The Narratives – Mohamed Miah

Rahul’s house sat nestled in a quiet, tree-lined avenue in East London, a classic terraced house with a charm that spoke of history. The red-bricked façade was neatly kept, with tall, slender trees casting dappled shadows over the front steps. Inside, the house was clean and tidy, a reflection of his mother’s meticulous nature, but it also bore the marks of years gone by. The décor was a blend of old and new—a vintage radio sat proudly on the mantle, next to framed sepia-toned photographs of ancestors, their stern faces softened by the years. In the kitchen, a collection of eclectic items filled the glass-fronted showcase: delicate porcelain tea cups, an old brass mortar and pestle, and a few mismatched heirlooms that had been passed down through generations.

Rahul had decided to go casual that day, choosing a pair of jeans and a crisp shirt instead of the traditional shirt and trousers. He had thought about dressing more formally, but something told him to keep it relaxed, to be himself. Perhaps that decision would come back to haunt him.

When Suman arrived with her family, she stepped into the room like a vision in her red and pink lenga, the intricate embroidery catching the light and making her glow. Her brother, a large man with a bald head and a stern expression, followed close behind with his wife and a friend in tow.

“Hello, Rahul,” Suman’s brother said, his voice deep and measured as he extended his hand. The handshake was firm, almost too firm, as if he was testing Rahul’s strength.

“Hi,” Rahul replied, smiling, though he felt the pressure in the handshake and in the room. He glanced at Suman, who smiled shyly, the warmth in her eyes easing some of his nerves.

Suman’s mother broke the ice, “Your house is lovely, Rahul. So much history in these walls, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Aunty,” Rahul said politely. “My mother has kept it this way. She’s very proud of our family’s history.”

Rahul’s mother, beaming with pride, nodded. “We believe in holding on to the past, while looking forward to the future. And today, we hope to discuss that future.”

The elders exchanged pleasantries, talking about everything from the weather to their family histories. The atmosphere was light, with occasional laughter, particularly when Rahul’s younger cousin cracked a joke about the old items in the showcase. Rahul noticed how easily Suman smiled, her eyes meeting his often, and each time, it felt like a secret shared between them.

Eventually, the two families allowed Rahul and Suman to sit together, away from the prying eyes of their relatives.

As they moved to a quieter corner of the house, Rahul felt a nervous excitement bubbling within him. “So, Suman, tell me about yourself. What do you enjoy doing?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

“I love reading,” Suman replied, her voice soft but confident. “Especially classic literature. And I enjoy cooking, experimenting with new recipes.”

“Really? That’s great! I love to cook too,” Rahul said, a smile spreading across his face. “Maybe we can have a cook-off sometime.”

Suman laughed, the sound melodic. “I’d like that. But I warn you, I’m pretty good.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Rahul teased. “I can make a mean Madurai chicken.”

Suman’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Well, then, I guess I’ll have to bring my A-game.”

They continued talking, their conversation flowing easily. They discovered a shared love for travel and a common dream of exploring the world.

“So, what’s your favorite place you’ve visited?” Rahul asked, genuinely curious.

“Shimla,” Suman answered, her eyes lighting up. “There’s something magical about the mountains. And you?”

“For me, it’s Goa. The beaches, the vibe, the food—it’s just perfect.”

Suman nodded appreciatively. “I’ve always wanted to visit Goa. Maybe one day…”

“Maybe,” Rahul said, his tone playful. “Who knows what the future holds?”

By the end of their conversation, Suman had shown clear interest, and as they stood up to rejoin their families, she subtly passed him her phone number. “Let’s stay in touch,” she said with a smile.

“Definitely,” Rahul replied, pocketing the slip of paper as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Over the next few days, Rahul and Suman exchanged messages constantly. The conversations were filled with laughter and mutual understanding. Rahul was over the moon. One evening, as they chatted, Suman wrote, *Rahul, I’m really glad we met. I feel like we could have something special.*

Rahul’s heart raced as he read her message. He couldn’t help but tell his mother, “Mum, this is the one. I’m sure of it.”

His mother, seeing the joy in his eyes, smiled and blessed him. “I’m so happy for you, beta. I’ll speak with the elders and see how we can move forward.”

But just as quickly as his hopes had risen, they were dashed. A rejection came from Suman’s family, a curt message relayed through a family friend. The reason? Suman’s brother hadn’t liked Rahul. He thought he sounded too common, perhaps even unsophisticated for their family.

Rahul was crushed. He paced his room, disbelief and anger swirling inside him. His mother knocked softly on the door and entered, her face lined with concern.

“Rahul, I heard… Are you okay?”

He shook his head, trying to hold back the sting of tears. “Mum, I don’t understand. Everything was going so well. I thought… I thought she liked me.”

“She did, beta. But sometimes these things happen. It’s not always in our control.”

Unable to resist, Rahul sent Suman a message: *What happened? I thought we were getting along so well…*

He waited for her response, his phone clutched in his hand, but exhaustion took over, and he fell asleep before he could read it. When he woke, there was a flurry of missed calls and messages, not just from Suman, but from his cousin sister as well.

“She sounds really worried, Rahul,” his cousin sister had said over the phone. “Can you text her back?”

But by then, Rahul had already begun to spiral. The rejection had bruised his ego more than he wanted to admit. In a moment of weakness, he sought out vodka, hoping to numb the ache that gnawed at him. It didn’t take long before he was sending another message, this time filled with anger and hurt.

*Why did you lead me on? Was this some kind of game to you? Your family thinks I’m not good enough, and you just went along with it. You didn’t even stand up for us. You’re just as bad as them. Don’t ever contact me again.*

When the response came, it wasn’t from Suman. It was from her friend.

*What you said is horrible. Leave Suman alone.*

As the effects of the vodka began to wear off, Rahul reread what he had written. The words were harsh, too direct. In that moment of clarity, he realized that while he had meant every word, he could have chosen them more carefully. He had lashed out in his pain, letting his bruised ego get the better of him.

Meanwhile, across town, Suman sat with her phone in hand, a pained expression on her face. The truth was, she hadn’t felt the same connection Rahul had. Their conversations were pleasant, and she genuinely liked him, but there had been no spark, no feeling of something more. She had gone along with the meeting because of her family’s insistence, trying to see if perhaps something might grow with time. But when her brother voiced his concerns, she felt relieved rather than disappointed. She had never intended to lead Rahul on; she simply hadn’t known how to tell him that she didn’t share his depth of feeling.

When Rahul’s message arrived, full of anger and hurt, it stung her. She hadn’t expected such harsh words from someone she thought was kind and understanding. As she showed the message to her friend, a deep sadness settled over her. She had hoped to let him down gently, to part on good terms, but now she saw that her hesitation had only made things worse.

He sat there, staring at his phone, feeling the weight of his own actions. He knew he had hurt someone who hadn’t deserved it, but he also knew that the hurt he had felt was real. It was only a bruised ego, after all. He took a deep breath, deciding it was time to move on. There was always a next time, and he would be better prepared for it.