"Aarav Khanna was twenty-four years old when he met Naina Sabharwal on a Tuesday in October in a city that was not going to let him forget her — and when a single cowardly phone call on a stormy November night pulled them apart a year later, neither of them would see the other again for twenty-two winters."
Theme: a love that lost twenty-two years to a single cowardly minute on a storm-night phone call
Aarav Khanna was twenty-four years old when he met Naina Sabharwal on a Tuesday in October in a city that was not going to let him forget her — and when a single cowardly phone call on a stormy November night pulled them apart a year later, neither of them would see the other again for twenty-two winters.
Aarav Khanna was twenty-four years old when he met Naina Sabharwal on a Tuesday in October, in the courtyard at the University of Washington, in a city that was not going to let him forget her. He was a graduate student in architecture, three weeks into Seattle, already beginning to suspect that the Pacific Northwest contained more kinds of rain than the entire subcontinent. Naina was a second-year undergrad, literature major, Kathak dancer, a Punjabi girl from Redmond whose mother had been widowed when Naina was seven and whose laugh carried, even in a crowd, like a small silver bell. She was running late to a dance rehearsal — she was always running late to dance rehearsal — and she was carrying an armful of library books her professor had not actually assigned. When she rounded the corner past Suzzallo Library she ran directly into Aarav, and the books went flying across the red brick, and one of them, a slim volume of Faiz Ahmed Faiz in Urdu, hit him squarely in the chest. Aarav bent to pick it up. Naina bent to pick it up. Their foreheads bumped gently under a canopy of October maples going gold. She laughed — the kind of laugh a person only makes when they are too young to be embarrassed. And then, softly, apologetically, he said: I did not see you. And Naina answered, eyes bright with mischief: You were not meant to. An hour later, in the warm light of the student union, he wrote his phone number on a paper napkin and slid it across a cup of chai. She tucked it into the top of her leather-bound journal like a found photograph. That night, alone in her dorm room, she lay awake remembering his voice, writing in careful cursive by lamplight about the boy she had collided with in the afternoon. And in a small rented studio in Ballard, fifteen minutes across the water, Aarav sat at his drafting desk and tried to sketch her face from memory on a sheet of architecture paper. Twenty-two years later, he would still hear it in his sleep.
For the next six months, Seattle rained and did not rain and rained again, and Aarav and Naina did what young people do when they have found each other too early and too suddenly — they went everywhere. They rode the Bainbridge Island ferry at sunset, and she said Puget Sound looked like someone had spilled liquid pewter across the floor of the world. They ate piroshkies at Pike Place Market and she laughed so hard that a drop of mango lassi ran down her chin, and Aarav reached across a bucket of tulips and wiped it with his thumb. They stood under the cherry blossoms at the UW Quad in April, the air thick with pink, and Aarav told her, in the too-earnest way only twenty-four-year-old men ever speak: when I am forty years old, Naina, I will build you a house by the water. She laughed — she always laughed when he said something too earnest — and she said: I will hold you to that, Aarav Khanna. One late night in the grand reading room of Suzzallo Library, Naina fell asleep on her Kathak notation sheets, and Aarav, without saying a word, gently draped his moss-green cardigan over her shoulders and stayed until closing. They kissed for the first time a week later on the Fremont Bridge walkway in a warm spring rain, under a single yellow streetlamp, her turquoise dupatta soaked through, his hands cupping her face as if she were the only thing left in the city. And on a quiet afternoon on Vashon Island that May, he unfolded a piece of drafting paper on a driftwood log and showed her a pencil sketch of the glass-walled house he would one day build for her by the water. She was twenty-two years old. She had never been wrong about a promise until the one she was about to be wrong about.
One cold evening in January of two thousand six, at the small kitchen table of their Bellevue condo, Naina's mother Rekha said, quietly, in the voice she used only when something was already decided: Jaspreet has been here every week since the storm. Aarav has not come once. Think about it, beta. Jaspreet is a good man. And Naina, who was twenty-two years old and who had never been wrong about a promise until this one, said yes. On the summer night of the Medina wedding that July, Aarav came to the Brar house in a rented car in a rented suit and stood at the hedge by the circular driveway as a hundred strangers drank champagne inside. Naina saw him through the French doors in a red lehenga she had not chosen, holding a glass of something she did not want. She shook her head — only once. And Aarav walked back through the rain to the rental car. Something in each of them, that night, agreed to stop. But to understand how the woman who had loved Aarav Khanna in April had married Jaspreet Brar in July, you have to go back to the previous November. The Pacific Northwest got the worst windstorm it had seen in twenty years. Seventy-mile-per-hour gusts. Downed power lines across King County. Five days of blackout from Bellevue to Ballard. Naina was house-sitting her uncle's place on Ninety-Second Avenue while he was in Vancouver for Thanksgiving. Aarav was a fifteen-minute drive away in his rented Ballard studio. They had planned the following weekend at Bainbridge — he had booked a cabin, he had bought a small gold ring — and the storm cancelled all of it. On the second night of the blackout, Jaspreet Brar, the twenty-eight-year-old son of Naina's uncle's oldest friend, a cardiothoracic surgeon at Swedish, drove over to help Naina shutter the windows. That Thursday night, Naina walked down to the Bellevue Library to charge her phone, and the landline rang in the empty kitchen. Jaspreet, alone with a lit candle on the end table, answered. It was Aarav. Jaspreet did not tell Aarav where Naina was. Jaspreet told Aarav, softly, in a voice that sounded genuinely sorry: Naina needs some space right now. She has been thinking about the distance. Call her in a few days. And Jaspreet hung up. Aarav, twenty-four years old, in the dark of a blacked-out Ballard studio, took that call at face value — because twenty-four-year-old men take things at face value. He did not call back for three days. By the time Naina's phone was charged, his silence already felt like an answer, and her pride was louder than her hope, and neither of them ever picked up the phone again.
Eight years later, they were still in Seattle, and they had never seen each other again. Naina lived in the Medina mansion. Aarav lived in a converted boathouse in Ballard. They were a fifteen-minute drive apart. From the bedroom window at the back of the Medina house, you could see the exact strip of Ballard where Aarav had set up his small architecture practice — though Naina did not know that, and she had stopped looking out that window years ago. She wrote letters in a drawer — one a year, for every year she had been married — and tied them with cream twine. Never mailed. Aarav, in Ballard, was what the world would call a successful man. He had built two libraries, a gurdwara in Renton, a small glass house on Vashon Island that had been photographed by Dwell magazine. He had dated two women, briefly, and had been kind to both of them, and neither of them had stayed. Naina had two daughters now. Meher, eight years old, with long dark braids like her mother's. Roshni, five, with her father's straight nose and her mother's large quiet eyes. She loved them more than she had known she was capable of loving anything. Jaspreet was gentle with the girls. He took them sailing on Lake Washington. He read them bedtime stories on Sunday mornings. He was, in almost every observable way, a good father. Naina loved him enough. She had not named to herself, not even once, what had been missing since the November of two thousand five. But every morning, before anyone else in the Medina house was awake, Jaspreet sorted the family's mail first — because Aarav had written letters too, one a month for three years after the wedding, and every one of them arrived at the Brar mailbox in Jaspreet's hand. Jaspreet locked each letter in the top drawer of his mahogany study desk. He told himself he would one day give them back to Naina. He would find the courage. And then another month passed, another year, another locked drawer.
Jaspreet Brar was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in the spring of two thousand twenty-four. He died in November in the Medina master bedroom, with Naina beside him and his daughters holding his hands. Six months later, in January of two thousand twenty-five, Naina went to clean out his study. She found the locked walnut drawer. She broke the lock with a screwdriver from the garage. Inside were seventy-three letters, in Aarav's handwriting, postmarked between two thousand six and two thousand nine. The first letter — dated the week of her wedding — asked her to meet him at Gas Works Park on Saturday at noon, and he would be there with two plane tickets, and they could go anywhere. She sat on the floor of her dead husband's study for four hours and read all seventy-three letters. She did not cry. That is a different kind of rage — the kind too big for crying. That March, her mother Rekha Sabharwal had a heart attack at home in Bellevue and was admitted to Swedish Medical Center. Rekha was seventy-seven. She was very small in the hospital bed. Naina held her mother's thin hand and told her, softly, about the locked drawer and the seventy-three letters. Rekha closed her eyes. She whispered: I knew Jaspreet was not your match, child. I did not know how full he was of what he had taken. Forgive me. And Naina said to her dying mother, three times, softly: I forgive you, Ma. I forgive you. I forgive you. And she held her mother's hand until the hand was no longer warm. She had known, in a way, what Jaspreet had done. Three days before he died, in November of two thousand twenty-four, he had sent the daughters to the kitchen to make tea, and he had taken Naina's hand, and he had said the words she had not expected to hear from him. Naina. There was a phone call. November two thousand five. The storm. I answered it. I told him you needed space. I lied. And after we were married, there were letters. For three years. I kept them in my study drawer. I could not let them go. Forgive me. Forgive me. After Rekha's funeral, Naina sat on the floor of her own bedroom one night with three candles lit on the fireplace mantle and held a yellowed photograph of Aarav she had kept in a box since nineteen ninety-nine. Her face was dry — the tears were gone — but the grief was not. And at dawn the next morning, she walked alone on the pebbly beach at Alki, the Seattle skyline pale pink across the water, and she made a decision. It had taken her twenty years to allow herself to remember the promise about the house by the water. She would not wait another day.
The board meeting was on a Wednesday in March of two thousand twenty-six, on the fortieth floor of a building in downtown Seattle that Aarav Khanna had not designed but had occasionally envied. The Jaspreet Brar Memorial Foundation had put out a proposal for a new South Asian arts and community center in Capitol Hill, and three architecture firms had been invited to pitch. Aarav's firm was the smallest. He almost did not come. When he walked into the boardroom, there were seven people at the long walnut table. One of them was Naina Sabharwal-Brar. Her hair had silver at the temples now. Her hands were folded. She did not stand up. Neither of them spoke. The chair of the board, a man from Mercer Island who did not know anything about anything, said: Mr. Khanna, we are ready when you are. Aarav did not present. He looked at Naina. He said, in a voice he barely recognized as his own: I think you should choose a different firm. And he left the boardroom. Aarav stepped alone into the corporate elevator, portfolio tight in his hand, his composure quietly breaking behind the brushed-steel doors. On the ride down forty floors, he did not cry. He held the silence the way a man holds an egg he has already dropped. Naina had sat in the boardroom for one long quiet minute after he left, then risen without excusing herself, then walked out into the parking garage and gotten into her car. She drove twenty minutes from the tower without knowing where she was going. She parked under a green street sign on North Lake Way and sat with her hands on the wheel for a long time. She thought about the seventy-three letters in the box on her passenger seat. She thought about the twenty-two letters in a drawer at home, the ones she had never sent. And she made the decision to turn left and follow him. Aarav walked to Gas Works Park because his feet did not know where else to take him, and the rain had stopped, and the sky over Lake Union was that specific shade of liquid pewter she had named twenty-two years earlier, and he sat on the grass hill and he waited, without knowing what he was waiting for, for thirty-five minutes. Then he heard footsteps behind him. She sat down next to him on the grass. She said, quietly: I have seventy-three letters in a box in my car. I have twenty-two more at home, in a drawer — the ones I never sent. He said nothing for a long time. Then he said: I was going to build you a house by the water. I remembered. She said: I know. I remembered too. And for one still moment, they pressed their foreheads together the way they had twenty-two years earlier, under the October maples at the University of Washington. They sat on the hill at Gas Works Park, forty-six and forty-four years old respectively, until the sun went down over the Space Needle. And when the sky was fully violet, they stood up, and she took his hand, and they walked together down the path toward the city lights — two small figures moving into the future they had almost lost. Because some loves are not lost. They are only delayed.
The lesson: A single silent minute can cost you twenty-two winters. Pride will speak louder than hope, if you let it. Pick up the phone. Dial the number. Even if it is two decades late. Some loves are not lost — they are only delayed.
"You were not meant to see me." — the first sentence she ever spoke to him, on a Tuesday in October in 2004, and the sentence he would still hear in his sleep twenty-two years later.
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