The next day, Zoya woke to the call of a koel at her window. Its melancholic song floated through the heavy curtain of the room in Siddiqui haveli. She lay still and her mind went through the last night—the mushaira, the poet, his words. Arjun Sharma. She had overheard the poets saying that name as they piled out, and it stuck in her mind like an imperfectly remembered verse. She got up, the cool marble floor brushing against her bare feet, and went to her writing desk where she had kept a small diary. She wanted to capture the feeling of his nazm, the way it had stirred her, but her pen hovered, hesitant. How could she write what she barely understood?
The haveli was still, save for the very distant sounds of servants clattering utensils in preparation for breakfast. Zoya's father would be sitting in the study with all the morning newspapers, grumbling to himself about those "radical poets" who dared challenge the Raj. Her mother would be fussing over the hundreds of details to be perfect for some cousin's wedding. Zoya was to be the dutiful daughter as always; seen but not heard, present but not bold. Yet last night, under the shamiana, she had felt bold, if only for a moment.
She wore a simple cream anarkali, braided her hair loosely, and slipped out into the garden, hoping the morning air would clear her thoughts. Garden was her safe haven-a sea of roses and champa trees where she could read or dream without interruption. In her hands was a volume of Ghalib's poetry, gifted by her dead grandmother. She sat upon a stone bench bore the shade of a neem tree. But her eyes always drifted from the pages in search of something or someone whose name she didn't know.
Someone was heard walking while she was in that entranced state of mind. She looked up and saw a young man in white kurta coming her way. Arjun. Her breath was caught, and standing there with the book clutched to her chest, she breathed deep. He stood a respectful distance away. His face was cautious but curious.
"Miss Siddiqui, I presume?" came the voice which had the same throaty resonance of his poetry. "I didn't expect to see you here."
Zoya's heart pounded at that moment. "How did you know my name? Did you ask about me?" "And I didn't expect to see a poet wandering around in my father's garden," she replied, making her tone lighter than she felt. "Are you lost, Mr. Sharma?"
He smiled - it was a quick flash that softened his sharpity. "Not lost; I was invited to stay for the wedding festivities. Your father's hospitality is...largess." There was an irony to that, as though he knew he did not quite belong in the company of nawabs and their associates.
Zoya tilted her head, studying him. "You do not seem to be the wedding type,"
"And you don't look like the type who'd sit quietly through a mushaira," he retorted, meeting her gaze afresh with his eyes. "I saw you yesterday. You were listening. Really listening. Not everyone does."
Her cheeks flushed, but her gaze held steady. "Your poem... it wasn't mere words; it sounded like a clarion call."
He came closer and lowered his voice. "It was. But it's too dangerous to say it aloud, especially in a house like this." He glanced at the haveli, its arched windows looming like watchful eyes. "Why did you speak to me last night, instead of keeping quiet with the others?"
Zoya was hesitating; her fingers were tightening over the book. "Because your words made me feel... awake. Like I'd been sleeping my whole life and didn't know it."
Arjun's expression softened, and for a moment, the air between them seemed to hum with possibility. "Then you're braver than most," he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "This is for you. A poem not quite as radical as last night's. Read it when you are alone."
She took the paper, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. The touch sent a shiver through her, and she tucked the poem into her book, her heart pounding. "Why me?" she asked in a whisper so faint it barely made it to her ears.
"Because you listened," he said simply. "And because I think you understand."
Before she could clarify, the call from a servant inside the haveli sounded, calling her name. Zoya turned back, then to Arjun." I must leave," she said, but her feet were reluctant to comply.
He nodded and stepped back. "We will meet again, Miss Siddiqui. Poetry finds its readers by some strange compulsion of its own."
And as she walked back to the haveli, folded up within that poem was all she knew- that secret charred against her heart as though it was a spark. She did not know what it said. That she did know, it likely changed her just as did his words the night before. The stranger's poem was no longer just words-it had become the inception of something forbidden, something that felt like freedom.