It begins not with a sound, but with the absence of one. The room still holding the echo of laughter, the residue of revelry, the shimmer of voices that rose and receded, of glasses set down too quickly, of bodies that leaned in just a little too close, of eyes that promised something and meant something else. And now, nothing. Just the low, lingering, liquid hum of the sea pressing itself against Bombay’s edges, as if the city is breathing in my place, because I have forgotten how.
This—this quiet, creeping, consuming ache—has a name.
It is desire without destination, devotion without fulfilment. It is grief that glows, absence that arrives, loss that lingers like a low-lit lamp in an empty room. It is, as the Bhakti poets knew, not separation alone but a heightened state of union-through-distance—where longing itself becomes prayer, and absence becomes an altar.
Viraha does not arrive with drama. It does not knock. It seeps. It settles into the corners of the room, into the creases of my shirt, into the silence of my skin, into the space beside me on the bed that still holds the memory of weight, warmth, whisper.
“ye na thi hamārī qismat ki visāl-e-yār hotā
agar aur jīte rahte yahī intizārhotā.” — Mirza Ghalib
It was never in my fate to meet my beloved. Had I lived longer, I would have only waited longer.
And isn’t that the quiet cruelty of it—not that they left, but that they were never meant to stay. The one who loved me in fragments, who offered nearness without narrative, intimacy without inheritance. The boy on the bus who never arrived, whose absence became louder than any presence that followed. The many who came like monsoon winds—sudden, seductive, saturating—and then gone, leaving behind only the dampness of memory, the musk of moments, the mildew of maybe.
I sit by the window, the sea stretched out like a confession no one is listening to. The air is thick with the promise of rain, that peculiar Bombay heaviness where everything waits—clouds, currents, cravings, skin.
And the body remembers.
It remembers with ruthless precision. The exact way a hand once rested at the small of my back. The way breath warmed my neck in the dark. The way silence between two people can feel like language, until it doesn’t. The way a name can live in the mouth long after it has been forbidden speech.
“raat yun dil mein teri khoihui yaad aayi
jaise veerane mein chupke se bahaar aa jaaye.” — Faiz Ahmed Faiz
Last night, your memory returned to me, quietly—
like spring slipping into a barren land.
There is nothing innocent about Viraha. It is not just longing; it is the betrayal of the body by time. The skin does not forget even when the mind insists on moving forward. My hand still reaches in sleep. My lips still shape a name they no longer have permission to call. My breath still bends toward a body that is no longer beside mine.
“suna hai log use aankh bharke dekhte hain
so us ke shahr mein kuch din thehar ke dekhte hain.” — Ahmed Faraz
They say people look at him with eyes full of longing;
perhaps I should stay in his city awhile and see.
Faraz arrives like a late-night confession—soft, seductive, slightly smiling at the folly of feeling. Because even curiosity becomes longing. Even distance becomes desire.
I have been desired, deeply, devastatingly. Men have arrived with admiration in their eyes, with youth and beauty and urgency. Models with sculpted ease, doctors with deliberate tenderness, actors with practiced intimacy—all of them offering something, sometimes everything. And yet, what remains is not them. It is the one who did not arrive. The one who could not stay. The one who left a space no one else could quite learn to fill.
“mohabbat mein nahin hai farq jeene aur marne ka
usi ko dekh kar jeete hain jiskaafir pe dam nikle.” — Mirza Ghalib
In love, there is no difference between living and dying;
we live by looking at the one for whom we would die.
Ghalib’s couplet (Image Source: Rekhta)
And what is this living then, if not a series of small survivals? I move through the day, through conversations, through carefully curated composure, through meals, through the choreography of being seen, admired, wanted—and yet beneath it all, a quiet, persistent ache. Not loud enough to interrupt, but constant enough to define. A pulse beneath the performance. A tremor beneath the triumph.
The monsoon will come soon. I can feel it. The city will turn inward. Windows will close. Plans will soften. Streets will surrender. The world will shrink to rooms and reflections and the sound of rain insisting on everything it touches.
Viraha thrives in such weather.
“main phir bhi tum ko chahunga
is chahat mein mar jaunga.” — Amrita Pritam (echoed spirit of relentless love)
And somewhere deeper still, older still, the voice of Mir Taqi Mir—the original cartographer of sorrow—whispers:
“patta patta boota boota haalhamara jaane hai
jaane na jaane gul hi na jaanebaagh to saara jaane hai.”
Every leaf, every branch knows my condition—
whether the flower knows it or not, the whole garden does.
Because Viraha is not private. It is planetary. The walls know. The wind knows. The sea, especially the sea, knows.
And then, suddenly, a different register—earth-rooted, soul-steeped:
“prem gali ati sankari, tamein do na samaye.” — Kabir
The lane of love is so narrow that two cannot walk it together.
And from the Hindi heartland, the ache of Jaishankar Prasad drifts in like dusk:
“jo beet gayi so baat gayi…”
What is gone is gone—
and yet, how it remains.
So perhaps this was always meant to be walked alone. Perhaps the longing itself is the companion. Perhaps the absence is not a wound but a witness. A presence in another form.
But the body resists such wisdom.
It remembers too vividly. The way a night unfolds when two people surrender to its softness. The way time dissolves when breath meets breath, when skin learns the language of another. The way morning feels like betrayal because it demands distance, departure, definition.
Ghalib’s couplet (Image Source: Rekhta)
“tere waade par jiye hum to yeh jaan jhooth jaana
ke khushi se mar na jaate agar aitbaar hota.” — Mirza Ghalib
There is a particular kind of intimacy in knowing something will not last—and choosing it anyway. In opening the body, the heart, the self, to something already slipping away. That is not weakness. That is worship.
“ab ke hum bichhde to shayad kabhi khwabon mein milein
jis tarah sookhe hue phool kitabon mein milein.” — Ahmed Faraz
If we part this time, perhaps we will meet only in dreams—
like dried flowers pressed between pages.
And isn’t that what memory becomes? Pressed. Preserved. Fragrant, but faded.
And yet, each time, the same quiet aftermath. The room returns to itself. The sheets cool. The silence settles. The phone stops lighting up. The city continues, indifferent, immense, intact.
I remain.
“na kisi ki aankh ka noor hoon, na kisi ke dil ka qarar hoon…” — Muztar Khairabadi
Not despair—no. Recognition.
And still, I love.
Because what is the alternative? A life without longing? A heart without ache?
“gham agarche jaan-gusilhai…” — Mirza Ghalib
And somewhere, almost playfully, almost painfully, Firaq Gorakhpuri lingers:
“tum mukhatib bhi ho, qareeb bhi ho
tum ko dekhen ke tum se baat karein.”
You are before me, close to me—
should I look at you, or speak to you?
Such is longing—even in presence, it trembles.
And so, Viraha becomes not an interruption, but a rhythm. Not an ending, but an eternal return. It loops, like a ghazal, circling back to its first absence, its first unanswered call, its first undone promise.
The sea outside does not change. It rises, it falls, it repeats. The city will sleep, will wake, will fill again with voices and bodies and the illusion of permanence.
And I—
I continue to sit in this space between holding on and letting go.
Perhaps this is where it turns, gently, almost invisibly, toward something else.
Not resolution. Never that. But a widening.
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A knowing that what I long for is not just the person, not just the touch, not just the night—but the feeling of being met, of being seen, of dissolving into something larger than myself.
And perhaps that cannot be taken from me.
And yet—even with that knowing—the ache does not disappear.
It deepens. It dignifies. It becomes less of a wound and more of a weather.
I sit. The sea breathes. The first drops of rain begin to fall.
Somewhere within me, the longing remains—
not resolved, not silenced, not surrendered.
Just… held.
And perhaps that is all Viraha ever asks of us. Not to end it, not to escape it, but to live within it.
To love, still.
To ache, still.
To remain open, still.
As if the one who did not arrive might yet, somehow, be on their way.
It is not just longing; it is the betrayal of the body by time (Designed by Suvir Saran) 
Ghalib’s couplet (Image Source: Rekhta)
Ghalib’s couplet (Image Source: Rekhta)
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