Mitra, Where are you? - Bhaskar Sinha || English Story || English short story

 Mitra, Where are you?

        Bhaskar Sinha

I never thought I'd fall in love again. Most say that after a heartbreak, but I wasn't heartbroken, cynical, or even sad. I was simply someone who had once felt a love so profound that when I lost it, I believed it was irreplaceable. But life is long, and now, at 22, I feel stirrings of something deep and unfamiliar.

I've always been level-headed, nearly acing my courses, presentable in appearance, serious about my life and career. My friends joked about puppy love, but how could I ignore her charm? Her grace, her cheer, the lively conversations held through her expressive eyes captivated me since childhood. Her presence was fluid, her aura luminous—she was my dream girl, my goddess, the star that lit up my youthful sky. The twinkle in her eyes mesmerized me; her smile left me speechless, hypnotized as if by a magician’s spell.

Reflecting on it all, it seemed as though a higher power had effortlessly assembled the pieces of our story. With my eyes closed, memories would play: there I was, on a balcony in the summer air, drawn irresistibly to her.

Our college days felt predestined—after classes, we were pulled together as if by a magnetic coil activated. Our relationship was more than platonic; it was a mingling of mind and body, pure and profound. She adored my poetry and songs, and I, her eloquent speeches. Hours would pass as I absorbed her words, each one a pearl. She was also an exceptional painter, and I, her willing muse, began my photography using her as my model.

Life in her parents’ outbuilding stood still; only love seemed permanent, all else secondary. She was madly in love with me. On a stormy day, a dry leaf blew into the bedroom before the windows shut. She picked it up and wrote that the impending rain beckoned us to the forest. There, amid Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati adorned with forest flowers, the fragrance of wet earth and the slick forest floor beneath us, we were wild, the world around us fading away. All that existed were we, like Adam and Eve, seeking unity. I whispered,

"For God’s sake, hold your tongue, and let me love…"

Then came that eventful night, her cousin unexpectedly staying in the boys’ hostel guest room, igniting a night of turmoil—fire and butter, as my mother would say. The aftermath saw me in a fervent rush to explain, to make sense of the chaos. But despite efforts to sever ties, love found a way back, and all past messages, those fragmented letters and poems, drifted away on the low tides of Kalisayar Lake.

The day I proposed wasn't poetic but raw and real, by a canal as the waters rushed to the sea. Her response was cautious, yet her determination to seek her mother’s counsel echoed my own resolve to not let her go unanswered. I'll never forget our first meaningful, passionate kiss—it was breathtaking.

Yet, running a family required more than passion; compromise was key. As expectations mounted, so did our egos, clashing until I saw my teary-eyed mother and knew something had to give. Then, as Tito arrived and we adopted Riya, the impacts of our struggles on young minds became apparent. Eventually, the realization dawned that we couldn't continue under one roof.

Enter Mitra, like a gentle rain after a harsh summer. Her presence revived my spirit; I began singing again, my life filled with music, drama, and performances. She whispered,

"See you make your way through the crowd and say hello... Little did I know that you are Romeo."

Love, I've learned, isn't planned. It's destiny, perhaps. Mitra had her past struggles—Anrytyo, a constant torment in her life. Yet, when he learned of us, his malice peaked. I encouraged her to break free, and together, we began anew. She not only reignited my creative passions but helped stitch together a sweet home from what remained.

Divorce, however, is messy, especially in India. The courts, the media—it's overwhelming. Yet, through mutual understanding and endless legal meetings, we finalized it. I returned, elated, ready for our future.

But when I arrived, no one was home. Raka, Jan, Mitra—all were gone, unreachable. No trace of them remains, and I am still searching... W

here are you, Mitra?