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Desert Storms and December Rings (Spoken Word)

Maybe in another universe...
we were Romeo and Juliet.
But not the poison-sipping, dagger-falling kind.
No, we were the kind who tried to exchange rings in Dubai
and got hit by a sandstorm
— literal and emotional.

Our date was August 8, 2018.
It wasn’t picked by pundits or family trees.
It was ours.
Because that was the day she said yes.
Not to marriage.
To us.
To love.

But then —
A next of kin, booked his 
Ring ceremony prior to mine
Which meant we got preponed.
Quick detour.
Flight to Dubai — 23rd December.
Engagement on the 28th.
Simple. Right?

Wrong.

Our flight didn’t land in Dubai.
It crash-landed into chaos.
Ras. Al. Khaimah.
No staff. No lights. No clue.
Dad panicked.
Sandstorm outside, storm inside.
Her dad drove through it to come pick us up.
That should’ve been the story.
That should’ve been the fight we remembered.

But no.

Because on the 28th —
at lunch —
my father announced:
“500 log aayenge.”
Five. Hundred.

Her parents heard: thirty.
Maybe forty.
That’s the kind of math that breaks hearts.

What followed wasn’t a disagreement —
it was warfare.
Words sharper than knives,
and louder than truth.

“Hamare izzat ka sawal hai,” they said.
“If your family can’t handle 500 people,
you’re not marrying our daughter.”

She left.
Just like that.
Said she couldn’t deal.
Didn’t tell me where.
Didn’t need to.

I followed.

Didn’t know the roads.
Didn’t have roaming.
Airtel failed me.
Love didn’t.

I told her —
“I won’t say a word. Just walk behind you.”
And she let me.
That was all I needed.

We reached a beachfront.
Silence between us.
Salt in the air.
Questions in our bones.

Found Wi-Fi at a café.
One message:
“Come back. Everything’s normal.”

Normal?

We returned.
Glasses clinking.
People laughing.
Deals struck —
Dad handles stay.
Her dad, food and booze.
Storm’s over, apparently.

She went to get dressed.
I stood there, asking myself —
Do I run?
Grab her hand?
Fly home?
Register this love in peace?

But no.
I dressed up.
Two-lakh ring in hand.
Smiled. For five hours.
With no friends.
Only a mother and a father
whose pride walked louder than my joy.

She didn’t even sit with us at dinner.

Years later, they apologized.
But it’s hard to erase a memory
when it’s tattooed on your gut.

And me?

I still remember that night.
Not as just a celebration.
But as also a quiet grief.
Neither did it end.

And nor did the storm...

There was no music that healed,
no song that rose like hope from the silence.
There was no applause, no curtain call,
only scattered petals of what could’ve been.

The room clinked glasses,
but our eyes clinked past each other — hollow and tired.
They say every storm passes.
They say time softens pain.

But neither did the fat lady sing,
nor did the curtain fall,
and nor did the storm that landfalled that day
till this day come to an end..

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