The Other Side of Love - Chapter 3

 

Chapter 3-First Love And The Magic Begins

I’d seen her before, that faint memory at the Sarasvati Temple during Durga Puja in 1992, but it wasn’t until November 1993 that my world truly began to shift. I was 17, and Pooja was 13, still young in the eyes of the world, but what we felt was the first whisper of something real. Some might scoff at the idea of love at such an age, but 27 years later, at 45, I can tell you it was the beginning of a magic that has stayed with me, a flame that burns even now, despite the years, the pain, and the distance. Pooja might still be angry with me for not handling things with more patience, but I couldn’t surrender to the hate I felt for the situation that tore us apart. That’s a story for later, but to understand how we got there, you need to know how it all began—how a badminton court, a little girl named Aashima, and a few unspoken glances turned into an epic love story.

C.B.R.I was always a place of life and energy, as I’d come to know in the six years since we’d moved there in 1987. The scientist apartments, with their 64 houses in a perfect square, were a hub of cultural events—carnivals, kitty parties, potluck dinners, flower shows, exhibitions, stage performances, and festival celebrations that drew people from all over Roorkee. In November 1993, Pooja and I started talking more, our interactions growing from casual hellos to something deeper. There was an uncanny vibe between us, a girl from E58, just across the square from my house at E10. We’d share stolen glances and small conversations, an unexplainable attraction simmering beneath the surface. It was an unspoken affection, an allurement neither of us could fully understand, but we both felt it—a tingling, electric pull that was entirely new to us.

December 1993 became the most important month of my life, the true beginning of our love story, a whirlwind of moments that would define us. It started early in the month when Pooja went on a school picnic, a trip that would take her away for a few days. I was at the badminton court as usual, my eyes on her house, hoping for a glimpse, a smile, a moment. When her door opened, and she stepped out, walking toward Payal’s house, our eyes met, and I felt that familiar spark. I didn’t know it then, but during that picnic, Pooja had bought—or perhaps had made—a special gift for me: a red, heart-shaped keyring with my name engraved in golden letters, a treasure she’d hold onto until the right moment to give it to me.

Shortly after her return from the picnic, another event brought us closer: a badminton tournament organized by Sushil, a brother we all called Dujon Bhaiya after Jeff Dujon, the West Indies cricketer, because of his wicketkeeping skills. It wasn’t until much later that I realized Dujon wasn’t his real name, and we’d all been calling him that for years. Sushil took the lead on sports events in C.B.R.I, and that year, in early December 1993, he set up a tournament for the boys and girls of the colony, with matches held on the badminton court in the center of the scientist apartments’ playing ground. I was good at badminton—really good—and I’d been playing on that court for years, the same court where I’d soon find myself falling in love. The tournament gave us a reason to be around each other more, and our connection deepened with every match.

Pooja came to watch every game of mine, her presence a quiet thrill that made my heart race faster than any match. We found alibis to spend time together, and one of the sweetest was a little girl named Aashima. At 4 years old, Aashima was the daughter of Uncle Jaswinder, who lived directly across the playing ground from my row. She was a beautiful, talented child—intelligent, obedient, and full of life—and both Pooja and I adored her. Aashima was fond of me too, often coming to my house for lunch and play, her laughter filling the air as we’d chase her around the yard. She became our excuse to steal a few minutes together, a shared love for this little girl giving us a reason to be near each other without raising suspicion. I was good with kids—ironic, since I later struggled with my own child—and the kids in the colony loved me. I’d have them call me “Sam,” no matter how young they were, and they’d giggle with delight. Some elders didn’t approve, but I didn’t care as long as the kids were happy. Aashima, though, was my favorite—beautiful, obedient, mannered, and intelligent, even at such a young age. She soon preferred coming to my house over Dimpi’s, a shift that I knew Dimpi didn’t appreciate, though she never said it outright.

But Aashima’s story took a tragic turn years later, a scar that still lingers. I was studying engineering in Bidar, down south, when I returned on a holiday break and learned she was suffering from an extremely high fever—105°F or so. The entire colony was gathered at her house, her mother holding her, but I couldn’t understand how they’d let the fever get so high. In my mind, they should have dipped her in ice-cold water to bring her temperature down—it’s simple logic. My mother once told me her own fever had shot up to 106°F, and my father had plunged her into an ice-filled tub until they could get a doctor. But with Aashima, I don’t know what happened—some blamed the local C.B.R.I dispensary doctor, others her parents. Whatever the cause, she suffered from hyperpyrexia, which permanently damaged her brain, leaving her completely paralyzed, a vegetable at just 4 years old. I’ve rarely questioned God’s ways—I even accepted what happened with my own relationship, believing that “God’s ways of justice are difficult to understand, but they are definitely just,” a quote I shared with Pooja that we both held onto. But with Aashima, I couldn’t understand it. Who was God punishing—her, her parents? What could a 4-year-old have done to deserve this, even if you believe in past-life karma? The more I think about it, the more tangled I get in the intricacies of life and God’s plans. Aashima passed away at 18, after her parents cared for her in that vegetative state for years. I visited them when I heard the news, and the only small comfort was that Aashima’s sister had grown up well and lovely, perhaps a consolation for them. If a genie granted me three wishes, one would be for Pooja, one for my parents, and the third to bring Aashima back. Her story isn’t just about her role as our alibi—it’s about the innocent affinity we shared, the afternoons she spent at our house for lunch and play, a bond that left a deep scar when she was taken from us. I pray her soul rests in peace.

The tournament brought other characters into our story, each playing a role in the delicate dance of our budding feelings. There was Payal, Pooja’s best friend from the house on the right side of the square, who was like a sister to her—always together, sometimes fighting, but inseparable. Payal became our facilitator, a quiet supporter of the moments we stole. There was also Dimpi, or Paramjit, the daughter of Uncle Manjeet Singh, a family friend. Dimpi had a soft corner for me, always hoping for a relationship I couldn’t give her because my heart was turning toward Pooja. Dimpi and Pooja disliked each other, a mutual resentment that forced me to tread carefully. I liked Dimpi as a friend, but Pooja’s feelings came first, and I had to limit my contact to keep the peace. Even Aashima, who often visited Dimpi’s house because Uncle Jaswinder and Uncle Manjeet were brothers, started preferring my house, a shift that added to the tension.

During the tournament, our connection deepened through small, meaningful moments. I’d catch myself glancing at her house, E58, while playing, waiting for her door to open, for her to appear with that divine, graceful walk and a smile I’d die a hundred times for. We’d exchange looks, her shy glances meeting mine, the unspoken language of first love weaving a thread between us. One evening, as we sat on a concrete bench near the court, talking about random things, I found myself doodling in the mud with my finger, making pictures for her to guess. I don’t know what possessed me—maybe it was the song “ILU ILU” from the 1991 movie *Saudagar*, where the hero explains that ILU means “I Love You”—but I wrote “ILU” in the mud, a playful yet bold hint. Pooja looked at it, her eyes lighting up with a shy smile, and guessed, “EELU,” her voice soft but knowing. I nodded, my heart pounding, wondering if she understood what I was really saying. Her blush and that sweet smile told me she did, though she didn’t say anything more. That moment, the ILU moment, was the first time I hinted at my feelings, a memory so vivid I can still feel the warmth of her gaze, a moment I’d trade anything to relive. Even now, writing these lines, I feel goosebumps, an electricity running through my spine at the thought of her there, the excitement of being able to talk to her.

The tournament continued, filled with small incidents that deepened our bond. During the final match, a nail-biting game, I got dehydrated and needed water. My friend Runjhun ran to my house to get some, surprising my parents, who were asleep despite the intensity of the match. Pooja went with her, but she couldn’t enter my house—she wasn’t that familiar yet—so Runjhun brought the water back. Later, Pooja told me how jealous she felt that Runjhun had been the one to bring it, even though she’d gone along. That confession sent a rush of affection through me, a sign of how much she cared. I won the tournament, of course, and Pooja was elated, her pride in me a quiet glow that lit up my world.

A few days later, in mid-December 1993, after the tournament had ended, I was playing a regular badminton match with my friends on the same court. Pooja came by, as she often did, her presence always a thrill. That day, she called me over to Payal’s house, her four fingers twisting in a gesture that sent my heart soaring. In the scientist apartments, talking openly was risky—we hadn’t started meeting outside the colony yet—so even five minutes with her was a big deal. I rushed over, smiling, trying to be my best self, though words often failed me in her presence. Up close, she was like an angel—astonishingly beautiful, with a touch of cuteness that was a deadly combination for me. I’d stare at her, taking in every detail: her eyes, her hands, her dress, her mannerisms, the way she blushed, the divine aroma of her, the way she stood with her legs crossed. I was falling for her, deeply, and she was becoming the air I breathed to survive.

What she did next took my breath away. Pooja, always the one to take initiative despite her shyness, gave me a gift—our first gift. It was the red, heart-shaped keyring with my name engraved in golden letters, the one she’d had made during her school picnic earlier that month, a treasure that sent my heart to the heights. She also gave me another keyring, this one with her name written on a grain of rice, a piece of her to keep close. I was falling for her more with every moment, the electricity of her presence giving me goosebumps, her every gesture etching itself into my heart. Those smile exchanges—I’d give my world to relive them, and I’m not exaggerating. I’d trade all my wealth to go back to those moments, to see her welcome me with that divine, mesmerizing smile. Even after 27 years, the depth of missing her feels so fresh, bringing tears to my eyes as I write this.

Later in December 1993, Pooja was set to leave for a 10-day trip to Varanasi with her family. I was heavy-hearted, knowing I’d miss her, and I hoped to see her once before she left. She must have felt the same, because she took the initiative. I went to Payal’s house, hoping for a quick conversation, and found that Pooja had left a note for me. Just two lines, written in her delicate hand, but they changed everything: “Time and space may keep us apart, But you are always in my heart.” Shivers ran through my body—I knew she had started loving me. She was expecting a reply, and I had to think fast. At first, I scribbled a random quote I’d read somewhere, but it felt hollow compared to her words, so deep, so romantic. I tore it up and decided to take the plunge. On a small piece of paper, I wrote, “What message I shall give you Pooja, All I can say is I Love You.” My first written declaration of love, raw and real. Payal took the note and ran to Pooja, who was in the middle of the playing ground between her house and Payal’s. I watched as Pooja took the paper, folded it carefully, and ran back to her house, her face a mystery I couldn’t read. Those 10 days apart were the toughest of my life, a waiting game that tested my heart.

When Pooja returned in late December 1993, the entire colony buzzed with excitement—her friends, including Payal, gathered to welcome her, and I was there too, watching from Payal’s window, elated to see her after what felt like an eternity. Most of her friends likely knew I had a soft corner for her, and I was there for her too. The memories of that month—December 1993—had already cemented our bond, setting the stage for what was to come. It took me another eight months to muster the courage to speak my feelings aloud, a period of stolen glances, shared moments, and a growing love that filled every corner of my heart.

In August 1994, now 18, with Pooja at 14, I finally found the strength to say what I’d been holding in. It was around 8 PM, and Pooja was with Payal, who walked her back to E58. As she returned, I found a pretext to be at the badminton ground, hoping for a moment. She saw me, stopped, and started asking if I’d waited for her, if I’d missed her, pushing me to prove how much I cared. I don’t remember the whole conversation, but I remember the moment I mustered the courage and said, “Look I love you.” Her blush, that spellbinding, heart-stopping blush, told me everything. My heart skipped beats, maybe two or three, as exhilaration flooded me. She didn’t say “I love you” back—not yet, not for another year—but her reaction was enough. I knew she’d accepted me. That night, August 1994, became the official start of our love story, the anniversary we’d celebrate for years to come.

I ran straight to Manish’s house, my best friend and the only one I confided in about our relationship, though whispers were starting to spread through the colony. I sat on his sofa, my heart still pounding, and when he asked, “Kya hua?” I grinned and said, “Bol diya bhai, finally bol diya usse.” He was happy for me, supportive in a way that meant the world, and we talked for an hour, my heart racing like a machine, enthralled by the reality of what I’d done. Pooja was officially my girl, and our love story was in gear.

In the months that followed, my life continued to evolve, even as my love for Pooja deepened. One of my proudest achievements came in October 1994, a testament to my passion for electronics and my bond with Manish. In a time when even landlines were rare in Roorkee—certainly in C.B.R.I—I built a communication device so Manish and I could talk between our houses, E5 to E10, about 50–70 meters apart. It was a huge accomplishment, earning us accolades in the colony as the “talking figures” of the scientist apartments. [Placeholder: Sammy to provide a short paragraph on how the device was built.] That device was more than a project—it was a symbol of the ingenuity and friendship that carried me through those early days of love, a love that was growing more intense with every passing moment.

Pooja became my everything, the air I breathed, the soul of my existence. I’d never known a feeling so complete, so all-consuming, as falling in love with her. It’s a juggernaut of emotion—exhilaration, exuberance, happiness that puts you on top of the world, and pain that cuts just as deep when misunderstandings arise. But in true love, the happiness outweighs the pain, and I’d take that pain again and again for even the smallest touch of her joy. As Linda Goodman wrote in *Love Signs*, “Love is concentrated kinetic energy, the most awesome force in Nature… If only you could love deeply enough and sustain love long enough, you could become the source of your own miracles.” That’s exactly how I felt about Pooja—a love so powerful, it could span any distance, heal any wound, and turn dreams into reality. She was my miracle, my reason to survive, and our journey was just beginning. I didn’t know it then, but a year later, I’d give her a name that would become her identity to everyone who knew us—a name as precious as she was to me.