Broken Constellations

It had been raining consistently for the past few days. And Pune in 2025 had degenerated from a warm and cosy town to a city of problems. Monsoon had softened the city’s edges. Rain clung to the bougainvillea vines spilling over compound walls, and the air smelled faintly of wet stone and old books. 

In a quiet corner of Model Colony, a small café with fogged-up windows waited for its usual crowd of students and freelancers. But today, it hosted something rarer—a reunion. 

Aarav Gokhale arrived five minutes early. He always did. Punctuality, he believed, was a form of respect. He chose a table by the window, ordered a black coffee, and stared out at the drizzle. His fingers tapped the rim of the cup, not from impatience but from anticipation laced with dread. 

He and Radhika Deshpande were an quite a pair during college. He hadn’t seen Radhika in thirteen years. They had met during their postgraduate days at Pune University—he in Urban Sociology, she in Political Science. 

He remembered her as a storm in the library: fierce, articulate, and always slightly disheveled, like her thoughts were too urgent to wait for grooming. Their debates had been legendary. Their love, quiet and intense, like a candle burning in a locked drawer. 

She had messaged him two days ago: “In Pune for a seminar. Want to meet?”

He was surprised and stared at the screen for a long time before replying: “Yes. Let’s.”

 Now, as she walked in, he saw that time had not dulled her. Her hair was shorter, streaked with grey. Unlike the colourful college days, today her kurta was plain, her eyes still sharp. She smiled—tentatively, like someone approaching a familiar song after years of silence.

 “Aarav,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite him. “You look... settled.”

He smiled. “You look... unchanged.”

 They sat. The silence between them was not awkward—it was ceremonial. Like two historians meeting to verify a shared past…. A thirteen-year-old past.

 The conversation attempted to begin formally on a neutral terrain. Work. Weather. Books.

“I read your piece on the redevelopment of slum clusters,” she said. “The one where you called it ‘a vertical betrayal.’”

“You didn’t agree?”

“I did. But I also thought—sometimes betrayal is the price of progress.”

He looked at her. “That’s what they said about the Emergency.”

She flinched, just slightly. “You still do that. Turn everything into a historical indictment.”

“And you still believe reform can be ethical.”

“And siding with those who spread hate in the name of nationalism – Is that ethical?” she smiled again.

 Their smiles were polite. Their words, gently rehearsed.

 We built our truths on distant sand,

Each wave retreating from the land.

Yet memory’s tide returns each time,

Its rhythm echoing your rhyme.

 

I walk a path you do not tread,

Where silence speaks the words unsaid.

Though time has pulled our hearts apart,

Your voice still lingers in my heart

 

Radhika had become a policy advisor for a progressive think tank in Delhi. She worked on digital rights, minority protections, and electoral reforms. Aarav had stayed in academia, teaching urban theory at a liberal arts college in Pune. He published essays, gave lectures, and quietly mentored students who reminded him of Radhika.

 “I saw your name on a petition last year,” he said. “The one against the surveillance bill.”

“I drafted it.”

“I didn’t sign.”

“I know.” She smiled.

 He looked down. “I wanted to. But I couldn’t reconcile it.”

She didn’t press. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. That’s the thing. We keep saying it’s okay. But it’s not.”

 She stirred her coffee. A moment later she said, “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe we don’t have to agree. Maybe we just have to understand.”

 He smiled sadly. “That’s what I used to think. But understanding without agreement feels like standing in the rain without an umbrella.”

“And agreement without understanding feels like a script.”

 They sat in silence again. This time, it was heavier.

 You speak of justice, bold and clear,

I speak of place, of roots held dear.

We both defend what feels so right,

Yet miss the shadows in our light.

 

Between our truths, a silence grows,

Where neither bends, and no one knows.

Still in that space, so wide and long,

I wonder if love will still belong

 

Their relationship had always been a constellation—bright points connected by invisible lines. But constellations are illusions. Stars don’t actually touch. They only appear to.

 “I never stopped thinking about you,” she said after another awkward silence.

“I never stopped writing about you.” He replied.

She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Not directly. But you’re in the margins. In the metaphors.”

She smiled. “I’m honored.”

“You should be. You’re the only person I ever argued with and still wanted to kiss.”

She laughed. “You never did.”

“You never let me.”

“Because I knew it would complicate things.”

“It was already complicated.” He replied.

They both looked away avoiding eye contact.

 I wrote you in whispers and margins thin,

In pages lost where thoughts begin.

You were the comma I left behind,

The breath between my tangled mind

 

In essays buried, never heard,

You lived between each silent word.

A pause that echoed, soft and wide—

A ghost my pen could never hide.

 

He remembered the night she had left. A protest had turned violent. She had been arrested briefly. He had written an op-ed criticizing the movement’s tactics. She had called him a coward. He had called her reckless. The words had cut deeper than intended.

 “I was angry,” she said now. “But I also knew you were scared.”

“I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared for you.”

“I know.” She said and looked at him intently.

He looked at her. “Why did you never come back?”

She paused. “Because I didn’t know if you’d still be there.”

He nodded. “I wasn’t.”

 The café grew louder. A group of college students laughed at a nearby table. A couple argued softly over a phone bill.

Radhika leaned forward. “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t let politics get in the way?”

“All the time.”

“I used to think we were just too stubborn. But now I think we were afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of being wrong. Of loving someone who didn’t see the world the same way.”

Aarav nodded. “You once told me that ideology was intimacy. That sharing beliefs was more intimate than sharing a bed.”

“I still believe that.”

“But isn’t love bigger than belief?”

 They looked at each other silently. The years between them folded like paper.

 

We were two verses, worlds apart,

Each speaking from a different heart.

We tried to rhyme through wind and rain,

But found no shelter from the strain

 

You held your fire, I stood my line,

Both guarding truths we called divine.

Yet in that storm, so fierce and wide,

No warmth remained on either side..

 

“I should go,” she said, gathering her bag.

He nodded. “I’ll walk you out.”

 They stepped into the damp, moist evening. The air smelled of wet earth and old memories.

At the curb, she turned to him. “You know, Aarav... I think love can survive disagreement. But not silence.”

He looked at her. “I think love is silence. The kind that doesn’t need words.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “Maybe we were both right.”

 “Or both wrong.” He said to himself.

 They stood there for a moment, two broken stars orbiting each other one last time.

Then she got into the cab. He watched it disappear into the Pune traffic.

And just like that, the night swallowed their reunion—quietly, completely, and without ceremony. The city continued with its evening bustle.

 

We were constellations sketched too fast,

In fleeting dreams that couldn’t last.

The stars we named were out of place,

Yet still I trace your vanished face

 

Now when the night is calm and wide,

And silence hums on every side,

I scan the heavens, soft and sheer—

Still searching for what won’t appear.