Sangini

Sangini~His Alone

The river had grown calm again, after the floods that followed the monsoon.

But Raghu’s hands still trembled.
Every morning, he shaped clay — when mist clung to the village trees and the bats hung quietly in their nests.
In the faint dawn light, the only sound that filled his courtyard was the soft hum of his spinning wheel.

Raghu was an expert potter.
Each pot, each lamp, each urn — bore the same faint mark at its base: a small letter “R.”

Not for Raghu.
But for his departed wife — Radha.

Years ago, they had met by this very riverbank.
Radha had come to fetch water, but her brass pot had slipped and shattered.
Raghu, sitting nearby, had offered her one of his own.


“Take this,” he had said. “But promise you’ll return it tomorrow.”
“You can make me another,” she had replied with a smile — and walked away with the pot.



Their love began not with words, but with the exchange of an empty vessel.

Radha used to say that clay was alive —
that when shaped with love, it remembered the rhythm of your heartbeat.
Raghu never laughed at her belief.
He knew it was true.

Because when Radha passed away — the world said she had left Raghu.
But Raghu knew she had simply gone upward, beyond this world.
And from that day, his wheel lost its rhythm.
The clay cracked before it dried.
The pots refused to hold water.

After Radha’s death, Raghu stopped speaking.
He no longer sold his pots at the market.
He only lined them quietly along the riverbank — each one marked with the same letter, “R.”

Sometimes, villagers saw him murmuring softly to the damp clay, as if it listened.
Sometimes, in the stillness of midnight, an old love song would float from his hut —
the same tune Radha once sang, now hummed by Raghu in a wavering tone.

Then one monsoon night, when the river rose high again,
Raghu stood outside his hut holding a freshly shaped pot —
red, unpolished, and delicate as breath.

In a trembling voice, he whispered to the river,


“This pot is only for you, Radha. I’ve shaped it perfectly. I’m coming to return it.”



By morning, the villagers found Raghu’s courtyard empty.
His wheel was still spinning — slowly, endlessly.
Beside the river, a red pot floated gently on the calm water.
The flood had subsided, the sky was clear, and sunlight shimmered on Raghu’s deserted yard.

When the villagers lifted the pot, they found two letters pressed at its base:
“R + R.”

Since that day, people say —
when moonlight touches the potter’s wheel, two shadows lean over the clay.
One shapes, and one smiles.

~~~~~~~~~

“Sangini” (संगिनी / સંગિની) is a beautiful Sanskrit-origin word meaning “female companion,” “beloved,” or “life partner.”

It comes from the root “sang” (संग) meaning togetherness, union, or companionship.

So depending on context, it can mean:

💫 Beloved woman — one who walks beside you through life.

🌿 Companion of the soul — sharing emotions, joys, and sorrows.

🎵 Muse or inspiration — the presence that completes one’s rhythm.


In our subject story, “Sangini” often symbolize as love of Raghu,that is deep, spiritual, and eternal, not just romantic but soulful companionship.