A Love Written In Silence

CHAPTER 7 — Sid ♡

Months had slipped by since Siya’s eighteenth birthday, like pages turning in her old leather diary—each one filled with the same quiet longing. The monsoon had given way to a crisp autumn, and the neem tree in the neighborhood stood taller, shedding leaves as if mirroring the gentle passage of time. Siya was still eighteen, but the new tattoo near her hipbone had already become a part of her daily rhythm. She touched it often in the privacy of her room, a secret reminder that Siddharth lived beneath her skin. Yet, something deeper called to her now. A need for a more intimate vow. A promise no one else would ever witness.

It was a cool November evening when the idea crystallized. Siya sat at her desk, the blue notebook open under the soft glow of her lamp. She had just added another entry about Siddharth—how Arjun had casually mentioned during a phone call that Siddharth was doing well in his engineering job in Delhi. The words had brought both comfort and a fresh wave of ache. That night, as she traced the faded letters of his name in her notebook, her eyes fell on her left hand. The ring finger. The place where, in traditional Indian weddings, a mangalsutra and a wedding ring would one day rest—if fate allowed.

But for Siya, fate had already decided long ago. Her heart had said its vows years earlier, under summer skies and behind curtains on the day he left. She wanted to seal it permanently. Not for the world, but for herself.

"Yeh sirf hum dono ke liye hoga, Siddharth," she whispered to the empty room, her voice trembling with emotion.

(This will be only for the two of us, Siddharth.)

The decision was made quietly. She would not tell anyone. Not her worried mother, who had started showing her photos of “suitable boys” from distant relatives. Not Arjun, who teased her about being too serious for her age. And definitely not Jaanvi, who still believed Siya’s single status was simply because she was “choosy” and focused on her upcoming final semester. Jaanvi knew nothing of the hidden tattoo or the depth of Siya’s love. This new mark would remain as invisible as her love.

Two days later, on a Saturday afternoon when her parents were visiting a relative, Siya made her way back to the same small tattoo parlor near the old city walls. The familiar dim lighting and soft hum of the machine greeted her like an old confidant. Rahul, the same artist, recognized her immediately.

"Wapas aa gayi, didi? Kya banwana hai is baar?" he asked with a gentle smile, wiping down his station.

(You came back, sister? What do you want this time?)

Siya sat down, her heart pounding. She held out her left hand, pointing to the side of her ring finger—the delicate area just below where a wedding band would sit. “Ek chhota sa design. ‘Sid ♡’. Bahut tiny, almost like handwriting. Yahan.”

(A small design. ‘Sid ♡’. Very tiny, almost like handwriting. Here.)

Rahul raised an eyebrow slightly but nodded without questions. He understood this was personal. “Samajh gaya. Yeh jagah thodi sensitive hai, dard zyada lagega. Ready?”

Siya took a deep breath and nodded. She lay her hand on the rest, palm up. As the needle buzzed to life, the first touch felt sharper than she had imagined— a stinging burn that traveled up her finger. She closed her eyes tightly, breathing through the pain.

"Dheere dheere, beta. Zyada pressure mat daalna," Rahul said softly, focused on his work.

(Slowly, child. Don’t apply too much pressure.)

The tiny letters took shape: Sid ♡ — elegant, intimate, and profoundly meaningful. With every prick, memories flooded her. She remembered the innocent tenyearold her following Siddharth everywhere. The way he had knelt to tie her shoelaces after her fall from the bicycle. “Yeh dekho, ab nahi khulega,” he had said. That kindness had stayed with her forever. She recalled the ice cream shared after cricket matches, the red windmill at the school fair, the laughter that could brighten the dullest day.

Tears welled up in her eyes as the needle continued its work. The pain was real, but it paled in comparison to the years of silent yearning. This was her private wedding vow. In her heart, she was already married to the boy who had left one morning in a dusty truck. No priest had chanted mantras, no sindoor had been filled in her hair parting, but this ink was her mangalsutra—hidden, permanent, and chosen with complete love.

"Main aapki hoon, Siddharth. Hamesha se. Aaj se yeh anguthi meri shaadi ki nishani hai," she thought, her lips moving silently.

(I am yours, Siddharth. Always have been. From today, this ring is my symbol of marriage.)

The process took longer than the first tattoo because of the delicate area and the need for precision. Rahul worked carefully, creating the small “Sid” in cursive followed by a tiny heart symbol. When he finished and wiped the area, Siya looked down at her finger. It was perfect—tiny enough to be mistaken for a faint mark or handwriting from afar, yet deeply intentional up close. A secret only she would understand.

“Bahut accha bana hai, Rahul bhaiya. Shukriya,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

(It’s very well done, Rahul brother. Thank you.)

He applied soothing ointment and wrapped it gently. “Dard ke liye ice lagana. Aur paani se door rakhna kuch din. Yeh... dil se banaya lag raha hai.”

(Apply ice for the pain. And keep it away from water for a few days. This... looks like it’s made from the heart.)

Siya smiled through her tears. “Haan. Bahut gehraai se.”

She paid him and stepped out into the fading afternoon light. Her left hand felt warm and tender. She kept it carefully in her dupatta, hiding the fresh ink as she took a rickshaw home. The streets of Jaipur bustled around her—vendors calling out, cycles ringing bells, children playing—but Siya was in her own world. This new tattoo was her private heartbreak and her greatest promise. A wedding ring no one else would ever slip on her finger, because her heart had already chosen.

Back home, she slipped into her room before her parents returned. Standing before the mirror, she lifted her hand and gazed at the small “Sid ♡”. The redness made it glow with life. She touched it gently, wincing at the sensitivity.

"Yeh meri anguthi hai, Siddharth. Duniya ko pata nahi chalega, lekin main jaanti hoon. Humari shaadi ho chuki hai... chupke se, dil se," she whispered, kissing the side of her finger lightly.

(This is my ring, Siddharth. The world will never know, but I know. We are married... secretly, from the heart.)

That evening, when her mother called her for dinner, Siya was careful to keep her left hand mostly hidden or casually resting in her lap.

"Beta, aaj college ka kya scene tha? Koi nayi baat?" her mother asked while serving hot rotis.

(Child, what was happening at college today? Any new updates?)

“Bas routine hi tha, Maa. Padhai aur assignments,” Siya replied calmly, using her right hand more.

(It was just the usual, Mom. Studies and assignments.)

Her father glanced at her. “Achha hai. Ab final semester hai. Rishte ki baat bhi sochni padegi jaldi.”

Siya’s heart tightened, but she nodded. “Ji Papa.”

Later that night, alone again, she opened her blue notebook and wrote extensively under a new section: Private Vows.

Months after the first tattoo, I got ‘Sid ♡’ on the side of my ring finger. Exactly where a wedding ring would sit. The needle hurt more than the first time, but every sting reminded me of the years I have loved him silently. This is my private wedding vow. My own private heartbreak. No one will ever see it. Not Maa, not Bhaiya, not Jaanvi. Only I will know that I am already bound to him for life.

She described the entire experience in detail—the buzzing sound, the sharp pain that made her eyes water, the flood of memories it triggered. She recalled the day Siddharth left, the empty street, the nights clutching the teddy bear. She wrote about all the proposals she had rejected—Rohan’s flowers, Vivek’s poems, Amit’s confession during the college fest. Each “no” had been easy because her finger now carried his name like a sacred promise.

The physical pain lingered for days. She applied ice secretly, changed the wrapping carefully, and wore loose sleeves or kept her hand tucked away. Every time it throbbed, she smiled through it. This pain was nothing compared to the thought of a life without him in her heart.

One quiet afternoon, Jaanvi called her to meet at a nearby cafe after college.

"Siya! Aaj milna zaroori hai. Kuch baatein hain. Tu aa rahi hai na?" Jaanvi’s excited voice came through the phone.

(Siya! We must meet today. There are some things to talk about. You’re coming, right?)

Siya hesitated, looking at her bandaged finger. “Haan Jaanvi, aa rahi hoon. Bas thoda late ho jaaunga.”

(Yes Jaanvi, I’m coming. Just might be a little late.)

At the cafe, Jaanvi chattered about a new boy who had asked her out, completely oblivious to Siya’s inner world. “Tu bhi try kar na kabhi. Itne proposals aate hain tere paas, phir bhi tu single hi rehti hai. Kya secret hai tera?”

Siya stirred her coffee with her right hand, keeping the left hidden under the table. “Koi secret nahi, Jaanvi. Bas mann nahi karta.”

(No secret, Jaanvi. Just don’t feel like it.)

Inside, she touched the side of her ring finger lightly. My secret is sitting right here. My private wedding to the boy I have loved for years.

As weeks passed and the tattoo healed into a clean, delicate mark, Siya felt a profound sense of peace mixed with melancholy. It was her own private wedding vow—made not in a mandap with fire and chants, but in the quiet parlor with a buzzing needle and tears in her eyes. The heartbreak came from knowing it might remain forever unseen by the one it was meant for. Siddharth might never know that a girl from his childhood had married him in her heart and sealed it with ink.

Yet the promise brought strength. On cold nights, she would look at her finger under the moonlight and feel connected to him across the miles. In her old diary, she wrote a new poem:

"Anguthi nahi pehni, phir bhi bandh chuki hoon dil se.

Sid ♡ — yeh chhoti si nishani, meri sari zindagi ki kahani."

She continued adding to her notebook, preserving every small detail and emotion. The love was permanent now, twice etched—once near her hipbone, once on her ring finger. A silent, unwavering commitment.

Her mother noticed her quietness more these days. “Beta, tu theek toh hai na? Itni chup kyun rehti hai har waqt?”

(Child, are you okay? Why do you stay so quiet all the time?)

Siya hugged her mother tightly. “Main bahut khush hoon, Maa. Sirf kuch apne sapne dekhti hoon.”

(I am very happy, Mom. I just see some of my own dreams.)

In those dreams, Siddharth would one day return. He would notice the small mark on her finger and understand without words. Until then, she carried her secret promise and her private heartbreak with grace and love.

The Jaipur nights grew colder, but Siya’s heart remained warm. “Sid ♡” rested on her ring finger like an invisible ring, a testament to a love that needed no witnesses, no celebrations—only quiet, eternal fidelity.

This was her truth. Her vow. Her forever.