The following morning dawned not with a gentle light, but with a fierce, amber glare. The Delhi sun was already a weight on the shoulders of the students crisscrossing the campus of Delhi University. The air shimmered with a nascent heat, thick with the scent of dust and crushed gulmohar petals that formed a velvety, crimson carpet underfoot. The campus was a symphony of chaotic life—the rhythmic clatter of bicycles on stone, the earnest debates spilling from open classroom windows, the restless hum of a thousand ambitions.
Beneath the vast, sheltering canopy of the old banyan tree, Alok sat with a notebook open on his lap. The pages were a testament to his orderly mind—neat columns of figures, elegant equations, logical proofs whose answers were never in doubt. But today, the numbers were just ink. They couldn't compete with the ghost of a feeling. His mind was a broken record, replaying a single, perfect loop: the flutter of white paper, the near-touch of skin, the soft, cello-note of her voice saying, "Thank you." The memory had taken root in him, a quiet, persistent ache.
"Ab bhi usi khayal mein doobe ho?" Ankit's voice cut through the reverie, too loud and too cheerful for the fragile silence Alok was nursing.
Alok's head snapped up. His friend stood over him, a knowing grin plastered on his face, his eyes already scanning the vicinity for the subject of Alok's distraction.
"Main… bas padh raha hoon," Alok muttered defensively, snapping the notebook shut as if caught with a secret.
"Padh rahe ho?" Ankit dropped onto the grass beside him, the picture of casual amusement. "Ya usi ek pal ka hisaab lagane mein vyast ho? Sach batao, bhai, kaun hai woh ladki? Koi aisi hai jo tumhare hisaab ki kitaab mein bhi na aaye?"
Alok's throat constricted. Giving voice to the obsession felt dangerous, like speaking a wish aloud and risking it never coming true. He shook his head, a tight, nervous gesture. "Koi nahi. Kal notice board par bas dekha tha. Wohi."
Ankit leaned back against the gnarled trunk, his demeanor shifting from teasing to strategic. "Phir aaj dhoondho na. Kismat ne ek baar milaya, toh doosri baar bhi milegi. Campus itna bada nahi hai, Alok. Lafzon ki kami hai tere paas, par himmat ki nahi honi chahiye."
The suggestion was a spark on dry tinder. Hope flared in Alok's chest, immediately doused by a wave of pure terror. What would he do? What could he possibly say that wouldn't make him sound like a fool?
And then, as if summoned by the very intensity of his want, he saw her.
There, moving through the dappled light near the library steps, was her silhouette. She carried a tower of books hugged to her chest, a fortress of knowledge. The morning breeze played with the pale chiffon of her dupatta, making it ripple like a flag. And just like yesterday, a few rebellious strands of dark hair had escaped her braid, tracing the line of her jaw. She moved with a self-contained grace that seemed to carve a pocket of calm in the bustling courtyard.
Alok's breath hitched. His heart executed that same frantic, stumbling rhythm it had the day before.
"Dekho! Mauka number two," Ankit hissed, jabbing an elbow into Alok's side. "Utho. Abhi. Chaloge nahi toh pachtoge."
"Nahi, Ankit, main… main kya bolunga—" Alok stammered, his limbs turning to lead.
"Bolo 'hello'. Bolo 'aapke kitabein gira doon?'. Kuch bhi! Par kuch toh bolo!" Ankit's command was a push he desperately needed.
Propelled by his friend's will more than his own, Alok rose. His legs felt foreign, unsteady. Each step across the courtyard was a mile, the hammering of his pulse a deafening drum in his ears. He focused on the fluttering end of her dupatta, a beacon.
She paused at the foot of the library steps, shifting the heavy stack in her arms. A thick volume on top slid precariously. It was the excuse his body needed to bypass his paralyzed mind. He closed the distance in two long strides.
"Yeh… main madad kar doon?" His voice emerged as a rough whisper, strained with a nervousness he couldn't hide.
She turned. And there it was—not just recognition, but a flicker of something else in those dark, bottomless eyes. A subtle, knowing light. Her lips curved, not into a full smile, but a soft, acknowledging arc. "Aap phir?" she said, and her tone was laced with a gentle amusement that sent a wave of warmth through him.
She remembers. She remembers me.
"Haan," he breathed out, a rush of relief making him slightly dizzy. "Kal… woh paper…"
"Haan," she replied, her gaze steady on him. "Aapne pakda tha. Shukriya phir se." Her eyes held a question, an invitation to continue.
Emboldened, he found a steadier voice. "Main Alok hoon."
"Shree," she offered. The name was a single, perfect syllable. Shree. It settled in his soul, a key turning in a lock he hadn't known was there.
"Yeh kitaabein…" he gestured, "aapko andar le jaani hain? Main madad kar sakta hoon." He held out his hands, an offering.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded, her composure softening. "Ha, shukriya. Bahut bhaari ho gayi hain." As she transferred half the stack into his arms, the backs of their hands brushed. The contact was brief, electric, a jolt of lightning that traveled straight up his arm. He saw her glance down, a faint flush creeping up her neck, and he knew she had felt it too.
They walked up the steps together, the silence between them now charged, fragile. Alok's mind raced, scrabbling for a thread, any thread, to hold onto.
It was Shree who wove it. "Aap commerce ke student hain na?" she asked, her voice thoughtful.
He blinked, surprised. "Haan. Aapko kaise—?"
"Kal result board par," she said simply. "Aap accounts ke topers mein the. Naam dekha tha." She stated it as a fact, an observation filed away by her keen mind. There was no flattery, only a quiet noting of reality that was more potent than any compliment.
The realization that she had not only seen him but seen his name sent another thrill through him. "Aur aap?" he managed.
"Political Science," she said, and the words carried a gravity that suited her completely—analytical, powerful, engaged with the world's chaos.
They reached the cool, hallowed quiet of the library, the air smelling of aged paper and polished wood. As they placed the books on the returns counter, their eyes met again over the stacked volumes. This time, the look held. It was a silent exchange, a current of mutual curiosity and unspoken understanding flowing freely in the hushed space. The world outside, the heat, the noise—it all ceased to exist. There was only this silent communion in the dim, dusty light.
Alok's chest felt tight, full. He wanted to say a hundred things, to stretch this moment into an hour.
But then, a voice called from the doorway, "Shree! Aa rahi hai?" Her friend stood there, impatient.
Shree broke the gaze, the moment receding like a tide. She turned to leave, then paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. "Thank you, Alok," she said again, her voice softer, meant only for him.
He stood frozen long after she had gone, the echo of his name on her lips a melody he could still hear, the ghost of her touch still tingling on his skin.
---
Over the next week, the campus seemed to shrink, conspiring to bring them together. In the crowded canteen queue, he found himself directly behind her, close enough to catch the faint scent of sandalwood in her hair. In a packed lecture hall for a guest talk, she took a seat two rows ahead, and he spent the hour tracing the elegant line of her neck as she listened, engrossed. Each encounter was a stolen brushstroke on a canvas they were unconsciously building together.
Their conversations grew, evolving from hesitant fragments into something richer. "Do you think ethics can ever be a constant in economics,or is it always a variable?" she asked once, genuinely curious about his perspective. He told her about a complex theorem he was solving,and instead of glazing over, she listened, her head tilted. "It sounds like a puzzle. Like finding the hidden logic in chaos." Once,complaining about the oppressive heat, she laughed—a real, unguarded sound that seemed to light up the space around them. "Kabhi kabhi lagta hai Dilli ka dhoop aur politics dono ek jaise hain—intense, exhausting, but you can't look away because everything important happens under them."
Ankit and Sandhya, his ever-observant friends, noted the transformation immediately. One evening, as they lounged on the hostel lawn, Sandhya nudged Ankit, her eyes glinting. "Dekho ise, Ankit. Yeh jo ladka pehle library ki fourth aisle ki chiriya tha, ab toh iske chehre pe woh smile aisi hai jaise uss aisle mein ab sirf ek hi kitaab bachi hai."
Alok flushed, shaking his head, but he couldn't suppress the smile they were mocking.
"Haan, haan," Ankit joined in, his grin wide. "Pehle iska dimaag sirf numbers mein atakta tha. Ab toh poora processor kisi aur cheez par lag gaya hai. Tu gaya, Alok. Poori tarah se."
Alok tried to wave them off, but the protest died on his lips. They were right. He was lost, and he had never felt more found.
---
One evening, as the fierce sun finally relented, bleeding into a palette of violet and deep orange, they found themselves walking side by side along a secluded garden path. The air was finally still and cool, carrying the heavy, sweet perfume of raat ki raani. The last of the sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting long, dancing shadows. Gulmohar petals, made velvety by the dusk, cushioned their every step.
The silence between them was no longer fragile; it was comfortable, full. The breeze picked up, whispering through the leaves, and it gently lifted a strand of hair from Shree's temple. This time, Alok didn't just glance. He turned his head and looked at her—truly looked—studying the way the fading light caught the specks of gold in her dark eyes, the gentle curve of her lips.
She felt his gaze and turned to meet it. A soft blush coloured her cheeks, but she didn't look away. Instead, a small, shy smile touched her mouth, and in her eyes, he saw a reflection of his own wonder.
In that suspended moment, the world hushed. The distant sounds of the campus faded into a muted hum. There was only the whisper of the wind, the scent of night flowers, and the palpable, electric space between their barely-touching hands. His blood sang in his veins, every sense heightened, hyper-aware of her presence beside him.
And in the quiet center of the storm, Alok's heart spoke a truth his lips hadn't yet dared to form:
This. This is what it begins like.