Yun Hi Kabhi

Yun Hi Kabhi

(A Journey of Unseen Presences)

By : Sanjay Shharma

The warm summer night presses against the windows here with its still presence beyond our cool room. The gentle hum of the AC, set to 26 degrees, blends with familiar Hindi melodies from my wife's playlist. The air is still, carrying the sweet scent of raat ki rani and damp earth from the garden outside. In this quiet cocoon, our breathing slows, muscles relax — a soft physiological ease settling over us, nerves gently soothed by the night’s calm. It’s a rare, shared peace that grows quietly between us, a mutual empathy wrapping around our hearts like a gentle embrace.

We speak softly, sharing smiles and remembered lyrics, years of understanding between us like a comfortable sweater. Then, a familiar song begins, its notes unlocking memories. Perhaps it's the gentle yearning of "Yun Hi Kabhi Milne Humein, Chale Aao," its melody a key turning in the lock of our past. The cool air seems to shimmer, a heavy stillness descends, filled with an unseen presence. The outside world fades. We are instantly transported.

Sometimes, a strange quiet simply arrives. Not frightening, but heavy, as if an invisible guest has sat beside you. Everything stills. A soft tightening in the chest, a slight catch in the breath — your body responding before your mind can catch up.

A familiar emptiness settles in – the feeling that someone who was here, isn't anymore. Before you know it, you sit motionless, staring at nothing, remembering someone. Someone once part of your everyday, someone you could always count on, whose absence still echoes in the silence. A presence no longer seen, yet never fully gone. Someone who was your whole world, now just a memory.

It might not be someone who died, but someone who drifted away, like a kite lost in the sky. Suddenly, we’re frozen mid-breath – a spoon in hand, a half-typed word, a paused screen. A wave of memory washes over us, warm, slow, and poignant. Someone once our daily life now visits only in flashes – a similar name, a powerful song, an unshared joke where their laughter is missed most. Not always death, not always goodbye, just a quiet fading, like the last scent on their clothes before it vanishes.

Perhaps it’s your father’s strong hand, once your anchor, now an imprint on your values. Your mother’s gentle scoldings, echoing in your adult mistakes. A best friend’s silly nickname, unspoken for decades, yet still touching your heart. A child’s giggle, once home’s birdsong, now a hollow silence in their old room. Or a lover’s voice, not lost, but distanced by life.

Not fully here, not fully gone – frozen in time, and in us. They live in that tender space within. Like a lingering scent, a warmth in an unworn sweater, a fingerprint on a mirror. Half in our breath, half in our sadness.

And then... yun hi kabhi... just like that, they return. In a cafe with shared patties. In a saree like Maa’s. In an old ringtone on someone else’s phone. In the mirror, seeing their eyes in your own. In the smell of an old notebook, whispering youthful secrets. In a chai that tastes like a first solo trip. In the hug of an old shawl. In forgotten songs on a dusty cassette. In a faded photograph’s happy smile. No logic, no timing, just random days, quiet hours, slipping in like a breeze. No rituals, no grand reasons, just ordinary moments. And they appear – not to sadden, but to hold. Not to remind of absence, but to comfort with memory. Not to haunt, but to hold. Not of pain, but of deep love.

We all carry them, don’t we? The living we no longer speak to, due to pride or life’s drift. Family missed even when they are in the same city, hearts distant. The departed, whose faces we seek in crowds. The way they were, before time changed things. And how we were with them. They return when we pray, wishing they were there. The ones we still look for, even knowing better. Those lost without closure, those we hurt without apology, those who left unaware of their importance, and the versions of ourselves who could still cry openly, love without guard, wait by landlines, run barefoot into vanished rooms. They return. Yun hi kabhi.

At weddings, an empty chair marks their absence. During festivals, an extra diya burns for them. In sickness, their presence feels like medicine. In arguments, their calm advice is longed for. And in triumphs, the first call we want to make has no number.

But life moves on. Their walking stick leans in the corner, their glasses in the drawer, their scent on a favorite toy. The world doesn’t pause for our daily missing. So we smile, finish our chai, attend our meetings. But life doesn’t stop. Our smiles are practiced, our “I’m fines” too easy. We scroll, shop, post, plan. And then, yun hi kabhi… we break. A silent sob, a lone tear behind sunglasses, in an elevator with groceries, at a traffic light, while tidying, in a traffic jam that feels like the past, or in a quiet washroom – still unable to grieve publicly.

Not always from grief, but from a deep, quiet longing that fills us without a sound. A shapeless longing that words can’t capture. On a still afternoon, a spoon in hand, a sudden catch in the throat for no apparent reason. Not always sadness, but a vast, unseen feeling unnoticed by others. You’ve seen it too – a stranger at a temple wall, an aunt turning away from an old song, a child clinging to a father’s shirt. Or perhaps, in your own reflection.

They say we move on, but we adapt, we continue. We speak of them less, not from forgetting, but because it breaks us. We learn to smile with the ache, build homes around absence, fill days with noise, but our nights can still feel lonely. And slowly, we understand – this too is love, outliving separation, making a song unbearable, turning a sweater into a shrine, hurting beautifully.

So, if you laugh at something only they’d understand, if your hand reaches for a cold space in sleep, they have returned. Just like that. Yun hi kabhi. Sometimes it’s not a person we miss, but a lost way of life – chalk dust in a classroom, carefree school days; cousins’ laughter at Nani’s house, summer fun with charpai, table fan, aam, and antakshari; the thrill of mischief with friends; the nervousness of first love, the almost-held hand, the unspoken words, the love that didn’t happen but remains a part of us. Or a college movie bunked on a rainy day, the thrill of freedom and guilt; a shared cigarette behind the school wall, whispered secrets feeling larger than life.

So, if unexpectedly, you smile at a private memory, if your hand reaches for someone gone, if your eyes sting during a simple act like listening to a song or waiting for a green light – don’t hide it, don’t push it away. Because they are back, yun hi kabhi.

And maybe all we ever do is carry pieces of them within, quietly, endlessly, waiting for moments when the world pauses, and their presence fills the emptiness. Sometimes a sudden pang, sometimes a soft whisper, sometimes silent tears like rain on a window – washing, healing, reminding us that love, even gone, never truly leaves.

All these people and memories return, not as ghosts, but as love in its purest, most persistent form. They never truly left; they just visit differently now.

And so tonight, the summer still presses against the window. The room is cool. The raat ki rani still breathes its quiet perfume. My wife’s playlist hums softly — another familiar song begins, and once again, the air thickens with memory. But this time, I don’t pull away. I don’t try to name it or silence it.

This time, I lean in.

I know now — it isn’t just nostalgia. It’s love, arriving without reason. It’s them, returning without knocking. The ones we carry. The ones we ache for. The ones we never stopped loving.

We sit in the hush, between words and silences, between presence and absence. And in this stillness, surrounded by scent, sound, and memory —

We don’t say much.

We don’t need to.

Yun hi kabhi, they’re here again.

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A emotional takeaway is the link to the song ; in case you would feel to be transported to the emotional world. 

👉 🎧 Click to play the song 'Tum Yun Hi Kabhi'

About the Author: 

Sanjay Shharma is a writer and cultural commentator dedicated to bridging ancient wisdom with modern life. 

He writes at the crossroads of ancient insight and everyday life. With a deep reverence for Indian traditions and a modern seeker’s lens, his work reawakens timeless truths for today’s world. He invites readers not just to read—but to remember, reflect, and rise with purpose.