Under the Same Stars

Anjali lived in a cramped slum on the outskirts of Mumbai, where life was hard, but her eyes never lost their shine. Each day, she walked barefoot to a garment factory, stitching designer clothes she could never afford to wear. Her soul, though poor in wealth, was rich in dreams.

Farhaan, on the other hand, was a rickshaw puller. Orphaned young, he'd grown up on the street, surviving on scraps, and sleeping wherever he found shelter. But even amid hardship, he had a heart full of kindness and an unbreakable spirit.

Their worlds collided one rainy morning. Anjali slipped in the mud while rushing to work. Farhaan, passing by, extended his hand with a warm smile. She hesitated, then took it. That small moment would become the seed of something magical.

From that day, Farhaan would often wait for her, offering her rides and laughter. They talked about dreams, the stars, and a better life. Anjali wanted to design her own clothing line someday. Farhaan dreamt of owning his own auto-rickshaw.

Love bloomed quietly, like the scent of jasmine in the night. There were no roses, no fancy dinners—just chai shared from a single cup, laughter under leaky roofs, and moments that felt eternal.

At night, they'd meet secretly on the rooftop of Anjali’s tin home. The moon was their witness, the stars their silent companions. Farhaan would play a soft tune on his flute, and Anjali would rest her head on his shoulder, whispering her fears, her hopes, and her love.

One night, Farhaan said, “Anjali, I have no riches to offer, but my heart belongs to you.”

Anjali replied with tears, “And I need nothing more.”

Each day, love bloomed brighter. Farhaan brought her wildflowers; she stitched a tiny heart into the inside of his shirt collar. Their romance wasn’t rich in money, but it overflowed with care, emotion, and deep understanding.

But poverty is a cruel world, and love doesn’t shield you from it.

Anjali’s boss, a heartless man named Dubey, began to harass her. One day, he cornered her with indecent proposals. She slapped him and walked out, never to return. But with no job, life turned even harder.

Anjali, broken but not defeated, turned to Farhaan. He listened with quiet rage but obeyed when she said, “We will fight with dignity, not violence.”

He began pulling longer shifts. She started stitching clothes from home. They ate less, worked more, and dreamed harder. Each night on the rooftop, they promised each other, “Someday, we’ll be free.”

Their love became both a shelter and a fire. There were nights when they embraced under the stars, finding warmth in each other's arms, their kisses sweet and slow, their touches gentle and sacred. They made love without luxury, but with overwhelming emotion—pure, raw, real.

Then one summer, Anjali fell ill. Overworked and malnourished, she fainted. Hospital fees were far beyond their reach. Without a second thought, Farhaan sold his rickshaw.

“I can earn it back,” he said, holding her hand, “But I can’t live without you.”

She recovered slowly. Tears would often roll down her cheeks—not from pain, but because she realized the depth of his love. He had nothing left but never made her feel like she was a burden.

Weeks later, fortune knocked on their door. A customer saw Anjali’s handmade dress and offered her a small opportunity to sell clothes in a local market. Farhaan, with borrowed money, bought an old rickshaw again.

They rose—hand in hand, slowly but surely. She designed. He drove. Life was no longer survival—it was a shared mission.

Soon, they rented a small one-room home. On their first night inside, Farhaan joked,

“No roof leaks tonight.”

“And no nosy aunties watching us,” Anjali laughed.

That night, they made love in their own space for the first time. It wasn’t just physical—it was a merging of souls, the climax of years of struggle. Every kiss, every breath, was filled with the magic of survival, devotion, and gratitude.

Years passed.

Anjali’s designs gained popularity in local markets. Farhaan expanded to owning three rickshaws. People envied their success, but they never forgot where they came from.

One beautiful evening, Farhaan went down on one knee under the old tree where they first shared chai.

“I know we already belong to each other,” he said, holding a tiny silver ring, “But will you marry me, so the world knows it too?”

Tears filled Anjali’s eyes. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

Their wedding was simple—a temple ceremony, marigolds, shared sweets, and the slum dancing with joy.

As the priest asked, “Do you promise to love and cherish each other forever?”

They both answered, smiling through tears,

“We already do.”