Some stories don’t begin in college or adulthood. Mine began in 3rd standard. Back then, I didn’t know what love was—I only knew the thrill of sitting beside her, the pride of competing with her, and the strange joy of watching her win.
For three terms, she ruled as class leader, the name tag and wooden scale in her hand like a crown and sceptre. To her, I was just competition. To me, she was already something more. Even when I finally won the badge, I had benignly chosen her to rule my life. Immature, yes—but that’s what childhood love is: rivalry disguised as surrender.
By 5th standard, the story paused. I moved schools. Just like that, she was gone. No goodbyes, no closure—just silence. The memory stayed, frozen like a photograph. That’s the core of my story, distilled: a child who lost her in 5th standard, and a teenager who gained her back in my third year of college.
When fate circled back in 2008, she was no longer a memory but a presence again. Recognition hit like a wave. She saw me too. But pride is a cruel thing. For two years, she still saw me as competition. Literary contests that I would usually pass through like a cakewalk became frozen moments whenever she stood opposite me. To her, it was rivalry. To me, it was something else entirely.
And then there were the texts. A thousand messages sent from behind my pride, each one a plea to be recognized, each one left unanswered. Until the college fest. I sang Adiye Kolluthe on stage, and in a moment of abandon, I knelt down as the words “indha ganame unnai manappene” (In this very moment, I will marry you) left my lips. To the audience, it was just performance. But her friend carried the story back to her, and for the first time, she grew curious.
That night, after years of silence, my phone finally lit up with her reply. It wasn’t a confession, just a simple message: “I have fever… I’ll text you back.” Ordinary, almost disappointing. But to me, it was everything—because silence had finally given way to words.
What followed was not a straight road, but a series of turns. Make-ups and break-ups, silences and reconciliations. We had our own stolen world: borrowed bike rides where the road belonged only to us. Skipping a college fest just because she asked me to. The pretense of a common friend to bring her to Festember in NIT Trichy. My first hold of her hand on that campus, far away from home, where distance gave us the freedom to be close. Our stolen hugs, carefully hidden. And my quiet conversations with her brother—a way of becoming familiar with her family, but also a quiet excuse to spend more time with her.
But there were also the cracks. Arguments born of ego. Days of silence that stretched into weeks. Break-ups that felt final, only to dissolve in a glance, a text, or a shared ride. Each reunion felt like a new beginning. Each parting like the end of the world. From the third standard to my second year of college, every glance we shared carried a different meaning. In childhood, it was rivalry. In college, it was pride, longing, and the fragile rhythm of make-ups and break-ups.
And then, one day, the distance collapsed. We were no longer exchanging glances from across a bus aisle—we were riding the same bike to college, the road ahead of us, and for the first time, a shared vision of the future.
But like in Vinnaithaandi Varuvaayaa, the roads eventually parted. She chose family over me, and I was left with a memory to reminisce. My story, like Karthik’s, was filled with moments of union and separation, passion and silence, hope and heartbreak.
Looking back at it 15 years later, I realize it wasn’t just about her. It was about the eras of my life she represented: the boy who lost her in 5th, the teenager who gained her back in college, the man who now carries her as memory. Love, in my story, wasn’t a single moment—it was a thread woven through time, silence, and song. And just like in the film, love didn’t end with possession—it ended with memory. Some stories don’t need an ending. They just need to be remembered, again and again, in the quiet act of reminiscence.
Cheers till the next !!
