Sahana Pillai
Chapter 1: Arrival in Ruins
The sun was slipping behind the rust-coloured boulders when Tara stepped off the bus at Hampi Bazaar. The air smelled of dust, old stones, and wild basil, and the landscape looked nothing like the glossy travel blogs she’d scrolled through. This place felt older than time — a skeleton of an ancient empire, wrapped in silence. Her sandals crunched over gravel as she made her way past stray goats and rusted bicycles, dragging her suitcase with one wheel jammed. She had booked a guesthouse last minute, something called “Kishkinda View,” tucked behind banana groves. The woman who greeted her — Amala — had a face carved by sun and time, eyes sharp enough to read the grief Tara wasn’t yet ready to admit. Her room was small and plain, a single window facing the river, and the walls were cool to touch. Tara dropped her bag, sat on the edge of the bed, and breathed. It was the first breath in weeks that didn’t burn.
As twilight deepened, she wandered out, letting her feet guide her past Virupaksha Temple. She didn’t know where she was going — maybe that was the point. A small open-air café with mismatched cushions and fairy lights caught her eye. It was quiet except for the hum of insects and clinking of steel cups. Travelers sat in scattered groups, writing, reading, or doing nothing at all. That’s where she saw him — sitting cross-legged with a journal and a stack of worn postcards. Dev. She didn’t know his name yet. Just that he seemed completely present, like he belonged to the dust and stone of this place. His fingers moved slowly across the card in front of him, writing in blocky, intentional letters. She watched him until he glanced up, caught her stare, and smiled without asking questions. She turned away quickly, cheeks hot, unsure why she cared. But something about him — the stillness — lodged itself in her mind like a pebble in a shoe.
Back in her room, she couldn’t sleep. The fan buzzed softly overhead, and outside, crickets sang in rhythms she didn’t understand. Her fingers hovered over the edge of her journal, unopened since Rohan’s funeral. She used to write everything — dreams, fears, menu scribbles, love notes. After he was gone, words felt traitorous. But now, in this faraway place of ruins and rocks, she felt the faintest tug to try. She opened the first blank page. Just as the pen touched paper, there was a rustle at her window. She pushed the curtain aside and found a single postcard stuck in the metal grill. On it, one word: “Stillness.” No name. Just that. Her heart jumped, not in fear but in recognition. She didn’t need to guess who had left it. Something had shifted — not drastically, not loudly — just enough for the silence inside her to listen.
Chapter 2: The Postcard Philosopher
The next morning, Tara found herself drawn back to the temple courtyard, her footsteps tentative, like she was afraid of disturbing the stillness that hung in the air. Virupaksha Temple stood like a sentinel in stone, its towering gopuram etched with stories of gods and mortals, now faded by centuries of rain and reverence. Monkeys darted across the roof tiles, children rang the temple bell, and somewhere in the background, a conch blew to announce the morning prayer. Tara moved slowly, her eyes absorbing every carving, every crack, every piece of myth woven into the architecture. Near the temple elephant’s stable, she spotted him again — Dev — seated on a low step, his journal open, his head tilted in quiet observation of a child feeding the elephant sugarcane. He looked up when she approached, as though he had expected her, and patted the empty space beside him without speaking. She hesitated only for a moment before sitting down.
“How did you know where I stayed?” she asked, not angrily, but softly, more curious than cautious. Dev didn’t look at her directly. Instead, he handed her another postcard. This one wasn’t blank. It had a watercolor sketch of a rocky hill with a single word beneath it — “Weight.” He smiled faintly, shrugging. “Sometimes we carry things too long. Places help drop them.” Tara held the card delicately, as though it might crumble. She didn’t ask him how he found her. Instead, she asked what he meant by the postcards. He explained — that he had left his job in Delhi four years ago, trading deadlines and pitch decks for train rides and unknown beds. Everywhere he went, he wrote postcards — to strangers, to no one, to the moment itself. “They’re not for keeping,” he said, “they’re for letting go.” Tara didn’t say much in response, but something in her chest, long sealed, loosened at the edges. He stood up and asked if she wanted to walk with him to the river. And without fully understanding why, she followed.
They walked in silence through the narrow lanes of Hampi Bazaar, past crumbly stone archways and piles of ripe guavas being sold by women in faded saris. The Tungabhadra River shimmered in the late morning sun, its surface broken only by the slow glide of a coracle boat. Dev led her to a quiet edge where moss grew between the rocks, and the water sounded like an old song. “This is where I come when I forget what day it is,” he said. Tara sat beside him, knees folded, the postcard still in her hand. She didn’t speak. She just watched the river move — endlessly, stubbornly. In that moment, she realized something simple but enormous: she didn’t feel the need to explain her sadness to this man. And maybe that, for now, was enough. Dev reached into his bag, pulled out a blank postcard, and handed it to her along with a pen. “Your turn,” he said. “Say something to yourself you’ve been too afraid to hear.” Tara looked down at the empty card, then at the river, then at him — and slowly began to write.
Chapter 3: Boulders, Bananas, and Broken Things
The following days unfolded like sun-warmed pages of an unwritten book. Tara found herself slipping into Dev’s strange, unhurried rhythm — not as a decision but as a response, like a leaf following the current. They woke before the heat swelled, drinking ginger chai from earthen cups at the guesthouse before setting off into the wild openness of Hampi’s landscape. One morning, they climbed Anjaneya Hill, all 575 steps, with the wind pushing against their backs and the stone burning beneath their soles. At the top, with the statue of Hanuman watching over the valley, Tara stood breathless, the horizon rolling in every direction. She didn’t speak, but Dev handed her a postcard. This one read: “Breath.” And for the first time in months, she realized she was breathing without remembering to.
They wandered through banana plantations, their green silence only broken by Dev’s sudden laughter when Tara slipped in mud or tried to climb a low-hanging branch to impress a troop of watching monkeys. She began to smile more, not wide or loud, but real — the kind that started in the chest before reaching the mouth. Along the stone-carved walls of Achyutaraya Temple, Dev pointed out faint inscriptions, telling half-true stories about kings who fell in love with ghosts and queens who planted mango seeds under moonlight. Tara listened, sometimes laughing, sometimes not. In those spaces of shared silence, something delicate began to build — not love exactly, but its cousin: trust. On one hike through the boulder-strewn path of Hemakuta Hill, she stopped to catch her breath and told Dev about Rohan. Not everything, but enough. Enough for him to know why her heart had felt like ash. He didn’t interrupt or say sorry. He just sat beside her and left a postcard in the grass between them. It read: “Let Go.”
That night, back at the guesthouse, Tara stayed up late at the window. Amala knocked gently once to offer her hot milk. “Your eyes are lighter today,” the older woman said, placing the steel glass down. Tara didn’t know how to reply. In her room were a growing collection of postcards, each with one word, tucked under the pages of her journal like talismans. But it wasn’t just Dev’s words that were changing her. It was Hampi itself — this place of broken stone and open skies, where ruins weren’t graves but stories paused mid-sentence. She began drawing again. She hadn’t touched her sketchpad since the accident, but now lines poured out — temples under moonlight, boats on water, a boy with a backpack and a pen. She wasn’t trying to move on. She was just moving, and that, perhaps, was the beginning.
Chapter 4: The Temple of Echoes
The day began with a breeze that smelled of wet leaves and old stone. Tara and Dev set out early, their path leading toward the famed Vitthala Temple, the crown jewel of Hampi. The road was uneven, bordered by wildflowers and silent pillars standing like sentinels of memory. As they approached, the iconic stone chariot came into view — weathered but magnificent, its wheels frozen in time. Tara stood in awe, running her fingers lightly over the carving of a lotus. “Do you think it ever moved?” she asked. Dev, squinting at the rising sun behind her, replied, “It’s still moving — just not in ways we understand.” They walked through the temple’s ancient archways, past shadowed corridors, until they reached the famous musical pillars. A priest stood there — barefoot, white-haired, and smiling like he knew something they didn’t.
The priest demonstrated the magic of the stone — a gentle tap with his fingers produced a deep, resonant hum, as if the temple itself still breathed. “Sound travels through time,” he said, looking at Tara. “Memories echo long after they’ve passed. Just like grief. Just like love.” Tara touched one of the pillars and gently tapped. A soft tone sang out, low and lingering. She closed her eyes. The sound seemed to unlock something — a memory not of Rohan’s death, but of his laughter echoing off mountain walls during a hike in Himachal. It was the first time in months she remembered him without pain. She looked at Dev and saw something shift in his expression — not pity, but understanding. They sat on the temple steps afterward, drinking water and watching squirrels dart through cracks in the stone. Tara asked, finally, “What made you leave everything behind?” Dev didn’t answer right away. He pulled out an old, tattered postcard from his bag — older than the rest, its corners frayed, its ink faded. It read: “Come find me when the noise stops.” He looked at her and said, “My mother wrote that. Then disappeared.”
The story came out in pieces. Dev had been ten when she left — a woman with books always half-read and eyes that never stayed in one place. She kissed him goodbye at a train station and never came back. His father raised him with silence, the kind that swells into rooms and years. Dev didn’t hate her — not anymore. But he never stayed anywhere long enough to be left again. Tara listened without speaking, tracing circles on the dusty floor with her thumb. Something between them had shifted. Not attraction, not yet — but a kind of mirroring. She saw in Dev a different kind of loss — not sudden like hers, but slow, stretched over years. And he, perhaps, saw in her not just grief but the strength it takes to still walk toward the sunrise. Before leaving, Dev handed her another postcard. It had no word this time. Just a sketch of the musical pillar, and a single line written along the bottom: “Some silences are meant to be heard.”
Chapter 5: The Festival of Dust and Light
The morning of the chariot festival dawned electric with energy. Tara woke to the sound of conch shells and distant drums rolling across the boulder hills like thunder. Outside, Hampi had transformed — its quiet stone lanes now teemed with flower vendors, sari-clad pilgrims, and saffron-robed sadhus. Banana leaves lined the roads, marigold garlands swung from the temples, and the sun, high and bold, cast golden light over everything. Tara wrapped a dupatta around her hair and stepped out into the sea of color. Dev was already waiting near the Virupaksha temple, a smear of sandalwood on his forehead and a cheeky glint in his eyes. “Ready to be baptized in dust and chaos?” he asked, holding out a mango juice tetra pack like it was a sacred offering.
They joined the procession as the great wooden ratha — the ceremonial chariot — was pulled through the streets by a dozen chanting men. Children danced, women clapped, and clouds of turmeric-yellow dust rose into the air, catching sunlight like gold powder. Tara laughed, genuinely and freely, when a group of teenage girls pulled her into their circle, painting her cheeks with pink powder. Dev watched her from across the crowd, something soft settling behind his usual amused gaze. As the day wore on, they ducked into alleys and climbed hidden stairways, watching the celebration unfold from different angles — from temple roofs and secret courtyards. A local photographer named Satya, whom Dev had met during a writing retreat in Kerala, joined them briefly and took a candid shot — Tara mid-laugh, Dev’s hand resting lightly on her back, both of them unaware of the moment being captured. It was just a touch, but it felt like something fragile blooming.
By evening, the streets had quieted, lanterns flickering in windows, children fast asleep under mosquito nets. Tara waited at the café they often returned to, the one with mismatched cushions and fairy lights that blinked like fireflies. But Dev didn’t come. She waited, long after the last tea glass had been washed and the chairs stacked. Disappointed, she returned to her room. The lights were off, and the window left slightly ajar. On the bedside table sat a new postcard, slipped silently through the grill — this one unlike the others. It was blank on both sides except for one word in Dev’s careful handwriting: “Stay.” It wasn’t signed. It wasn’t explained. And it wasn’t meant to be. Tara held it in her palm like it was warm. Her heart reacted first — not with joy, not with fear, but with something more dangerous: expectation. She lay awake for hours, the word echoing inside her like the musical pillars from days ago. Stay. It terrified her. Because she had promised herself she wouldn’t fall again — not in love, not in hope, not into something she couldn’t control. But the word sat quietly beside her all night, and by morning, she hadn’t thrown it away.
Chapter 6: When the River Rises
The rain arrived without warning — a sudden, sweeping monsoon surge that turned the dust to clay and the air to glass. The skies over Hampi darkened like spilt ink, and within minutes, the tranquil Tungabhadra began to swell, its waters rising over the banks like a slow, deliberate breath. The roads emptied, shutters slammed shut, and even the monkeys disappeared into temple shadows. Tara stood beneath the awning of the guesthouse veranda, arms crossed, watching the downpour with a strange sense of inevitability. It felt like the world had stopped moving, like the earth itself had paused to exhale. Dev appeared beside her, rain dripping from his hair, a half-smile on his face. “Looks like we’re not going anywhere,” he said, shaking out his soaked journal. Tara didn’t answer. She simply stepped aside to make room for him in the dry patch of space they now silently shared.
The rain continued for hours. Electricity blinked once and surrendered. Inside, the guesthouse was dim, lit only by the dull glow of an oil lamp and the soft rustle of banana trees outside. Dev and Tara sat cross-legged on the floor of the common room, wrapped in thin blankets, sipping black coffee from chipped mugs. The silence between them had changed. It wasn’t tentative anymore — it was dense, charged. Dev took out a postcard, scribbled something, then paused. “Do you ever feel like you’re walking on the edge of something, but don’t know which way to fall?” he asked, eyes fixed on the flickering lamp. Tara swallowed the knot in her throat. “Every day,” she said. Then, without warning, the words spilled out — raw and salt-stained. She told him about the night Rohan died. The unanswered phone call. The dented helmet. The way people hugged her like she was made of glass. And the guilt — the aching, stupid guilt of feeling joy again, even fleetingly. Dev didn’t move closer. He didn’t offer a word of comfort. He simply slid the postcard to her. It read: “Permission.”
Later that night, the rain softened to a whisper. Tara sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, staring at the inked word again and again. Dev was seated on the floor, back against the wall, silent but near. “I don’t know what this is,” she whispered. “Or if I can survive it.” Dev looked up, his voice low but certain. “Maybe it’s not about surviving. Maybe it’s about beginning.” There was a long pause. Then she moved toward him. Not rushed, not dramatic — just quiet, trembling honesty. She placed her head gently on his shoulder. And Dev, without a word, leaned into her. Their hands found each other — fingers cold, palms open. No promises were made. No declarations spoken. But somewhere between the drip of rain and the hum of silence, they kissed — slow, tentative, like people tasting a language they hadn’t spoken in years. Not to erase grief. Not to replace memory. But to make room for what came next.
Chapter 7: Postcards Never Sent
When the skies finally cleared, Hampi looked like a world rinsed clean. The stones gleamed damp under the sun, the river moved with quiet strength, and a low, earthy scent lingered in the air like a prayer that had been heard. Tara stepped outside the guesthouse that morning feeling lighter, though not weightless. The night with Dev remained in her body like a hush — not something she regretted, but something she hadn’t yet named. Dev met her near the banyan tree by the café, journal in hand, smile softer than usual. They didn’t speak much. Their silences had grown fuller, richer — like pages filled with invisible ink. They walked through the village paths, now muddy and fresh, toward the ancient stepwell, where moss crawled over every stone. It was there that Dev finally spoke. “I’m leaving,” he said, his voice carefully even. “Got a travel piece waiting in Istanbul. The editor’s been calling for a week.” Tara blinked once, and the world narrowed into a single heartbeat.
She didn’t say “Don’t go.” She didn’t ask him to stay. Instead, she just nodded. “Okay.” The word was simple, but it tasted like dust in her mouth. They sat at the edge of the stepwell for a long time, legs dangling over the moss-dark water, saying little. In his hand, Dev held two blank postcards. “Let’s write one for each other,” he said. “Not to be sent. Just… to be written.” Tara hesitated, but then took the card. Her pen trembled, but the words came. She wrote of a river that remembered, of a ruin that healed, of a man who wrote truths on tiny rectangles of paper and left them behind like breadcrumbs. She didn’t read his card, and he didn’t read hers. They folded them up, tied them with jute thread, and left them under a stone beside the temple wall. “Someday,” he said, “maybe someone else will find them.” Tara only nodded. The ache in her chest wasn’t sharp — it was dull, slow, spreading like ink in water.
That evening, she returned alone to Hemakuta Hill, the place she had avoided since her first day. The sunset burned the horizon in amber and rose. She climbed the slope with steady feet, the wind lifting strands of her hair, and sat where the sky met the stones. One by one, she pulled out Dev’s postcards — Stillness, Breath, Let Go, Stay, Permission. She arranged them like an altar before her, and then reached into her bag. For the first time since Rohan’s death, she unfolded the last letter he had written to her — a note he’d left on her sketchbook the day he proposed, ink smudged, messy, alive. She read it again, this time without breaking. Then, on the blank side of a new postcard, she wrote to him: “You will always be the beginning of love for me. But now, I must find its middle and end.” She kissed it, folded it once, and let the wind take it. It danced like a flame, then fluttered down the hill, lost among stone and time. Tara sat there for a long while, eyes closed, listening to the hush of a world that no longer asked her to forget, only to begin again.
Chapter 8: Return to the Beginning
Back in Mumbai, the city roared as always — cars honking, trains rattling, people moving like water through narrow veins of glass and concrete. But for Tara, something had changed. The noise no longer swallowed her. She walked differently now — slower, more deliberate, as if carrying a piece of silence from Hampi folded deep inside her. The apartment still held shadows of Rohan — a framed photograph on the shelf, the coffee mug he used to leave on the window sill, the travel guidebook they never finished marking. But they no longer felt like weights. They were history, not anchors. She didn’t throw anything away. Instead, she rearranged the space, opened the windows wider, painted the bedroom wall a soft ochre. Something between sun and clay. Something like Hampi.
She returned to her old sketchbooks, the untouched ones buried under invoices and client briefs. But this time, she didn’t draw products or storyboards. She began painting temples and trees, rivers and postcards, and people half-seen through sunlight. Each piece carried a single word beneath it — from Dev’s cards, from her own: Stillness. Weight. Permission. Stay. The collection grew into something she hadn’t planned — an art series titled Postcards from Hampi. A friend at an independent gallery offered her a wall for a small exhibit. On opening night, people wandered in off the streets — curious, quiet, moved. No one knew the full story behind the paintings. That was part of the beauty. She overheard someone say, “It feels like grief and hope are holding hands.” Tara smiled. That’s exactly what she had wanted to paint.
Weeks passed. She didn’t hear from Dev. She didn’t expect to. In some ways, their goodbye had been final, folded into the stone walls of a ruined temple. She thought of him often — not with ache, but with warmth, the way one remembers a summer that changed them. One morning, as monsoon clouds began to return to the Mumbai sky, she checked her letterbox. Among bills and advertisements, there was a postcard — cream-colored, hand-addressed, edges smudged. Her fingers trembled. The front held a sketch of waves crashing against rocks. On the back, his handwriting: “This time, I stayed. I’m in Gokarna. Found a quiet café with blue shutters and too much cinnamon in the chai. Come if you’d like to continue the story.” No signature. No date. Just coordinates written in the corner. A breath caught in her throat, followed by a soft laugh.
She didn’t pack immediately. She let the postcard sit on her table for a full day, like a question waiting for a reply. That evening, she picked up a blank card of her own. No fancy design — just white space and one clean word: Maybe. She tucked it into her bag, along with a few clothes, her sketchbook, and a fresh set of watercolors. The next morning, she boarded a train headed south. As the city fell behind and the coastline opened before her, Tara felt no urgency. She wasn’t running toward a man or fleeing from a past. She was simply answering a story that had not yet ended. And this time, she had given herself permission to write it in her own ink.
End
