Notes in the Margins

Some love stories begin with a look across a room. Mine began with a pencil note on page 43 of a secondhand book that cost me forty rupees. I still have that book, and I still blush when I open it.

I was in my second year of college. I had very little money but a very big hunger for books. Every Saturday I went to an old book stall near the college gate. It was run by an old man we all called Dadu. He had white hair, thick glasses, and there was always a cup of tea going cold beside him.

His grandson helped him on weekends. He was a quiet boy who wrapped books in old newspaper and never said more than "Here you go." To be honest, I never looked at him twice.

One Saturday I bought a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. That night, reading in bed, I found a note in the margin in neat pencil:

"Mr. Darcy is not rude. He is just shy. Shy people often look proud."

I laughed out loud. I didn't agree at all. So I picked up my own pencil and wrote under it: "Shy or not, he insulted her at a dance. No excuses."

I don't know why I did it. Maybe I was just lonely. The next Saturday I returned the book to Dadu's stall to exchange it for another, and as a joke I tucked a small slip inside: "For the person who writes in margins."

Two weeks later, Dadu handed me a book of Tagore's poems before I even asked for anything. "Someone kept this for you," he said with a strange smile.

On the first page, in the same neat pencil: "Okay. Maybe Darcy needed a better excuse. But you should read page 12."

On page 12, one poem about waiting was underlined.

That is how it all began. Every Saturday I brought back one book with my notes in it, and every Saturday Dadu gave me another with replies. We argued about endings. We underlined our favourite lines. He wrote about his mother, who had passed away when he was small. I wrote about my fear of failing my exams and disappointing my father.

We never used names. I didn't want to. It felt like a spell that would break the moment I asked.

Months passed. I started reaching the stall early every Saturday. My friends thought I had become a very serious reader. In truth, I had become a girl in love with handwriting.

Finally, before my final exams, I gathered all my courage. On the last page of a book of short stories, I wrote: "I want to meet you. Saturday, 5 pm, at the stall. I will be holding a book with a blue cover."

That Saturday I wore my best kurta. I reached at 4:45 and stood there holding the blue book so tightly my fingers hurt. 5 pm came. Then 5:15. Then 5:30. Students passed by, buses passed by, but nobody walked up to me. Only the quiet grandson was there, arranging books like always.

At 6 pm I decided to leave. My eyes were burning. That's when the grandson walked over and silently handed me a book wrapped in newspaper, like he had done a hundred times before.

I opened it. On the first page, in that neat pencil, it said:

"I have been here the whole time. I was just too shy. Shy people often look proud."

I looked up. He was standing there, red up to his ears, still holding the pencil.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both. All those months, the person who knew my fears, my favourite poems and my silly opinions about Mr. Darcy had been standing three feet away from me, wrapping my books in newspaper. And I had never once asked his name.

His name is Arjun. We have been married for six years now. Dadu passed away last year, but before he went, he confessed that he had read every single note. He said it was the best story that ever passed through his stall.

We still write to each other in the margins of books. Our shelf at home is full of arguments, apologies and love letters that nobody else would ever think to look for.

Sometimes we search for love in faraway places, while it is quietly standing right in front of us, wrapping our books.

Note: This is a fiction story.