"Your Valentine has come home" (1043 words)

  

This old story relates to the mid-nineties 

I was learning DTP at a small private institute because I couldn’t afford college. My mother worked as an ayah at a private clinic. Every day while she was at work, I spent my afternoons at the nearby government library, reading newspapers and magazines, especially the job vacancy pages.

One afternoon, while scanning the employment supplement, a soft shadow passed beside me. I looked up and saw a young girl, about eighteen, pausing at my table before moving to the next one. She was beautiful in a quiet, gentle way, with a small nose, elegant features, and eyes that seemed to carry both hope and worry. Her salwar suit was worn and faded, a sign of her poor circumstances. She had no book in her hands and appeared restless, as though waiting for something.

I went back to reading, but soon noticed her glancing at me. When our eyes met, she looked away. After this happened a few times, I smiled and gently asked if she wanted to say something.

“Sorry, sir,” she said softly. “I’m actually waiting for the supplement you’re holding. When you’re finished, could you please give it to me before others take it?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I said, handing her the paper. “Please, take it.”

She smiled, and said, “Thank you. Someone told me there was an advertisement I should see today.”

As she walked back to her seat, I noticed her long hair, neatly braided, falling almost to her hips. She moved with a quiet grace. Though I had no real interest, I picked up an astrology magazine and pretended to read, stealing glances at her now and then. I noticed she did the same.

After about half an hour, she returned the paper, paused at my table for a moment, and then left.

That night, as I lay on my bed dreaming of my future, a steady job, a stable life, her face kept appearing before my eyes. I turned restlessly, cursing myself for not asking her name, where she lived, or if she came to the library every day.

The next day, I went to the library wearing my best T-shirt and jeans. My heart sank when I didn’t see her. I took a few newspapers and sat at the same desk, hoping she would come.

About thirty minutes later, she arrived in a hurry. I saw hope in her eyes as she scanned the room, and then they rested on me. I smiled and pointed to the empty chair opposite.

When she sat down, I said, “I’m Selva. I’m learning DTP and live near the Pillaiyar temple in the next street. I come here every day. I was lucky to meet you yesterday. What’s your name?”

“I’m Akila,” she replied softly.

When I asked what she did, she said, “I stopped school after Class 11. I’m preparing for the typing examination.”

“Why didn’t you complete Class 12?” I asked gently.

“I have no parents,” she said. “I live with my uncle near the flour mill. He’s kind, but he can’t afford my fees. My aunt asked me to stop studying and look for a job. I know typing.”

 “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I hope you get a job soon. I’ll collect the job supplements every day and keep them ready for you.”

From that day on, we met almost daily at the library, except on Sundays. Slowly, without realising it, we became close to each other. We talked about our dreams, our fears, and our hopes for the future.

When her eighteenth birthday came, I wanted to give her a small gift, but she refused. “My aunt watches me closely,” she said. “If she sees anything new, she’ll ask questions and stop me from coming here or attending typing classes.”

Still, our bond deepened. We didn’t need gifts; our conversations, smiles, and shared silence were enough.

One day, I noticed her eyes were swollen, her face pale and sad. She tried to hide it, but I asked what was wrong. After some hesitation, she said, “My uncle has decided to move back to his village near Salem this Friday. We can’t afford to live here anymore. I don’t want to leave Chennai. I want to stay here permanently.” Her voice broke. “I feel like crying all the time.”

I was shocked. I held her hand and said, “Don’t worry, Akila. We’ll find a way. We still have three days.”

Then, in a trembling voice, she said, “Selva… I’m shy to tell you this. Please find a way to keep me with you.”

“I understand,” I said. “I’m in love with you too.”

That night, I spoke to my mother. She listened quietly and then said, “I’ll speak to the clinic owner. They’ve been looking for a receptionist and a record assistant. Akila can stay with us until we arrange something at the clinic. Don’t lose hope.”

I was overjoyed.

Two days later, my mother said, “The clinic owner has agreed to employ her and provide accommodation. Let’s go speak to her uncle tomorrow.”

I barely slept that night.

The next morning, we went to Akila’s house near the flour mill. An elderly woman pointed to a locked door and said, “The poor girl cried for two days. Her aunt kept her locked, fearing she might run away. They left very early this morning.”

My heart shattered.

My mother held me as tears flowed uncontrollably. “Don’t cry,” she said softly. “We tried our best. Maybe she’ll write to you someday.”

As we walked back home, defeated and heartbroken, we heard the flower seller near the temple tell someone, “They’ve come.”

We turned.

Akila was running toward us.

 She fell at my mother’s feet, sobbing uncontrollably. “I escaped at the bus stand just before the bus left. My uncle wanted to chase me, but my aunt pulled him inside. I have no one now, only you and Selva.”

My mother lifted her gently and said, “Don’t worry, child. We were just coming back from your house. Everything is arranged.”

Then she turned to me with a smile. “Selva, your Valentine has come home.”

Akila stepped inside our house with her right foot, and with that single step, she walked into my life forever.