By Vimal Kapoor
In the bustling town of Dehradun, where Gulmohar trees lined the streets and the famous clock tower, popularly called ‘Ghanta Ghar’ chimed every hour without fail, Simran ran the little bookstore on the lane next to Nashville Road. At twenty-seven, she had returned home after winding up a messy divorce in the city court; physically she was tired and emotionally drained.
One rainy October afternoon, the bell above the door jingled, and in walked Kabir, soaked to the bone, carrying a cardboard box of old novels. He was new in town—or so he said—having inherited his late uncle’s flat on the outskirts.
“Excuse me,” he said, shaking rain from his dark curls. “My uncle was a collector. Thought you might want these before I toss them.”
Simran looked up from her ledger, her black eyes meeting his warm brown ones. “Toss them? That’s not fair. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
She hurried through the box: first editions, rare poetry book, and a worn copy of an early Ruskin Bond book. “These are treasures,” she whispered. “I’ll buy them all.”
Kabir grinned. “Only if you let me buy you coffee as thanks. Deal?”
“Deal,” she laughed, surprised at how easily the word slipped out.
Over the next few weeks, coffee turned into long walks along Rajpur Road. Kabir was a carpenter, he told her, restoring old furniture in his Sahastradhara Road workshop. He listened as Simran spoke of her ex-husband’s betrayal, how she’d found him with her best friend.
“I thought love was supposed to be safe,” she said one evening, sitting on the bookstore’s worn velvet sofa after closing.
“Love’s never safe,” Kabir replied, taking her hand. “It’s like jumping off the Ghanta Ghar hoping someone catches you.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then you learn to fly.” He turned towards her, kissing her softly. For the first time in years, Simran believed in second chances.
They fell hard and fast. Mornings found Kabir bringing her fresh pastries from the nearby bakery; nights ended with whispered promises under the stars.
“I love you, Simran,” he said one November night, as winter began to swarm the town. They were tangled in blankets in his flat, the oil heater glowing.
“I love you too,” she murmured. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
But promises, like autumn leaves, are fragile.
The first twist came in December. Simran was sorting new arrivals when an old woman entered, clutching a photograph.
“You’re Simran, aren’t you?” the woman asked, voice trembling. “This… this is my son.”
The photo showed a younger Kabir—same eyes, same smile—standing beside a woman and a toddler.
Simran felt the world spin. “There must be a mistake.”
“No mistake. His name isn’t Kabir Sharma. It’s Kabir Khanna. He left us five years ago after the accident. His wife—my daughter-in-law—and little boy… gone in a car crash near Roorkee. He was driving. Drunk. He couldn’t face it, so he ran. Changed his name and disappeared.”
Simran’s hands shook as she confronted him that night at the flat.
“Is it true?” she demanded, thrusting the photo at him.
Kabir sank onto the couch, face pale. “Simran… I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“All those stories about inheriting this place from an uncle? Lies?”
“I was going to tell you. After Diwali. I swear.”
“You swore you’d never leave me!” she cried. “But you’ve been leaving your whole life. Running.”
“I stopped running when I met you,” he pleaded, reaching for her. “You’re my reason to stay.”
She pulled away. “I can’t be your redemption, Kabir. Not like this.”
For days, they didn’t speak. Dehradun’s winter carnival- ‘Virasat’ – came and went; the town twinkled with lights, but Simran’s heart stayed dark.
Then, on Diwali Eve, he showed up at the bookstore, his hair ruffled, holding a small wooden box he’d carved himself.
“I sold the flat,” he said quietly. “I’m going back to face it. The trial—they reopened the case. Manslaughter charges.”
Simran’s breath caught. “When?”
“Tomorrow. But I couldn’t leave without this.” He opened the box: inside was a ring, simple silver with a tiny engraved heart.
“Marry me, Simran. Not to fix me. Just… because I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything. Even if it’s only for tonight.”
Tears streamed down her face. Against every instinct, she nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “God help me, yes.”
They spent the night together, shared an intimate encounter then chatted until dawn. For those hours, the past dissolved; there was only them.
“I’ll wait for you,” she promised as he boarded the early Jan Shatabdi train. “However long it takes.”
He kissed her tenderly. “I’ll come back. I finally have something worth coming back to.”
But fate, cruel as winter wind, had other plans.
That afternoon, as Simran arranged the store window with their engagement photo—a silly selfie from the mall—the phone rang. A police officer from the city.
“Ma’am, there’s been an accident. The train to Delhi… derailed. We’re sorry, Kabir Khanna is dead, his mobile revealed your number as the last call he made.”
She dropped the phone. Outside, rain fell harder, there was an eerie silence.
In spring, when the Gulmohars bloomed again, Simran placed fresh flowers by the small plaque near the temple in memory of Kabir Khanna, beloved son, father, and almost-husband.
Some nights, she still sat on the bookstore sofa, touching the wooden ring box he never got to give her properly.
“Love’s never safe,” she whispered to the empty room.
And in the quiet, if you listened closely, the clock tower seemed to reply with hourly chimes.
(Vimal Kapoor, a Dehradun resident, is passionate about literature, creative writing, cricket and exploration through travel)
