Over seven years ago, during the Clash of the Titans debate finals at Rendezvous Fest, IIT Delhi — October 2010 — I saw her for the first time.
She stood confidently at the left podium. Though just five feet three, her upright stance made her seem taller. Dressed in a white salwar kameez and a fuchsia dupatta trimmed with silver, she was striking. I should've been focused on her arguments, but like many others, I was captivated by her presence.
The banner behind her read:
"Should public display of religion be banned?"
She was Zara Lone, representing Delhi College of Engineering, up against Inder Das, the defending champion from Hindu College. The room was electric, everyone anticipating their final rebuttals.
Inder began. Loose kurta, rimless glasses, curly hair — he looked like he belonged in a Bengali art film. Calm and composed, he quoted constitutional articles with ease.
"Article 25 guarantees freedom to practice and propagate religion," he declared. "Miss Zara Lone, by arguing against public religious expression, you not only challenge our culture, but the very foundation of our Constitution."
The crowd erupted in applause. My stomach sank. Was Zara going to lose?
Then, she stepped up. Calm. Sharp. Unafraid.
"I commend my opponent's knowledge of the Constitution," she began, throwing Inder a smile.
But she wasn't here to lose.
"We're not here to Google constitutional clauses. We're here to debate what should be, not just what is. After all, the Constitution isn't sacred scripture. It changes — it evolves."
Silence blanketed the hall.
I couldn't help it — I shouted, "Yes, superb! Shabash!"
Everyone turned to look. Even Zara. She smiled.
"Thank you," she said, "but save it for later."
Laughter filled the room. I wanted to vanish. But Zara? She was back on her feet, quoting Article 25 in full — including the part Inder had conveniently skipped:
"Subject to public order, morality and health."
Then came the bombshell.
"Yes, I would stop loudspeakers for azaan. You can still pray — use an app, headphones. Just don't impose it on the entire neighborhood."
A gasp ran through the audience. A Muslim woman saying this? Brave.
"And don't box me in by saying 'as a Muslim'. I'm not here as a Muslim. I'm here as a finalist."
Thunderous applause. The judges announced her the winner.
I clapped like a madman. Whistled loud enough for a football stadium. She looked at me again — smiled.
Later, as I walked out toward the food stalls, I heard a voice behind me.
"Thanks for cheering."
I froze. Turned.
"Zara?"
"Yeah. This your college?"
"Yes. You?"
"DCE. Missed IIT by a few marks."
"You're definitely smarter than me."
We walked together toward the food stalls. The debate was over — but something else was just beginning.
As we stepped out onto the chilly balcony, Zara's name slipped from my lips. Saurabh groaned, already sensing where this was going.
"She asked if you were hungry, right?" he said, interrupting my memory.
"You both ate—she ordered a parantha, you a dosa. Hers wasn't good. You gave her yours. The rest is history."
"How do you know all this?" I asked, surprised.
A waiter approached with a tray of drinks. Ignoring Saurabh's protests, I grabbed a glass of whisky.
"Bro, come on," he said, hugging himself for warmth. "You ordered a dosa, she got a parantha, it flopped, and you saved the day. Now can we go inside? I'm freezing."
I took a long sip. The whisky burned going down — the kind of burn that matched what I felt inside.
"Have a drink," I offered.
"Alcohol just makes you feel warm. It actually causes heat loss," Saurabh said, ever the science geek.
"Stop quoting JEE chemistry. It's New Year's Eve," I said, nudging the glass toward him. He hesitated, then took a reluctant sip.
"That's my Golu," I smiled. "So, you even know about the dosa. Want to hear about our first real date?"
"Please no. Let's just go inside. Everyone thinks we're antisocial."
"Who cares? We hate this job anyway."
Saurabh shook his head. "Let's just socialize a bit, yeah?"
"In a minute," I said, pulling out my phone.
He noticed immediately. "No, bhai. Don't call her."
But I was already opening Zara's contact.
"Bhai, my kasam," he pleaded, lunging for the phone.
I dodged him and stepped away. "It's New Year's. Can't I just wish her?"
"Don't—"
"Shh. It's ringing."
One ring. Two. Seven.
"Hello?" I said softly, as I heard a voice.
But it wasn't Zara.
"The number you have dialled cannot be reached. Please try again later."
The Airtel lady. Cold, robotic. If only she knew how badly I needed this call to go through.
I tried again. Same result. Saurabh was nearly pulling his hair out.
"She'll freak out seeing all the missed calls," he warned.
"I don't care."
After enough calls to qualify as harassment, she finally picked up.
"Hello."
That one word from her felt warmer than any whisky. My breath caught.
"Hey, Zara…" I dragged the greeting too long.
"Keshav," she said, flat and cold. Colder than the Airtel voice.
"I've been trying to call."
"I noticed. And maybe take the hint when someone doesn't answer ten times."
"Nine," I corrected, desperate to keep the conversation alive. "Are you busy? I can call later…"
Music played faintly in the background. A party. Probably with Raghu. Probably in the black sari. Probably looking perfect.
"What do you want, Keshav?" she asked sharply.
"Just to wish you a happy New Year. Why the interrogation?"
She paused. I could hear her greeting someone else: "Hi, you look lovely too."
"Zara?" I said after a long silence.
"There are a lot of people here. Anyway, you remember what we decided, right?"
"Yeah. To be together forever?" I joked. Stupid move.
"What?"
"Six years ago. New Year's in Goa…"
"That was a long time ago."
"2011. I remember," I said. Funny how heartbreak sharpens your memory.
"We broke up, Keshav. We agreed not to stay in touch. But you keep calling. It's been years."
"Fine. Kill me for remembering you. Kill me for thinking of you every New Year's Eve. Kill me for remembering the night we first—"
"Keshav, stop."
"Stop what? Missing you? I wish I could!"
Saurabh was back, watching from a distance, concerned. I put her on speaker.
"Are you drunk?" Zara asked, her voice briefly softening.
"Does it matter? Drunk or sober, I miss you, Zara. And what are you doing with that loser Raghu?"
"Don't insult him."
"Why not? He's a nerd with a start-up and a coconut in his hand while I—"
"He built that startup. It's one of India's biggest now."
"Oh, so it's the money, then?"
"I went to him because I needed a home, a future. You insulted my family and ran away."
"And your family was innocent, right?"
"I'm not doing this with you again. I'm hanging up. Don't call me back."
"Oh, you're going to block me now? Is that it?"
The line went dead.
"She's cut the call," Saurabh said gently.
I stared at my phone. The shame, the whisky, the rejection — it all hit me at once. I started crying, the kind of ugly sobs you can't hold back.
"I love her every minute," I choked. "And she wants to block me."
"Bhai, you need to let her go," Saurabh said, wrapping me in a hug.
"I'm over her," I whispered. The lie of the century.
"Good. Let's go in."
"Wait. I need to call her again. To tell her I'm over her."
"No, bhai—"
Too late. I dialled again.
This time, a man answered.
"Yes?"
Raghu.
"Oh. Happy New Year."
"Listen, Keshav," he said calmly, "please stop bothering Zara."
"I'm not bothering her."
"You call too often. Even when I'm around."
"That's not true."
"She doesn't want to talk to you."
"How do you know?"
"She told me. We're asking you politely—please stop."
"Let me speak to her."
"She doesn't want to."
"Just hand her the phone—"
"No, Keshav. We'd like some peace. Happy New Year."
"Raghu, listen—"
And then I exploded. Words flew out. Ugly words. Hindi curses, unfiltered rage. I don't remember all of it, and maybe that's for the best.
Saurabh snatched the phone from me mid-rant and hung up.
"What the hell are you doing?" he yelled. "You cursed her, Keshav."
"No, just Raghu."
"Have you lost all shame?"
"I just wanted to talk to her. That idiot picked up."
"Because she doesn't want to talk to you!"
"I'm never calling her again," I said firmly.
Saurabh just shook his head. "Why are you obsessed with her?"
"Give me my phone," I said quietly.
He patted his pocket. "No. And if you don't come inside right now, I swear I'll smash it