Telugu original by Ampasayya Naveen

“You seem to watch a good many films these days. Seen anything lately?” asked my closest friend, Surender.

“Yes. I saw one just a week ago,” I said. “While it played, I felt myself slipping fifty years backwards without realising it. The whole film was smooth and soothing—what they’d call a feel-good film. Yet for me, it did more than that. I felt an odd kinship with the hero. And when the heroine appeared, Mahitha’s face came into my mind—my old classmate—as if she were standing before me again.”

Surender smiled. “That sounds intriguing. What film had such an effect on you?”

“It’s called Jaanu. When I first heard the name, I wasn’t impressed at all. ‘What sort of name is that?’ I thought. But a friend pressed me: ‘Watch it, you’ll like it.’ So I went. The heroine’s name is Janaki, everyone calls her Jaanu—hence the title. Later, I learnt it was a remake of a Tamil film, 96. Apparently, even the original drew high praise.”

“That’s fine,” said Surender. “But what I want to know is—how did it touch you?”

“The story begins quietly,” I said. “In the first half, you see two young hearts, bound yet silent. In the second, they meet again after twenty years and look back at what never became. If you want to understand how it reached me, I’ll have to tell you one of my own stories. It’s not fiction—it happened.”

“In that case,” he said, leaning forward, “start at the beginning.”

“I was reading for my B.A. then. It was that age when everything felt romantic. Films, novels, poetry—they filled every corner of my mind. A good song, a beautiful line, even a glimpse of a lovely girl would make my heart race. I was always waiting for Beauty—as if she must appear one day and fill my life. In my mind, I saw myself with her, drifting together through light and music like Urvashi and Pururava. Waiting became a way of living.” 

I paused for a moment before continuing. 

“In those days, a new girl joined our class—Mahitha. Lakhon?me?ek, as the saying goes. Extraordinary. When she first entered the room, the whole class stopped breathing. In modern terms, everyone was fida on her. No one could believe that so much grace could rest in one person.”

“It wasn’t as if the class lacked girls before,” I went on. “There were ten or so—some plain, some pleasant. But Mahitha was something else altogether. No matter how I describe her, I could never capture that quality. She wasn’t merely beautiful; there was a strange magnetism about her. I couldn’t even tell where it came from—something mysterious clung to her. Krishna Shastri said of Urvashi that an unprecedented charm radiates from her, an aura steeped in poetry. That’s what I saw in Mahitha’s eyes—a mystery I couldn’t unravel. Krishna?Shastri also declared, ‘Urvashi is not a person—she’s an experience.’ Mahitha was like that. Meeting her was an experience.”

“Some classmates gave her names—kavya kanya, Miss?College. After a few days, the thrill faded for them, and she became just another girl among the ten. But I could never see her that way. During lectures, the girls sat on one side, we boys on the other. I always chose a seat that faced hers directly. The teacher’s voice would vanish, and only her face remained. In time, she noticed. Whenever our eyes met, she looked down quickly—but not before I caught the faintest smile.

To be honest, I stood out a little in that class myself. I was considered good-looking; some even called me “Shobhan?Babu.” I was always the first to answer when lecturers asked questions, and whenever the college held seminars, I wrote papers and read them aloud. People started calling me the most brilliant student of our year. I also entered the English elocution contests and usually won prizes.

Mahitha watched all of this. Now and then, I caught her looking at me in quiet admiration. That thought filled me with life. Once she began to glance at me as I looked at her, there was no restraint left on either side. Our eyes found each other constantly. Between one class and the next, we would often cross paths; she would look quickly away, pretending not to see. These exchanges said nothing aloud yet brought endless delight.

Our Telugu lecturer, whenever he spoke of heroines in classical poetry, kept stealing looks at Mahitha himself. A few students noticed and teased him till he stopped.

Soon, everyone learnt of our silent glances. Whispers ran about the classroom. “Something’s going on,” people said.

One afternoon, my friend Vishnu came to me.

“Tell me honestly—are you in love?” he asked.

“Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“You stare at each other all the time.”

“Empty glances—nothing more.”

“That’s how every love story begins.”

“And ends too,” I said. “Nothing will come of it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because neither of us has spoken a word to the other. Not one.”

He smiled slyly. “Perhaps not yet. But glances turn into words. Half the class expects you two to be together soon. Don’t be surprised if your names appear on the walls.”

I felt a sting of fear. “Never. I can’t bear the idea of her name being blemished because of me. I’ll stop looking at her altogether.”

Vishnu laughed. “You’ve been looking for weeks. You think you can stop now? You two make a perfect picture. Anyone can see the chemistry.”

“I don’t harbour such hopes,” I said.

“Tell me the truth. Do you love her?”

“I don’t even know what love is.”

“What you’re feeling is love. And don’t tell me you don’t recognise it.”

I laughed uneasily. “Honestly, Vishnu, I only know that something strange and strong lives in me when I see her. If this is love, I wish it weren’t. Because whatever I feel is all mine—she knows nothing of it.”

“But look at her. She feels that something too—that it, as Atreya calls it. I’ve seen it in her eyes.”

“I’ve imagined that myself more than once,” I admitted. “I’ve even thought of talking to her. But each time courage deserts me.”

Vishnu went quiet for a moment. “If you can’t speak, write,” he said at last. 

“Write what?” 

“A letter—a love letter. You write splendidly. I’ve read the letters you send to friends. You adore Chalam’s letters to lovers, don’t you? You could write one as moving as those. Pour out what’s in your heart—you’ll get a response.”

“Do you think I can put this feeling into words?”

“Of course you can.” 

“But what if she goes to the Principal? What if I’m expelled?”

“She won’t. She wouldn’t humiliate the boy she watches with so much warmth. Others might, but not her. I’m sure.”

I hesitated. “Perhaps... If the feeling breaks out, I’ll write. But I don’t know. I can’t decide.”

Vishnu grinned. “That’s every lover’s state—torn between hope and fear. Good luck, my friend.” He walked away humming.

That night I couldn’t sleep. For a week and more, my mind wavered between two questions—to write or not to write. Each time I saw Mahitha, the urge grew stronger. Her glance seemed to say, “You’re silent—what can I do if you won’t speak?” The more she looked, the more restless I became. Words throbbed at the edge of my mind—I love you—words I must never utter aloud.

At last, one night, I sat down to write. I filled two pages, tore one up and kept the other. My plan was simple: the next morning, I’d stop her outside class, say “Just a minute,” and hand her the letter.

Here is what I wrote:

My dear Mahitha,

As I set down these words, my hands tremble, and my heart beats against my throat. I cannot describe what you are to me. I seem to have known you always, in another age, another place. We were together once; a curse tore us apart, and since then I’ve been searching. I can hear your voice from that lost world; it visits me in dreams. When I first saw you, I felt I’d met the soul I’d lost long ago. At that instant, my mind became a bright, enchanted city. I was Pururava seeing Urvashi again, Dushyanta meeting Shakuntala—caught in the spell of recognition. Something boundless entered me. From that moment, you filled my world. I asked myself: how have I lived without you till now?

I expect nothing from you. I don’t ask for love in return. My love will remain mine alone; it’ll never trouble you. Seeing you each day is enough. I don’t seek to touch you. We have already met somewhere beyond this life—that union endures. That we’ve met again here, though still apart, is miracle enough. I want to write more, but my hands won’t obey me. I can’t imagine how you’ll take this. Whatever you feel, it’s all right. Simply setting down what has filled me has given me peace.

Yours for ever, 

Pradeep

The next morning, by the time I reached the college, a crowd had gathered outside the Principal’s room. Most were my own classmates, whispering among themselves. I recognised Vishnu at the edge of the group and went straight to him.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He took me by the arm and drew me a little aside. “Funny thing, Pradeep. What you only planned to do—Ajay Kumar’s already done.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“He’s written a love letter to your Mahitha,” Vishnu said, lowering his voice. “Wrote it in awful language and gave it to her this morning. She marched straight to the Principal and lodged a complaint. They’ve called him in for questioning. She’s in the room now, with Ajay, and it looks grim. They’re saying he’ll be suspended.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. It felt like being struck across the face.

Before I could gather myself, the door opened, and Mahitha came out, sombre and tight-lipped. Several of the girls followed close behind her. She brushed past without looking around. But as she reached the steps, she turned for an instant. Her glance passed across me—dull, weary—and then slid away.

That small look hit me harder than any punishment could have done. Was she thinking all men were alike? That I’d stoop to the same thing as Ajay Kumar? Had everything I’d read in her eyes—the quiet admiration, the unspoken warmth—been nothing but imagination?

By midday, the whole college was talking of nothing else. The Principal suspended Ajay for a month and sent a notice to every class: any similar behaviour will be dealt with far more severely.

The next day, Mahitha didn’t appear. Nor the day after. After four or five absences, I sent Vishnu to ask around; a girl from her street might know something. Vishnu lived near them and was distantly related to her family. He returned that evening with news.

“Her parents have stopped her coming altogether,” he said. “They’re old-fashioned people; this business shook them badly. They think other boys will follow Ajay’s example if she keeps studying. They’ve already started looking for a match.”

I felt hollow, as if my insides had been scooped away. Vishnu looked at me with sympathy. “Try not to lose yourself in it, Pradeep. Forget her. Time’s the only cure. Don’t wreck your studies. Falling in love isn’t wrong; trying to possess love is. Keep it within you. Don’t tell her you love her—love love itself.”

Oddly enough, those words reached me. They sounded almost wise.

He hesitated, then asked quietly, “And that letter you wrote—what did you do with it?”

“I thought of tearing it up,” I said. “But each time I read it, my hands froze. I couldn’t destroy it.”

“Don’t. Give it to me instead,” he said.

“Why would you want it?”

“You have a way of writing that breathes. Your sentences hold music. I want to read that letter—to feel it.”

His request startled me, but his voice was soft, free of mockery. I took the folded paper from my pocket and handed it over. He slipped it carefully into his notebook.

Mahitha vanished from my days after that. Yet she never quite left my thoughts. I stopped yearning to possess her—that fever had burnt out—but whenever her face flashed through my mind, an ache of sweetness came with it. It wasn’t sorrow exactly, nor distraction. It was more like remembering a half-forgotten poem.

Years rolled by. I completed my M.A., found a post as a lecturer, and settled into the rhythm of college life. Ten years passed without her name being spoken once.

Then, one afternoon, at a wedding in Warangal, I turned and saw her.

At first, I didn’t recognise her. She was standing under a string of lights with her husband and a small boy. But when she looked across the hall, her eyes met mine, and I knew instantly. Something within me—some ancient echo—stirred awake.

For a few seconds, neither of us moved. Then she smiled—the same slight, inward smile I remembered from those college days.

Her husband wandered off to fetch sweets for the child, leaving her alone for a moment. She came towards me.

“They say the world is round,” she said lightly. “Seems to be true, doesn’t it? I never thought I’d meet you again.”

She looked me over, studying my hair, my face. “You haven’t changed much,” she said.

I laughed quietly. “And you haven’t either. I’m glad you’re well.”

We stood facing each other, not quite knowing what to say. After a while, I spoke again. “I felt sorry when I heard you’d left college. That awful incident—”

She interrupted, almost wistfully. “What would you have done if I hadn’t left?”

“Perhaps,” I said slowly, “I would have given you the letter I wrote that night.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “I can’t believe you ever had that much courage.”

“If I had given it to you,” I said, “what would you have done? Truly?”

She looked straight at me then, her eyes alight with the same old brightness. “Nothing,” she said softly.

“Would you have complained to the Principal?”

At that, a single tear broke free and slid down to the edge of her sari. She brushed it away quickly. “I’d never have shown your letter to anyone. I’d have kept it close—to my heart. Can I tell you a secret?”

“What secret?” I asked.

“I read your letter,” she said.

I stared at her. “But that’s impossible. I never gave it to you.”

“Some impossible things do happen,” she said, smiling faintly.

Then I understood.

“Vishnu,” I murmured.

She nodded. “Yes. Vishnu gave it to me. And I did keep it close to my heart—I still have it. I’ve read it more than once, and every time it feels new. Your letter wasn’t a letter—it was an experience.”

Her husband called out just then. She turned away, gathered her son in her arms and rejoined them.

I stood watching her as she walked out under the festoons of light, that graceful figure moving towards the gate.

“I’d have kept it close to my heart…” (titled in Telugu as “Na gundello dachukunedanni...”) by Ampasayya?Naveen was published in Sahityakiranam monthly magazine, November 2020.

Translated into English by Rajeshwar Mittapalli.

Ampasayya Naveen is an accomplished author and Sahitya Akademi laureate who has to his credit more than 30 novels and 100 short stories in Telugu. The most well-known of his novels are Ampasayya, Antasravanti, Kalarekhalu, and Premaku Avali Teeram. He is a pioneer of the stream-of-consciousness mode of writing in Telugu. His fictional works have been widely translated, including into English. In recognition of his contribution to Telugu fiction, apart from the Sahitya Akademi Award, he was conferred at least two honorary doctorates by universities.