Sometimes, strangers help us discover truths we overlook when surrounded by familiar faces. There’s something magical about the unknown—a sense of possibility, of wonder. I’ve always loved meeting strangers. The very thought of striking up a conversation with someone new excites me, filling my mind with endless possibilities of uncovering who they are, piece by piece!
In words of Charles Baudelaire – “One should always be drunk. That’s all that matters… but with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose. But get drunk.”
I thrive on the curiosity and thrill of these encounters. It’s the subtle, uncharted charm of getting to know someone without the weight of preconceptions. Sometimes, I’m fueled by nothing more than my thoughts, a quiet intrigue, and, on occasion, a glass of 60ml single-malt Scotch—just enough to keep me searching, questioning, and noticing what others might miss.
What draws me most are people with layers—those tormented by their own contradictions. Society often warns us not to talk to strangers, not to share too much, and definitely not to accept candy from them (thanks for that one, Mom). Yet, isn’t it ironic? From the moment we’re born, we are surrounded by strangers.
Think about it. Our first encounter with our parents—strangers to us at birth. The first day of school? Navigating life among unfamiliar kids and teachers. Our first job? Strangers again, slowly becoming friends or foes. Moving into a new neighborhood? Even love starts with strangers: “Honey, I knew you were the one the moment we met!” And when life ends? Well, that’s our final rendezvous with the ultimate stranger—God, or maybe the devil, depends where your faith lies.
Strangers are the chapters of life we haven’t read yet. They keep us curious, they surprise us, and sometimes, they change everything.
For months, I’d been battling the wild, temperamental beast that is writing. The idea for my first book had been clawing at me relentlessly, driving me to near madness. Everything I thought of putting into words seemed unoriginal—a recycled shadow of something already said, written, or sung in a distant language or another form. The freshness I craved felt tantalizingly out of reach. The culprit? The plot.
The story I was laboring over was set in wartime, with layers of angst, passion, and gut-wrenching emotion. Problem was, I didn’t have a single wartime experience to draw from—just the feeble amalgamation of Wikipedia pages and half-read books that fueled my imagination. Frustration doesn’t even begin to cover it.
The night before, on the verge of giving up entirely, I made myself a promise: If the story couldn’t breathe life on its own, I wouldn’t force it. It deserved better than mediocrity born from desperation.
Fast-forward to the next morning. It was an ordinary, bone-chilling January day—well, except for the fact that it was my birthday. My *brilliant* plan for the day? I decided to do something spontaneous: ride the Metro to nowhere. (For context, I NEVER RIDE THE METRO) A few stops in, I hopped off at Rajiv Chowk without a plan. A cozy coffee shop caught my eye, beckoning me in with its promise of warmth, caffeine, and maybe inspiration. Inside, the comforting aroma of roasted coffee mingled with the soft buzz of FM radio and the occasional laughter of hand-holding couples.
With the promise of productivity whispering sweet nothings in my ear, I pulled out my laptop. Ice water—my trusted hangover (and apparently writer’s block) remedy—kept me company as I erased entire paragraphs, tweaked plotlines, and muttered to myself like a deranged writer unraveling in public. Three hours passed. SIX bottles of ice water later (YES, in January), I’d barely moved the needle on my story.
That’s when a waiter approached, breaking me out of my trance.
“Sir, are you… okay?” he asked with a smirk that practically screamed *jackass.*
“Oh yeah, completely fine! Just, uh, working on something,” I mumbled. “Ice water helps me think!” (Does it, though? Who was I kidding?)
He walked away with a smile that said, *Whatever you say, dude.*
Still, there I was. Pen trembling in my hand, staring at my cursed yellow notepad as though the perfect words might manifest if I glared hard enough. Spoiler alert: they didn’t. Instead, frustration clawed at my patience, and I seriously contemplated hurling my notepad into the trash.
I sighed, looked up—and there she was [GIRL ON THE METROWALK].
I saw her across the bustling Café chaos. She was sitting alone at the farthest corner table, a halo of calm around her despite the lively café.
Her face seemed to carry the essence of a story yet untold—radiant and quietly mesmerizing, like dawn gently breaking over a restless night. She wore a yellow sweater that practically glowed against the black t-shirt underneath. Her soft brown hair framed her face in the kind of poetic chaos writers fantasize about describing.
She was engrossed in a book—*The Book Thief,* I later noticed.
I tried to look away. I swear I did. But there was something magnetic about her presence—something that grounded the swirling madness in my head. And just when I thought I could stare a moment longer, she looked up.
Our eyes met.
Panic shot through me like a jolt of caffeine. I quickly turned my attention to my notepad, pretending I hadn’t been borderline creepy. My heart, however, had other plans—it was now pounding in my chest like a poorly-timed drum solo.
She went back to her book. I went back to glancing at her, one stolen moment at a time. *Should I talk to her? What if she’s waiting for her boyfriend? A 6’2” wrestler boyfriend who’d squash me like a bug if I as much as said hi?* My imagination ran wild.
But then, an unusual thought stopped me: *She’s a stranger.*
That realization hit like a cold shower. I had absolutely nothing to lose, no expectations to meet, no impression to maintain.
Grabbing the trembling remnants of my courage, I got up and walked over to her table. My palms were sweating like I’d accidentally wandered into a job interview.
“Excuse me…” I began, my voice barely above a whisper.
She looked up, her eyes locking on mine.
“Hi, uh, sorry to bother you. Do you mind if I steal two minutes of your time?”
“About what?” she asked, slightly amused, tilting her head like a curious cat.
“Well, I’m an aspiring writer—scratch that, *trying* to be a writer. I’ve been stuck on a plot and thought maybe you could give me your perspective.”
“Why me?” she asked, her smile widening, playful but cautious.
“Well… You’re reading *The Book Thief,* so clearly you have excellent taste. You’re also a girl, and I desperately need help understanding my female character. And, um, you’re a stranger, so there’s no pressure for you to sugarcoat your feedback.”
For a second, I thought she’d laugh me out of the room. But she didn’t. Instead, her smile turned soft, and she gestured to the chair across from her.
What followed was the most unexpected, life-changing four hours I’ve ever spent.
We dove deep into the heart of my story—my two main characters, Klaus and Ursula, and their complex love restrained by secrets and war. She listened intently, asked thoughtful questions, and didn’t shy away from pointing out the flaws in my plot.
“You’re writing it all from Klaus’s perspective,” she pointed out. “That’s why Ursula feels incomplete. It’s like she’s there just to complement him instead of being her own person.”
Ouch. The truth stung, but it also opened a door I hadn’t considered.
She had this way of challenging my thoughts, yet she made me feel like it was okay to struggle. It wasn’t long before we were laughing over opposing views, scribbling down notes together, and arguing like old friends about whether Ursula would actually go to meet Klaus at the fort.
 |
| We shared a delicious brownie topped with a scoop of chocolate ice cream dripping in chocolate sauce celebrating my b’day. |
When it was finally time to leave, we walked out together, the January cold biting at the edges of our silence. The air between us felt charged, fragile, like we were balancing on the edge of something we couldn’t name.
We stood in front of each other with a smile, a silent acknowledgment of the strange and serendipitous connection we’d formed.. I didn’t want the moment to end. Every instinct screamed at me to ask for her number, her name—anything to tether her to me beyond this fleeting encounter. But instead, I hesitated. A voice in my head said, Let this moment be what it is: pure and fleeting. Like some unspoken rule that moments like this were meant to exist untamed.
At the exit, we lingered under the orange glow of a flickering Christmas/New Year lights, neither of us ready to say goodbye just yet. She smiled, her eyes soft and searching, as though she, too, was savoring the way this small, spontaneous connection had unfolded.
“Well,” she said, hugging her book tighter to her chest. “Good luck with Klaus and Ursula. I hope they figure it out.”
I laughed softly. “Thanks. I hope so too. And for what it’s worth… meeting you? It made the whole story make sense somehow.”
She tilted her head, and for a second, I saw the faintest blush dust her cheeks. The moment stretched like a thin, invisible thread pulling us closer, tighter.
Then, she extended her hand, her touch radiating warmth even against the biting winter air. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
Such simple words, yet the way she said them stole the breath right out of me.
That handshake—steady, lingering, electric—was intoxicating, a fleeting moment of connection that I never wanted to end.
Before I could gather my thoughts, she turned and walked away, her silhouette fading into the restless tide of strangers, leaving me standing there, awash in a sea of emotions I couldn’t untangle.
I stood frozen, the Christmas/New Year lights humming above me, holding her parting words like a secret. And just as I was about to call out—to stop her, to ask for something more—she glanced back.
It was fleeting, just a single look over her shoulder. But her eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, everything else disappeared—the noise, the city, even the January cold.
That look said all the things we didn’t.
And then she was gone.
The spark she’d left me with wasn’t just for my story—it was something deeper, something that wrapped around me like the ending of a dream you didn’t want to wake from.
For now, though, she was my favorite unanswered question—beautiful, mysterious, and impossible to forget.
A smile, a laugh, a loving look, a hand on the small of the back. The faces imprinted on my memory of people I would take pleasure in learning to know. Speaking a language I don't recognize.
– a poet
Love,
SaNj
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