Raghav Menon locked the cash drawer, switched off the warm yellow lamp above the counter, and surveyed his tiny bookshop tucked into a quiet corner of Bengaluru before pulling down the shutters.
In his early forties, he was gentle, soft-spoken, and unapologetically solitary. He ended each day with a crispy onion samosa and a cup of cutting chai.
He had just pulled the shutter halfway when a voice cut through the dusk.
“Could you keep the shop open just for a while? I need a book… please!”
A woman ran up, breathless, her dupatta fluttering behind her. When she stopped, he could not take his eyes off her grey-green gaze.
Raghav hesitated, but something in her eyes nudged him gently, like a bookmark slipping between pages. He lifted the shutter back up.
Inside, she wandered between the shelves as if entering a temple. “I’m looking for something on Egypt,” she murmured.
“Egypt?” he asked.
“Yes, but not the usual pyramid brochure. Something alive.”
“Khufu?” he offered.
“Khafre,” she shot back immediately.
“Menkaure,” he added, raising an eyebrow.
She grinned. “The whole dynasty, huh?”
He shrugged. “Comes free with the book.”
He handed her The Buried: An Archaeology of the Egyptian Revolution.
Her face lit up. “You’re officially my favourite bookseller.”
She teased him. “You alphabetize your shelves even within genres, don’t you? I can feel it.”
They burst into laughter, the kind when two people suddenly find the same wavelength.
They spoke for half an hour: about history, Cairo’s political pulse, childhood dreams of the Nile, and her wish to visit Egypt during Sham El Nessim, the spring festival she had read about.
Before leaving, she paused at the door. “You’re different,” she said softly. “You listen like the world is worth hearing.”
“Hey… what’s your name, though?”, he hesitated.
“Meera Krishnan.” She smiled.
She started her two-wheeler. He closed the shutter, smiled, and stepped onto the road without noticing the speeding auto rickshaw, until it slammed into him.
*****
He woke in a blur of disinfectant and pain in his limbs. And then, those eyes…
“I’m so sorry. If I had not stopped you…”
“But I’m glad you did,” he whispered.
A slow smile escaped her lips.
Meera visited every day after that. Not out of obligation, but something in their brief encounter had moved her. She read to him from Egyptian poetry, argued cheerfully about history, brought flowers on bad days, and snuck in vadas on good ones.
Their bond did not grow fast; it grew deep. Neither could pretend it was only a concern.
*****
A year later, under a winter sky, they married quietly.
Their honeymoon took them to Egypt, a shared dream during Sham El Nessim. As the sun rose over the Nile, its golden glow danced on the river and flowers. Raghav’s hand found Meera’s, and memories fluttered through him; shutters, footsteps, laughter, a chance encounter that had rewritten everything.
No. Of Words: 490
Image Courtesy: https://www.canva.com/dream-lab
One of the most beautiful love stories I’ve read in years. The way you portrayed their first meeting…the glance, the quiet emotions, that tender touch..left me spellbound. I’m truly in love with this piece… an absolutely brilliant write-up..
Ahh, my heart ? You made my day!!!
Thank you so much, behna… your comment felt like a hug across the screen??