“The Ember That Never Died”

  (A tale of love, silence, and the fire that memory keeps alive)

That day was a Saturday. I had just stepped out of a government office in Connaught Place around 2:30 in the afternoon. As I walked toward the metro station, I saw her—coming from the opposite direction. She saw me too.

“Vivek!” she called out, rushing toward me. For a moment, it felt like she wanted to embrace me. But just as she reached me, she stopped. She looked just the same. Slender, radiant, her Punjabi complexion still glowing—only her hair had turned slightly grey. Her face shimmered with both joy and fear.

“You haven’t changed at all,” I said. “You look exactly as you did thirty-five years ago.” She laughed. “Neither have you—except for the white hair.” I smiled. “We’ve aged. Shall we go to the Coffee House? We could talk.” Without thinking, I took her hand in mine, and we began walking.

It must have been August 1981. I had landed a temporary job at a traders’ association in Rajendra Place. She worked nearby, in another company. We were the same age. She lived in Tilak Nagar. We met on a chartered bus. She was in her final year of B. Com, struggling with accounts. I was good at it. On Sundays, she’d come to my place to study.

One day, after a study session, I was walking her to Jail Road. A few bikers from my neighbourhood passed us, staring oddly. I realized my hand was resting on her shoulder. Embarrassed, I withdrew it and said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

She took my hand and placed it back on her shoulder. Smiling, she said, “You fool. You understand nothing.” She had fallen in love.

Back then, offices closed early on Saturdays. After work, we’d watch movies at Rachna Cinema Hall. We wandered through Buddha Garden like Bollywood lovers.

But fate had other plans. It was likely September 1982. She hadn’t met me in days. One afternoon, her colleague came to my office with a message: “Vivek, don’t try to meet her.”

“What happened?” I asked. Her friend explained: Her father had proposed her marriage to her elder brother’s friend. She refused, saying, “How could you even think I’d marry that drunkard?” Her brother exploded. “I told you not to let her work. She’s probably flirting outside.” She snapped back, “Yes, I do. What will you do? He’s not liked your drunk friend. He’s clean, and from a good Brahmin family.”

Her father lost control. In those days, the air in Delhi was thick with Khalistani tension. He removed his belt and beat her, trying to force her to tell my name. But she didn’t utter a word. Her mother somehow saved her. Her brother swore to find and beat me. Two or three days later, he came to my office. “She had an accident,” he said. “She won’t be coming back.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “She has a boyfriend. She wants to meet him. I need to deliver her message.” His expression triggered my sixth sense. I replied, “We’re just office friends. I don’t know what she does outside.”

"He muttered", I will handle him myself.

Even our manager suspected something was wrong. The next day, we visited her home. Only her mother was there. While making tea, she said, “Tell Vivek, not to try meeting me for a few months. My brother is trying to go to Canada. Once he leaves, I’ll meet Vivek myself.”

In November, I got a government job. Our financial situation improved. By January 1983, we moved to a flat in Hari Nagar.

One day, I visited her office. Her friend said, “She never came back. I visited her home—it was locked. Her father sold their house to send her brother to Canada and bought a flat somewhere else in Delhi. Where would I even begin to search? My love story ended—unfinished."

Over coffee, she asked, “How’s your family?”

“I lost track of you,” I said quietly. “After I turned twenty-five, I married the girl my mother chose. We have two children now—one’s already married. And you? What path did your life take?

She replied, “Six months after my brother left for Canada.  A week later of his departure, my parents met with an accident. A truck hit their scooter. My father was bedridden. My mother too, for a year. I had no time to think of myself. He sold the shop, invested the money. We survived on the interest from our savings and the remittances my brother sent from abroad. "A year after the accident, my mother took her first steps again, leaning on a walker. I tried to reach you, but you were gone. The friend who might have known had left the office. I had no thread left to follow."

Her brother married in Canada and stopped sending money. Their savings dwindled. She began tutoring at home and prepared for government exams. By late 1986, she got a job. She found out I was married. Her voice trembled: 'I was shattered. Maybe I was meant to serve my parents—that was my fate. And perhaps that’s why destiny pulled us apart.'"

“How are they now?” I asked. “Father passed away after four or five years. He was the only son—his my brother, I mean but he didn’t even come for the funeral. I performed the rites myself. Mother broached the subject of my marriage. But how could I leave her? She passed away last year. Now I’m alone.”

After a pause, I asked, “Will you give me your address and phone number? In case…”

She took my right hand in hers. Her touch burned with intensity. “Vivek,” she said softly, I’ve touched only one man in my life. When the nights grow restless, I remember your touch—it still calms me. That single moment of love… it’s enough to carry me through this life.” After a deep sigh, she added, Don’t ask for my address. Don’t ask for my number. If you see me again, walk the other way. Don’t come near me. If the dam of my emotions breaks, we’ll both be consumed. Even your family will be destroyed.” Her breath quickened. Her voice trembled. She stood up, grabbed her purse, and walked swiftly in the opposite direction. She didn’t look back.

I sat there, stunned. Tears welled in my eyes. Her touch still burned on my skin. She had ignited from within, yet she held herself together—and left, carrying my touch into the silence of her life.

For many nights, I couldn’t sleep. Questions haunted me. Why didn’t I search for her? Why did I rush into marriage? Why couldn’t I wait? But the past never answers. We are all slaves to fate.

She had learned about my life yet never came looking. Not once. She didn’t want her shadow to fall across the happiness I had built. By then, she was a gazetted officer—her name, her address, her number… none of it was hidden. But I never searched. Maybe I was afraid of what I’d find. Or worse, of what I wouldn’t.

She chose silence over intrusion, memory over presence. And so she lived—carrying the echo of my touch like a sacred flame. That single moment between us… it was enough for her. Enough to call it love. And I know now, she had truly loved me. Quietly. Entirely. Without asking for in return. She had truly loved me.

But I… I never knew what I felt. Not fully. Not then. And now, years later, I still search for the answer in the spaces she left behind—in the memory of her voice, the warmth of her touch, the absence that became a presence. 

Some questions don’t ask to be answered. They simply live inside us.