"Shehar-e-Kalam mein Ishq"-A story dipped in snowfall,silences and shared poetry!!💙❤️

Shimla, where silence rhymes with snow…

Winter wasn’t new to Shimla, but that particular season felt different — like every pine tree held a verse, every snowflake whispered a secret, and every streetlamp dreamed of two strangers destined to meet.

In the heart of that city, inside a vintage radio station with creaking wooden floors and old vinyls lining the walls, was RJ Noor — the velvet voice of the hills. He wasn’t your everyday radio jockey. No filmy masala. No loud jingles.

He whispered like midnight lullabies.

He spoke like your inner thoughts.

And when he recited poetry, it felt like the moon had a voice.

“तन्हाई जब भी हद से बढ़ती है,

मैं तुम्हें पढ़ लेता हूँ,

जैसे कोई दुआ सिरहाने रख दी हो

बेसब्री में।”

— Noor

Noor hosted a late-night radio show called “Sheher-e-Kalam” — a sanctuary of poems, heartbreaks, and unspoken letters. His voice came alive post 12 a.m., when the world quieted down enough to hear their own heartbeats.

But there was one listener who never missed a show — not for the songs, but for Noor’s last segment, where he read anonymous poetry mailed to him.

Always signed off as:

— Chandni

Chandni — The Girl Who Hid Behind Verses

Somewhere in a quiet corner of Shimla, lived Chandni, a literature postgrad who taught at a school by day, and turned into an anonymous poet by night. She never shared her name, her face, or her story. But she poured her entire soul into poems she sent to RJ Noor.

 “मैं वो चाँद हूँ जो रातों में छुपता नहीं,

मगर पहचानता कोई नहीं।

अल्फ़ाज़ मेरी औलाद हैं,

और दर्द उनका पिता।”

— Chandni

She wore simple suits, silver jhumkas, kajal-smudged eyes behind large reading glasses, and always carried a diary with dried rose petals pressed between pages. She was a poem herself.

And yet, she was scared of being seen.

Every night, she waited for Noor to read her poetry, hearing his voice coat her words with warmth she never knew she craved. She’d sit by her window with chai, as the city slept, and let her soul melt into radio waves.

She started writing just for him.

Their Silent Bond Grew

They never met.

Never spoke.

Yet something stirred each night.

Noor would pause slightly longer at her name.

Chandni would smile in the dark.

And slowly, Noor began to end every show with:

“Wherever you are, Chandni…

Tonight, your silence spoke louder than a hundred verses.”

The Poetry Night

One day, Noor announced on air:

“This Friday, as snow kisses our city again, let’s meet beneath the lanterns of love. A special midnight poetry gathering… And Chandni, if you’re listening — I hope you come. I owe you a voice.”

Chandni froze.

She panicked.

Should she go?

What if he recognized her?

What if he didn’t?

Still, her heart whispered:

 “कुछ मिलन, ज़रूरी होते हैं...

चाहे डर कितना भी गहरा क्यों न हो।”

That Night — Snow and Silence

The venue was an old colonial café called “Tea & Twilight”. Fairy lights dangled like soft constellations, warm cocoa steamed in ceramic cups, and soft jazz played in the backdrop of falling snow.

Noor stood on the little wooden stage, dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled just right, his hair tousled, and his deep brown eyes scanning the crowd, not for applause — but for a presence.

 “आज की रात एक सवाल है,

क्या वो चाँदनी इन बर्फ़ की रातों में उतरेगी?”

— Noor

The poetry session began.

And just then…

She arrived.

The First Glance

Chandni ran, breathless through snowflakes.

She entered quietly. Everyone turned. She stood glowing under the soft yellow lanterns.

Dressed in a simple white anarkali suit, long hair slightly wet from snow, silver earrings dancing, notebook hugged to her chest.

Noor’s breath caught. He stared.

Something inside him murmured:

“That’s her.”

She looked up — and their eyes met.

And just like that… the universe paused.

Her Turn on Stage

When her name was called — Chandni — the air thickened.

She walked with trembling steps, her anklets whispering against the wooden floor.

She adjusted the mic, looked at him once, and began:

“हर रात जिसे तुम पढ़ते हो,

वो मैं थी।

हर सर्द एहसास जो लफ़्ज़ बना,

वो मैं थी।

और आज…

मैं तुम्हारे सामने हूँ,

एक कविता की तरह खुली हुई,

मगर फिर भी अधूरी।”

Noor stood still, the mic clutched, heart storming.

She finished.

The audience clapped.

But the only sound Noor heard was her silence.

Post Performance: Not Lovers, Just Something Deeper

After the show, he walked to her.

Snowflakes melting on his eyelashes.

He extended his hand. “You’re real.”

She chuckled, eyes glassy, “So are you.”

They didn’t speak of love.

They didn’t need to.

They sat outside the café, sipping coffee, sharing their favorite lines.

Chandni: “तुम्हें देखकर लगता है जैसे कोई कविता सुन ली हो… बिना लिखे।”

Noor: “तुमसे मिलकर लगा... जैसे रब ने मेरी आवाज़ को जवाब दिया हो।”

The Days That Followed…

They met often after that — bookstores, chai stalls, libraries.

They argued over Faiz and Gulzar.

Wrote on tissue papers.

Texted verses at 2 a.m.

He would record her poetry.

She would draw his words in calligraphy.

And in between…

They fell — not head over heels, but slowly, rhythmically, like dusk turning to night.

 “हम इश्क़ में नहीं थे,

हम इश्क़ में थे ही नहीं...

हम तो बस…

दो लफ़्ज़ थे,

एक किताब में साथ-साथ रखे हुए।”

— Chandni

“तुम आहिस्ता हो,

जैसे बारिश की पहली बूंद।

मैं तिश्नगी हूँ —

बस तुम्हें थाम लेना चाहता हूँ।”

— Noor

But… This Isn’t The End

One snowy night, sitting near a fire at Mall Road, he looked at her and said:

“You know this… us... it feels like a poem that shouldn’t have an ending.”

She looked up and smiled, “Then don’t end it. Let’s keep writing.”

They never gave their relationship a name.

They just… kept being Noor and Chandni.

And as snow fell gently over their shoulders, their silence grew warmer than any spoken word.

Two souls — bound not by promises, but by shared poetry, shared pauses, and midnight frequencies.

Their story didn’t conclude in declarations or kisses.

It lingered… like verses you never want to finish.

Because some stories…

aren’t meant to end.

They’re meant to be written… again and again.

Somewhere in the hush of Shimla’s snow, two souls met — not like lovers in haste, but like forgotten poems finding rhythm again.

In a world of noise, they became each other’s silence.

Not a love story, but a slow-burning verse.

And in that quiet…

They were infinite. ❄️🖋️

✨ Dedication Page:

To the ones who love in silences,

who speak through poems and sighs.

To every soul who’s waited behind verses,

and every heart that found home in a voice they never touched.

May you find your Noor.

May you be someone’s Chandni.

With love,

— From a soul who believes that poetry isn’t written. It’s lived.

☆VT💙💫