Leonard

“Papa, someone named Leonard is calling you.”

“Pick it up, Anjali,” her father said, folding a shirt neatly. “Your mom is probably calling to check if we reached safely.”

“No, Papa,” she said, holding the phone up. “The display name actually says Leonard.”

“I know,” he replied without missing a beat. “It’s your mom. Pick it up. Tell her we reached safely and not to worry. And then sleep. Tomorrow is a big day.”

Anjali frowned but answered the call.

“Hello? Hi, Amma. Yes, we reached the hotel safely. Everything’s fine. Papa is here. I’m about to sleep—he’s helping me unpack. Okay. Love you. Good night.”

She cut the call and turned slowly.

“Papa,” she said, “why is Amma saved as Leonard in your phone?”

He smiled — the kind of smile that meant a story was hiding behind it.

“That’s a long story, Anjali. Go to sleep.”

“Tell me.”

“Not now,” he said. “Win the cup tomorrow, and then I’ll tell you.”

“But why?”

“Because that story,” he said softly, “is about how your mom and I found each other. If you want to hear it, you need to bring the cup home.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Promise?”

“Anju,” he said gently, “have I ever broken a promise to you?”

She shook her head.

“You keep your promises,” he continued. “Papa keeps his.”

She smiled. “Okay. Good night, Papa. Love you.”

The next day, the stadium roared.

Anjali stood barefoot on the judo mat, white uniform crisp, heart pounding but mind steady. Somewhere in the stands, her father was watching her the way he always had — silently, completely.

She fought hard. She fought fair.

She almost lost her temper.

She remembered her father’s words.

Fight the fight your way. Win it fair and square.

And she won.

When the referee raised her hand and the crowd erupted, Anjali smiled — not just because she was the Judo Queen of India 2026, but because now her father had no escape.

That night, back at the hotel, while packing for the early morning flight, she sat cross-legged on the bed and looked at him.

“Papa,” she said, “your promise.”

She stared at him.

“Papa… your promise.”

“Promise? What promise?”

“PAPAAA!”

He laughed. “Okay, okay. Hotel first. Packing time. I haven’t forgotten my promise to my kannalu.”

“So,” she leaned forward, eyes bright, “who is Leonard?”

He sat down slowly, as if reopening an old album.

“You know,” he began, “lately I’ve been watching these shows on that… what do you call it… otp?”

“OTT,” Anjali corrected. “And it’s an iPad.”

“Yes, yes,” he waved her off. “So there was this show — The Big Bang Theory.”

He smiled faintly.

“One character stayed with me. Leonard.”

“Why Leonard?” she asked.

“Because,” he said, “Leonard isn’t loud. He isn’t dramatic. He isn’t someone who storms into love. He waits. He overthinks. He doubts himself. But when he loves, he loves stubbornly, quietly, without giving up.”

He looked at her.

“And while watching it, I realised… your mom is exactly like that.”

Anjali blinked. “Amma?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “She never gave up on me. Even when I didn’t know what I wanted. Even when I was afraid.”

He smiled. “So I saved her number as Leonard. Because every time she calls me, it reminds me of how love stayed patient with me.”

And then he began their story.

How They Met

Your mom and I studied in the same college.

The first time I saw her, nothing dramatic happened. No sparks. No lightning. Just a quiet feeling — this girl matters.

She wasn’t flashy. She wasn’t trying to be noticed. But something about her scared me — the calm confidence, the certainty in her eyes.

I liked her immediately.

I did absolutely nothing about it.

I wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t. I didn’t want my ego hurt. I didn’t want to look foolish. So instead of courage, I chose distance.

My friends were braver — or more foolish. Three of us liked three girls from her class. We wanted their numbers. So we planned a ridiculous ragging stunt.

When it was your mom’s turn, she was given my number and told to call and say she was calling from a bank, offering loans.

She called.

And I panicked.

Instead of answering, I rejected the call.

My friends laughed. I pretended it was intentional.

That was the first time your mom called me.

And the last — for a long time.

Silence and Fate

We didn’t speak again until the final year.

She was stuck with a subject. A professor suggested she come to me — I was the topper.

She came to the library.

We sat across a table for days. Books between us. Silence, then conversation. Conversation, then comfort.

She took my number.

I already had hers.

We became friends. Slowly. Naturally.

I liked her deeply, but I never told her. I was afraid — afraid of losing the friendship, afraid of not being enough, afraid of the future.

We finished graduation.

And then — surprisingly — joined the same college again for post-graduation.

I thought it was coincidence.

It wasn’t.

Her Quiet Planning

In Post Graduation, I was looking for a place to stay.

Your mom casually mentioned there was a vacant room in a flat opposite hers. She said the rent was reasonable. She said she could connect me with the owner.

I agreed.

What I didn’t know then — and only learned much later — was that she had carefully planned it.

She chose the college.

She chose the subject.

She chose the flat.

All so I would be right there.

Opposite her door.

Every day.

She never told me.

She let me believe in coincidence.

The Night that Everything Changed

One night, we were drinking with friends and playing truth or dare.

We ran out of dares.

Truth began.

By then, your mom was drunk — properly drunk. She didn’t realise what she was saying or who she was saying it to.

I asked her if she was in a relationship.

She said yes.

My heart sank.

I asked who the guy was.

She shushed me and whispered, “He stays in the same building.”

I was shocked.

Then she said, “Even he doesn’t know I love him.”

I didn’t understand.

She unlocked her phone and said, “Let me show you his photo.”

She handed it to me.

It was my photo.

The same one I had saved as my favourite.

I was terrified.

And unbelievably happy.

That night, I learned something important.

Your mom doesn’t wait for love.

She decides.

Her Proposal

She told me everything that night — how she noticed me in college, how she was afraid because I was her senior, how she waited, watched, and finally took things into her own hands.

“I decided,” she had said, “that if he won’t make a move, I will move the world instead.”

She wore me down with patience, not pressure. With belief, not demands.

I wanted to be settled before proposing. I wanted to be “worthy.”

She didn’t care.

One day, when her parents visited, she simply said,

“Amma, Papa, I love him. I want to marry him.”

I almost ran.

She squeezed my hand — tight.

Her parents smiled.

They liked me.

That was it.

“So,” he said quietly, finishing the story, “that’s why she’s Leonard.”

“Because,” Anjali said slowly, “she never gave up.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Because she stayed. Because she believed. Because she waited — and acted — when needed.”

Anjali smiled.

“You know,” she said, “I think you are more like Leonard.”

He laughed.

“Maybe. But your mom taught me how love works.”

She hugged him tightly.

“Papa,” she said, “today I almost lost my temper. Almost lost the match.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Because of you,” she said.

“You told me to fight my fight — my way. That’s also how you found love, right?”

He nodded.

“Yes, Anju. Love is not about who wins first.

It’s about who doesn’t give up.”