It’s been six months in Mumbai, and the city still feels like an unfinished puzzle. The bustling streets, the suffocating humidity, the smell of vada pav mixing with the diesel fumes—it all, in different ways, greets and upsets me every day. Moreover, my room is right on the main street, and I was yet to adjust to traffic that growls and honks at three in the morning. Yet, a part of me remains adrift, untested by Mumbai chaos, tethered to someone hundreds of kilometres away in a small town. The waiting game and the hunger to meet her were no longer satisfied with the letters and the calls.
Smitakshi and I trade letters to remain in touch. What began as a ritual—two letters a week, meticulously penned and read repeatedly—has now decreased to one every fortnight. The number of phone calls, however, has increased. She mostly calls from the post office, and when I have to call, it is the phone at the girl’s hostel common room. Her calls are long, and we can engage in all kinds of subjects, but my calls are curtailed due to privacy issues at the hostel. And the waiting game for the next call starts much before this one finishes.
nitially, Saturday was our sacred day, the one phone call that kept us sane or less insane. It was what we had to wait for. Lately, however short, the hunger for the conversations has grown. Now we talk twice a week and sometimes thrice. Her voice is the balm to my weary evenings and all the problems I may face in the new city, but these calls also amplify the already intense longing for togetherness.
There’s an unspoken acknowledgement of the distance between us—not just physical but the subtle erosion of moments we once took for granted. The warmth of her hand in mine, her head on my shoulder during long rides, she clutching me as we ride the bike, the laughter, the silences that didn’t need filling—all of it feels like another lifetime. Letters and calls cannot do everything. They can’t bridge the gap, not always. Our love, though resilient, demands more when it’s stretched across miles.
I have always been honest with her, perhaps brutally too honest. The truth is, I don’t make much. Mumbai’s spiralling cost of living chews through my limited paycheck before the month ends. Her monthly allowance is not only too comfortable for a college student but also a constant reminder of our disparity.
At some stage, I have talked to her about it. I told her, “If you see a future with me, start curtailing your spending. We need to learn to live with limited resources. I don’t need training in it- as my life has always been like that, but you, the pampered child of a politician with a bright future- need to do something.” She laughed it off, calling me her “practical lover.” But I wonder—can love survive on stolen moments and limited resources?
She shares updates, little victories, and minor complaints about college life. Sometimes, I get glimpses of her world from juniors and other friends in the town. She’s managing better than we feared, navigating Yashpal’s lingering shadow and the prying eyes of a campus that is never short on adding fuel to the fire and gossip. But still, there’s the ache of not being there, not being the one she can lean on when she needs it most. Or maybe it is the other way around!
The calendar on the back of the front door mocks me. I haven’t been home since moving to Mumbai. My parents drop hints in their subtle way, asking when I’ll make time for family. But I have no answer. It all depends on how Smitikashi and I manage. I am not guilty of placing my need for Smitakashi much above their need to meet me.
If I visit during the festivals, my chances of seeing Smitakshi are almost zero. Her family insists that she visit them. I can go to Jaipur. The idea seems preposterous. How would I explain it? Who would I be to her family, to her city? Will I ever be able to meet her in that protective, constrained environment? She is, after all, the daughter of a Minster.
The romantic image of her alone in the hostel, while other students pack up for home, is too much. She is the lone student – because she wants to meet me. I know she’s strong, but loneliness can be a cruel companion. Then there is the ritual of vacating the hostel during Diwali vacations when all the repair work and maintenance take over.
“When are we going to meet again?” is a question that comes up in every call, every letter. It is like a ghost we can’t banish. We don’t talk about it much, not in detail and allow it to hang mid-air, thinking it will vanish by itself. It is easier that way, safer. But the truth is, the uncertainty is a weight we both carry.
The days blend into each other here. I wake up, go to work, return to my rented matchbox of a room, and sometimes wonder if I’m just wasting time. I remind myself that these minor sacrifices and the waiting game are the scaffolding of a future we both must believe in. But doubts do creep in at night, whispering the kind of fears that daylight would dismiss as irrational. How long can we endure this? Two years feel like a lifetime- how long will the waiting game go on like this?
And yet, Simtakashi and I do what we can. We cling to hope, to each other’s words, to the strong belief that love will find a way.
Someday soon, I tell myself. Someday, there will be no distance, no calls that must end quickly, no letters that take too long to write and arrive. No absence that amplifies fear. Until then, we have to option but to play the waiting game.
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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
