The cold winds howled through the narrow streets of Lahore, carrying with them the scent of damp earth and the distant sound of azaan from an old mosque. In a small, candle-lit room of a weathered haveli, a woman sat by the wooden window, her fingers wrapped around a worn-out tasbeeh, each bead whispering a silent prayer. Her name was Aasiya, and she had spent years in search of something she was never sure existed—a love so deep, so consuming, that it blurred the lines between devotion and madness.
Aasiya had once known love, or at least, the illusion of it. She had fallen for a man named Abdullah, a wandering poet who had come to Lahore with nothing but a leather-bound diary filled with verses and a soul heavy with longing. He had stayed in the old quarters of the city, spending his days by the river Ravi, scribbling poetry and reciting it to those who would listen. His eyes held the sorrow of lifetimes, and his voice carried the weight of unspoken emotions. He spoke in riddles, verses woven with love, pain, and separation.
They had met on a rainy evening outside the shrine of Data Darbar. She had been lighting a diya, and he had been standing there, watching, lost in thought. A single glance had been enough. Love, like fate, did not wait for permission. They had walked through the bustling streets together, speaking of poetry, of longing, of dreams that felt too fragile to be real. Abdullah had promised her the world. He spoke of a home far away, where the skies stretched endlessly, and the air smelled of jasmine and old books. He had held her hands and whispered, “One day, I will return for you. Wait for me.”
And so she had waited. Seasons changed, the monsoons came and went, and the city moved on. But Aasiya remained, her heart tethered to a promise that had started to feel like a curse. She wandered through the streets, asking the winds, the rivers, the dervishes at shrines, and the silent walls of the old city about Abdullah. People called her mad, a woman lost in her own dreams, but she did not care. Her eyes, once filled with life, had become the eyes of a wanderer, searching for a shadow that had long disappeared.
One evening, as the first stars blinked awake in the darkening sky, she sat by the banks of the Ravi, tracing patterns in the wet soil. The world around her was quiet, except for the occasional sound of an oar slicing through the water. A boatman passing by stopped and asked, “Who is this Abdullah you call for?”
Aasiya smiled, though her eyes held an ocean of sorrow. “He is the fire in my soul, the shadow in my dreams. He is love, he is longing.”
The boatman shook his head. “Love should not be a torment. It should be a home.”
But Aasiya knew better. Love was not meant to be understood—it was meant to be felt. It was the ache in her bones, the prayer on her lips, the hope that kept her heart beating. And so, she continued waiting, believing that one day, Abdullah would return, sit before her, and she would finally say what her heart had held onto for so long.
Years passed, and the city forgot the tale of the wandering poet and his devoted lover. The markets of Lahore grew busier, the old houses crumbled and made way for new ones, and the river carried its stories far away. But legend has it that on nights when the wind carries the scent of rain and longing, if one listens closely by the banks of the Ravi, they can still hear Aasiya’s voice whispering into the darkness, calling for Abdullah, waiting for love to return home.