I was a Hindu from South India, and she a Christian from North India. These were the only differences in our love story set in 1970’s. We were one soul in two bodies.
The first time I saw her, it was in MB Club, Lucknow. She had come with her parents to the library. As days passed, I found myself encountering her more often, donning the colourful bell-bottoms of the era. Yet, it was that one day when she walked in a saree that left me utterly captivated. I mustered up the courage to go, introduce myself and ask her out on a date. Deep down, I doubted whether a girl like her would ever be interested in someone like me. Little did I know, love had other plans.
Her name was Snehrani. On our first date, I asked her what ‘Sneh’ meant, she said Love. That day onwards, I referred her as ‘my love. ’hi, my love’, ‘come here, my love’ ‘see you soon, my love.’ I think that’s the quality that she liked most about me; the way I could take something and convert it into something funny or meaningful for us.
As an Air Force officer, I had picked up various languages, including Bengali, Kannada, Telugu, Tamil, Marathi, and Punjabi. Yet, it was learning Hindi that I believed was the key to win her heart. In no time, I started reciting shaeris (poems), making her blush. During our courtship, my aircraft crashed during tests and I lost my hearing in one ear. But that didn’t matter to her.
When we decided to get married, we both desired a simple wedding. On the 26th of January in 1972, with just two garlands and two signatures, we embarked on a lifetime of togetherness.
I was 64, when Sneh died. I was shattered. I’m 80 now, and even today, I can’t bring myself to watch her videos because in them, she’s alive, happy, dancing, and laughing, which makes her absence more prominent.
36 years of togetherness. 16 years of living a life without her. Even though I miss her every single day, I celebrate the memories we created. And when we meet again, I’ll say, “My love, I hope you didn’t miss me too much.”
