Echoes of a Digital Love

 

Online Ishq

She was online today. After nearly two years—a revelation that caught me off guard, a surge of emotion I couldn't quite label as joy or sorrow. It eluded even my own grasp.

True, I had never fully erased her from my memory, yet any lingering hope had long since withered. Now, faced with her digital presence, I wavered: should I reach out, or let the silence persist?

In an instant, fragments of our shared past flooded my vision, vivid as a dream resurfacing. Her name was Mariam, and our paths first crossed on Orkut, that forgotten realm of early connections. What began as casual exchanges evolved into a harmonious rhythm, a quiet symphony of words.

Evenings became our ritual—chats that wove through the hours like threads in a tapestry. She shared tales from her shadowed history, intimate confessions laced with vulnerability; she craved compliments on her photos, traded jokes and poetry, her laughter echoing through the screen like distant bells. Imperceptibly, we grew accustomed to each other, dependencies blooming in the quiet spaces between logins.

Mornings dawned later than our anticipation; we'd awaken already brimming with unspoken dialogues, eager to exchange the day's ephemera. By dusk, thoughts accumulated like storm clouds, unleashing in torrents the moment we connected online. Our conversations knew no end—endless streams from both sides. These days, even composing a few paragraphs feels laborious, but back then, three hours of typing flew by effortlessly. Fingers ached, yet the heart remained insatiable.

These were the hallmarks of love—how long could I deny them? How long could I restrain the confession? One fateful day, I mustered the courage and laid it bare: I was in love with her. Whether it was a mere acknowledgment of my own turmoil or a formal proposal, I couldn't say, but the words escaped me at last.

She fell silent upon hearing them, a hush that stretched into the night. That restless vigil, the interminable day that followed, became the longest expanse of my existence. Turmoil churned within—waves of elation crashing against despair, a ceaseless inner storm.

Yet evening brought her affirmative response, and suddenly, my deepest wish was granted. The next night and day blurred in a euphoric haze; joy sprouted wings, lifting me aloft.

She shared her number then, and I squandered every rupee on STD calls, heedless of the cost.

She hailed from Bhopal, an engineering student in her final year, dreaming of a career before marriage. I, from Delhi, posed no barrier to her settling here. Time itself seemed to accelerate, winged and fleeting.

The ensuing two months dissolved unnoticed—such is the alchemy of love, where the passage of moments loses all meaning.

Then, inexplicably, her demeanor shifted. Responses turned terse, laced with irritation. Calls went unanswered, accumulating as missed echoes. Questions in chats hung suspended, orphaned in the void.

That period was agony incarnate; irritation festered within me like a wound. Mariam was my first love, and the prospect of losing her drove me to the brink of madness. Had someone else captured her affection, prompting this cold dismissal? The mere thought ignited a blaze in my soul.

By then, she had migrated to Facebook alongside Orkut. I turned sleuth, scouring her profiles and activities for clues. Was a new continuity forming with another? Nothing overt emerged, yet her actions screamed evasion, a deliberate unraveling.

Soon, responses ceased entirely—on Orkut, Facebook, everywhere. I flooded her Gmail with fifty messages, met only with silence. Her phone number rang out of service; a painstaking trace revealed it tied to a fabricated Hindu identity. A false trail from the start.

Reflecting now, amid our thousands—perhaps millions—of words, she had revealed nothing verifiable: no address, no college name. Deception had been her intent all along. She had amused herself and vanished, leaving me ravaged, empty-handed.

Rage and grief consumed me, tipping me into delirium.

My mother, a school principal with a keen eye, sensed my unraveling. She became my counselor, guiding me back from the abyss with painstaking care. Only then did I comprehend the lethal sting of first love's betrayal.

It took six months to emerge from that shadow. My parents arranged a temporary job to distract me, and even persuaded me toward marriage—something I had never envisioned so soon. In consenting, it felt like retribution against Mariam, as if she lurked invisibly nearby, watching. I wanted her to see: I hadn't perished without her; I thrived in her absence.

Exactly a year later, I wed. The bride was from my mother's kin—educated, yet grounded in domestic grace. She seamlessly embodied the ideal daughter-in-law.

It took time for her to carve a space in my heart, but she succeeded, banishing Mariam's ghost entirely.

Now, I was even the father of a beautiful daughter, whose presence sealed any remnants of that old wound.

Yet today, she was online.

Despite my resistance, the past danced across my mind like a relentless flashback. The joy, the pain, the yearning, the fury—every emotion tied to her had left its mark, indelible and raw.

Seeing her active and online on Facebook, I opened Gmail, driven by a faint hope to check if she had responded to the messages I’d left languishing there. But the inbox held only silence, as it always had.

“Immu…” A message from her flickered into the chat. 

I didn’t want to reply—truly, I didn’t—but an unseen force guided my fingers to the keyboard.

“What is it?” I typed, deliberately sharp, my words a mirror to the resentment and indifference I wished to convey. Yet, in that moment, I couldn’t fathom why I needed her to feel my anger.

Her response carried no tender phrase, no trace of the warmth I once knew. Instead, it was a stark request for my phone number.

I hesitated, my mind protesting fiercely. But against its clamor, I typed my number, reluctant yet compelled.

Almost instantly, my phone rang. An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen.

“Hello,” I answered, my voice taut.

“Son, this is Mariam’s father speaking. She wants to see you. I’m sending the address on Facebook. Come as soon as you can—it’s an emergency.” The call ended abruptly, leaving me staring at the monitor.

There, in the chat, was an address in Bhopal.

I was plunged into a whirl of questions. What emergency could summon me after two years? Why did she need to see me now? Was she in trouble, suddenly in need of me?

I had believed her dead to my heart, buried deep in my chest. Yet probing now, I found her still alive, stirring faintly. My mind urged me to ignore the call, to discard her message as she had discarded mine—fifty of them, unanswered. But my heart, defiant, tugged toward one question: Was she in distress? Did she need me?

For an hour, I was caught in a tempest of indecision, torn between heart and mind, between going and staying.

Finally, I resolved to go. If I faced her, I could seize the chance to wound her with words, to hurl the pain and grief she’d inflicted back at her. Then, perhaps, I’d help her.

I told my family a friend was in trouble and I needed to rush to Bhopal, promising to return by the next day. With a single change of clothes, I headed to New Delhi Railway Station, boarding the first available train with a general ticket.

By morning, I reached Bhopal. The address wasn’t far from Habibganj Station, and I arrived swiftly. A crowd had gathered at the house, but upon hearing my name, they ushered me inside as though I’d been expected.

In the room where she lay, others were present but slipped out upon my arrival, leaving only an elderly man—likely her father. 

And there she was, on the bed. I studied her, my breath catching. This wasn’t the Mariam I knew, the vibrant girl whose photos I’d pored over countless times. That Mariam was fair, robust, radiant. This figure was a skeletal shadow—skin dulled, cheeks hollowed, bones protruding. Her hair, her eyebrows, gone. Her face, once so familiar, now bore a haunting strangeness.

As our eyes met, a spark flickered in her lifeless gaze, a fleeting wave crossing her features. Who was this? I turned to the man, my eyes questioning.

“Mariam had cancer,” he said, his voice breaking. “We learned two years ago. We ran to Delhi, to Bombay, did everything we could. But perhaps this was God’s will. She’s been waiting for you since yesterday.” His words faltered, choked by tears, his eyes brimming.

Two years ago. The words struck like hammers in my skull.

I looked at her again. She gazed back, unwavering. As if drawn by instinct, I moved to her side and sat by her head. Her hand, cold and frail, I lifted into mine, rubbing it gently between my palms, willing warmth into her.

“I wasn’t unfaithful,” her lips moved, soundless, as though her faltering breath strained to etch the words. “I didn’t want you to know… to see me like this. But in the end, I couldn’t resist wanting to see you one last time.”

As she spoke her final words, two tears slipped from her eyes, tracing paths down her cheeks. With effort, she raised her other trembling hand, resting it atop mine. We sat in silence, eyes locked, no words needed.

In that moment, my heart held nothing—no anger, no pain, only a numbed void. Awareness returned only when a sob broke from behind me.

I noticed then that her eyes, still fixed on me, had turned to stone.

(The End)

Written by Ashfaq Ahmad