THE WRONG CALL

“Hello?” said a warm male voice.

“Hello?” replied a young woman, adjusting the heavy rotary handset against her ear.

“Can I talk to Vikram Shrestha?”

“Sorry, wrong number.”

“Oh, my apologies.”

Click.

She set the black receiver back into its cradle. In 1990s Kathmandu, having a landline phone at home was a rare luxury—a privilege Kusum Adhikari owed to her father’s successful career as a trekking and tourist guide. Her college friends often tease her out of lighthearted jealousy, but to Kusum, the bulky phone on the hallway side table was mostly just an ornament.

Until the next morning.

At precisely 11:30 AM, the bell chimed again.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Can I talk to Vikram Shrestha?”

“Sorry, wrong number.”

“Sorry.”

Day after day, the ritual repeated. The brief exchange became a quiet landmark in her morning routine.

By the third week, Kusum found herself sitting by the telephone ten minutes early, watching the clock hands creep toward 11:30. When 11:30 passed in silence, a sudden knot of disappointment tightened in her chest. Had he finally found the right number?

At 11:32 AM, the brass bell rang loudly. She picked it up on the very first chime.

“Hello,” she breathed into the mouthpiece.

“Hello,” the voice replied.

Silence stretched across the copper wire, heavy and charged. She felt a sudden flush on her cheeks; on the other end, his quiet breath betrayed his own sudden nervousness. Finally, breaking the stillness at the exact same moment, both asked:

“How are you?”

A shared laugh dissolved the tension.

“I am good, and you?” Kusum said, leaning against the wall.

“Me too,” he replied. “May I know your name?”

“Kusum Adhikari. And yours?”

“Simrik Shrestha. I’m in my final year of my Master’s degree in English Literature at Tribhuvan University. I also write short stories and articles for local newspapers.”

Kusum’s eyes lit up. “I’m at TU as well! I’m in my final year of a Bachelor’s in Nepali Literature.”

The connection was instant. After a brief pause, Kusum smiled. “Can I ask... who is Vikram Shrestha?”

Simrik chuckled. “He’s my friend. I keep meaning to call his place, but somehow my fingers keep dialing this digit off.”

“Can I ask you one more question?”

“Sure.”

“Can we meet?”

There was a momentary pause on his line. “Of course. But could we make it in two weeks? My final exams finish then, and I’ll be completely free.”

“Deal,” she said softly. “Bye, Simrik.”

“Bye, Kusum.”

What began as a misdialed digit grew into an unspoken lifeline. Over the next fortnight, their daily conversations stretched from minutes to hours. They spoke of books, local poetry, childhood memories, and their futures. Though neither spoke the word love, both knew the quiet transformation happening in their hearts.

August 11, 1992

It was Kusum’s birthday. After her morning lectures at the university, she walked into the student locker room to store her notebooks. When she unlatched her locker door, two neatly wrapped packages and a pristine white envelope sat resting on her shelf.

One package held a plush teddy bear; the other, a wrapped rectangular parcel. Heart fluttering, she gathered the items into her bag and hurried straight home to her room.

Sitting on her bed, she carefully unwrapped the rectangular box. Inside was a novel by Sidney Sheldon—her absolute favorite author, whom she had mentioned casually during one of their late-morning phone chats.

Smiling, she opened the letter:

August 1, 1992

Sunday

Dear Kusum,

Happy Birthday! I hope you like these humble gifts. You once mentioned how much you loved Sidney Sheldon’s writing, so I searched the bookstores in Asan until I found this copy for you.

You once asked if we could meet in person. Let’s meet on August 22 at the TU Canteen at 12:00 PM. Please bring the teddy bear so I can recognize you, and I will bring the tiny toy airplane you once told me you loved.

I will be waiting.

Yours,

Simrik Shrestha

The Canteen

August 22, 1992 — 12:00 PM

The TU canteen was noisy with the chatter of students and the clatter of steel plates. Simrik sat at a corner table—secluded enough to offer privacy, yet giving him a clear line of sight to the doorway. He checked his wristwatch: 12:10 PM. His heart hammered against his ribs.

At 12:20 PM, a young woman stepped into the light of the doorway. She was wearing a simple pink kurta salwar, carrying a brown plush teddy bear against her side, her eyes scanning the tables nervously.

Simrik stood up, walked over, and softly said, “Kusum Adhikari?”

He held up a tiny model wooden airplane in his palm.

She looked up, her face softening into a bright, relieved smile. “Simrik Shrestha.”

They walked back to the secluded corner table. Sitting face to face for the very first time, an endearing shyness settled over them.

“How was your class today?” Simrik asked, breaking the ice.

“It was good. And yours?” she replied, looking down at her hands.

“You look beautiful in pink,” he added gently.

Kusum blushed. “Thank you. You look very handsome in your white shirt, too.”

Simrik smiled warmly. “What would you like to order?”

“A cup of coffee and a plate of vegetable momos.”

“You’re vegetarian?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“So am I,” he said with a bright grin.

That afternoon marked the end of wrong numbers and the beginning of a shared life. They met regularly between classes, strolling under the shade of the university trees, talking for hours. At home, whenever radio melodies played love songs, Kusum would dance softly around her room, her mind entirely filled with thoughts of Simrik.

New Beginnings

A year passed quickly. Both completed their degrees. While Simrik finished his thesis and searched for teaching positions, Kusum enrolled in her Master’s program and secured a job teaching at a local primary school. Shortly after, Simrik was hired as an English lecturer at a high school.

One clear morning in February 1993, as Kusum was tidying her bed, her father knocked gently on her open door.

“Kusum,” he said, stepping inside. “I wanted to speak with you for a moment.”

“Yes, Baba?” She sat down beside him on the edge of the mattress.

“You have completed your Bachelor’s degree, and you have a steady job now,” he began thoughtfully. “I think it is the right time for you to think about marriage and settling down. I’ve had a few proposals brought to me by relatives.”

Kusum froze. A sudden knot of anxiety tightened in her chest, and she stared down at her lap, unable to find her voice.

Her father observed her tense posture, his expression softening with concern. “What happened, chhori? Did I say something wrong? Why are you so quiet?”

“Baba... actually...” she stammered, her fingers clutching the bedsheet.

“Yes, chhori? Tell me.”

Taking a deep breath, Kusum laid out the entire story—the misdialed landline calls, the months of quiet conversations, the letters, the canteen meetings, and the deep love she and Simrik shared.

Her father sat stunned. For a long moment, he was entirely speechless, grappling with the unconventional nature of how they met—a love born from a wrong number, unarranged by family and bridging traditional social expectations. Seeing his hesitation, Kusum gently pleaded with him to meet Simrik just once before making any decisions.

A few days later, Simrik arrived at their home. He greeted Kusum’s father with deep respect, listening attentively and speaking with honesty, maturity, and warmth. Kusum’s father had initially harbored reservations about caste, family background, and the strange randomness of their meeting over a telephone line. But within an hour of conversation, Simrik’s genuine character and humble manners completely won him over.

In late February 1993, Kusum and Simrik were married. Respecting both families' wishes as well as their own preference for intimacy, they held a quiet, private ceremony surrounded only by their closest relatives and dearest friends—celebrating a lifelong journey that began with a wrong number.