Footsteps broke her reverie. Vikram appeared, his silhouette framed against the moonlit water. He wore a simple kurta, his camera slung over his shoulder, his dark hair slightly tousled. His smile, usually warm and easy, carried a nervous edge tonight. Aarti stood, her heart a drumbeat

The Narmada River flowed gently through Hoshangabad, its waters shimmering under the silver glow of a full moon. The small town, nestled in the heart of Madhya Pradesh, was alive with the quiet hum of night—crickets chirping, distant temple bells ringing, and the soft rustle of banyan leaves. On the riverbank, near the ancient Sethani Ghat, stood Aarti, her dupatta fluttering in the warm breeze. She clutched a small notebook, her fingers tracing the worn edges, her heart pounding with anticipation.

Aarti, a schoolteacher with eyes like the Narmada’s depths, had always found solace in Hoshangabad’s simplicity. Her days were filled with chalk dust and children’s laughter, but her evenings belonged to the river. It was here, a year ago, that she had met Vikram, a photographer from Bhopal, who had come to capture the town’s timeless beauty. His camera had lingered on the ghat’s stone steps, but his eyes had found her, sketching by the water’s edge. A chance conversation about poetry had turned into hours of shared dreams, and soon, stolen moments by the river became their ritual.

Tonight, however, was different. Vikram had called her earlier, his voice laced with urgency. “Meet me at Sethani Ghat at nine,” he’d said. “I have something important to tell you.” Aarti’s mind raced with possibilities. Was he leaving? Had his photography assignments taken him too far from Hoshangabad? Or was it something else—something her heart dared to hope for?

She arrived early, the moon casting long shadows across the ghat. The air smelled of jasmine and damp earth, a scent that always reminded her of home. She sat on a stone step, her notebook open to a half-written poem about love that felt like the river—endless, yet fleeting. As she waited, memories flooded her: Vikram’s laughter as they shared kulfi from the street vendor, his hand brushing hers as he showed her how to frame a perfect shot, the way he’d recite Rumi under the stars. Their love had grown quietly, like the peepal trees lining the river, rooted deep but unspoken.

Footsteps broke her reverie. Vikram appeared, his silhouette framed against the moonlit water. He wore a simple kurta, his camera slung over his shoulder, his dark hair slightly tousled. His smile, usually warm and easy, carried a nervous edge tonight. Aarti stood, her heart a drumbeat.

“Aarti,” he began, stopping a few steps away. “I’ve been thinking about this moment all day.”

She tilted her head, her bangles clinking softly. “You’re scaring me, Vikram. What’s wrong?”

He laughed, a sound that eased her nerves. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s… right. Too right, maybe.” He stepped closer, the moonlight catching the intensity in his eyes. “I came to Hoshangabad to capture its beauty, but I found something—someone—far more beautiful.”

Aarti’s breath caught. She wanted to speak, but her words tangled in her throat. Vikram reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. “I wrote something for you,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m no poet like you, but I tried.”

He unfolded the paper and read, his voice trembling slightly: “By the Narmada’s flow, I found my heart’s home. In your eyes, I see forever, Aarti. Will you let me stay there?”

Tears pricked her eyes. She clutched her notebook tighter, her own unwritten words echoing his. “Vikram…” she whispered.

He stepped closer, taking her hands. “I love you, Aarti. I’ve loved you since that first evening when you argued with me about Tagore’s metaphors. I want a life with you—here, by this river, or anywhere you are.”

The world seemed to pause. The river’s gentle lapping, the distant call of a night bird—it all faded. Aarti felt her heart swell, a tide of emotions she’d held back for months. She thought of her parents, traditional and protective, who might not understand a love that bloomed so freely. She thought of her quiet life, teaching children to dream, and how Vikram had become part of that dream. Could she take this leap?

“I love you too,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the tears. “But… my family, Vikram. They expect me to marry someone they choose. And your life in Bhopal, always traveling… how do we make this work?”

Vikram’s grip on her hands tightened. “I’ve thought about that. I’m moving to Hoshangabad. I’ve already spoken to a studio here—they want me to start a photography school. I want to build a life here, with you. As for your family, I’ll talk to them. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

Aarti laughed through her tears, a sound of relief and joy. “You’ve planned everything, haven’t you?”

“Not everything,” he admitted, grinning. “I didn’t plan on falling this hard.” He reached into his camera bag and pulled out a small silver ring, simple yet elegant, glinting in the moonlight. “It’s not much, but it’s a promise. Aarti, will you marry me?”

Her heart answered before her mind could. “Yes,” she whispered, then louder, “Yes!”

Vikram slipped the ring onto her finger, his hands trembling. They stood there, foreheads touching, the Narmada bearing witness to their promise.