Read this lost masterpiece. Sorry I had to take help of AI, as I deem my own translating capabilities not worthy of translating a whole story of this level. This story was, however, not created by AI. It was originally written in Oria, translated to Hindi (the edition I have) and I got it translated to English for you.

The Moon of an Unknown Date (Anjaani Tithi Ka Chaand)

^{By_Tarun_Kanti_Mishra}

I once believed I would never write this. It belongs to a time so distant it seemed irrelevant, yet eighteen years later, the memories remain as sharp as a winter breath. As I write, a face emerges—soft, like a night drenched in moonlight. It is the face of Sucharita, a girl from Pakhanjur, a settlement buried in the endless forests of Dandakaranya. I had returned there from engineering college in Raipur for the summer holidays, a student of logic and cold facts.
Our household was in a state of quiet chaos. My sister, Nandita, was supposed to be preparing for her board examinations, but her heart was elsewhere. She was consumed by a cultural play her group was organizing. Every day, she would talk about "Radha," the lead actress, a girl named Sucharita who was the daughter of a pharmacist in nearby Kapsi. My father, a government officer, was indulgent but firm, often reminding her that the forest was no place for a young girl to be wandering late at night. I watched this family drama with the detached air of a "science student," convinced that poetry and plays were a waste of time.
One evening, an unseasonal storm bruised the sky purple. The wind howled through the forest, and the rain fell in heavy, blinding sheets. In the middle of this downpour, Nandita brought Sucharita to my room. The girl was drenched and trembling. Because of the rehearsals, she had missed the last bus to Kapsi, seven miles away through the dense jungle. Nandita looked at me with pleading eyes, and my father eventually gave the order: I was to take the motorcycle and drop her home. I was furious. The roads were treacherous, the forest was dark, and I felt my holiday was being hijacked by my sister’s lack of discipline.
The ride was seven miles of silence. The air smelled of wet earth and wild jungle blooms. I could feel Sucharita behind me, struggling for balance on the bumpy path, her touch hesitant and trembling against my back. Whenever the bike hit a stone, she would momentarily lean into me, a ghost of a presence. When we finally reached her gate, she vanished inside without a word. No "thank you," no backward glance.
The next day, I vented my frustration to Nandita, calling her friend "uncivilized" and "arrogant." Nandita only laughed. "She isn't proud, Bhaiya. She’s so shy she can barely speak. On stage, she is Radha—divine and bold—but off-stage, she is paralyzed by her own silence. She was probably too terrified of you to say a word."
A few days later, the situation repeated itself. Midway through the journey, near a bridge over a mountain stream, the motorcycle engine suddenly died. I wasn't a mechanic; I just knew the engine had stopped. We stood in the waning moonlight, the forest breathing all around us.
"How far is it?" she whispered. Her voice was like a soft musical note, breaking the silence for the first time.
"Three miles," I said.
"It’s okay. Let’s walk."
That walk changed everything. I felt the "living soul" beside me. She carried a strange, beautiful fragrance—not like perfume, but like the forest itself. My legs felt heavy, as if the weight of the moment was too much for my seventeen-year-old heart. When I finally tried the bike again after reaching the outskirts of her village, it roared to life instantly. I realized then: if the bike hadn't stalled, we might never have spoken.
The next day, during the ride, she placed her hand on my shoulder to steady herself. The touch sent a shiver through me, like cold kulfi melting in the mouth. I stopped at the same bridge again on the way back, lying to myself and to her that I had "lost a pen" there, just to linger in her presence for a few minutes more.
I told her I didn't understand poetry; I was a science student who dealt in certainties. She looked at me with the wisdom of her fifteen years and said, "Many things aren't meant to be understood. They are only meant to be felt. This isn't math; you don't have to go step-by-step." She asked if I had read Tagore’s Gitanjali. "I have it in English," she said. "I don't understand all of it, but it makes me feel like the whole world belongs to me. Please, read it."
Two days before I left for college, she handed me the book.
"Read this tonight," she urged, her eyes pleading with an intensity that unsettled me. "Tonight, for sure."
I tucked the book into my trunk, distracted by the logistics of my return to Raipur. Two days later, I left the forest behind.
In the rush of engineering exams and the competition of campus life, the book stayed buried under my textbooks. It was only months later, during a quiet break, that I finally pulled it out. As I flipped the pages, a small scrap of paper fell out: "I have something special to tell you. Tomorrow evening at 5:00 PM, come to the lake near the Japanese Guest House. I will be waiting. — Sucharita"

I read it until the ink blurred. She had begged me to read the book "tonight," but I had waited months. I had missed the "tomorrow" she spoke of.
Seventeen years have passed. I never saw her again. Sometimes I close my eyes and paint the scene: a fifteen-year-old girl standing by a lake, waiting restlessly as the sky turns dark. How long did she wait? How much disappointment did she carry as she finally walked those seven miles home alone through the dark forest?
Sucharita, if you are out there, please do not be disappointed. You taught me that not everything needs to be understood. I didn't receive your words that day, but I received the feeling. You communicated it with just your invitation.
Don’t I already know what you wanted to tell me that evening?

^{Hope-you-enjoyed:).}

This writer has a lot of such underrated masterpieces. If you want. I can post others as well. Source: Itni Door, by Tarun Kanti Mishra. This story is not related to me at all. I won't gain anything if it gets popular. But I think it deserves to be known at least. Respect to you if you even try reading this story.