Tears That Never Fell

PART 1 – Thirteen Kilometres, a Bicycle, and First Love

 Bashudevpur block… a small village under the Sugo gram panchayat, where mornings smell of wet soil, and evenings are when people leave their exhaustion and pain outside their doorsteps. Saroj belonged to this village— a simple, quiet boy who spoke little. He had dreams too, but before dreams, his family came first. When Saroj took admission for +2 at B.N.M.A College in Paliabindha, he didn’t know that this college would not just be a place of education, but would become the most beautiful—and the most painful—truth of his life. Every morning, before the village was fully awake, Saroj would take out his old bicycle. No gears. Not new. Just a bicycle that understood his determination. Thirteen kilometres— to go… and the same distance to return in the evening. Mud roads, broken paths, scorching heat, sudden rain— tiny drops that pierced his face and body like needles. People mocked him: “Who travels this far on a bicycle?” They didn’t know Saroj wasn’t just going to college. With every pedal, he was getting closer to love. On the first day of college— crowds, noise, unfamiliar faces everywhere. And then… he saw Shweta. No heavy makeup. No show. Just a simple girl, with eyes that held no chaos—only truth. Saroj still remembered thinking to himself: “She is different.” Slowly, conversations began. Sometimes over notes. Sometimes in silence after class. When talking became a habit, and habit turned into love— neither of them realized. Shweta’s love was quiet. It was the kind that walked beside you. And Saroj— for the first time—was drowning completely in love. Every day he arrived on his bicycle, wiped away the sweat, fixed his clothes, so Shweta wouldn’t notice his exhaustion. Sometimes she asked, “You travel so far every day. Don’t you get tired?” Saroj would smile and say, “Tiredness comes only when there’s no reason.” In the evenings, as the sun slowly turned red, Saroj would begin the same thirteen-kilometre journey back. Empty roads. Growing darkness. The sound of the bicycle keeping his loneliness company. Sometimes he thought, “If only distances in life were like a bicycle— the harder you pedal, the closer you get.” He didn’t know then that life doesn’t reduce every distance so easily. For Saroj, those thirteen kilometres weren’t just distance— they were prayer. They were proof of love. And that same love would one day become the deepest wound of his life..


PART 2 – Bangalore, Distance, and Love Alive Across a Phone Call.. 

  The soil of Saroj’s village still clung to his feet, but circumstances brought him to Bangalore. The city was big. Roads glittered. People walked fast. Life felt like a race. Saroj didn’t belong there. He was just surviving. Morning work. Evening exhaustion. And nights— nights were only for Shweta’s voice. The phone would ring, and the noise of the city would suddenly go silent. “You must be tired,” Shweta would ask. Saroj would lie, “No… I’m fine.” He never told her that sometimes his stomach was empty, the room felt too small, and the city felt unbearably lonely. But one thing never decreased— their love. Distance had increased, but the bond had grown deeper. Late-night calls. Sometimes just listening to each other breathe. For Shweta, every small detail of Saroj mattered. For Saroj, a single “Did you eat?” from Shweta meant the whole world. In 2021, when Shweta got a government job at a primary school, the first call she made was to Saroj. Her voice held happiness, fear, and hope: “Now everything will be fine, right?” Saroj said yes— but deep inside, he knew life was never that simple. Then came Corona. Cities shut down. Fear filled the air. March 2020— Saroj’s world shattered again. His father passed away. Lockdown. No trains. No roads. Saroj sat broken in a small Bangalore room. Shweta repeated one thing day and night: “Come home. Any way you can.” After endless struggle and requests, Saroj finally reached home. The funeral was done. Tears refused to dry. He stayed in the village for eight months. Money ran out. Even recharging the phone became difficult. But Shweta never stopped. She sent money. Paid for recharges. And kept saying: “Stay strong. I’m here.” For Shweta, Saroj’s birthday was her own. Gifts. Money. Love. Prayers. Saroj had only one thing to give— endless love. Some nights he wondered, “What have I ever done for her?” By morning, he would console himself: “One day… everything will be fine.” He didn’t know then that some loves don’t exist to be fixed— they exist just to stay alive inside the chest. And time was quietly preparing the next wound.

PART 3 – The Weight of Responsibilities and Courage Running from Love ...

After his father’s death, a strange silence settled into the walls of Saroj’s house. Once full of voices, the house now echoed with memories. Saroj was no longer just a son— he became the family’s support. In his mother’s eyes, the same question appeared every day: “What will happen now?” And Saroj didn’t have all the answers. Village whispers began. “The elder son is still unmarried.” “He works in the city, must be thinking of marriage.” Every word pierced Saroj’s chest. His elder brother said nothing— but that silence weighed heavier than words. Saroj thought, “If I bring Shweta home, what about my brother? What will society say?” These questions weakened his courage more than his love. Shweta felt everything. When her parents spoke of marriage, she changed the topic. “Not now.” “My job is new.” “Let’s wait.” But every night, when she spoke to Saroj, her voice trembled. “When will you come?” “When will you make me yours?” “How long will I keep fighting?” Saroj fell silent. He wanted to scream, “I want to marry you!” But the words died in his throat. He knew— Shweta wasn’t asking just for love. She was asking for a life. 2022… 2023… Time passed. Pressure increased at Shweta’s home. She got engaged. That night, Saroj felt weak for the first time. Shweta cried on the phone: “I’m asking you for the last time… come… take me away…” Saroj’s hands trembled. His mother. His brother. Society. Everything spun together. All he could say was, “Give me a little more time.” Time— which had already slipped away. Even after the engagement, Shweta didn’t give up. “Come before the wedding.” “Book a ticket—I’ll come myself.” She put her dignity, her fear, everything at stake. And Saroj… kept loving with fear. Sleepless nights. Phone in hand. Fingers unable to press call. “Tomorrow,” he told himself. “I’ll gather courage tomorrow.” But tomorrow kept becoming today— and passing. He didn’t know then that some decisions don’t allow delay. What’s lost once lives forever only in memories.


PART 4 – The Wedding Day, the Final Plea, and a Shattered Saroj ....

2 February 2024. The sun rose like any other day— but for Saroj, even light felt dark. His phone rang. Shweta’s name glowed on the screen. Her voice trembled: “I’m asking you one last time… come… there’s still time…” Wedding conch shells echoed. People laughed. But Saroj heard only Shweta. “Take me away… or book a ticket… I’ll come to you myself— anyhow…” She placed her entire world into that call. Saroj’s breathing quickened. His mother’s face. His brother’s silence. Village taunts. His lips moved— but no sound came. He didn’t abandon love that day. He abandoned courage. The call disconnected. By evening, the mandap was ready. Shweta became a bride. Red attire. Heavy jewelry. And a silent scream in her eyes. With every wedding ritual, something broke inside Saroj. He sat on the floor of his Bangalore room. TV off. World shut. One thought echoed: “If only I had taken one step forward…” Night fell. Shweta left with someone else’s name. Saroj lived— but his life ended that day. Days became the same. No hunger. No sleep. No desire to talk. Among people— yet completely alone. At night, he reread old messages: “Did you eat?” “Take care.” “I’m here.” After every message— one question: “Why didn’t I go?” People said, “Time heals everything.” But some pain doesn’t heal— it stays for life. Saroj told no one. He simply survived. He didn’t know then that life would place her before him once again



PART 5 – 2025, Sabrang Market, and Tears That Never Fell .....

Saroj returned to the village again. This time, not for love— but for his uncle’s death. White clothes. Moist eyes. An old grief pressed into his chest. After the rituals, he walked out silently. His feet led him to a familiar place— Sabrang Market. Same crowd. Same shops. Same noise. And then… he saw her. Near the SBI ATM. The same face— slightly changed, yet unchanged. Shweta. For a moment, Saroj forgot how to breathe. Their eyes met. No complaints. No questions. No words. Only everything that was never said. There was no henna on her hands, but someone else’s name was written in her fate. Saroj’s heart pounded. Ears burned. Throat went dry. A thousand things shattered inside— yet his face remained calm. Shweta lowered her gaze. Perhaps because if she looked longer, the tears would fall in front of everyone. Saroj steadied himself. In the ATM glass, he saw his reflection— older now, yet inside his eyes still lived the boy who once cycled thirteen kilometres for love. No words were spoken. Just a slight nod— as if saying: “I’m alive… you too?” Then Shweta disappeared into the crowd. Saroj stood there. Hands in pockets. Fingers trembling. Tears filled his eyes— but they didn’t fall. Perhaps because those tears were no longer just his. They belonged to a love that was complete, yet never fulfilled. That night, Saroj stayed awake for long. One thought kept circling: “If only I had shown a little courage that day— she would be with me today.” But life doesn’t run on “if only.” Some loves aren’t meant to be achieved— they’re meant to become memories. And Saroj… still walks alone, carrying that love inside his chest with complete honesty.

 “Some loves are not meant to be won, only to be lived. I couldn’t make her mine, but even today, every prayer carries her name.” —

The End

 Writer: Saroj Pani@