Mumbai, November 2005.
Back then, before smartphones changed everything, meeting someone meant showing up. You went somewhere, you waited, and if you were lucky, something found you. That’s how Arjun met Rohan — a Sunday evening in November 2005, at Maheshwari Udyan, through a common friend. Between five and eight, the garden had its own quiet rhythm. People moved around each other carefully, looking without quite looking. They spoke for maybe ten minutes.
That night, Arjun called him. The call didn’t end until morning.
They talked about random things at first, then slowly about more personal things, then about things neither of them had said to anyone before. It didn’t feel like they had just met. For the next two weeks, that was how it was — calls whenever they could, long ones at night, both of them starting to wait for the other’s voice without admitting it.
They met again on December 15. Rohan was staying in a hostel near Dadar, preparing for the UPSC. His roommate was out that afternoon. Arjun came from Andheri. They sat and talked, then sat closer, and then words slowly stopped being necessary. Hands met first. A pause, then a kiss. No rush, no confusion. They lay together for a while without saying much. Later, they stepped out and walked back to Maheshwari Udyan, which had quietly become their place.
A Love Before Dating Apps
After that, it became routine. Arjun would finish work and make his way to Dadar, sometimes just for an hour. He helped Rohan with his studies, even small things like learning to use a computer. Rohan didn’t say much about what it meant to him, but he started depending on Arjun in ways that were easy to see. Arjun liked taking care of him. It gave him something to hold.
Then Rohan fell sick. A bad stomach infection, serious enough for admission. This was around the time of the 2006 Mumbai train bombings, when the city felt unsettled and hospitals were overwhelmed. Arjun stayed — not just for visits, but properly. He managed everything, small and large, without being asked. The room was private, so they shared the bed. Even there, in that strange suspended time, they found quiet moments of comfort. Those days stayed with Arjun long after everything else faded.
Whenever they could, they escaped the city. Matheran became their place — long walks, easy conversations, no pressure to hide or explain themselves. It was there that Arjun once asked, simply, whether Rohan saw a future for them. Rohan didn’t answer that day. But later, in his own way, he did. Not with a grand moment, but by staying. By caring back. By letting things grow.
When exams came, Arjun was there for every part of it — dropping him off, waiting outside, sitting with his books, making sure he was okay. They talked about what life might look like once this phase was over. It felt real then.
One night, Arjun fell sick. High fever, no strength. Rohan stepped out in the middle of the night, found a doctor, came back, and stayed beside him without sleeping. That night meant more to Arjun than he ever said.
Then, the following year, things shifted. Rohan cleared his exams and received his posting. His life began moving in a new direction. Calls grew shorter, then less frequent. Arjun noticed but didn’t push. He trusted what they had built.
When Everything Changed
One day, he went to meet him. The lock had been changed. That door once had two keys — one with each of them. Now it didn’t. No message. No explanation. Just silence.
Arjun kept calling. Sometimes Rohan answered, sometimes he didn’t. When he did, there were no real conversations — just quiet on the line, and Arjun trying not to come apart on the other end. After a long time of trying, Rohan agreed to meet once. They met at Lucky Restaurant. Arjun went hoping for answers. Rohan arrived with bodyguards, who sat separately and watched. In that moment, Arjun understood everything without needing it explained. They spoke briefly. Nothing was said that meant anything. Arjun didn’t argue. He just left.
After that, nothing.
Years passed. No calls, no messages. Just once a year, on Rohan’s birthday, Arjun would dial from a different number. He wouldn’t speak. He would listen for a second, then cut the call. That was enough.
Time didn’t fix things the way people say it does. Arjun stopped taking care of himself. Eating became irregular, sleep got harder, and his health quietly fell apart. Anxiety moved in. Panic attacks followed. Medication became part of ordinary life.
Even now, sometimes he finds himself near Maheshwari Udyan on a Sunday evening. The place has changed. The crowd is different. But for a few moments, standing there, it feels like none of it moved. Like everything is still there, somewhere just out of reach.
Some things don’t end. They just stop. And what stays, stays quietly — without answers, without closure, without anywhere left to go.