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When She Left With Gajar ka Halwa and a Song

 I still remember that evening clearly. It was the last time I stood near the shamshan (cremation ground) of my village with my childhood friend Meera.

Life in our village was simple — mornings filled with birdsong, evenings with laughter and the smell of freshly cooked food. But that day, something was different.

Meera and I had grown up together — playing in fields, sharing secrets under the banyan tree, and dreaming of a life beyond the dusty roads. But the world was pulling us in different directions.

The village temple bells rang softly, and somewhere a phone played a devotional track. The familiar “Namami Shamishan lyrics” echoed through the quiet evening air, blending with the rustling leaves.

Meera closed her eyes and whispered, “My grandmother used to sing this every evening by the river. It always gave her peace.”

I could see tears glistening in her eyes. She looked smaller somehow, like the weight of the village and her dreams pressed down on her.

Just then, her mother called us inside. There, on the low wooden table, sat a steaming plate of Gajar ka Halwa — the sweet treat that marked every festival, every celebration, every moment when the village seemed to forget its worries.

Meera smiled weakly and said, “This will be the last time I taste this here. I’m leaving for the city tomorrow. For college.”

My heart sank. I wanted to ask her to stay, but the words got stuck. How do you hold on to someone when you know you have to let go?

We ate the halwa silently, the sweetness filling the silence between us. The shadows grew longer, the night colder, and the Namami Shamishan lyrics continued playing faintly from the temple speaker.

Meera took a deep breath and said, “Promise me one thing. Whenever you hear this song or eat Gajar ka Halwa, think of me. Think of us — the fields, the river, the dreams.”

I nodded, swallowing my pain.

That night, as I lay on my charpoy (cot), I wrote a message on my phone but never sent it:

“Meera,
You are the quiet strength I never knew I needed.
Leaving this village won’t change what we had.
But I wish I had said goodbye differently.”

The next morning, Meera left. The village felt emptier.

Now, whenever I hear the Namami Shamishan lyrics or smell the sweetness of Gajar ka Halwa, I remember that evening — the last evening we shared.

A story of love, loss, and letting go.

Thanks for visiting: Nimupediastories

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