08/04/2025
“Have You Ever Loved an Unknown?”
Author: Miss Leena Gokhale.
Ananya had always found solace in online forums. Her favourite was a small, quirky chat room called “Whispers in the Dark”, where people connected under pseudonyms to discuss everything from poetry to heartbreak. Ananya, under the username “Shadow Boy”, had built a reputation for her thoughtful replies and gentle wit. The irony? She was very much not a boy. But it was easier this way. Safer. People listened more.
Then came “Night Rider”, a new user who shared her love for Urdu poetry and classic rock. Their chats started casually but soon, long after midnight, they found themselves confessing fears and dreams. ‘’Night Rider’’ claimed to be a guy from Mumbai, a struggling writer. Ananya smiled at the irony. She was a girl from Pune, pretending to be a boy, talking to a boy who seemed to understand her better than anyone else.
What Ananya didn’t know was that ‘’Night Rider’’, real name Aarya, was also a girl, also pretending to be a boy, for eerily similar reasons.
Over months, their conversations grew intimate. They wrote stories together, exchanged voice notes (disguised in text), and once, Shadow Boy even admitted:
"I think I’ve fallen for you, whoever you are."
“Night Rider” had replied:
"Same here. Maybe it's easier to love someone when they’re just a name glowing on a screen."
One day, Ananya stumbled upon an ad for a literary conference in Delhi titled “Have You Ever Loved an Unknown?” The theme was anonymity, virtual bonds, and digital love. Impulsively, she signed up. She hesitated for days but eventually sent “Night Rider” the link.
"Should we?" she asked.
"Let’s do it," came the reply.
"No identities, though. Let’s meet as strangers."
The conference was a modest affair in a sunlit hall of a university campus. Writers, bloggers, and curious souls gathered to share their stories. Ananya, in a simple kurti and jeans, felt her heart pounding with each new face she saw.
During a break, the organizer announced an interactive segment:
"Those of you who’ve built a connection with an ‘unknown’ online, come forward and narrate your journey."
Ananya’s legs carried her before her mind could process. She walked to the mic.
"I talked to someone for a year, every night. We shared poems, fears, stupid jokes. I called myself a boy because it was easier. I don’t know if he… or she… knows that."
A ripple of laughter and murmurs followed.
"Maybe they should."
The voice came from the back. Another figure walked forward, a slender girl with short hair, wearing a leather jacket. She took the mic with a grin.
"Hi, I’m Aarya. Username; “Night Rider”. I’ve been pretending to be a guy too. And I think I might be in love with a fellow imposter."
The hall burst into surprised applause and laughter. Ananya felt her cheeks flame, but her heart felt light, giddy. Their eyes met—truly met—for the first time.
Later, over cups of cutting chai at a street-side stall, Aarya teased, “So, Shadow Boy, do you still love unknowns?”
Ananya smiled, leaning closer. “Only when they become known.”
Their laughter blended into the city’s hum, the beginning of something real, beyond usernames and shadows.
“A Date, Finally”
Ananya stood outside Sakshi’s Book Café, nervously adjusting the dupatta of her simple cotton kurti. She’d chosen this place carefully—a cozy little spot in Delhi, filled with old books, mismatched chairs, and a menu that read like poetry. It felt... safe. Intimate. Real.
“Shadow Boy, reporting in,” came a familiar voice behind her.
Ananya turned to see Aarya walking up with that same mischievous grin, this time without any screen to filter it. She was in a loose white shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans, her leather jacket slung casually over her shoulder.
“No more usernames, Aarya. We’re real people now,” Ananya teased, but her voice betrayed her excitement.
“Fine,” Aarya said, stepping closer, lowering her voice. “But I might still call you Shadow when you’re being dramatic.”
“I’m never dramatic,” Ananya said, eyes wide with mock innocence.
Aarya laughed. “You once sent me a twenty-line breakup poem because I forgot to reply for a day.”
Ananya groaned, burying her face in her hands. “That was one time!”
Inside, they found a corner table surrounded by towers of old books. The menu was handwritten, but neither of them looked at it.
“So... what now?” Ananya asked, fiddling with the edge of her tea cup.
Aarya leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “Now we learn how to fall for each other in the real world. No fake names, no pretending to be boys. Just us.”
“Sounds terrifying,” Ananya smiled. “But also… kind of thrilling.”
There was a pause. A soft, awkward silence that wasn’t uncomfortable—just charged with the weight of everything unsaid. For months, they had known each other’s hearts but not their faces. Now, every glance, every smile felt like unwrapping a long-awaited gift.
Aarya reached across the table, tentative at first, then gently covered Ananya’s hand with her own.
“I’m not very good at this,” Aarya confessed. “First dates, holding hands, saying the right thing...”
Ananya laughed softly. “We’ve already done the hard part, Aarya. We fell in love with shadows. Now we just have to... turn the lights on.”
Aarya squeezed her hand. “So this is what it feels like. Falling for someone who’s sitting right in front of you.”
“And not hiding behind a username,” Ananya added.
Their tea arrived, but neither of them touched it. They sat there, talking for hours about nothing and everything—how Aarya hated coriander, how Ananya secretly loved sappy Bollywood songs, how weird it felt to see each other’s faces move when they laughed.
When the sun dipped low and the café started dimming its lights, Aarya asked, “So, Shadow, what’s next?”
Ananya smiled, her heart fluttering. “Next? We rewrite the story. But this time, with our real names in the credits.”
As they stepped out into the evening, their hands found each other again—this time, with no pretenses, no usernames, no masks.
Just Ananya and Aarya. And the city felt suddenly full of possibilities.
“Meet the Parents”
It was a Sunday afternoon when Aarya found herself standing outside a modest apartment building in Pune, nervously clutching a box of sweets. The label read Chitale Bandhu, which Ananya had insisted was the only acceptable offering when meeting her parents.
“They're old-school,” Ananya had warned. “But curious. And... I think they already know.”
The door swung open to reveal Ananya’s mother, a petite woman in a simple cotton saree, her eyes sharp but kind. Beside her stood Ananya’s father, a retired professor with a perpetually thoughtful frown that deepened when he was intrigued.
“So, you’re Aarya,” her mother said, eyes scanning her top to toe—not judgmentally, but measuring, like a tailor sizing up for a perfect fit.
“Yes, aunty. I brought pedhas.” Aarya extended the box like a peace offering.
“Good girl,” her father muttered, as if Aarya had passed the first of several invisible tests.
Over chai and murmurs, the conversation zigzagged from safe topics like the weather and Aarya’s writing to slightly trickier terrain.
“So, beta, how did you two meet?” her mother asked, feigning casualness.
Ananya and Aarya exchanged a glance, that silent language they had perfected over chat rooms and poetry.
“Online,” Ananya admitted. “In a forum where we both pretended to be boys.”
A long pause followed, broken by the sharp clink of a spoon against a teacup. Ananya’s mother raised an eyebrow, but her lips twitched as if suppressing a smile.
“I suppose... that’s better than pretending to be someone’s wife when you’re not,” she said dryly.
Ananya’s father cleared his throat. “And now you’re... what? Friends? Or... more than friends?”
Aarya straightened, her voice soft but clear. “We’re partners, uncle. I love Ananya.”
Another pause. The kind that stretches time. Then, her father’s lips twitched in what could only be described as a professorial smirk. “Well, I did always say Ananya’s choice in literature was unconventional. Seems her taste in partners is too.”
Her mother sighed, reaching out to gently pat Ananya’s cheek. “Happiness isn’t gendered, beta. Just don’t make us find out about your wedding through a WhatsApp forward.”
Relief crashed over them all at once, and laughter bubbled up, genuine and light.
A few weeks later, it was Ananya’s turn to face the fire—this time, in a sleek, artsy apartment in Mumbai.
Aarya’s parents were different—her mother, a painter with wild silver-streaked hair, and her father, a former theatre actor who now conducted creative writing workshops.
“You’re the poet who made my daughter stay up till 3 AM every night?” her father greeted Ananya with a theatrical flourish.
“And the reason she learned to enjoy ghazals,” her mother added, offering a warm hug.
“So, no interrogations? No disapproving glares?” Ananya half-joked, settling into their sunlit living room.
“We’re theatre people, beta. We live for dramatic love stories. Two girls finding each other while pretending to be boys online? That’s practically Shakespearean,” Aarya’s father declared.
Over wine and laughter, Ananya found herself drawn into their world of stories and art. She realized that Aarya’s parents weren’t just accepting—they were celebratory.
Later that evening, as Aarya and Ananya stood on the balcony watching the city lights, Aarya slipped her hand into Ananya’s.
“You know what the best part is?” Aarya whispered.
“What?”
“We’re not their daughters pretending to be brave anymore. We’re just… us.”
Ananya smiled. “Shadow Boy and Night Rider have officially retired.”
They watched the city breathe around them, knowing their love was no longer a secret buried in chat rooms, but a story unfolding—boldly, unapologetically.
“Vows Beyond Names”
The sun was setting over a sprawling garden in Pune, its golden rays filtering through strings of marigold and fairy lights. The air was fragrant with mogra, and soft strains of a sitar floated in the breeze, blending with distant giggles and murmurs of guests finding their seats.
But this wasn’t a wedding. Not in the traditional sense.
Ananya and Aarya had called it their “Sajda Ceremony”—a bowing of hearts, a celebration of choosing each other. They didn’t want pandits chanting unfamiliar mantras or legal papers declaring their bond. They wanted a space where their worlds—books, poetry, tradition, and rebellion—could coexist.
At the center of the mandap, not a havan-kund but a low brass samai (traditional lamp) stood lit, symbolizing the light they had brought into each other’s lives.
Ananya’s outfit was a delicate off-white saree, draped in the old Maharashtrian style, but her blouse shimmered with bold, silver sequins. Aarya, in contrast, wore an ivory sherwani paired with soft phulkari embroidery—a nod to her Punjabi roots—with a crimson stole casually thrown over her shoulder.
They met at the center, beneath a floral canopy where instead of a priest, their mutual friend—who had witnessed their online banter from day one—stood holding a slim, leather-bound notebook.
“Today, Ananya and Aarya will exchange vows written for no gods, no governments—just for each other,” he announced, his voice catching slightly.
Ananya went first.
“I fell in love with a boy who never existed. And through him, I found the truest person I’ve ever known. Aarya, I vow to keep loving you—even on days when I’m dramatic and send you bad poetry at 2 AM. I vow to choose you in every lifetime, even if it means meeting you again in a random chat room.”
Aarya smiled, eyes glistening, before she began.
“Ananya, you were a username on a screen, a shadowed heart sending me light. I vow to keep that light alive. I vow to hold your hand when life feels too loud, to dance with you when we’re old and forget the lyrics. I vow to be your NightRider, always.”
The guests—family, friends, a few amused aunties who still didn’t fully get the “not-really-a-wedding” concept—watched with teary smiles.
Then came their own twist on the mangal-pheras.
Instead of circling a fire, Ananya and Aarya took seven slow steps around a giant circle of books—Urdu poetry, feminist manifestos, mythology, science fiction—the stories that had built their bond.
With each step, they made a promise.
1. Trust without masks.
2. Patience through silences.
3. Laughter in mispronounced ghazals.
4. Space for dreams that don’t overlap.
5. Holding on when it’s easier to let go.
6. Celebrating their differences as poetry, not problems.
7. Writing a story where their love is the hero, not the plot twist.
When they stopped, Aarya’s mother approached, holding a pair of delicate silver payals (anklets). She knelt, tying one onto Aarya’s foot, and Ananya’s mother mirrored her action for Ananya.
“No mangalsutras,” Aarya’s mother whispered, fastening the anklet. “These are for the music of your steps together.”
The anklets chimed softly as the two turned to face their gathering.
There was no priest declaring them married. No legal registrar. But as they held hands and bowed together in a sajda—forehead to forehead—the garden erupted in applause.
They didn’t need anyone else’s blessing. They had chosen each other.
Later that night, beneath a canopy of stars, Ananya whispered, “You realize we just turned centuries of rituals upside down?”
Aarya chuckled, pulling her closer. “Not upside down, Shadow. Just… sideways.”
And in that moment, they knew—this was their story. Written in their words, sung in their rhythm, forever beyond the limits of names or roles.
Legacy of the Unnamed
The small auditorium in Mumbai was buzzing—not with noise, but with that electric hum of unsaid words, hearts ready to spill over. Banners read:
“Verse Unbound: A Gathering of Q***r Poets.”
On stage, seated cross-legged on a simple rug, were Ananya and Aarya.
Their hair had threads of silver now, but their laughter, their glances—still carried the same spark from years ago. Aarya’s sherwani had been replaced by a crisp linen kurta with quirky hand-stitched verses down the sleeves. Ananya wore a simple khadi saree with bold silver bangles, her feet still adorned with the anklets that chimed softly when she shifted.
Before them sat a sea of young faces—some nervous, some defiant, many still hiding pieces of themselves. But they were here. That was step one.
Aarya leaned into the mic, her signature grin intact. “So… how many of you here have written poems you’re too afraid to share?”
A few hesitant hands shot up. Then more. Then most.
Ananya smiled. “Good. Fear means you’ve written something true.”
There was a pause, as if the room inhaled collectively.
Later, in a more intimate breakout circle, Ananya and Aarya sat amidst a group of wide-eyed youngsters, their notebooks and phones clutched tight, like shields.
A shy voice spoke up. “But what if no one takes us seriously? People still roll their eyes when I write about two girls falling in love.”
Aarya nodded, her tone gentle but firm. “Let them. Eyeballs rolling are still paying attention. When Ananya and I started, we were two girls pretending to be boys in a chatroom, just to be heard. But guess what? We turned that whisper into a published anthology.”
Ananya added, “You’re not here to be accepted. You’re here to be undeniable.”
A trans poet named Aarav, sitting cross-legged beside them, pulled out a dog-eared copy of “Sajda: Poems from the In-Between”—their joint poetry collection.
“Your words… they made me come out to my parents,” Aarav whispered.
Aarya smiled, visibly moved. “Then our job wasn’t just to write poems. It was to build ladders for voices like yours.”
By evening, the auditorium was alive with spontaneous readings. The quiet ones had found their voices. Poems poured out—raw, defiant, tender.
Ananya and Aarya sat at the edge of the stage, listening, sometimes holding hands, sometimes wiping a quiet tear.
When the final poet finished, the room turned to them, expecting a formal closing. Instead, Ananya stood and said:
“Legacy isn’t a statue you leave behind. It’s a hand you extend to someone still climbing.”
Aarya joined her, pulling out a marker and pointing to the blank canvas set up at the side.
“We started as Shadow Boy and “Night Rider”. But today, we want you to write your own usernames here—not to hide behind, but to remind yourself where you began.”
One by one, the attendees came up, scribbling their online monikers, their secret alter-egos, their chosen names. The canvas filled with chaotic, beautiful fragments of identity.
And when the night ended, under the banner of Verse Unbound, Ananya and Aarya knew their story wasn’t an ending. It was a chapter heading. The story belonged to all of them now.
