Lasting Moments

Pia Gupte was 29 when she returned to Pune after five years in Singapore. She had been working as a senior brand strategist for a luxury skincare firm, crafting campaigns that sold dreams in glass jars. Her life there was sleek, efficient, and lonely. Now, she was back in the city of monsoons and memories, nicely attired in a beige top with cigarette pants, minimalist gold earrings, and a watch gifted by Kapil Diwan — her boss, her confidant, her almost-fiancé. The watch was expensive, understated, and told time with a quiet authority—much like Kapil himself.

Akhil Prabhu, 30, was once the idealist who scribbled verses on the back of lab reports. He was now much more practical in his apprach and look out as a senior researcher at CSIR-NCL, studying polymer degradation and the slow decay of things once thought permanent. He lived in a modest flat in Aundh, surrounded by books, succulents, and silence. When Pia messaged — “Can we meet? Vaishali, 5 PM?”—he paused, then replied, “Sure. But not Vaishali, it’s too crowded. I’ll share you the location.”

They met at a recently renovated old restaurant. They had been once inseparable. They were undeclared college sweethearts, who shared filter coffee and future plans under the banyan tree near Kimaya at Fergusson College. But ambition has its own gravity. Pia’s career took her to Singapore, while Akhil stayed behind, chasing research grants and quiet purpose. The calls grew shorter, the silences longer. Eventually, they stopped trying. Yet now, after five years, they were meeting again. The air was heavy with expectation.

Some hearts wait like unopened letters,
Some meetings bloom in silent fetters.

Akhil walked in first wearing a pale yellow shirt, sleeves rolled, jeans slightly faded. He looked older, leaner, his eyes quieter. Pia arrived, scanning the crowd for familiarity. They hugged briefly, awkwardly. Jagjit’s “Chitthi Na koi Sandes” played softly in the back ground.

“So, was it the Jagjit Singh playlist that you chose this place? Back then you breathed Jagjit.” Pia smiled quietly. Her eyes expressing familiarity.

Akhil paused then replied,” Yes, I still play Jagjit while working. He helps soothe the chaos at work.”

They ordered filter coffee. The conversation began with pleasantries—work, weather, mutual friends. Then came the pause, the one that always precedes truth.

“Hmm. You are the same, but you look... different,” Pia tried to force a smile.

“So do you,” Akhil smiled. “Singapore suits you. The hair is now cropped short.”

“I guess it does. The work keeps me busy. Kapil says I’ve become too efficient.”

“Kapil?”

“My boss... and a very good friend.” She left it at that.

Akhil didn’t prod. He nodded, masking the flicker in his chest.

“I’ve been working on biodegradable polymers,” he offered.

“That sounds important.”

“It is. Slow work, though. Like healing.”

“I remember your poems. Do you still write?”

“Not much. These days it’s more about chemicals and equations. Equations are quieter.”

“I miss those days. The banyan tree, your scribbles.”

“They were simpler.”

“Yes. Kapil says simplicity is overrated. But I’m not sure.”

Akhil looked out the window. A boy was selling roses in the traffic. Red, yellow, white. All fading by dusk. He thought-

Love once bloomed in hues divine,

Now scattered like petals lost to time.

 They walked to Ferguson College, past the tea stalls and the old bookstore. Their banyan tree was still there, but the bench had a new coat of paint.

Like roots entwined beneath the ground,

Their bond wore polish, but lost its sound

“I used to think you’d come back,” Akhil said. “Every Diwali, every birthday, I’d imagine you walking through that door.”

“I wanted to. But Kapil needed me. The Singapore office was expanding. He said I was indispensable.”

“Yes, you were always brilliant.”

“Don’t know about that but Kapil believes in me. He’s grounded. Knows how to navigate reality.”

“You mention him a lot.”

“Do I? Sorry. It’s just... he’s been there with me for the past five years. Through everything.”

Akhil didn’t respond. He understood. In the lab, he had learned that some bonds break not because of force, but entropy.

Some ties dissolve not in thunder’s cry,
But in the hush where goodbyes lie.

He had tried to move on. Therapy, work, solitude. In the past two years, he had accepted that Pia wouldn’t return—not without losing something vital. And now, even as she sat beside him, he felt the distance like a third presence in the room.

They met again two days later, at Akhil’s apartment. Pia brought homemade modak’s — her mother’s recipe. Akhil made tea. In the background Jagjit was singing Koi Samjhega Kya Raaz-E-Gulshan. They sat on the balcony, watching the rain.

Pia leaned against the balcony railing, the rain softening into mist. Akhil handed her a cup of tea, their fingers brushing briefly. She looked at him, hesitant.

“That day you said, I talk about Kapil a lot, don’t I?” she asked, her voice low.

Akhil turned his head to look at her and nodded, not immediately, answering. “Yes. You do.”

She sighed. “Does it bother you?”

He took a sip of tea, then met her eyes. “It doesn’t bother me. It just tells me something.”

“What?”

“Where your heart is.” He spoke directly.

Pia looked away, watching the raindrops gather on the railing. “I wish I knew. Some days I feel like I’m split in two.”

Akhil’s voice was gentle. “You’re not split. You’re just trying to carry two truths at once.”

She turned to him. Suddenly her voice trembled. “I loved you, Akhil. I still do. That hasn’t changed.”

“I loved you too. And it was beautiful while it lasted. And… maybe I still do. But love... it’s not always enough, is it?”

She turned to face him. “I thought maybe we could start again. Pick up the pieces. Try.”

“We’re trying... for the last few days since you came,” he said, with a sad smile. “But it feels like we’re reading lines from a play we once wrote.”

“I know,” Pia whispered. “And we’re not the same characters anymore” , she thought.

“The ending changed,” Akhil said. “And by the time the climax comes, maybe the story will change too.”

“I keep thinking,” Pia said slowly, “that if I can just remember who I was with you, maybe I’ll find my way back.”

“You were luminous, Pia” Akhil said. “You lit up rooms. But somewhere along the way, the rooms changed.”

“I didn’t want to,” she said, her voice cracking. “Kapil offered certainty. Stability. A future I could measure.”

“And all I had then was poetry,” Akhil said, not bitter, just honest.

“I remember that time I had said, poetry doesn’t pay rent,” Pia said, trying to smile.

“Yes,” Akhil agreed. “But it keeps the soul alive.”

“I wish I could have both,” she said.

Akhil looked at her. For a moment he thought, the rain behind her looked like a curtain of memories. “Some wishes,” he said softly, “are meant to stay folded in diaries. Pressed between pages we don’t open anymore.”

Pia didn’t reply. She just stood there, tea cooling in her hands, the ache between them growing quieter, deeper.

They sat in silence. The rain grew heavier. She left after some time.

Later that night, Akhil found a poem Pia had written in his old notebook:

Some loves appear in the monsoon's grace,
Then vanish like dew with no trace..
They glisten with hope, then vanish in light,
Leaving behind a memory’s bite.

The next evening, Pia came again to meet him at his office. She wore a simple cotton dress, hair tied in a bun, no makeup. Akhil was in his lab coat, hands stained with dye. They met in a room next to the reception.

“I’m going back,” she said.

“I figured.” He heard himself say even as he tried hard to suppress the lump in his throat.

“I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Pia.”

Her eyes started to well. “I wish things were different. Do you think we’ll ever—”

He thought of holding her hands and pulling her close, but suddenly aware that they were in his office.

“No,” he said gently. “We had our moment. It was beautiful. But it passed.”

She smiled sadly. “This morning, I spoke to Kapil. He said he wants me to be honest with my feelings.”

“That kind of certainty is not seen often. Hold on to it.”

Her eyes welled up. “I wanted to stay. But I think we’re walking different roads.”

“We are. And some roads don’t meet, even if the hearts do.”

They hugged lightly, one last time, as she turned and left. She walked without looking back. Akhil watched her walking away from the lab window. She didn’t turn back. He didn’t expect her to. He closed his eyes and thought-

She came like a season—intense and unforgettable.
But seasons fade, and I’ve learned to bloom in winter

He returned to his desk. In the background Jagjit was singing Tere Khushboo Mein Base Khat…