CHAPTER 15- Story with an undisclosed destination.The university had never felt as stifling as it did after the incident. In a place where stories moved faster than footsteps and curiosity outpaced caution, the news of Smitakshi’s father’s meeting with the dean and warden had spread like wildfire. Everyone knew. They knew she had been warned, and her parents had been summoned from Rajasthan without her knowledge. She had made promises that were going to be tough to live by. They knew about Smitakshi and me.
So, when we walked into the campus, every glance felt probing, and every whisper seemed louder. Some looked at her with sympathy, others with a kind of quiet judgment, and a few even with a hint of satisfaction. The conservative girls, who had always stayed strictly within the imposed boundaries, never thinking of experiencing the fancy flight of freedom, turned colder. Their looks weren’t of open disdain but more of disappointment, perhaps even relief—maybe it was gratifying to see that even the bold Smitakshi could falter, that the limit of her courage challenged. They wore it on their faces, the unspoken reminder that daring came with consequences. Promises sometime becomes a burden.
But not everyone changed. Our brighter, younger friends—those who saw the value in living life fully despite the risks—stayed by her side. They smiled at her in the corridors, their expressions unwavering, a simple nod, a “you’re still one of us.” Simitakshi needed it. I could see her eyes lit up every time someone gave her that little show of support. Still, something had shifted in her, and though she did not say much, I could feel the weight of the warning and untold visit of the parents pressing her down.
Our routines, once so carefree, changed. Gone were our rides through town, those glorious afternoons spent wandering the streets and quiet alleys where we could be alone, laughing and sharing dreams over cups of tea. Even the simple pleasure of standing together in the dim corridors of the campus was a risk we could no longer afford. She was cautious, slipping into her shell whenever the dean or one of the stricter professors passed by. I was doing my best to respect her boundaries, but a part of me ached for the ease we once had—the freedom to be together without the fear of prying eyes constantly watching us.
One afternoon, as we sat in the library, she shared the full weight of what her father had told her. The elections were soon to be announced, and he was to fight for the parliamentary seat. This was more than just another election cycle—it was his chance to represent the region and gain the kind of influence he’d worked for his whole life. And in this crucial time, the last thing he could afford was a scandal, especially involving his daughter. He had asked her, quietly but firmly, to consider the implications. For a man who had always been pragmatic, it was apparent what his choice would be—family would come second to ambition.
“The opposition would tear him apart,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the library. “They’d dig for anything they could use against him, and… well, my loving someone outside the community—” she looked away, her voice faltering for a second—“it would be an opportunity they wouldn’t let go.”
The words felt oppressive. I felt angry at the reality because I knew she was right. Smitakshi’s father had promised her that they would discuss things once the elections were over. But even in his vague reassurances, he held little favour or promise for us. I couldn’t shake the feeling that, in his mind, it was just a youthful distraction, and he expected her to move on. And I knew she felt the brittleness of the promise in the mirror of life.
We continued sitting, each lost in our thoughts. Her eyes avoided my questioning eyes, and after a minute of silence, she slowly slid a piece of folded paper across to me. I opened it under the table, my heart pounding with dread. It was one of those notes she’d begun writing ever since we first realised things were getting serious, those little declarations of hope or fragments of worry she felt safer writing than saying aloud.
The words on the paper hit me like a blow.
“Maybe we are not meant to be together in this life. Maybe we need another life—maybe we will be together then.”
I looked up, and she met my gaze, her eyes brimming with defiance and vulnerability. Her smile was brittle, just a mask, something she’d learned to wear even when she felt like breaking inside.
“Smitakshi…” I said, reaching for her hand. She looked around, a flash of caution passing over her face, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she let me hold her hand, and in that moment, the library, the gossip, and the stifling expectations all faded away. In the crowded hall full of students – we were alone in a miniature universe we’d built within the chaos.
I looked into her eyes and said the only thing I could. “I’m here. And I’ll always be here. I’m with you in this, no matter what. I promise.”
At that moment, I remembered a line I’d once read: In the middle of the desert, a man finds a fully furnished apartment. It’s perfect except for one detail: no door. I wondered if that was our situation. Here we were, surrounded by what should be comfort—books, dreams, promises, hope, ambition —but all without a way out. We were trapped in our little world, perfect and complete, with no door to the freedom we both craved.
I had no plan, no concrete promises to give her.
My words hung in the air, fragile but filled with everything I felt, everything I couldn’t yet make real. Her hand tightened around mine, a small act of rebellion against the invisible chains we both felt tightening around us.
She smiled for the first time in days—a genuine smile that reached her eyes. It was fleeting, a flicker of something that had been, but it was enough. In that brief moment, we had reclaimed a small part of what had been ours. It wasn’t the freedom we had enjoyed before, but it was something, something that was enough to carry us through.
The silence stretched, a bit comfortable now, and I knew that whatever storm lay ahead of us, we’d weather it together. As we sat there, hand in hand, I realised that I didn’t need a grand plan or any promises. All I needed was the strength to stand by her, to be her anchor, even when the world seemed set against us.
She tucked the note back into her bag, and as we left the library, we exchanged a quiet nod, an unspoken understanding passing between us. Things were changing; maybe the world was pressing harder than ever. But I would hold her hand through it all if only to remind her that she didn’t have to face it alone.
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This story with an undisclosed destination started as part of the @BlogChatter event #BlogChatterBlogHop, where I started weaving a story based on the weekly word prompts suggested by BlogChatter. However, after the 5th weekly prompt- Blogchatter took a break, but I continued to develop the story based on the prompts friends and readers suggested on social media. Do suggest some word prompts for the next chapter. And if you want ( which I wish you do) read the whole story- here are the rest of the chapters. https://sanjeevkotnala.com/category/story-undisclosed-destination/ and to start the first chapter – Rainy evening in a resort at Mukhteshwar
