Back when mobile phones were rare... and so were streetlights.

कभी किसी रोज़ उस मोड़ से गुज़रता हूँ

यादों का एक झरोखा-सा खुल जाता है।

और वो बीते लम्हे याद आते हैं,

जो सम्भाल के रखे थे...

शायद ऐसे पलों के लिए

या कहो तो तन्हाइयों के आलम के लिए।

मानो बीते लम्हों की महफ़िल ही सजी हो,

फिर भी चेहरे पर एक मुस्कान-सी आ जाती है।

थोड़ी-सी नादानियाँ हमने भी की थीं,

शरारत भरी गुस्ताखियाँ — जाने-अनजाने,

हमसे भी तो हुई थीं।

आज जब उन्हें याद करता हूँ,

तो लगता है — वो दिन भी क्या दिन थे!

हम ज़िंदगी क्या ख़ूब जिए थे।

मशरूफ़ पलों को यादगार बनाने में

अनजाने में दोस्त भी जुड़ गए थे।

जब किसी रोज़ उस मोड़ से गुज़रता हूँ,

तो बीते लम्हे फिर याद आ जाते हैं।

There’s a story behind this one.

It happened in the mid-nineties—an era when mobile phones hadn’t yet become an extension of our palms, and streetlights were more wish than guarantee.

Back then, borrowing a friend’s bike for a quick ride wasn’t odd. It was friendship 101.

Every week, we’d gather at Girij ( a place in Vasai) —a quiet little place in Vasai—for our Diocesan Youth Council meet. One such evening, with time on our hands and the sun inching toward the horizon, a friend and I decided to go for a ride.

We borrowed a Bajaj M80. Classic. Functional.

The owner gave it with a smile and a warning—“Just go easy… don’t push it.”

We nodded like all confident fools do—already halfway out the gate before his sentence ended.

By the time we reached Girij Dongri, twilight had almost slipped into night. 

We decided to turn back. And that’s when the drama began.

The bike sputtered. Coughed. Died.

And refused to come back to life.

No matter what we tried, it just stood there. 

Silent.

The road was deserted.

No vehicles. No people. No homes nearby. 

No light.

And certainly, no mobile phones to save the day.

We were stranded. In the middle of nowhere. With nothing but hope and each other’s rising panic.

Then—just like in the movies—a light appeared.

It was him—the friend whose bike we’d borrowed.

He’d brought another friend along and had come searching for us.

“I told you not to push it past 50,” he said with a sigh, before adding something else we didn’t quite catch—probably more wisdom we were too foolish to hear.

He fiddled with the bike for less than five minutes. 

It roared back to life like it had never betrayed us.

“I figured something must’ve gone wrong,” he said casually. “It’s been over 30 minutes and you weren’t back.”

Then he added, “Come on. Hop on. We’ve got a meeting to attend.”

And just like that, we rode back—two bikes, four friends, and a story we didn’t know we’d laugh about years later.

Even today, when I pass that stretch of road, I remember that evening. 

I smile.

Now, there are lights on that road.

Houses, almost on either sides.

And yes, mobile phones in every pocket.

But sometimes, I miss that darkness.

Because in that darkness, we found light—in the form of friendship, trust, and timing.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what stories are really about—not the moment things went wrong, but the people who showed up when they did.