Lost Love.
Of Haunting Stories, and the Mistakes We Can’t Undo.
Welcome to new readers! This week, I seem to have accidentally stumbled onto a theme — the great love stories of India.
While I’ve often written about ancient legends, there are also stories shaped by literary giants—tales that have quietly, yet powerfully, shaped the cultural imagination.
Today’s post is one such story. A reimagining of a timeless classic.
It’s a Saturday read—I hope you enjoy it!
Two children lived next door to each other. In a large village that was not yet a town.
In a time when bullock carts and horse carriages were the main means of transport.
Letters were written by hand, and took their time to arrive. The local postman cycled them to the door, and if the news was good, received a bakshish1.
A boy and girl. One rich, the other poor.
You would not know it when they played their children’s games, and in the way their families indulged their friendship - at least when little.
They were inseparable.
The girl had free rein in his home, coming and going as a dear friend. Wandering the mansion, she was more intimidated by the parents than the riches.
But never once did she feel she was unwelcome. For the boy made it so.
Running up the stairs to see his room, and his collection of stones, was a necessary pastime.
But more often than not, they preferred the outside to their homes.
All day, they roamed the countryside.
Plucking mangoes from a nearby orchard was fun for the afternoon.
Playing hide and seek with the other village children was their morning hour of exercise.
They knew each other’s likes and dislikes.
If the girl was angry, the boy coaxed her out of it. If the boy sulked, the girl charmed him out of it.
Two peas in a pod, you might think. Yes, but not peas - for they were different in personality.
One brooded, the other was practical.
One felt oppressed by the environment, the other saw joy in little things.
Can you tell which was which?
Yes, the boy - indulged in every way as the youngest son of a local rich zamindar.2
But not by his father, who saw his friendship with the girl as a show of poor judgement. Why couldn’t he find better friends? This, as the two grew their bonds stronger through high school.
The mother only cared for what her child wanted. It is the way of mothers universally.
She hushed the father, but he simply bided his time.
When it was time for college, they bundled off the son to a prestigious-name college in the city of Calcutta - that famed city which was the root of intellectual rebellion.
The girl - Paro - stayed home.
It was the time when modern conveniences were not at hand. Girls helped mothers run their homes.
Their parting as friends was natural.
Yet, the letters came regularly. The boy wrote weekly, sometimes not at all. But the girl wrote often. Between the happenings of the village and the city, there was no comparison. Yet, her letters brought him joy. His lack of discipline to write often frustrated her.
But when term ended for the year, the girl ran up to her terrace and watched for the familiar carriage bringing the boy from the train-station.
When it arrived, rather than go to his home, and greet his parents, the boy ran to the girl’s home and, after satisfying himself that all was well, he began to regale Paro with his college stories.
Wide-eyed and a little envious, Paro listened.
His parents - even his mom - grew annoyed. But she forgot it when he hugged her and said, ‘Ma, I’m home. What can I eat?’ All his favorites had been made, by her own hand. How could she stay mad?
So the mother fed him, sometimes, fanning him as he ate sitting on the wooden plank common to households.
Her favorite son. He knew it.
She also was fond of Paro.
No sooner had the household retired for the afternoon than Paro snuck into the home, by tacit agreement, tip toeing into his outer verandah on the first floor - where he usually sat enjoying the view of the coconut trees yonder.
He did not acknowledge her presence by sight or sound. But he knew she had arrived.
She took her place on the wide wooden swing next to him, bringing with her a magazine — a pretext for the family’s sake — and together, they swung peacefully, watching the fields being tilled and the farmers walking to and fro behind his home.
Sometimes they talked. It didn’t matter of what.
Yet, they never spoke of riches. Why would they? Would you, with a dear friend ?
To them, the material environment that surrounded them was noise.
It was made better or worse only by the presence or absence of the other.
Sometimes, he asked her where his clothes were for he could never find anything. It was more than being lazy. It was claiming a relationship.
If she failed to show up one day - whether by choice, because she was mad at him, or by constraint because there was work to be done at home, and her parents needed her more than his did.
For he had loads of help. She, none.
He grew restless. Waited. Then, went in search of her. Refused to let her finish her task and made her mad.
When she said no, he would help out, and charm her mother into letting them go out for an ice cream. A luxury in the village. Or a walk among the paddy fields. A joy in the village.
His excuse: “I have to go back to the city soon, so please, aunty, let Paro come with me?”
Paro’s mother loved him. He was the charming son they never had.
Friendship, such as it was, continued this way for another two years, until he was in the graduating class - it was a three year degree, as colleges mostly were.
He grew taller and broader; the summers shorter. Paro? She grew taller too, and prettier.
Each summer, the day before he left, they spent the evening together - on the terrace swing, or by the fields.
One late summer afternoon, she arrived wearing a fine saree, and puzzled, the boy wondered if she was going to a wedding.
Angered, the girl glared at him.
His mother seated nearby admonished him. He could not speak to her so.
Paro was now a young woman. Formalities had to be observed.
He just laughed. This was Paro.
But then he paused as he saw he had hurt her.
She had dressed carefully, hoping he might approve.
She retreated - not to her own home, but upstairs to vent on the swing outside his room.
There, he followed, and found her tears - no longer those of a child - streaming down her cheek.
He sat beside her, and gently turned her face to him, “Hey … what’s this? Don’t you know that you’re already beautiful?” he asked softly.
She gulped, and still hurt, stared at him. That was not a compliment. Or was it?
But his eyes spoke in a million silent ways to her heart. He wiped her tears slowly, and asked, ‘Is it a new saree?’ The apology implied.
She nodded.
Then it came.
“Do you not know,” he said softly, his gaze lingering on her face, “that when you arrive, it’s as if the moon enters my life?”
She shook her head.
But he just laughed - in the charming way she liked. “Do you really not know how much I ache to see you when I’m in the city?”
Her eyes widened, but she shook her head.
He laughed again, “Madcap. What am I going to do with you?”
Then he turned, back to the horizon, and they sat still. Just watching the sun set.
Something changed between them that evening.
When Devdas had looked her in the eye, Paro had seen her love reflected in his and blushed. He had smiled gently.
Talk seemed pointless. They had their whole lives ahead of them.
The friendship resumed, with an undertone of emotion.
When he returned to college, the letters became more profuse. He wrote often. Still, she wrote more than him.
His father had hoped the distance would do him good. Frowning on the growing nearness of lesser neighbors worried him. He hoped the youngest would not tarnish his reputation and good name. But he kept his thoughts to himself.
The second summer Devdas returned, more sure of himself, and to a more confident Paro.
The evening walks in the fields, became evening walks by the lake.
Sometimes, spent talking. Sometimes in silence. Always in unspoken joy. They were attuned to each other, but not always at peace. Fights broke out on the most trivial issues. She would swear she would never return. He dared her. No matter, one of them folded before the other. Ego set aside.
Now, the parting was getting harder. Just another year, Paro comforted herself.
Then, what?
He never raised the idea of their future, and she was too meek to raise it herself.
Surely it was understood between them and no words were needed?
So, it went. The letters resumed. Unspoken emotions underlined every thought.
In the final semester of the final year of college, one Friday, Devdas received Paro’s letter. It contained a bombshell.
Her parents were in search of a groom for her. They wanted her married quickly.
Her plea: “Please come home. I am scared.”
Reading it, Devdas was jolted into action. He ran to get the last train to his village.
Arriving, he first met Paro, and promised her a future.
Rushing to his parents, he announced his intention - their greatest fear come true - that he would wed Paro. He sought their blessings, confident they would concur.
But he had not considered the hard nosed wishes of his father. No amount of railing moved the father from the bitter stand he had adopted. His mother helpless against the father’s will, begged Devdas to reconsider. Who would dare go against the patriarch?
Devdas fought long and hard for his right to marry whom he pleased. He heard all the ills of Paro’s family, chief being their caste and lack of wealth. Yet, he was undeterred.
Words flew. The father unleashed years of bottled-up frustration; the son stood firm, unmoved. Neither would yield. Threats. Ultimatums. Tempers surged.
Blinded by rage and thwarted, Devdas left for the city.
Paro paced her room, then the terrace, waiting for his return—to hear what he had done. Instinctively, she worried. She had sensed, better than he had, what his father truly thought of her family. Perhaps they could elope, she thought, a little naively.
But so consumed was he by fury that he failed to stop and say goodbye to his love.
He was troubled by his constraints. As his father had reminded him during the argument, he had no independent means. He hadn’t graduated yet. A job was far from certain. Without the ability to support a family, how could he cope? What could he possibly offer Paro? What if, as his parents insisted, she would be happier with a more secure match? How could he hope to give her anything better?
This was also the age when women had little say in their future. Regardless of their status.
Dowries had to be negotiated. The lesser the better. None was best of all.
So Paro’s parents searched for a man that fit the bare minimum criteria for their daughter. That she should be happy came assumed, for parents always hoped their daughters would adjust and be happy.
Devdas was back in his rented room in the city, pacing. After hours of this circular thinking, he stopped. He brooded. No solution presented itself, and his thinking came to naught. His depression grew, especially after nights of insomnia. Finally, in a fit, he wrote to Paro, many lines trying to explain his thoughts, but ended with,
“Forget me. I cannot marry you. Be happy.”
Without sleeping on it, he went downstairs, and posted the letter.
Paro still waited in vain for him to return.
She convinced her parents he would marry her. It wasn’t about riches or caste. You don’t understand. Be patient if you love me, she said. “Devdas is coming back for me.” They waited, money-poor but heart-rich.
Instead of him, his letter arrived, taking its own sweet time.
Eagerly, she ran with it to her room.
When she read it, Paro fainted.
Meanwhile, after a few restful nights, Devdas awoke one morning, and immediately realized his folly. His heart sank. The enormity of his action struck him in the heart. He ran to get the next train.
Nothing else mattered but for Paro. What a fool he had been to even be influenced by his father to think otherwise. The world was of no consequence.
Through the journey, he couldn’t sit still.
He cursed every minute it took to arrive home.
He jumped the queues and rode a horse carriage taxi to Paro’s home, and yelled her name.
The sound of her anklets did not reach him.
He ran up the stairs to her room. Quiet greeted him.
He went to all her favorite hideouts. Empty space met him.
He ran back to her home, and looked for her in the kitchen, calling for her.
Hearing his voice, Paro’s father came out of his room.
“Paro?” He laughed. “Where is Paro now, dear boy? Why are you looking for her here. Don’t you know? Paro has left us and gone a long distance.”
Devdas stilled, his mind racing. What did the father mean?
“She’s gone to her husband’s home. Far away from here. Ah, what a wedding it was—never in my dreams did I think my daughter would marry into such wealth...
What luxury! What style!
They uplifted us and took Paro in the greatest comfort to their home. So what if he is a little old, and has three children? After all, she can live like a queen in his home. She need not even have a child. Oh, what good fortune my Paro has found.”
“Dear boy, what a wedding you missed - had you come a day earlier - you would have seen how beautiful my daughter looked as a bride. I’m not saying this just as her father. She was born to live in a mansion, no, no, rule it. Yes, rule it she will. Who would have thought that I would be so lucky?” He laughed gleefully recounting his family’s good fortune.
But nothing penetrated Devdas’s mind beyond the words: Paro … married.
A piercing physical pain shot through his heart. He stumbled and leaned against the door. ‘Paro.’ He tried to speak her name.
Yet, no sound came. His world darkened, and the ground blurred.
He was doomed. He knew it then without a doubt.
Perhaps, it had been when he wrote the letter. Or when he posted it.
The more he thought of Paro and her smiling face, her innocent trust in him, and the pleading in her letter, the more he reviled himself.
Silently, he went home in a rage, and there, smashed everything in his way.
Lashed out at everyone in the family. Except his mother who stood dumbstruck at his expression.
Bundling what few belongings he wished, he turned his back on his family’s wealth, status, and relationship. He left for the city never to return.
In his room, he was no longer interested in studying. He remained locked up in the dark for days.
Yet, when he closed his eyes, her face swam in front of him. Her smile, her blush, her anger. What he would give to have her be angry with him now.
Unable to bear it, he emerged, and roamed aimlessly in search of any succor to dull his pain. The endless pain.
Sleep eluded him. Or perchance he eluded it. For dreams attacked him in sleep.
Paro, lost forever.
A friend desperate to break his melancholy persuaded him to forget his worries and go out with him, promising a good time.
So it was to a shiny loud house the friend took him, where beauty and alcohol softened the mood of many.
Beauty did not interest Devdas.
After Paro, no woman meant anything to him.
Alcohol he willingly tried, and discovered its numbing feature.
Oh, and how he liked it.
His mistakes seemed to fade into the distant fog. Oblivion.
Along with the what ifs. No more wondering what if he had not left her behind after the fight with his father.
What if he had never written the letter, and instead, came in person to tell her.
Paro was married — married to an old man with three children.
Drunk, he could pretend it wasn’t true.
But when the alcohol receded from his blood, he awoke to the same realization.
Paro was married — married to an old man with three children.
He was responsible for that fact. Or for driving her to an unconscionable marriage.
Before his feet hit the ground, he reached for the bottle again.
From that moment on, Devdas and the bottle were never separated again.
When he gathered enough Dutch courage over the course of a year, he made the trip.
To see her.
He arrived at her doorstep. A shattered man.
She heard him singing. Calling to her.
Paro’s heart broke into a million pieces - again.
Torn between hating him, and never wishing to see him again, she teetered. Then, worried that she would never be able to see him again, she hastened.
To meet him quietly. Without fuss. Just a friend from her parental home. She explained to her husband. Mother must have sent him.
The husband, pleased with his marriage and a dutiful wife who asked for nothing - no jewels, no sarees or undue fuss - deserved to meet her parents’ emissary.
He bade her go make him welcome.
She walked quickly, her steps betraying her eagerness.
In the first few months of her marriage, her anger had kept her going. In remembering the helplessness she felt, the gaping well of darkness with no options available to her but to acquiesce to her parents - at least they were happy - she had found a new way to face her life. But the anger returned in spades. When she thought of him. His betrayal. He had left her to face life alone. Left her halfway. The sorrow consumed her so deeply that she buried herself in housework and overseeing welfare of her stepchildren to avoid being alone with her thoughts.
But the moment she heard him call her name, Paro who had never imagined seeing him again, had no other thought than to see him.
Her steps quickened.
Opening the gate, she gasped.
Drunk, though lightly, he struggled to stay upright, leaning against the door.
He saw her, and said softly. “Paro, you have come.”
His face ravaged, he presented himself to her, a ghost of a man.
This wasn’t her Devdas.
Paro started to cry, “What has happened? Oh … why?”
She ran to him unthinkingly - then paused… the line of honor could no longer be crossed.
No longer could she reign blows against his stubbornness, and complain to his mother about his teasing.
She was married.
A silent cry only then - her sole weapon: “What have you done, Devdas?”
“I came to apologize Paro. I’m sorry for the letter. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me .. no, I know. I was a coward.
But you, Paro… you… you knew me. Better than anyone.
You know—my first thoughts, they’re never right. I always mess it up. You knew that.
You knew I’d come back, didn’t you? That I couldn’t stay away. Not from you.
You knew you couldn’t stay mad at me forever.
So then… this?
This is what you do? This punishment? For one mistake?
Paro… out of reach, forever?
No, no, Paro—this isn’t done. Not like this. This kind of punishment... this isn't you. This isn’t your way.
I was foolish, yes. I admit it. But you… you were always the sensible one. The one who kept us straight.
So why? Why did you give up too? Why did you leave me?"
The words came slowly, haltingly, spoken between coughs he tried to stifle, as he struggled to hold himself upright - just to see her better.
Paro’s tears threatened to overwhelm her speech. “No, no… if I punished you, then I punished myself. You too know how angry I can get. That letter … my honor meant nothing to you. …. but no more - please, stop this madness. I beg you. I cannot bear to see you like this. There is no point to these questions. My fate failed me, I have no one to blame. We were not meant to be, perhaps …” she trailed off, trying to reassure him.
“Are you happy?” he asked, ignoring her lament.
“Yes, yes, I am happy. See how they keep me - in luxury?” she said, almost boasting.
He came closer. No line in the sand would stop him.
Paro was always his, and he was hers, no matter what the world said.
He lifted her cheek and stared into her eyes.
She stared back, without flinching.
The pain he saw there - and the silent prayer she sent him - broke through his stupor.
She remained silent.
He understood.
There was naught to be done. Neither could break the knot of society.
Except - Paro begged him to look after himself. “Forget me. I have made a home here. Promise me?”
Devdas smiled wryly. It wasn’t in his power to promise her anything … except that he would not return.
He had come to beg forgiveness, and see for himself whether she was happy.
This wasn’t that.
But Paro refused to let him leave … not until he promised he would return to her in better health.
Devdas would promise her only one thing: he would see her once more.
After he had left, Paro did not return to her home. Instead, she went to the nearby lake, found a hidden stone seat under a tree, and cried until there were no more tears left.
Then, she returned to her duties - her heart, dead.
Devdas kept drinking. The weight of two ruined lives, in one thoughtless moment, refused him mercy.
When he realized it was the end of his time, far too soon - his own undoing - he returned to see his Paro. One final moment.
He promised her then - this was not over. Reminded her of the old wisdom: souls bound in love would meet again, over seven lifetimes.
“You are not rid of me yet,” he whispered, nudging her arm with a wink as he coughed - coaxing a smile through her tears.
“I won’t fail you again.”
His beautiful Paro, smiling through her tears, made him smile one last time.
Then, he begged her forgiveness. Though he had not been able to forgive himself.
For leaving her marooned in a life not of her choosing.
Notes
The story you’ve just read is my creative reimagining of Devdas, one of India’s most iconic literary tragedies. While I’ve stayed true to the core narrative arc, I’ve taken creative license in how the story is told—choosing a quieter, more intimate lens to explore its emotional depth.
Originally written in Bengali by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay in 1917, Devdas has become a cultural touchstone in India. Its themes—unspoken love, social constraint, class divide, and emotional paralysis—have echoed across generations.
Over the decades, Devdas has been adapted into many films, in many languages, and the name itself has become symbolic: a shorthand for someone pining for lost love. Devdas and Paro have come to represent a love story for the ages—haunting, unforgettable, and enduring.
I hope you enjoyed this creative effort. Thanks for reading, and thank you for any feedback you choose to share.
Tip. Urdu.
Landowner. Urdu.
I wake from a dream of Indian Summers a movie series I have been watching. Your love story brings to mind that love is not lost. The love continues with in the future seven times until we get the right equation and when that occurs nirvana. Mistakes, not failures, losses are inevitable but to believe that love is the most precious endearing whisper that is so often misunderstood. Eternity and cycles spiral 🌀 ever searching to find the perfect connection to become parallel hands clasped together walking side by side side . “Souls will meet again, seven life times.”
This story is both moving and beautifully written, Jayshree. What really hits is how it shows the heartbreak of lost love and the way pride, ego, and society demands can mess things up.