Enduring all, yet always fair
Bharathiyar’s flame, and Jackie Chan’s charm along.
Radhi had always been a girl of contradictions.
Soft-spoken, almost shy, yet with a quiet strength that few could see. She came from a large, influential family — the kind that looked perfect from the outside, polished and proud, but within its walls carried sharp edges and shadows.
Her parents lived together but never truly with each other. Conversations often ended in silence, and silences carried more weight than words. Her father moved through the house like a visitor, quick to blame, slow to care. Her mother endured, her strength mistaken for weakness, her warmth hidden beneath layers of resignation. With three younger siblings watching, Radhi often felt as though she had to be both shield and anchor — too young to carry such weight, yet old enough to understand it would always be hers.
Love, to her, was never something she saw — only something she imagined. It lived in movies, in her own words as she wrote love stories and romanticized about a guy she had never met, trusting in God’s perfect timing, in the fleeting tenderness of stories. In real life, it remained an unanswered question, a longing that made her firm yet fragile.
School had been her safe harbor. She studied in an all girls Christian convent, where mornings began with hymns echoing through long, arched corridors, and discipline was stitched into every hour. She wasn’t Christian, but something in her heart leaned toward that world — the soft glow of stained glass, the solemnity of prayer, the rhythm of psalms that made even silence feel sacred. She never sought the safety of crowds, never hungered for attention. For Radhi, trust was a rare jewel, and silence often spoke more than words.
She remembered a day by a smell, a color, a weather. Her first day of college carried the soft fragrance of Dove soap on her pink salwar and the gentle warmth of a breezy morning. She paused at the small Ganesha temple near the entrance, whispered a quick prayer, and felt a pang of fear as she stepped into the bustling campus. Boys everywhere, their voices loud and unyielding, and she never lifted her head, keeping her gaze low as she navigated the unfamiliar corridors. Finally, she spotted Bells in her class — a familiar face amid the chaos — and though relief flickered for a moment, her heart still fluttered with anxiety as she stepped into this intimidating new chapter.
The day was over, quite exhausting. She sat on the bus with Bells, gazing out the window at the orange sky as the sun began to set. That’s when her eyes strayed toward the tennis court. There, under the fading sun, HE was playing.
He caught her attention instantly. Even from a distance, his strokes were sharp, his footwork light, the rhythm of his movements almost musical. His serve sent the ball arcing high against the dusky sky, his racket meeting it with effortless confidence and precise control.. She asked herself, Why am I looking at him? Who is he? How can someone be so full of life? Radhi couldn’t look away, drawn to the effortless way he carried himself.
The buses were leaving the college gate one by one, moving slowly, blocking the way and giving her a few extra seconds. She muttered a quick prayer, Just a little longer… Then she panicked... Why am I even calling God for this? What am I doing? Her heart fluttered, but she couldn’t help stealing another glance at him.
“That’s JB, he and I studied together in school", Bells murmured beside her, following Radhi’s gaze. “He’s into everything — tennis, music… one of those people who does it all. We had a small group back then. His house and mine are close by. He has to come in our bus only — I forgot to introduce you, Didn’t you see him in the canteen today, having lunch with us?"
Radhi didn’t answer. But the scene — the echo of the ball against the racket, the brightness in his stride, the way the court seemed to bend to his energy — stayed with her. It etched itself into her memory like the opening line of a poem she would never forget.
Later the next day, Bells introduced them near the PT block. It wasn’t dramatic, just an ordinary moment — a name, a smile. His was easy, boyish, filled with warmth. Hers was small, shy, almost hesitant, like a secret she wasn’t ready to share. A few days later, she saw him again — this time inside the PT room. He had dropped his tennis bag in the corner, laughing with his friends, filling the space with his presence as if the walls themselves bent to listen.
Others noticed Radhi too. There was a senior once — tall, handsome, bold, and reckless — the head of the cultural committee, with a lot of girl fans. He had been obsessed with Radhi, not just for her presence, but because he believed her father was influential. Their families were distant business friends, and he thought claiming her in that dramatic way would assert his connection. In a reckless show of affection, he had etched her name as a tattoo on his hand.
It terrified her — not the ink itself, but the weight of what it meant, a promise she had never asked for, something far too heavy for her heart to carry. She never let him speak to her. Instead, it was his classmates — the girls from his batch — who approached Radhi, urging her gently, “Just talk to him once.” But how could she? For what he had done, without even having spoken a single word to her, only frightened her more. She quietly conveyed through one of those girls that she was not, and could never be, the kind of girl he imagined her to be.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the storm passed. He had to prepare for an interview, and Radhi saw him step forward, redirecting his life where it needed to go. In some quiet way, she was relieved — not just for herself, but for him too.
Another boy, gentler, never crossed a line; he only admired her with a kind of quiet respect, content with small exchanges that asked for nothing. There were others who tried to approach her, but Radhi was never truly approachable. She kept her world guarded, afraid of what it meant to open the door.
The boys had already noticed her. “She’s pretty, no?” one of them nudged during lunch. “Always with her head down. Doesn’t even look up.”
Another added, “I heard her dad’s into politics. Maybe that’s why. Strict family, no freedom.”
The talk circled around her like background noise, but he found himself listening more than he meant to. She sat there at the edge of the canteen table, quiet, barely touching her food. Not once lifting her head to meet their eyes.
Later, near the PT block, he leaned toward Bells.
Bells laughed. “That’s just her. She’s shy. You’ll get used to it.”
But he didn’t get used to it. If anything, her silence pulled at him more. He found himself looking for her — in the canteen, at the PT room, in the corner of group lunches. She never joined when the others planned meet-ups outside college, never lingered after class. Always home, always tucked away in her own world.
Him: “Had dinner?”
She froze, staring at the screen. Why him? Why now? After a moment, she typed back.
Her: “Yes.”
A pause. Then another buzz.
Him: “Good. You didn’t eat lunch properly today at the canteen.”
Her breath caught. Out of everyone laughing, arguing over food, he had noticed her plate.
Her: “I wasn’t that hungry.”
Him: “Or you were too quiet to ask for more.”
Her lips curved into a smile she didn’t mean to let slip.
That first night, it ended there. But the next evening, he texted again.
Him: “So… you’re always this silent, or only in college?”
Her: “Always.”
Him: “Impossible. People who are always silent… usually think too loud.”
She didn’t reply right away. Just sent a small smiley. He teased her for it, but didn’t push.
By the third day, he asked:
Him: “Why don’t you join when they all meet outside? Coffee shops, movies, all that?”
Her: “Not allowed.”
Him: “Family rules?”
Her: “Yes.”
Him: “Hmm. So madam goes home, studies, sleeps. That’s it?”
Her: “Yes.”
Him: “Then when do you laugh?”
That question stayed with her longer than she expected. She typed after minutes of hesitation:
Her: “I don’t know.”
Him: “Then I’ll make sure you do. At least once.”
One evening he asked her out of the blue, “What’s your favorite food?”
“Dosa,” she said softly, almost without thinking.
“And yours?” she asked after a pause.
He smiled. “Cake. But more than eating, I love cooking. I always cook for the people I care about.”
She looked up at him, startled. “You… cook?”
“Decently enough,” he shrugged, grinning. “And one day, I’ll cook for you too.”
Her breath caught. It sounded playful, but something in the way he said it slipped past her defenses, landing quietly in her heart.
A few days later, she baked her first cake — soft, simple, uneven at the edges — and carried it in a small box to the group. She slid it across the table almost shyly, letting everyone take a piece so it wouldn’t be obvious. Laughter, teasing, and crumbs followed, but he was quick, making sure plates circled back his way. Somehow, by the end, the biggest chunk had landed in front of him.
He caught her glance, half-smiling as he forked into it, and said only, “Homemade?” — but the way he held it, carefully, as if it meant more than cake, lingered with her long after.
Radhi froze, unsure how to respond.
Bells leaned in quickly, answering for her, “Yes… she made it.”
JB smiled, gave a small nod, and went back to eating as if that was all that needed to be said.
Radhi’s shoulders loosened, a quiet relief settling in. Bells had covered her silence without making it obvious.
At home that evening, her phone buzzed.
Her: “No such thing exists.”
Him: “Then I’ll invent one. Starting with your box, which is still with me.”
Her: “Keep it safe, then.”
Him: “Safe? I’m polishing it like a crown jewel.”
Her: “It’s just a box.”
Him: “Not ‘just a box.’ It carried the first cake you ever baked. Historical artifact.”
Her: “…You’re impossible.”
Him: “We’ve established that already. Now, when do I return the artifact?”
Her: “Tomorrow.”
Him: “Tomorrow? That long? What if I forget?”
Her: “You won’t.”
Him: “True. Hard to forget something from you.”
Her cheeks warmed at the line. She stared at it for a long time, then finally replied:
Her: “Don’t expect more cakes so soon.”
Him: “So soon? Means there will be more?”
Her: “….”
Him: “Ok fine, silence is yes. I’ll wait.”
And the next day, when he finally returned the box, it carried not just the memory of her cake but something else — a pink band, plain and quiet, yet more precious than anything she had worn before.
It was in moments like these — small, fleeting, almost childish — that Radhi felt something dangerous take root. A sweetness she wasn’t supposed to taste, an addiction to a happiness she had never known. She knew it wasn’t right, knew it could never end well, and yet she couldn’t stop herself. It was the kind of joy that felt like stealing, and though guilt pressed at the edges, her heart refused to regret.
And what was it about him? He wasn’t the bold senior who tried to claim her with reckless gestures before even knowing her. He wasn’t the distant admirer who never found the courage to step forward. With them, she felt only pressure or unease, the weight of someone else’s expectations. But with him, everything was lighter, quieter — a companionship that asked for nothing and gave more than she could understand.
And yet, wasn’t this the contradiction? She, who had turned others away so easily, was now the one crossing invisible lines — daring to give, daring to feel.
A few days before his birthday, the group gathered in the common room. Bells smiled and said, “Let’s plan a small cake-cutting for JB.”
Everyone discussed quietly — who would bring the cake, where they would gather — while Radhi stayed in her corner, watching. She didn’t say much, only nodding along.
Over the next few days, she quietly searched shops and finally picked a plain white shirt for him. Yet when it came to giving it, she hesitated. She didn’t want him to mistake her gesture, didn’t want a simple gift to be read as something more. After all, with so many girl friends around him, one shirt from her should not, must not, become a sign. And though she felt that little skip of a beat whenever she thought of him, she was careful — careful not to let him see it, careful to keep her feelings folded safely away.
On the day of his birthday, after the group had sung and the cake was cut, everyone handed their gifts one by one.
When it came to Radhi, she stepped forward, hands slightly trembling, and offered the shirt.
“H-Happy Birthday…” she whispered.
JB took it, smiling warmly. “For me? Thanks.
The group, noticing the soft moment, nudged him playfully. “JB, play something for us!”
He picked up his guitar without a word. The first notes trembled softly, unsure, tentative — but they grew, each chord carrying the weight of things he couldn’t say. The melody wove around her, delicate and raw, speaking in pauses where words would fail.
Then his voice came, low and tender, merging with the strings:
Ennai enna seiya pogiraai
Naan oviyan endru therindhum nee
Yen kannirandai ketkiraai
Siluvaigal siragugal
Rendil enna thara pogiraai
Killuvathai killivittu
Yen thalli nindru paarkiraai
The lyrics, unpolished, floated through the room, and for a moment, the world shrank to the space between him and her. When the last note faded, there was a pause — and then soft, appreciative claps, from the crowd. He bowed slightly, letting the applause wash over him, but his eyes didn’t leave her.
The rest of the evening slipped by in quiet glances and half-smiles, a subtle tension lingering like the echo of his last note. She watched him pack his guitar, careful, unhurried, as if each movement was part of a ritual she wasn’t meant to fully understand.
By the time the night ended, nothing had been said, yet something had shifted. The music had spoken for him, and she had heard.
Next morning, the ordinary world resumed — classes, shared corridors, casual laughter. Yet in every glance, every brush of shoulders passing between them, the echo of last night’s music lingered, unspoken but undeniable.
And the first time she saw him wear it, the white shirt, on stage — a mic in his hand, the lights falling sharp across his face. Somehow it felt as though her small, trembling gift had followed him there, carried into the glow without him even knowing.
The hall was thick with silence, a thousand eyes fastened on him, their gaze pressing like weight on his shoulders. Yet his own eyes were elsewhere — not scattered across the crowd, not lost in the lights. They were carved into one single point, etched on her, as if she alone carried the rhythm he sought. For everyone else, it was a performance. For him, it was a dialogue between his music and her presence.
Radhi felt it in her very cells — as if they had been asleep all this time and his voice was the one waking them, commanding them to rise. He let the keys confess for him, each note carrying the unspoken promise, the quiet words he could never say aloud.
And then the words fell — “Mogathirai, Moondram Pirai, Moongil Maram…” — familiar, aching, beautiful. A song that carried the tenderness of wind brushing across skin, a song from a time when love was sung not with spectacle but with longing. His voice carried it with startling honesty; it wasn’t flawless, but it was alive, raw, unguarded. As he touched the keys, hesitant at first, then certain, the melody flowed out into the hall like it had always belonged to him.
The crowd swayed, especially the girls. A guy who plays an instrument isn’t just pressing keys or strumming strings—he knows where to touch, where to linger, how to draw the music out of it. That kind of confidence, that kind of connection, is irresistibly hot, but Radhi sat still, rooted. For her, the song wasn’t in the hall at all — it was inside her, echoing through marrow and breath, as if the wind in his voice had found her very core. It felt less like a performance and more like a secret, sung into the air between the two of them.
His voice carried traces of where he came from, trained in the quiet corners of a church choir, softened and strengthened by hymns that once filled echoing halls. Perhaps that was why, when he sang, it was never just sound — it was depth, a resonance that seemed to reach further than the room itself.
And Radhi, listening, felt a strange alignment in her heart. She thought that must have been the reason she had spent fourteen years in a convent school — all those mornings of bells and prayers, of hymns she never fully understood — only to be made ready to receive this voice.
Their story then unfolded in fragments — long bus rides to towns like Karaikudi, where she played basketball and he played tennis, each chasing their own victories. They returned glowing from state-level championships, carrying the thrill like a secret only they understood. Quiet evening followed, at college filled with laughter and ease, where being with him at his best — confident, effortless, entirely himself — felt like sunlight spilling into shadowed corners of her heart. His world — his music, his friends, his calm certainty — slowly wove into hers. She still spoke softly, still felt shy around others, but with JB near, the world felt less intimidating.
She pinged him for the first time..
Her: “So… what are your future plans?”
Him (grinning): “Honestly? I’ve always been fascinated by the sky.”
Her (curious): “The sky?”
Him: “Yeah… the clouds, the planes… it feels endless, like anything’s possible.”
Her (teasing): “Anything, huh? Even becoming some daring pilot?”
Him (softly, with a hint of a smile): “Maybe… though some adventures are sweeter with someone who gives you purpose.”
Her (blushing slightly, smiling): “I can just imagine you, Officer, in your Air Force uniform.”
Him (grinning): “You can? Then I’d better pass my exams… can’t let you see a half-baked Captain.”
Her (teasing): “Half-baked, huh? All that pressure from me?”
Him (smirking): “Exactly. You push me… and honestly, I kind of like it.”
And through it all, there was a thread of care, stronger than either of them admitted. In sickness and in health, they showed up for each other. A fever, a missed class, a small worry — they were present, steady, without needing to explain. That presence, unspoken and unwavering, became the foundation of what they shared.
One evening, she stayed back after college. She had a few records that needed to be signed, and he had rehearsals to finish. He asked her to wait for him until he was done. When the hall finally grew quiet, he walked over with his guitar, playful yet sincere, and sang just for her—turning an ordinary delay into a moment she would never forget.
This is for you from “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” by The Smiths (1986)
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-tonne truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine*
Their lives were not the same, but in the spaces between them, it never seemed to matter.
In his home, love was the air they breathed. His father had married for love, and it glowed in every corner of the house — in the warmth with which he called his wife “Ma,” in the gentle care that made even silence feel safe. His mother, once an army nurse, carried her strength like an invisible shield, yet her touch was soft, her voice kind. Trust and tenderness held that family together, shaping him into someone who believed that love was steady, dependable — a promise kept without needing words.
For Radhi, love was something entirely different. She had seen its cruelty, its power to wound without leaving a scar the world could see. In her family, love had been a storm, tearing apart what could have been. She remembered someone from her family— how his laughter dimmed when he was forced to leave behind the girl he adored, bound instead to someone chosen for him. She still carried the image of his eyes, heavy with quiet resignation, a heart broken not by rejection but by surrender. To Radhi, love was not a promise but a risk — beautiful, yes, but dangerous, fragile, and never guaranteed to last.
