𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐫 | 𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈

❥ chapter one | a love letter from a deewana to his mehbooba ✓

✔Difficult words used in this chapter :

✔Deewana : Crazy Lover (referring to a male, a male crazy lover)
✔Mehbooba : Ladylove.
✔Pyaari : Lovely/Loveable/Beautiful (referring to a female)

៚

There are two types of people in our lives, the first type of people are the ones who come in our lives to leave one day, the second type of people are the ones who come with the intention to stay forever.

Having said that, we also come across the third type of people. They are the ones who are there to make you understand as to who is there to leave and who is there to stay forever. By doing so, they give you a reason to live.

In most of the times, three different people fall in all these three categories respectively, but in Roop's case there was one person who fell in all these categories perfectly and he was no one other than Zafar!

It had been six years, six long years since that dreadful India - Pakistan partition in the year 1947 where Roop had lost the love of her life her Zafar who formed a very integral part of her past memories. Her past was haunting her, chasing her through the darkness of the night and the radiance of the day. She tried hard to find a way to escape, burning down her feelings in the flame of her never ending longing for him.

Searching for light, it seemed as if the moon got covered in the clouds and the darkness began luring her.

What if her past came chasing down again? What if she just gave in? Though a part of her still believed that Zafar was alive! Was it true?

Admist her unspoken, unexpressed deep thoughts, unheard painful sighs Roop opened her eyes and sat up on her bed to see no one around as always. Her room was dark and dead silent. She knew it was morning but she didn't feel the need to undraw the curtains at that point of time.

Had there been someone else in her place, he would have happily welcomed the beaming sunrays but the light she had in her was taken by Zafar long ago as he breathed his last in front of her.

Despite seeing him closing his eyes in front of her as the train full of people immigrating all the way to Amritsar from Husnabad moved past by his dead body covered in blood she wasn't ready to believe that he was no more. All the moments she had spend with him right from their first meeting when she seeked his help to show him around the brothels which was a part of her interest in writing about the living conditions there in the local newspaper ran by her then husband Dev Chaudhry to their last meeting where the duo had shared a tearful goodbye hug came flashing in like a film bringing a fresh stream of tears to her chocolate brown orbs.