Grandpa’s eyes didn’t blink much now.
They weren’t looking at the veranda anymore… they were somewhere far away.
“It was a day before Good Friday,” he said slowly.
“A Thursday… not quite afternoon, not yet evening… that strange time when the sun begins to soften.”
He paused.
“Date was… 22nd April.”
The boy’s jaw dropped instantly.
“Oh god… you remember the date too?! Uff… damn…” he laughed in disbelief.
“You didn’t forget that even at this old age?”
Grandpa didn’t laugh.
He just smiled faintly… the kind that carried weight.
“Some days don’t let you forget them,” he said.
The boy leaned in again, this time more serious.
“What was so special about that day?”
Grandpa adjusted his shawl slightly, as if preparing himself.
“It was the first time I noticed her,” he said.
Not met.
Not spoke to.
Noticed.
“The village was different during that time,” Grandpa continued.
“People were preparing quietly… you could feel it. No loud celebrations. Just a kind of calm… like the whole place was holding its breath.”
“There was a small church near the banyan tree,” he added, his voice softer now.
“I wasn’t a regular there… but that day, I don’t know why, I went.”
“By yourself?” the boy asked.
Grandpa nodded.
“I didn’t even know I was going to meet her.”
The wind picked up slightly, rustling the leaves around them—as if echoing the past.
“I remember… I reached a little early. The place wasn’t crowded yet. A few people sitting quietly, some lighting candles…”
“And then?” the boy asked, almost whispering now.
Grandpa exhaled.
“And then… she walked in.”
There was a pause.
A long one.
The kind that stretches because words are not enough.
“What was she like?” the boy finally broke the silence.
Grandpa closed his eyes briefly.
“She didn’t do anything extraordinary,” he said.
“No grand entrance… no sound… nothing.”
“Then?” the boy frowned.
“That’s the thing,” Grandpa opened his eyes again.
“She didn’t need to.”
“She walked past me,” he continued,
“and for some reason… I noticed everything.”
“The way her footsteps slowed near the door…
the way she adjusted her dupatta slightly…
the way her eyes didn’t look at anyone directly…”
The boy didn’t interrupt.
“She wasn’t trying to be seen,” Grandpa said.
“And maybe… that’s why I saw her.”
“Did she see you?” the boy asked.
Grandpa smiled.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“But I remember something strange…”
“What?”
“The wind,” he said softly.
“It moved… exactly when she passed.”
The boy rolled his eyes slightly. “Thatha… that’s just coincidence.”
Grandpa chuckled.
“Maybe,” he said.
“But that moment… it didn’t feel like one.”
The silence returned—but this time, it felt warmer.
“So what did you do?” the boy asked eagerly.
“Did you go talk to her? Ask her name?”
Grandpa shook his head slowly.
“No.”
“Why?!”
“Because,” Grandpa said, looking straight at him now,
“back then… we didn’t rush into things.”
“Sometimes… we just watched.”
The boy sighed dramatically. “That’s too slow…”
Grandpa laughed softly this time.
“Yes,” he said.
“It was slow.”
“But that slowness…” he paused,
“…is why I still remember every second of it.”
The sun had almost set now.
“And that day,” Grandpa continued,
“I didn’t speak a single word to her.”
The boy looked shocked again. “Then how did it become love?”
Grandpa leaned back, closing his eyes.
“That’s where the story begins,” he said.