UNFINISHED POEM AT CHARMINAR!!💜💙
Hyderabad at sunset.
The golden light softened the rough stones of Charminar, turning it into a monument of dreams rather than history. The evening bazaar around it hummed with life—vendors selling bangles that glittered like tiny galaxies, the sharp aroma of kebabs rising from a corner, and the sound of a flute played by a street artist melting into the city’s noise.
Among this chaos sat Vishva.
A professor by profession, yet here she wasn’t a teacher. She was an artist with her canvas—a girl in a white chikankari kurta, silver earrings catching the light, blue jeans folded slightly at the ankle, long hair open like an untamed river. Her brush moved gently, not copying the Charminar but translating what she felt about it. Her wide eyes carried a kind of stillness—a stillness not everyone could understand.
Not far away, Ved walked with his friends, a group of boys excited for their band’s night show. His shirt—white, not fully buttoned—fluttered slightly in the breeze. Blue jeans, perfect hair, but it was his eyes that held stories untold. He was an IT engineer by day, but his true heartbeat was in the drumsticks he carried in his backpack.
And then it happened—
his gaze fell on her.
She was not extraordinary in the world’s sense, but something about the way she painted, completely lost, made him pause. He stopped mid-step, ignoring the laughter of his friends. And just then, she lifted her eyes from the canvas.
Their eyes met.
For a second, the whole bazaar quieted.
Not love.
Not recognition.
Something else—something unnamed, like the feeling you get when you read a line in a book that feels written only for you.
Ved walked closer, his steps slow, almost cautious.
“Painting Charminar?” he asked, his voice carrying both curiosity and a strange gentleness.
Vishva tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Not Charminar as it looks… Charminar as it feels.”
That one sentence struck him like a rhythm hitting perfectly on beat.
He chuckled softly. “Feels? And how does it feel?”
She looked at the monument, then at him. “Like a poem that forgot to end.”
For a boy who spoke through music, her words felt like a melody.
He sat beside her on the stone step.
“I play the drums,” Ved confessed after a pause, almost embarrassed.
“Engineer by profession, drummer by soul. Tonight, there’s a show. But somehow… this feels like a bigger stage.”
She glanced at him, curiosity in her wide eyes.
“You talk like an artist too.”
That was how it began.
They met again, not planned, but as if Hyderabad itself conspired.
At Hussain Sagar Lake, she sketched the water while he tapped soft beats on the bench.
At a cafe in Banjara Hills, she brought books, he brought headphones, and they exchanged silence like a gift.
At bookshops in Jubilee Hills, she wandered between poetry shelves while he got lost in biographies of musicians.
One day, while sipping coffee, Vishva told him,
“You know, my students think I teach them literature. But what I really teach them is how to feel words.”
Ved grinned, resting his chin on his palm. “And my colleagues think I’m coding all day. But what I’m really doing is waiting for the evening when I can play. Funny how both of us live double lives.”
They laughed. They questioned. They argued.
But above all—they listened.
One evening, under the purple sky, Ved asked softly:
“Tell me honestly, Vishva… what are we?”
She was quiet for a long time, then whispered,
“Something words can’t name. Not love. Not just friendship. Something softer… something stronger.”
Ved exhaled, as though relieved.
“Yes. You’re right. Some bonds are too rare to be locked into a definition.”
And in that silence, both of them knew—they had found comfort, not possession.
A Promise at Charminar
Weeks later, they returned to Charminar, standing exactly where they had first met. The bazaar buzzed the same, the sunset looked similar, yet everything had changed.
Ved looked at her, his eyes glimmering.
“This is not the end of our story, Vishva. Maybe it’s not even the beginning. Maybe… it’s just a pause.”
Vishva smiled, her eyes reflecting the gold of the sky.
“Yes. Some stories don’t end. They just keep walking beside us, quietly, waiting for the right chapter.”
🌿 From Vishva’s Diary:
Not every bond must bloom as love,
Some stay as stars, watching from above.
Not every path must end in forever,
Some are journeys, endless, together.
✨ And so, their story rested—not finished, not forgotten. Just paused. For the universe to turn its pages later.
