favourite and my paradise.

After dinner, I connected with friends: Manish, Apoorva, Naval, Bhushan, and Moumi. Hrishi had been in Buldhana for the past week, busy with his cousin-sister and her children. They would be leaving soon, and Hrishi planned to catch up with Nitin and me at Aakash’s tattoo studio, our usual spot.

At 10:38 p.m., I responded to her Instagram texts, giving her a heads-up about many upcoming surprises. I informed her that she would have access to my close friends' stories, where I would share updates meant for those I trusted without revealing the identity of Chubby Cheeks, to set the right perspective and avoid future misunderstandings.

I also mentioned scheduling a meeting for the next Friday, July 5th. Additionally, I asked her to check the highlights on my Instagram profile, which would help her understand many details relevant to our upcoming discussion.

She hoped there wouldn't be any shocks, though I warned her that the only surprise might be the size of the book. In the meantime, I shared concept cover pages with her on WhatsApp and began working on creating a birthday story and some new announcement templates at midnight.

[26th June, 2024]

It was Abhijeet's birthday, my younger brother. I put up a story on Instagram to celebrate, and in the next story, I announced that exactly two years from today, on June 26th, 2026, my fourth book would be launched.

After posting the stories, I went to bed, only to wake up around 9 in the morning. I quickly got ready, put the pen drive in my pocket, grabbed my backpack, and called Aditya. He was accompanying me to get a proper printout of my book.

By 11 a.m., we were at the print shop, and soon the printing began. Time passed, but the printing didn't stop for a long while. A special machine in the shop was dedicated to printing my book. Many customers came and went, completing their tasks, while I stood there, watching the freshly printed pages emerge from the machine. With each new page, the weight of the book seemed to grow, and so did the weight on my heart. I began to fear her reaction when she would hold this seemingly endless book.

After what felt like an eternity, the machine finally stopped. Both Aditya and I felt a wave of relief wash over us. The shopkeeper began setting the pages, and I noticed the last printed page was numbered 463, while the total was supposed to be 686.

"This isn't the complete printing," I told the shopkeeper.

"What do you mean?" he asked, puzzled.

"There are still a couple of hundred pages left to be printed," I explained.

The shopkeeper quickly laid the printed pages on the table and headed back to the machine. Opening the paper tray, he shook his head and went to fetch a new ream of A4 paper.

"Empty," I muttered, staring at the tray.

"All the papers in the machine finished but not the printing of your book, Bhaiya," teased Aditya, subtly hinting at the monstrous size of my book.

"Yeah," I replied awkwardly, dreading people's reactions when they saw the printout of my new book, especially hers.

"This is going to be so heavy. How could anyone really pick it up and read it?" Aditya asked, judging the size of the book.

"Please spare me that. I am already battling the potential reactions of the people," I answered, watching as the machine resumed printing once the paper tray was refilled.

"Why are you even printing it like this? You didn't print your first two books like this; they were directly published by the publishers," wondered Aditya.

"I need to hand it over to someone," I said, watching the pages emerge from the printer.

"That girl from the picture? The one you asked father to take inspiration from for the cover page design?" he asked.

"Yes."

After some time, the printing was done, but the shop didn't have binding available for a book of this size. Aditya and I had to look for another shop for spiral binding. After an hour, we found a place in an alley that could do the binding.

After dropping Aditya at home, I returned back home and placed the printed copy of the book on my table. I took some pictures, intending to post them on social media. Hearing Mom's presence in the house, I called her to show her the book.

She came into the room and saw the fresh printout on the table. I asked her to check it out, and she was amazed by the size of the book.

"You've written this much?" she asked in surprise.

I laughed while filming her reaction video.

"My god, this is a big one, and quite heavy, I must add," she said, turning the pages.

I shot her reaction and then put the phone in my pocket. She turned around and gave me a mysterious look, "How would that poor girl Sejal feel about an idiot like you?" she said, walking out of the room.

I chuckled and asked. "Are you happy?"

"Yes, but I'd be happiest when you get a job," she said in that last moment before leaving the room, without even looking at me. Her answer subdued me and reminded me of my actual responsibilities.

Her response came after I shared the cover page options with her, and one of them was her favorite, which also happens to be mine.

"Is this really the cover page?" she asked, referring to the first concept cover page painted by Akash a few months back.

"My friend painted it. I wanted to use it for trials, but this is not the final cover page of the book. The actual cover will be much more beautiful."

"This is good," she reacted to one of the sample cover pages.

"This one. Now many of my friends liked the other one, but I personally liked this one. I could literally see the resemblance of Sejal and me in it. And when she said that she liked this one, I was so delighted and felt like our tastes were perhaps the same.

Now that she said she liked this one, the actual cover page will have the same colour combination and concept. Everything will be as per her preference, and I want to make sure that in this art of mine, her figments are everywhere.

"You’re gonna rebuke me so much," I texted her.

"Why?"

"You wouldn't be able to pick up the book," I responded.

"What is in the book that I'd struggle to lift it?" she wondered, feeling amused.

"It's 850 pages, and the rest you'll understand when you see it." The tulip flowers and the handwritten letter, I kept quiet about.

We finished chatting, and I put the book into my backpack, heading towards the Sky Freak Tattoo Studio. Nitin and Hrishi were on their way, and since it was Abhijeet's birthday, I decided to get myself a new tattoo to mark the occasion.

"Welcome, author Sahab," teased Akash, the best tattoo artist in the district and the owner of the studio. He was busy working on a new client, his hands moving with practised precision.

"I gotta show you something," I said with a proud, mysterious smile, placing my backpack on the chair next to me and pulling out the printed book, Beautiful Nights.

"We can have a small break," Akash suggested to his client, who then vacated his place to stretch his legs.

I handed the book to Akash. He glanced at its size, shaking his head in amusement. Taking off his gloves, he turned a few pages, trying to read some of it. "I can barely keep my attention for five minutes while reading, and you wrote THIS?" His raised eyebrows showed his amazement. "The second page says you wrote this book for her."

"Yes, I did," I admitted proudly.

"You shouldn't do such things for girls," he warned, still looking through the book.

"What do you mean?" I asked, I was puzzled by his statement.

"Girls start ignoring and using the guy to their will when they know how much they mean to him," he said, boring into my eyes. "Ignore them, and they will give you their attention like you are the centre of the world."

"I don't suppose she is like other girls," I tried to defend, but he quickly interrupted.

"Nobody's girl is different. Every fool thinks he's got someone special, but no, they are all the same." His words were firm, hurting and offending me. "It might not be what you want to hear, but..."

"I don't really expect anything from her," I stated firmly.

"Then why did you write this book for her?" he asked.

"Because I promised her once," I spoke resolutely, "and I fulfil my promises because I am a man of my word."

After mulling over seriously over my words he asked, trying to understand the circumstances better, "Were you both in a relationship or what?"

"No. We weren't. I've barely met her five times," I admitted bluntly.

"What?" His eyebrows rose in surprise. "You met this girl ONLY FIVE TIMES?"

My eyes dropped in embarrassment, and I nodded, "Yeah."

"You wrote an 850-page book after meeting her five times. Thank goodness you weren't in a relationship with her; it would have been chaos," he laughed, shaking his head. "I want what's best for you, and I really hope she accepts you after receiving this book."

"I didn't write this book with that intention. If she doesn't like me or love me, that's fine. She should choose whatever makes her happy," I spoke idealistically.

"The quote on the front of the book tells what you really wish, brother," he said, closing the book and handing it back to me.

His words sealed my mouth. Perhaps I had been too consumed with the idea of writing the book and ignored my true emotions. I was so absorbed in the idea of pain in life that I forgot what my heart really craved.

I took some time for myself and sat in the last hall, contemplating my thoughts and waiting for Nitin and Hrishi to come to the studio. When I was checking if Aakash was done with his customer, there came another one, who rather looked like a goon to me but his face did feel familiar. To be honest, all faces in Buldhana feel familiar at some point and I really wish to get out of this shitty place as soon as possible.

While there was some time for Hrishi to visit the studio, Nitin showed up and that goon-like guy was getting himself a small tattoo, while Aakash told him that I am a published author, an advertisement to the people he comes across, while that client got to know about my new book and was amazed by the size of it, he looked at me in disbelief and said, "I wrote only two pages love letter to the girl I liked and now she is my wife."

The looks from Akash and Nitin felt like a mockery, I don't suppose any of them would understand that taking it all out on paper was helpful for me too. A chance to breathe freely but men don't express themselves by writing about it on a piece of paper and that is why I have often felt misfit and devoid of finding anyone who could understand me.

Soon Hrishi also visited the studio while I was already having my right arm inked.

"Look who is here," announced Nitin, seeing Hrishi coming to the studio.

"Hello bhai, how are you?" He greeted him with delight.

"Doing good, got a new job at Tech Mahindra and now that I am father, I am occupied with new responsibilities," admitted Nitin.

"Happy for you man," spoke Hrishi with a delightful smile on his face. "Where is he?" he asked.

"See it yourself." Nitin hinted to walk into the second chamber of the studio where Aakash was inking my arm with a new tattoo.

"What is this? You are getting another one?" asked Hrishi in disbelief as he saw me getting another tattoo.

"Hi, Hrishi, finally got some time to catch up with your buddy?" I spoke sarcastically without looking at me.

"Don't buddy me. You are an idiot and a pain in my ass. And I'm telling Abhijeet that you are getting another tattoo." said Hrishi picking out his phone to click the picture.

Aakash gave me looks, judging by his silent communication I answered to him, "Well, he's my best friend since childhood so he gets to treat me like that."

"I was gonna do that already but he said Abhijeet would kill him if gets to know," added Nitin.

"What is he even getting himself now, more skull on his arm?" asked Hrishi coming close to take a closer look at the tattoo. "Abhijeet Proverbs 17:17." he read on my arm. "What the fuck does that even mean?" he was irritated with such strange tattoos on my arm.

"He is a mad one among us, always has been." mocked Nitin, who had known me for more than 26 years. "Better to either google it or just not ask it to him."

"I won't bother googling this because that's what he wants people to do, so I am going to ask him directly. Oi, what does it mean?" asked Hrishi shaking his head in disappointment.

"A friend loves it all the time but a brother is born for adversity, it's a 17th proverb 17th chapter from the King James Version (KJV) of the Bible, hence Abhijeet Proverbs 17:17, showing that when everyone leaves in times of trouble, he is there for me," I explained looking at the needle inserting in my skin, inking the tattoo.

"See, I told you, HE is mad," added Nitin sarcastically. Hrishi shook his head nodding to the meaning of the tattoo but he still didn't like the idea of inking one's skin.

"He even wrote a book for that girl from Uttar Pradesh, what's wrong with him, are girls in Maharashtra dead?" asked Nitin to Hrishi.

"I met her in Pune," I spoke while getting the tattoo.

"And now you are going there again to meet her?" asked Hrishi.

"Yup," I confirmed. Both Hrishi and Nitin looked at each other in disbelief and shook their heads and didn't speak another word.  

Before I could finish my tattoo, two of my cousins also paid a visit to the studio Aditya and Mandar and they were very curious to see how tattoos are drawn on human skin. Aditya clicked a picture which I posted on the Instagram story.

 

Another story unfolded around the tattoo, accompanied by the announcement of my upcoming book title: Paper Hearts, a love story set in a bookstore. The idea came to me during a visit to my favourite bookstore, Kitab Khana, in Mumbai.

I mentioned the book's dedication to Abhijeet, and the opening quote, Proverbs 17:17. The release date was set for June 26, 2026, two years from now, on Abhijeet's birthday. Clearly, it was meant to be a birthday gift for him. It wasn’t the first time I dedicated a book to him; he shared a dedication in Tender Intimacies with Hrishi and Shantanu. But this time, the book would be especially for him, highlighting the bond between us.

At dinner, Mom noticed the tattoo on my arm. She gave me a look, clearly disapproving of it despite her protests. But when she saw Abhijeet's name inked on it, she paused for a moment and let it go.

[27th June 2024]

At 11 in the morning, I was engaged in texting with Sejal. I had just finished my bath, but she was probably at her office.

"I've been getting taunts all day for writing such a huge book. They are questioning if anyone even writes such a long book," I texted her on WhatsApp.

"Obviously, it's quite an endeavour to read such a huge book," she replied, complaining about its size.

"Well, it's your suffering now," I sent back with some laughing emojis.

"What's that? A 12th class math book?" she responded to the picture of all my three books stacked together.

"Those are my books: David, Tender Intimacies, and Beautiful Nights," I corrected her.

"I know. I was talking about Beautiful Nights," she clarified.

"Okay, I failed to see the joke here," I admitted, feeling quite embarrassed.

It got worse when she sent laughing emojis. "It's fine," she reassured.

A delighted smile emerged on my face. It felt like a moment. I mulled over the idea of meeting her and texted, "I would really love to see your reaction when you see that book in real life."

She sent laughing emojis to that text too, and I couldn't help but feel a warm glow of anticipation.

Soon, a familiar unsaved number emerged on my mobile screen, calling me. I went upstairs as I answered the call.

"Yes, Moumi?" I asked.

"Guess who called me?" she spoke excitedly, like she had some juicy gossip.

"Pratik Patel," I answered quickly.

"How the fuck do you...? Well, never mind." She quickly accepted defeat, realizing that nothing could really surprise me.

I chuckled, feeling amused by her struggle.

"Well, he was acting all cool in front of me, saying that most of the ISBS people were idiots and dramatic. Very few held on to their passion, and Piyush is one of them. The news is that his third book is coming soon," she quoted what our college friend said to her.

I chuckled again. "I didn't know he would respect me even behind my back."

"He also said that Piyush has completely delved into writing and is focusing on it, giving up his job," added Moumi.

"Is that what they all think of me now?" I wondered, feeling puzzled.

"Yes, and to be honest it's not even a false thing, so you shouldn't feel bad about your image taking a hit due to these failures in your life," suggested Moumi.

"I don't recollect the time when I estimated my image upon what people from ISBS think of me," I spoke gently, letting the point sink in.

"Right, you estimate it by your ability to provide a good life for your family," corrected Moumi.

"And now that my savings are over and I haven't had a job for the last year, I've become dependent on Abhijeet," I spoke gravely.

"Did you call him yesterday to wish him a happy birthday?" she asked.

"I put the story on my Instagram," I answered.

"My god, you don't even talk with him on his birthday?" she asked in disbelief.

"About what?" I asked.

"To wish him?" she insisted.

"I put the story..."

"Shut the fuck up," she was irritated.

"We don't talk like this, Moumi. We don't call each other unless there's something that needs to be done or I have to tell him how I lost another interview."

"Piyush," she spoke concernedly.

"Moumi, it's already difficult that my younger brother is taking care of me while I am consistently failing to secure employment."

"Dude, you have been trying a lot. Applying to 5-6 thousand jobs is not a joke when all you get is rejection," she tried to reason.

"Well, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I get a job soon and unburden Abhijeet, at least to some extent, from these damn responsibilities. It haunts me that I can't do anything for him," I spoke with a painfully angry voice.

"This is why I was worried when you said you were done writing the book. Back to these thoughts now," said Moumi, giving a deep sigh. "Something must have triggered these thoughts."

"Expenses for my trip to Pune," I answered.

"Abhijeet is bearing them, I suppose," concluded Moumi.

"Yes, my personal indulgence is going to cost him a fortune," I grunted in frustration.

"You are going too hard on yourself, Piyush."

"I can't draw a single breath without a crushing feeling of guilt that I am becoming a burden to my brother. I am the elder one, I was supposed to be taking care of him, but he is the one..." I sighed painfully. "It is hurting a lot, Moumi. It is affecting my choices for Pune."

"Where you actually meet her," completed Moumi. "Going to a fancy restaurant will cost a couple of thousand rupees. I'd say a café would be a good and affordable place to hand over the book to her."

"How shameful. I was thinking of a much more poetic conclusion to our last meeting."

"Where were you planning to take her?"

"Where we met for the first time," I answered.

"Damn," she said, impressed and heart-wrenched by the deprivation. "That really would have been a great poetic conclusion, ending it all by giving her the book written about her at the very spot where you two met for the first time."

"Didn't know having such moments also cost money," I said, disappointment lacing my voice. "I was an idiot, collecting moments in life when I should have been collecting money."

"Piyush, you're an artist," Moumi replied, her tone gentle yet firm. "You never liked your job, and no other job will bring you true happiness. It's just a means to shoulder financial needs. I understand that all too well. I dream of quitting my job to become a professional classical dancer, but the moment I do, I know poverty will consume me. There's no scope for artists in this country; everyone is chasing jobs, and it builds tremendous pressure to do something different to earn a livelihood."

"Moumi, try to balance both until your art can sustain you," I advised, a hint of regret in my voice. "I made that mistake too. Apart from my other reasons, I had to quit my job due to office politics. Then there were the dire circumstances at home—my father's court case, the debts, and all the other messed-up things he did. Abhijeet and I are both stuck in it, and it's affecting my personal life as well."

"I know, Piyush," Moumi said softly. "I read that letter. Despite the odds being stacked against you, you still tried for her. And even now, in this concluding moment, you're handing over to her the story of what your life could have been like if circumstances were different. 'I am convinced that under different circumstances, I could have kindled the flames of love in your heart and made you mine for eternity.' What a line, Piyush," she sighed deeply, quoting from the letter. "Man, she's never going to die. You captured every detail about her in your writing like you never wanted to lose them, and you did it. Whoever this Chubby Cheeks is, she's now immortalized in the form of art. She's her Mr. Writer's muse."

"I'm glad that you can read such things about me, Moumi," I suggested gently. "Just never do that about other people."

"Why?" she wondered. "It's my talent to—"

"Poking your nose into other people's matters is not a talent," I chuckled. "Reading people is different. You pick up on the clues I deliberately leave for people to figure out. In the future, you'll figure out a few more things too."

"Always so blunt and mysterious at the same time, aren't you?" she said, her voice carrying a hint of offence. "But then again, that's what I like about you. You show me the respect of disrespecting me to my face or stating things directly, unlike most people who do that behind my back." There was a tone of admiration that surprised me a bit.

"Don't worry, I'll always show you this respect," I chuckled.

She laughed harder at that joke. "You're improving, Moumi, don't worry. Things will change."

"Thanks, but you are the one who truly needs to hear these words. Clearly, it depends on who is saying them to you," she spoke slyly.

"That's true. Well, I'll get back to my work now."

"What are you working on?" she asked.

"You'll know soon, don't worry."

"Chubby Cheeks knows about it already, doesn't she?" she asked.

"Of course," I confirmed with a smile. "Bye, Moumi."

"Bye, Princess."

Soon I texted Pam, asking when I could meet her to show her the book. She was at her workplace in Shegaon and would return tomorrow, meaning I would meet her then.

By 9:30 p.m., I had uploaded a character introduction post on my social media handles, drawing attention once again to Beautiful Nights. Someone had already asked about the hand sign in my picture, which I explained in the caption was the sign for three in German.

I even posted a snapshot from my book showing a conversation between the protagonists Parth and Apoorva. This was an effort to let people from my college know that one of them had inspired a character in my upcoming book. Honestly, many had their presence in Beautiful Nights, but I kept that under wraps.

When I spoke with Apoorva, she inquired about my next move. I told her about my plan to meet Sejal in Pune. She couldn't help but be awed by it and expressed, "Aww, how poetic it is to hand over the book based on her at the very place it all started."

Though I didn't share my struggles with Apoo—it's not something I do with her. For me, I have to look after her and be there to guide her, showing her what's right and wrong.

Later, she also posted a slide of her character in her IG story, bringing even more attention to the book. My efforts to ask people around me to allow me to name a character after them are an attempt to immortalize them in my story. Someday, decades from now, when we are all gone, people from the future will know that we all existed at some point in history. This was something Veronica, who inspired my second book Tender Intimacies, figured out. It’s the book I don't advertise.

[28th June 2024]

The rain poured relentlessly as the clock neared 11 PM, casting a shimmering veil over the quiet streets. I stood in Pam's living room, clutching my new book tightly. She eyed it with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"This is quite the tome, Piyush," Pam remarked, her voice gentle yet curious. "And heavy, too."

I chuckled nervously. "Yes, it seems to have grown in size as I wrote."

"I'm sure Sejal would be thrilled to see this," Pam teased gently, her tired smile holding a hint of knowing. "You've poured a lot into this, haven't you?"

"I love her," I confessed softly. "But I've come to realize it's been mostly from my side. This book... it's a collection of dreams I couldn't live with her, except through these pages."

Pam nodded knowingly. "I saw how much she meant to you. But Piyush, there's more to life than just writing. Your happiness matters too."

"I used to dream of that," I admitted, my voice tinged with resignation. "Now, writing is everything to me. It's my identity, my purpose."

"You've always been stubborn," Pam said with a fond smile, handing the book back to me. "But I'm proud of you, for all you've fought through. I hope Sejal sees what's in these pages."

I thanked her quietly and left, retreating to my room once home. Thoughts of Jane haunted me—the life we'd once planned was now relegated to fiction. "My first book was supposed to be about us," her words echoed in my mind, a reminder of promises left unfulfilled.

[30th June 2024]

I grew increasingly anxious as Sunday arrived. It had been nearly three days since she last texted me, which triggered a whirlwind of questions and speculations in my overthinking mind. I needed solid confirmation from her that our meeting was fixed and wouldn’t be interrupted or cancelled for any reason. But my messages went unseen and unanswered.

What Aakash had told me in the studio about attention from the girl—was it true? Should I have withheld my attention, even after a year of distance? Now, suddenly reappearing in her life after so long, did it irritate or bother her? Is it really a universal truth that to gain a woman’s attention, one must ignore her? Only then will she reciprocate?

These modern standards of romantic engagement seemed so downgraded to me. I yearned for a romance like those in classic novels: filled with delicacy, tolerance, patience, suffering, melancholic longing, and finally, the expression of affection with the utmost civility, battling for love without expecting anything in return.

But in today's world, people seem to get emotionally involved only after making careful calculations. How do they even do that? I never understood. When I like someone, I simply like them, without any calculations at the back of my mind. If I don’t, then I am not interested at all. There's no halfway for me in any relationship.

How could giving someone my complete attention be considered a disappointment or a reason to be ghosted or ignored? Shouldn't my actions clearly express what the other person means to me? This anguish within me kept burning, making me feel like a misfit among people. Their severe criticism of my expectations and conduct only deepened my sense of isolation.

I couldn't understand why such a genuine and wholehearted approach to relationships was met with disdain. Shouldn't expressing genuine interest and care be valued, not dismissed? The more I pondered this, the more I realized how out of sync I felt with the world around me.

Is it just me, or am I born into the wrong generation?

I spent the entire day consumed by anxious thoughts, unable to find any peace. Finally, I called Moumi to share my worries. She advised me to stop playing games and directly call her to confirm our Friday night meeting.

At around 4:30 p.m. I shared a Spotify playlist of Beautiful Nights with her in her WhatsApp chat following a message for her. "Sharing with you, as usual, before anyone else."

At 4:35 p.m., I called her, but she didn’t pick up. So I left another text on her WhatsApp chat. "I had called you, I deduce you were taking an afternoon siesta."

My anxiety only intensified. I texted Moumi about it, and she suggested making another attempt after some time. If I still get no response, I should move on to my alternative plan for a 15-minute meeting.

Agreeing with her, I went downstairs, grabbed my backpack, and took my mom to visit Aunt Kavita. Travelling through Buldhana had always been tedious for me, a city that had lost its former charm. The sight of unpleasant people was more frequent in what was once a peaceful town. The city had changed, and so had my feelings for it.

Soon, we arrived at Aunt Kavita's, and Mom seemed to enjoy her time with her sister. Spending all day in our lonely house was her everyday life, and despite my best efforts, things hadn’t changed. Small efforts like visiting her favourite people were my way of alleviating her loneliness. While I was home, I mostly spent my time in front of a laptop screen. Even now, writing this blog is a way to process my thoughts and keep myself engaged in other activities.

Though it bored me there, I tolerated it for her. I believed it was the least I could do for her.

"Aunt, look what your nephew has written." I presented my new book to Aunt Kavita. "Please don't mock me about its size; I've already been enduring that for days now."

"I'll be a little kinder to you," she mocked. "So how are people going to read such a big book?"

I made a face. "Well, I came here to show you the book because there is a character inspired by you too."

"Oh, really? Then it must be a fabulous one," she spoke with a flaunt.

Mother laughed along with the drama of her younger sister.

"Bhaiya is going to Pune," spoke Mandar. "To hand over this book to his..." he hesitated and looked at me fearfully.

I looked at him and then at my aunt. "The girl I liked."

"Liked?" questioned Aunt Kavita.

"Yes, I care about the book now, and she is one of your favourites."

"There has been a long list of girls. I can't seem to remember which one you are talking about."

"Writer's charm," I flaunted proudly. "Well, do you remember the girl I mentioned from Uttar Pradesh?"

Aunt Kavita raised her eyebrows sarcastically. "How could I forget that? That was quite a shock to me."

"Well, I am meeting that girl, possibly this Friday. And yes, you have a similar role in the book, always resisting the idea of marrying a girl from Uttar Pradesh. The name is also kept Kavita, and the same for your elder sister. Her character is named Kalpana Deshmukh."

"So when am I getting to read this book?" she asked curiously.

"When it's translated into Marathi, though I don't know when that will be," I answered with a sly smile, indicating that she probably wouldn't be able to read it for a long time.

We spent some quality family time, and hearing about the family drama between my two uncles made me worry. I never want to have such a conflict with Abhijeet. Brothers should fight, but they must unite in times of adversity, and I hoped the same with Abhijeet.

We returned home around 7 p.m. I quickly went upstairs, grabbed my backpack with my laptop in it, and headed toward Sky Freak Tattoo where I was about to meet both Aakash and Nitin. But I returned from the studio within half an hour and went back upstairs.

I made another call to Sejal at 7:45 p.m. The caller tune song kept ringing. Hearing that song still as her caller tunes even after two years was a pleasant surprise, but disappointment soon covered my heart when the call went unanswered.

Losing my patience, I immediately texted her at 7:46 p.m., "Is something wrong? I called twice but received no answer. And I was seeking confirmation from you so that I can book tickets and plan my schedule in Pune."

There came a quick reply to my text from her, though her number was still not saved in my phone. "I’m on my way back home... no network. I’ll call you back."

"Okay," I responded.

I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel about it. Was she out with someone over the weekend? Is there someone else in her life? If there is someone, then does presenting her with the book make any sense? Will she really care about the book that I had written with such dedication, with hundreds of sleepless nights?

Without allowing my anxiety to fuel overthinking, I chose to go downstairs to have my dinner. I spent some time with Mom, though our conversation was limited to formal inquiries. After my mug of milk, I headed upstairs, following my usual routine of a nightly walk. While I often called Moumi during these walks, tonight I refrained, choosing instead to listen to music and contemplate, waiting for Sejal's call that never came.

Feeling hopeless about her call, I texted her on WhatsApp at 11:06 p.m., expressing my disappointment:

"I don't suppose I'm getting your call tonight. Why don't you confirm our meeting for Thursday evening or Friday? I need to book the tickets to travel to Pune, so please consider it fast and text me ASAP."

A minute later, at 11:08 p.m., I called Moumi.

"I texted her directly, asking her to confirm if she intends to meet me on Thursday or Friday so I can book the tickets," I said, frustration evident in my voice.

"Good. If you aren't going to be treated with respect, don't humiliate yourself by catering to her convenience. Meet her at a café, follow your 15-minute formula, and then spend the rest of your time in Pune with friends who make you happy," Moumi advised firmly.

"Exactly," I agreed, my anger palpable. Just then, a notification popped up on my phone.

"Do the courtesy of handing over the book to her and then enjoy your weekend in Pune. Maybe even meet someone new from Bumble," Moumi added enthusiastically.

"Um, Moumi, I have to hang up," I said hesitantly.

"What? Is she calling you?" she asked, surprised.

"No, texting. I need to respond," I replied, eager to engage with Sejal, my Chubby Cheeks.

"She can't call you, huh?" Moumi said slyly.

"I don't care, as long as I get what I want," I responded quickly.

"And what's that?" she asked.

"To not hear her voice until we meet," I said, bidding Moumi goodbye. I quickly turned off the main lights, leaving only a dim light on. With silent music playing from my laptop, I settled into my reclining chair, ready to chat with Sejal peacefully.

"Apologies, for not calling." She responded to my previous text. "Friday evening sounds good." came her another response.

"How much time do you have on Friday evening? And at what time?" I asked.

"So what are we meeting for exactly?" she asked.

"I finished writing a book for you," I answered.

"I know that," she assured.

"So I'm planning to hand you over the book."

"Okay!"

"And I think it's what I had always known from the first meeting." I texted while reminiscing our first encounter.

"How much time do you have?" she asked. Girl I have all the time in the world for you. No matter how busy I am in life, I'll always make time for you. You come before anything else. "Probably we can meet around 8:30 p.m. if everything goes good, considering the weather." came her next text.

Her question brought me many speculations about her understanding of the situation. I mulled over for a moment and texted her back.

"You do know that I'm coming to Pune ONLY to give YOU that book, right?"

"Just to hand over the book? 😳😳"

"Yes, Sejal, just to hand you over the book." she liked my text. "This is my longest book ever and for the new decade no other book will break this record, so no problem, the time seems perfect to me."

"Yes, I saw that. 😅😅" responding to the text containing the length of the book, "Okay, we are meeting."

"You want to receive the book right?" I asked to be sure of her interest.

"Yes, I want to read it," she confirmed.

I liked her message and replied back with another reassuring text, "You are truly interested in receiving it?"

She sent the emojis, "😒😒😒"

"I'm asking this because I want to make sure that you are coming there because you want to and not because I am asking you to." Now I was waiting for her response to estimate her interest and when she texted I had a bright smile on my face.

"Yes, I want to," she confirmed. "The whole character in the book is all and around me, so I wanna read it."

"No, the whole book is all about YOU." I texted emphasizing her actual importance in the book, not merely as a character like many others. "Don't insult the effort of 1 year and 10 months."

"Never," she texted promptly.

"So, it's not merely about your character in it. THE BOOK is ABOUT YOU and especially FOR YOU."

"A moment of mesmerization," she responded.

I let that sink in for her and texted, "Friday night it is. Do you want to end it poetically or normally?" I asked, confirming the venue type she would like to meet.

"Normally, so that readers can connect," she responded.

"I'm not talking about the book,"

"Okay,"

"I'm talking about the meeting on Friday. That's the last you would ever see me,"

"Normal endings," perhaps that was a touch of sarcasm from her side, but I did not know for sure.

"So do you want it to end poetically... By ending it all where it all began on the same spot and on the same dinner table of Aroma Biryani House or do you want it to end it on some Cafe? Think about it."

"Normal endings but you can never mark it as an end."

Her text upset me and pierced through my heart like an arrow. What does that mean? She doesn't want it to end or she just wants to toy with me? Nevertheless, I knew one thing for clear that I can't stay there anymore where she had put me last year, waiting for her and feeling she would never come to me. Besides she had given me rejection last June and ever since I had promised her that one day I will write a book for her and right after a year, I am about to hand over to her the same book I promised.

"Sejal, I AM marking it as an end. The last time I saw you at Blue Olive, after that, I kept writing the book. Thinking about the one thought in my head." I was talking about the quote written on the front page of the book. "And one day, I'd come back and hand you over the book and walk into oblivion."

"Try it, Piyush!" she texted.

What the hell does that even mean? I am trying to do something my heart doesn't agree with, even if it hurts but yet she is subtly challenging me to try to walk away from her, perhaps, subtly implying that it is impossible for me to walk away from her or she won't let me, which one is it? But then nothing really mattered before my dire circumstances. Does she want me to try for her even after all this time?

"I can't try it, Sejal," I confessed weakly. "We both are two different worlds."

"Indeed." came her text, emphasizing the reality of our circumstances.

"But I'll tell you one thing. What did not happen in real life and whatever I wished to live, I have put it all in this story. It's counting to around 850 pages and contains the most beautiful quotes I've ever written. But despite that, whatever I've written for you, it's still an understatement for who you really are in my eyes."

"I hope I do justice to those quotes." she texted like a gentle proprietary from a medieval time lady.

"You already have by being who you are." I texted passionately and playfully, "Don't you know? I see paradise in your smile."

"Yes, I know." she probably smiled while reading this text, she always does and she always looks so beautiful when she smiles. "Ending the book with this quote?"

"No," I confirmed firmly. "Ending this meeting with this quote. Actually, I had planned it."

"Okay?"

"The plan was that I meet you for 15 minutes only and leave after telling you some facts about the book, and when I leave, permanently, I look at you once for the last time and say to you, 'Sejal,' and then you look at me painfully because you have just finished reading the letter I've written for you and I say, 'I see paradise in your smile.' And you smile and I smile, though my heart is suffering, I take the memory of your smile with me and be happy with it, making my peace with the result. That's how I've planned to end it with you and for the last one year, I've been thinking about it."

"Sounds like a plan. 😐" came her text.

"Extremely painful thought but...longing for you... my time is done."

"You have chosen it," she texted.

"No Sejal, it's not my choice. It's really not. I wish I could tell you. But I must tame my stupid heart and hand you over the collection of my dream life with you that I never got to live." I sighed processing the pain I was experiencing. "My mom asked me about you, many times. And asked me about the book too, 'Why is it taking so much time for you to finish this book? You don't usually take this much time.' she asked this and so I replied to her, 'I'm writing each and every moment I had dreamt with her. But I know I won't get to live. So making it happen in the story and planning to give it to her when I'm finished writing it. I want to see her mom, I'm longing to see that girl after everything that I've written for her. About her, about me and about us.' Last three-four months I've been longing to come to Pune but the story wasn't finished." I sighed deeply and regretfully but I tried to stay strong. "It was such a difficult time because I was dying to see you just once. So, I wrote the book more passionately and I think this is what shaped the ending of the book."

For a long time, she didn't respond, though my texts were seen and then she responded to the concept cover pages.

"By the way I saw these .. they are amazing."

"Yeah, I'm glad that you liked them. Everything is for you, after all. So you get to decide."

"Well, I am going through what you have sent me. I missed quite a lot."

"Please don't," I appealed. "Catch up everything that I have shared with you because it will define our conversations when we meet."

"That's true." she agreed.

"You will have an idea of what I'm talking about and you will rejoice, seeing the reactions of people. Those screenshots will tell the same. Everybody wants to see who Chubby Cheeks is. 😄"

"😂😂😂 "

"Especially the girls who read the story. I think they are envious and many of them tell me that, they dream that if someone would ever write something for them, they would be on cloud nine. Screenshots will tell you that,"

"I did. 😂😂" 

"And also listen to the playlist I shared. I made it for the book and you. Hoping someday there will be an adaptation, so this music must be used and the first song, you'll be thrilled to hear. 😄"

She played the playlist and was taken aback to find her caller tune song, "It's Devotion by Hurts.🤐 Hardly people know this song."

"I found it for you." I texted proudly.

"I know." she already knew, recollecting that moment when I had asked her which song it was but she refused to tell me and challenged me to find it out myself. And every time she put a challenge before me, I tended to pick it up and I figured out which song it was and I decided at that very moment that this song would be the main song for the book.

"I suspect you came across this song because of The Vampire Diaries," I asked.

"Yes, when I was watching it," she confirmed.

"I thought so."

"😅😅"

"Well, I am gonna make it a trailer song of the book. It's a subtle hint that everything is about you and for you."

"🤐🤐" She was again surprised. "Kya hoga?" she asked.

"About what?" I asked.

"What if one day people will figure it out that it's me?" she wondered anxiously.

"They will know that you are THE GIRL whom this Mr. Writer... liked... and got immortalized in this story." I wanted to write loved but... well, some things are still difficult to express directly.

"Okay!! I hope they will not be running behind me with a knife. 😂😂"

"If anyone dares to do that they will first have to deal with me," I assured her with confidence. "But to be honest, people will look at you in awe. Especially girls, many girls demand me to show them your picture and when they saw it, they were awed. And they said, 'Piyush, she's really so beautiful.' And I was like, I know right?"

"Did you actually show my picture?😂"

"Yeah, in one time see settings. And many of my good friends threatened me."

"Fuck."

"Well, they liked you and were excited for me to see that someone as Khadus as me could turn into head over heels."

"Crazy."

"You know there was this girl in my office, Aakriti."

"Yeah, I know her. 😂😂 You had told me about her when we had met last time," she confirmed, while I was surprised to see she still remembered as it had been over a year.

"Apoo often asked me to go for her whenever I received no response from you, but I constantly refused. She's a real beauty but I was already captivated by a particular smile."

"Apologies."

"You don't have to apologize to me, for anything. Not even for the pain you caused unknowingly. I don't want to hear those words from your mouth, it doesn't suit you."

"🤐" She sent an emoji in response, "Well, it's late." she texted.

I checked the time, it was midnight and she had a job the next morning. "Yes. And we will meet on Friday and repeat our first meeting in the exact same way."

"Yeasssss."

"Good Night Chubby Cheeks."

"Good night Mr. Writer. See you !"

"Yup, soon 🤞🏻"

[2nd July 2024]

Both Hrishi and I were sitting in the top-floor room of his newly renovated house. The need to edit my CV for the Business Analyst position had brought me to him at this hour, but it was also a good excuse to spend time with my best friend. It was a bit difficult as I had been practising detachment and distance from my loved ones, including Hrishi. The lifelong habit of going to him after getting hurt in life was soon to be neutralized.

Yes, he is looking to get married, and clearly, I can't bring my drama to him once he has a wife. Things will change; lots of things will change. My worst fear is that our friendship will not remain the same over time. For 20 years, maybe even more, he has been my friend, my brother who means a lot to me. I wouldn't say this to him, of course. I know I would be severely mocked.

As we worked on my CV, I couldn't help but think about how much our lives were evolving. The thought of losing the bond we shared weighed heavily on me, even though I knew it was inevitable. I cherished these moments, knowing that soon, they would become rare.

"It's all set," Hrishi said, handing over the laptop to me. "Everything is there now in the CV and should attract the hiring professionals' attention."

"It's the ATS that's been a challenge to me," I remarked sarcastically as I took the laptop.

"It should score above 90%, at least. Then it would be fine for you," Hrishi said hopefully, looking back at his MacBook.

"I don't know when I'll get a job," I muttered while uploading the newly updated CV to job portals and my LinkedIn profile.

"You will," Hrishi replied in his usual low but grave voice.

"I've been hearing that for a year now—thirteen months, to be precise," I said, glancing at the date on my laptop screen. "Now, when I return from Pune after meeting Sejal, I'll have to repeat the cycle of application and rejection."

"Things will change. Don't worry..."

"Don't say that to me, Hrishi. It's infuriating," I burst out suddenly, my frustration boiling over. His attention settled on me completely.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern etched on his face.

I hesitated, struggling with shame and the weight of my insecurities. "I am not. I constantly feel like no amount of effort from my side will ever result in the desirable change of circumstances for my and my family's welfare. These loans, the blessings of Thorat sir, and all the other messed up things are really crushing me."

"It will be paid off soon," Hrishi said, trying to lift my spirits.

"How?" I asked. "Without a job, there's no source of income for me. My books aren't selling, I’m not getting responses from big publication houses, and even if I have to launch my new book on a self-publication platform, I don't have any money for that either. What have I ever achieved in life?" I grunted in frustration.

"It seems like you're in a hurry," Hrishi observed.

"Of course, I am. Time is running out."

"For what?"

"For me to be able to make a life with someone."

"What about this Sejal? Did she ever say she loved you or something?" he asked, wondering if I had any chance with the girl for whom I had finished writing a book.

"She never showed any direct interest in me, only gave subtle hints that others severely criticized, so I’m not chasing her. All I care about is getting a book for myself. At least if I don’t get money, I'll have stories in my name."

"You didn't deliberately walk away because it would give you a good story, did you?" Hrishi asked, suspecting my nature to be driven by the need to tell stories.

"I don't really think about Sejal that way anymore. I just wanted to write the story, and I did. It's been a year since we talked. Times change, and so do emotions. I don't think I really feel anything like I used to for her."

"I struggle to believe that," Hrishi said with a tone of mockery.

"And why is that, if I may ask?" I wondered.

"You're not one to easily get over people you love. But then again, you never really talked much with me about this girl, so I believe it could be just an infatuation. Which is good for you, as it helped you write another book. So what is there to complain about anyway?"

"The biological clock is ticking. I'm 31 and a half, and I'm still single. I haven't even been in a relationship since Mithila," I said, feeling disappointed.

"Do you..."

"No, I don't love her anymore. But her memories still bother me once in a while, for what could have been. But it's not there anymore for her to take away. You know me, I have so many girls to talk to."

"Yeah, but what's the point? You don't like or love any of them," Hrishi complained, feeling hopeless about my romantic life.

"Most of them are dumb, Hrishi. I like girls with brains," I emphasized my criteria.

"Where would you find such a rare creature?" he chuckled.

"Sejal is like that. I liked her the moment I laid eyes on her," I admitted, feeling reminiscent. "Though I knew at that very moment that nothing would happen between us."

"Okay. And you think it's because of your financial condition?" he wondered.

"Most probably. But the cultural differences could also be a reason. Mom accepted her, but the same can't be said about her family. After all, they're from UP, and things are way different there than they are here in Maharashtra."

"I think getting a job will keep you distracted from your thoughts."

"Yeah, I hope so. It's been tormenting to see others surging ahead in life while my life is trapped in stagnation. No momentum."

"Here, you might not get that," Hrishi said.

"I know, and I hope I get it in Pune. I'll have to become a corporate slave to numb my pain about not being able to take care of my family. That's fine, but my soul will suffocate and crave literature and writing. Life isn't a Disney movie; it's a bloody Game of Thrones," I said, turning off my laptop.

"I watched it. It's good," Hrishi admitted.

"Winter is coming," I quoted the Stark words.

"It doesn't mean winter is a season, right?" he asked.

"Yup, winter here means hard times or dark times. It's a warning that difficult times are coming."

"More than these?" he asked.

I didn't say a word to that. Soon, Shantanu arrived, and our conversation took another turn. Feeling famished, Hrishi brought us all snacks, and soon, I returned home.

The day passed in a blur of job applications and the mundane tasks that had come to define my life. Tomorrow, a visit to the tattoo studio was scheduled to remove the bandage over my new ink before I left for Pune on Thursday night.

At around 7:48 p.m., I found myself scrolling through old screenshots, memories from nearly two years ago. On an impulse, I sent a few to her—reminders of where it all started and where it stood now.

The screenshots were fragments of conversations filled with laughter and unspoken emotions. They captured the essence of a time when everything seemed possible and our connection felt unbreakable. I wondered what she would think when she saw them. Would she feel the same pang of nostalgia, the same bittersweet longing for what might have been?

As I waited for a response, I couldn't help but reflect on the twists and turns our lives had taken. The job rejections, the endless cycle of applications, and the weight of unfulfilled dreams had worn me down. Yet, amidst the chaos, there were moments like this—fleeting, but significant—that reminded me of the connections that shaped my journey.

I stared at my phone, the minutes ticking by slowly. Would she respond? Would she understand the silent message I was trying to convey? Or had time and distance created a chasm too wide to bridge?

The uncertainty gnawed at me, but I knew that reaching out was a way to confront the past, to acknowledge the impact she had on my life. Whether she responded or not, I had taken a step towards closure, towards making peace with the memories that lingered.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges and decisions, but for now, I allowed myself to dwell in the past, if only for a moment, before reality pulled me back into its relentless march forward.

From gifting you these books,

Till actually writing one for you.

Clearly, she was awed by the screenshots, but for me, it was crucial that she understood how much each little thing mattered to me regarding her. Never was there a moment or the slightest action that was just for me. All those small gestures were adding up to that moment when we would meet again after a prolonged absence from each other's lives.

I wanted her to see the significance of everything—the late-night conversations, the shared jokes, the subtle hints of affection. Every interaction had a weight, a meaning that went beyond the surface. It wasn't just about reminiscing; it was about conveying the depth of my feelings, the way she had woven herself into the fabric of my life.

As I awaited her response, I couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and anxiety. Would she understand? Would she recognize the emotions I had tried so hard to articulate through those digital fragments? The anticipation of our upcoming meeting added another layer to my emotions. I imagined the moment we would see each other again, wondering if the years apart had changed us or if we would fall back into the same easy rhythm.

I glanced at my phone, hoping for a sign that she was thinking about our shared past, about the significance of those moments. The thought of seeing her again, of possibly rekindling a connection that had meant so much to me, filled me with both hope and apprehension.

In the quiet of my room, I allowed myself to dream of that reunion, to imagine the conversations we would have, the laughter we would share. I wondered if she felt the same anticipation, the same longing to reconnect. All I could do was wait and hope that our paths, once entwined and then separated, were on the verge of converging once more.

"And went on to write 850 pages."

Half an hour later, she began to see the screenshots and quotes from the book, reacting to them as per her preference. Many of them she found funny, while others touched her heart. She particularly liked the screenshot where my philosopher, Shikha Ma'am, suggested I have coffee when I struggled to write—now, it has become the biggest book I've written.

As she went through the screenshots, I intended to take her on a small journey through past events, leading her to the conclusion of our meeting on Friday, July 5th. I'm a writer; I am dramatic like this even in real life.

Watching her reactions, I felt a mix of satisfaction and nervousness. Each screenshot was a carefully chosen piece of our shared history, meant to evoke memories and emotions that had shaped our connection. I wanted her to see how each moment had contributed to the tapestry of our relationship, leading us to this anticipated meeting.

Her laughter at the funny moments and the way her heart seemed to soften at the more poignant ones reassured me that she was reliving those memories too. It was like we were walking through a gallery of our past, each image a painting that captured a fragment of our story.

I couldn't help but smile at her reaction to Shikha Ma'am's coffee suggestion. That moment had been a turning point for me, and seeing her appreciate it brought a sense of validation to my journey as a writer. It wasn't just about the book or the memories; it was about the connection we shared, the way we had influenced each other's lives in ways both big and small.

As the evening wore on, I found myself growing more excited about our upcoming meeting. I hoped that this walk down memory lane would set the stage for a deeper conversation, one where we could address the unspoken feelings and unresolved questions that lingered between us.

I am dramatic, yes, but it's because I believe in the power of stories to connect us, to bridge the gaps created by time and distance. I hoped that by sharing these moments with her, we could create a new chapter in our story—one filled with understanding, closure, and perhaps even a renewed sense of connection.

Suddenly, amidst these dreamy thoughts, I recalled that I needed to inform the boys at the flat. I immediately called one of my closest homies: Bhushan.

"Piyush, bhai!" he cheered as soon as he picked up the call.

"Pune aaraha hu mein," I said with equal excitement.

"When?" He was excited.

"Friday morning. So, will you be able to pick me up at Jagtap Dairy stop?" I asked.

"Do you have to ask?" he rebuked. "Of course, I'll come to pick up my brother."

"And one more thing, I need tulips. Can they be arranged on Friday?" I asked.

"I'll have to ask around, and even when you come, we can visit the flower market to get them," he assured.

"Good, I'm counting on you for this. Tulips are important—I promised them to her nearly two years ago."

"For Sejal?" he asked.

"Yeah, the 'Beautiful Nights' book is complete, Bhushan, and I'm coming there to give it to her."

"Wow, man. That's amazing. I'm sure she'll love it."

"I hope so. It’s been a long journey, and this feels like the final chapter," I said, feeling a mix of hope and apprehension.

"We’ll make sure everything goes perfectly. You just focus on the book and Sejal."

"Thanks, Bhushan. You’re the best."

"Anything for you, Piyush. See you on Friday!"

As I hung up the call, a sense of anticipation filled me. The thought of finally fulfilling my promise to Sejal, of giving her the book that held so much of my heart, made me feel both anxious and excited. I imagined the look on her face when she received the tulips and the book, hoping that it would convey everything I hadn’t been able to say in words.

The journey to Pune seemed more significant now, not just a trip but a culmination of years of emotions, efforts, and unspoken words. With Bhushan’s help, I felt confident that everything would go as planned. The tulips, the book, the meeting—everything was falling into place.

As the evening turned into night, I allowed myself to indulge in the hopeful fantasies of our meeting, of the possibility that this time, things might be different. Maybe this time, I could turn the page and start a new chapter with Sejal.

[3rd July 2024]

At 11:04 a.m., I texted her on WhatsApp, knowing she would be busy at the office, so I wasn't really expecting her to reply soon. "My ticket has been confirmed. I'm leaving tomorrow night, and will reach Pune on Friday morning. See you on Friday evening." 🤞🏻

"See you on Friday." Her text arrived at the end of the day.

[4th July 2024]

"So, leaving tonight, eh?" asked Moumi during an early morning call.

"Yup, tickets are confirmed, and I am nervous," I expressed honestly.

"My princess is always nervous," she laughed. "So where are you meeting her?"

"Well..." The hesitation was evident in my voice.

"You're meeting her at Aroma Biryani House, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yeah," I admitted awkwardly. "We had a long chat a few nights back and..."

"And she convinced you to meet at the same place where you met for the first time," Moumi guessed.

"What the heck," I uttered in surprise.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I got a message from an unexpectedly alienated friend," I answered.

"Aastha?" she wondered.

"No, Ahana," I answered.

"Who is this girl?" she was annoyed. "Is she from our college?"

"Yes, we were classmates and very good friends once."

"Once?" she asked.

"Aastha isn't the only friend whose friendship I lost when they got into a relationship," I explained.

"Well, I must say your life is quite happening and full of drama. There was that girl from your hometown a few months back admitting she had a crush on you for over a decade and..."

"Let's not dig up old graves, Moumi. I see your point here."

"Your life is full of girls, yet you crave for one who does not show you any hint of interest," nagged Moumi in her usual tone.

"Unrequited affections are what get requited into the realm of fiction, Moumi. My reality may be painful, but people would feel joy reading this story, and that's fine. I'm a writer, and I write the lies people want to hear."

There was a pause as Moumi absorbed my words. 

"You always have a way of turning your pain into something beautiful," she said softly. "But remember, you deserve happiness too, not just in your stories but in your life."

"Maybe someday," I replied, though the words felt hollow. "For now, I need to focus on this meeting with Chubby Cheeks and hope it goes well."

"It will," she reassured. "And no matter what happens, you'll always have your stories and your friends to support you."

"Thanks, Moumi. I needed that," I said, feeling a bit more grounded.

"Anytime, princess. Safe travels and keep me posted."

"I will. Take care."

As I hung up the call, a mix of emotions washed over me. Excitement, anxiety, hope, and a touch of nostalgia. The day was just beginning, but I could already feel the weight of what was to come. Meeting Sejal at the Aroma Biryani House would be a full-circle moment, a chance to reconnect and perhaps, finally, find some closure.

I glanced at my packed bag, making sure everything was in order. The book, the letter—everything was ready. Now, all that remained was to step into the unknown and hope for the best.

In the evening, I found myself at Hrishi's house, where his aunt and grandmother were also present. Hrishi was preparing to leave for Igatpuri that night. An office party was scheduled nearby for the following evening, so he had to catch a train from Malkapur past midnight.

"I'll always be there for him, Mavshi. Don’t worry," I assured his aunt during our conversation.

"When are you planning to get married, Anuj?" she asked. Since I am known by my birth name in my hometown and among family members, this was a familiar question.

"Right after Hrishi gets married," I replied, rising from my chair and smiling coyly at Hrishi. He shook his head, amused. "Well, I have to go now. My bus is at 9:30, and Nitin will be accompanying me to the stop. He’s heading to Pune as well, but on a different bus."

“Good. Travel safe,” Hrishi said.

I looked at him for a moment and hugged him, knowing I wouldn’t see him for months. “See you soon, brother.” The moment felt both difficult and awkward for us. As men, expressing such sentimental emotions can be uncomfortable and embarrassing.

I returned home, where Mom was waiting for me with dinner, which I ate quickly. My bags were already packed, and Shantanu had come to drop me off at the bus stop near the house.

It didn’t feel right to leave Mom alone at home; it wrenched my heart. I feared what it would be like when I had to leave for work and wouldn’t be able to take her with me.

I hugged her. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t worry about me while you’re away,” she said, her voice gentle. I looked at her, puzzled. “Go there to find peace and meet Sejal. Try to find closure for your heart. Manish will be with you, so I don’t need to worry.”

I nodded, hugged her again, and then picked up my bags. Shantanu was waiting outside to take me to the bus stop.

Nitin was already there, having been dropped off by Aakash. His bus came first, and we said our goodbyes, hoping to meet up in Pune. My bus arrived around 9:25 p.m., and after settling in by 9:30 p.m., I texted her on WhatsApp:

"I'm on my way to Pune."

- The End of Night 0.5 -