Suchismita Das
Chapter 1: The Meeting
The monsoon had arrived early in Kolkata that year, painting the city in shades of grey and green. Rain-soaked College Street bustled with people, umbrellas jostling for space, the sweet smell of wet paper wafting through the narrow alleys of booksellers. Riddhi stood near Dasgupta’s Bookshop, her saree damp at the hem, thumbing through a stack of dog-eared paperbacks. She loved this place. The chaos, the stories hidden in every shop, the memories of her father bringing her here as a child to buy books.
Today, she was on the hunt for a worn copy of Tagore’s Shesher Kobita—not because she didn’t own one, but because she believed every copy carried its own story, its own energy from the hands that had flipped its pages. She traced her fingers over the cracked spines and wondered about the lives they’d touched.
She barely noticed the man standing at the adjacent stall, absorbed in a thick journal with yellowed pages. His dark hair was damp, a few strands falling over his forehead. A camera hung from his shoulder, the strap frayed at the edges. He exuded a quiet energy, as if the world around him was a film he was determined to capture.
A gust of wind blew through the street, sending loose pages flying. Riddhi reached instinctively to catch a particularly delicate leaf, but it slipped past her. That’s when he moved. With a swift motion, he caught the page, careful not to crumple it. His eyes met hers, and he held it out to her with a hesitant smile.
“Need a hand?” he asked, his voice steady and warm.
Riddhi hesitated. She wasn’t one to talk to strangers easily, but something about his presence felt familiar, like an old melody that played in the background of her life.
“Thank you,” she said softly, taking the page from his hand. Their fingers brushed briefly, sending a surprising warmth through her chest.
The man tucked a damp lock of hair behind his ear and adjusted the camera strap. “I’m Arjun,” he said, offering a hand. “Documentary filmmaker. Just arrived from Delhi.”
“Riddhi,” she replied, shaking his hand, feeling the calluses on his palm. “Book-lover, born and raised in Kolkata.”
They laughed, the awkwardness melting. The drizzle thickened, and soon the street was a blur of umbrellas and hurried footsteps.
“Come on,” Arjun said, gesturing toward the Indian Coffee House across the street. “We could use a break from this rain.”
Riddhi hesitated. She had never stepped into a coffee house with a stranger before, but something about Arjun’s easy smile disarmed her. Before she could change her mind, he was leading the way, guiding her through the rain-soaked crowd.
Inside, the Indian Coffee House was a warm embrace of nostalgia—peeling walls, slow-turning ceiling fans, and the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. A waiter in a starched white uniform led them to a corner table by the window. Outside, the rain fell in silver sheets, blurring the city beyond.
Arjun ordered two coffees and a plate of fish cutlets. Riddhi, still a little shy, watched as he set up his camera on the table, fiddling with its settings.
“So,” he began, his tone light, “what brings you to College Street on a day like this? Most people would be at home, safe from the rain.”
Riddhi smiled, stirring her coffee absentmindedly. “It’s the rain that brings me here,” she said. “There’s something about this place when it rains—like the books come alive, the stories whisper to you.”
Arjun leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. “That’s beautiful,” he said. “That’s exactly why I came here. I’m making a documentary about Kolkata’s old libraries and book markets. I want to capture that magic you’re talking about.”
Their conversation flowed easily, surprising Riddhi. She spoke of her father’s love for books, of her mother’s disapproval of her literary passions, and of her own small dreams—to write, to explore the city’s hidden corners.
Arjun shared stories of his own—of leaving behind a secure job in Delhi to chase his passion, of the friends he’d lost touch with, and the cities he’d loved and left. His voice carried both excitement and a hint of melancholy, like a song with a minor chord.
Hours passed unnoticed. The rain eased, and the city’s noise returned to its usual hum. Riddhi found herself reluctant to leave.
“Same time tomorrow?” Arjun asked, his eyes hopeful.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Same time.”
Outside, the monsoon sky hung low over College Street, promising more rain. As Riddhi stepped into the fading light, she felt a quiet thrill—a sense that something had shifted, that a new story had begun in the heart of the city she loved so much.
Chapter 2: A Coffee and a Cutlet
The next day dawned with a hesitant sun peeking through the monsoon clouds, a rare reprieve from the rain. College Street bustled with early-morning vendors setting up their stalls, and the city smelled of damp earth and optimism. Riddhi, in a white cotton saree with a blue border, felt a nervous flutter in her chest as she made her way back to the Indian Coffee House.
She spotted Arjun at a corner table, his camera in his lap, scribbling notes in a dog-eared journal. The waiter, in his crisp uniform, hovered nearby with a resigned look, as if he’d already grown used to this new customer. Riddhi’s steps quickened as she approached.
“Hi,” she said, a little breathless.
Arjun looked up and smiled, the same easy, warm smile that had drawn her in the day before. “Hey. I ordered you a coffee and a plate of fish cutlets. I hope that’s okay?”
Riddhi laughed softly. “That’s perfect. You’re becoming a true Kolkatan already.”
They settled in, the clatter of cups and the low hum of conversations around them forming a comforting background score. The Coffee House was always like that—a place where stories mingled, where revolutionaries and poets had once argued over politics and literature.
Arjun set his camera aside and leaned in. “I started editing the footage from yesterday. The rain on College Street, the booksellers’ voices—it’s like the city itself is telling its own story.”
Riddhi nodded, sipping her coffee. “That’s what I’ve always felt. Kolkata is alive, you know? Every corner has a memory.”
He grinned. “Exactly. That’s why I’m here. But—” He paused, searching her face. “What about you? What’s your story, Riddhi?”
She looked down at her plate, tracing the rim with her finger. “My story? It’s… not as exciting. My father loved books. He used to bring me here when I was a little girl. We’d buy old volumes, and he’d tell me stories about the authors—Tagore, Bankim Chandra, Sukumar Ray. He always believed stories were bridges, connecting us to the past.”
Arjun’s expression softened. “He sounds like a wonderful man.”
“He was,” Riddhi said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He passed away when I was in college. My mother—she never understood my love for books. She wanted me to get a stable job, marry well. But I—” She sighed. “I just wanted to write, to read, to live in this city’s stories.”
Arjun reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “I think that’s brave,” he said. “To want to live on your own terms.”
Their eyes met, and in that moment, something shifted. The air between them crackled with possibility, as if the city itself had paused to watch.
They spent the afternoon walking through College Street, visiting old bookstores and secondhand stalls. Arjun filmed snippets of the day—vendors calling out prices, a tram rattling by, a stray cat curled under a bench. Riddhi found herself opening up to him, sharing her favorite haunts and the hidden corners of the city she loved.
As dusk settled, they returned to the Coffee House for another cup. The waiter greeted them with a knowing smile, as if he’d already memorized their order.
“Arjun,” Riddhi asked as they sipped their coffee, “why did you leave Delhi? You had a good job there, right?”
He hesitated. “I did. But it wasn’t enough. I felt… stuck. Like I was living someone else’s dream. My parents wanted me to be an engineer. I tried, but I kept coming back to storytelling, to the camera. I wanted to chase that, even if it meant starting over.”
Riddhi nodded. “That’s hard. But also… inspiring.”
He smiled, a touch of sadness in his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice.”
She reached out, resting her hand over his. “I think you did. Because you’re here, and you’re telling a story that matters.”
Arjun looked at her, and for a moment, the noise of the Coffee House faded away. The city around them seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see where this story would go.
Chapter 3: Trams and Tales
The next morning dawned clear, the monsoon clouds momentarily swept away by a bright, forgiving sun. Kolkata seemed to breathe easier, its streets drying, its people emerging from the shelter of awnings and balconies. Riddhi and Arjun met near the College Street tram depot, the promise of another day’s adventure shimmering in the humid air.
Arjun wore a simple white kurta and jeans, the camera slung across his shoulder like a loyal companion. Riddhi noticed the way the sun caught the edges of his hair, highlighting the flecks of gold that danced there when he smiled.
“Ready for another story?” he asked, his eyes playful.
Riddhi nodded, her heart light. “Always.”
They boarded the tram heading towards Shyambazar, the old wooden seats polished by decades of passengers. The tram creaked and rattled, its wheels singing a melody of nostalgia on the worn tracks. As the city unfurled outside the window, Arjun lifted his camera, capturing slices of life—the rickshaw pullers, the flower sellers, the boys playing cricket in a dusty alley.
“Did you know,” Riddhi began, “that this tram line is one of the oldest in Asia? My father used to say that trams are like veins of the city, carrying its lifeblood through every street.”
Arjun lowered his camera, intrigued. “That’s beautiful. You should write that.”
She blushed. “Maybe I will.”
They disembarked near Shobhabazar Rajbari, its grand columns now faded with age. Arjun filmed the crumbling façade, the decaying yet dignified architecture that seemed to hold Kolkata’s secrets. Riddhi watched him work, admiring the way he framed each shot, the care he took with each angle.
“You really love this, don’t you?” she said softly.
He turned, his eyes thoughtful. “I do. Every building, every street here—it’s like the city is telling me its story, one frame at a time.”
They wandered through the lanes of North Kolkata, the smell of muri and cha wafting through the air. They shared a clay cup of tea at a roadside stall, their conversation flowing like the Hooghly on a summer evening.
“Tell me about your father,” Arjun asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
Riddhi smiled wistfully. “He was a quiet man. Loved books more than people, I think. But he had this way of making every story come alive. He used to say that Kolkata is a living book—every street a new chapter, every tram a new sentence.”
Arjun grinned. “I love that.”
They walked on, past decaying mansions with intricate wrought-iron balconies. The city seemed to lean in, listening to their laughter, their whispered secrets.
By afternoon, the sun was high, and they found refuge at Sovabazar Rajbari, the old mansion echoing with memories of zamindars and revolutionaries. Arjun filmed the worn steps, the dusty chandeliers, the empty rooms that once held music and poetry. Riddhi closed her eyes and imagined the laughter, the dances, the arguments that must have filled these walls.
“Sometimes,” she said, her voice soft, “I think this city is made of ghosts. Every street corner holds a story we’ve forgotten.”
Arjun looked at her, his camera lowered. “Maybe that’s why I’m here—to capture those ghosts before they disappear.”
Their eyes met, the silence between them filled with the weight of unspoken words. The city around them seemed to pause, holding its breath, waiting for what might come next.
Chapter 4: The Ghosts We Carry
The city slept uneasily that night, the humidity clinging to the air like a half-forgotten dream. Riddhi lay in her small, cluttered room, the ceiling fan creaking overhead. Her mind replayed the day’s conversations with Arjun, his voice a comforting echo against the silence of her old house.
She rose and walked to her father’s bookshelf, its edges worn smooth by years of love. His collection of books—Tagore, Bankim Chandra, Sarat Chandra—stood like silent witnesses to his life. She pulled out his copy of Ghare Baire and traced the notes he’d written in the margins. “Remember, Riddhi,” he’d written, “a city is not just a place—it’s a feeling, a memory you carry.”
Arjun’s words from earlier returned to her: “Every building, every street here—it’s like the city is telling me its story, one frame at a time.”
She wondered what ghosts Arjun carried with him—what stories his camera couldn’t capture. The thought made her chest ache with a tenderness she hadn’t expected.
The next morning, they met near the Howrah Bridge, the iron giant casting its shadow over the river. Arjun was already filming, capturing the morning light glinting off the Hooghly. He turned to her, his eyes shadowed.
“Riddhi,” he said, his voice lower than usual, “do you ever feel like you’re carrying someone else’s dreams?”
She nodded, understanding more than he knew. “All the time. My mother’s dreams, my father’s dreams, even the city’s dreams.”
He set the camera down, its red recording light winking out. “My parents wanted me to be an engineer. I tried, I really did. But every time I sat at a desk, I felt like I was drowning. So I ran. I ran to Delhi, and then here. But sometimes I wonder if I’m just chasing shadows.”
She touched his hand lightly. “Maybe that’s what we’re all doing—chasing shadows. Trying to find the shape of something that will make us whole.”
They stood in silence, the river carrying their unspoken thoughts downstream.
Later, they walked through Kumartuli, where artisans shaped clay into gods and goddesses. The smell of wet clay and paint hung heavy in the air. Arjun filmed the craftsmen at work, the way their hands molded the clay with a devotion that bordered on reverence.
“Look at them,” he whispered. “They give shape to people’s hopes and fears. And then, when the festival is over, the idols dissolve back into the river.”
Riddhi watched the artisans, her heart full. “Maybe that’s what we’re made of too—stories and hopes that wash away when the tide comes.”
Arjun lowered his camera, his eyes meeting hers. “And maybe,” he said, his voice trembling, “that’s why I want to capture them before they’re gone.”
As evening fell, they found themselves at the Ganga ghats, watching the sun sink behind the city skyline. The air smelled of incense and river water. Riddhi felt the weight of the day settle in her bones.
“Arjun,” she said quietly, “what’s your biggest fear?”
He hesitated, the question hanging in the humid air. “That I’ll miss the story I’m meant to tell,” he said finally. “That I’ll spend my life chasing other people’s ghosts instead of my own.”
She nodded, her own fears reflected in his eyes. “I’m afraid of forgetting,” she confessed. “Forgetting my father’s stories, this city’s stories—forgetting who I am.”
He reached for her hand, their fingers intertwining. “Then let’s promise each other,” he said, “that we won’t forget. That we’ll carry each other’s stories, even when the city tries to wash them away.”
She smiled, the weight in her chest lifting, just a little. “Deal.”
They sat there, hand in hand, as the river carried their promises into the night.
Chapter 5: Festivals and Fireworks
The air in Kolkata shifted as Durga Puja approached. Streets transformed overnight into a kaleidoscope of lights, colors, and sounds. Pandals rose like dreams from the pavement, each more extravagant than the last. Riddhi and Arjun found themselves swept up in the magic, their cameras clicking, eyes wide with wonder.
“Look at this,” Riddhi said, her voice tinged with awe as they stood before a massive pandal shaped like a palace. “My father used to bring me to see these when I was little. He said each pandal tells a different story.”
Arjun’s eyes sparkled, his camera capturing every detail. “It’s incredible—the colors, the lights, the people. It’s like the city itself is alive, breathing.”
They walked hand in hand through the crowds, sharing laughter and stolen glances. The air smelled of incense, street food, and the faint sweetness of cotton candy. Riddhi’s heart raced with excitement and a lingering sense of nostalgia.
At the pandal near Bagbazar, the idol of Durga glowed under the lights, her eyes fierce yet kind. Riddhi closed her eyes, sending a silent prayer. Arjun stood beside her, his face contemplative.
“Do you believe in her?” he asked softly.
Riddhi opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. “I think I believe in the strength she represents—the strength to fight our own demons.”
Arjun smiled, his hand finding hers. “I like that.”
Arjun watched her, his camera momentarily forgotten. “You’re in your element,” he said, admiration clear in his voice.
Riddhi grinned. “This is my city, Arjun. Every beat of the drum is a part of me.”
As fireworks lit up the night sky, Arjun’s expression shifted. “Riddhi,” he said, pulling her aside, “I’ve been offered a documentary job back in Delhi. It’s a big opportunity. But—”
She felt her heart drop. “But?”
He hesitated. “But it means leaving Kolkata. Leaving… this.”
Riddhi’s mind spun, the noise of the festival suddenly too loud. “And leaving me?”
Arjun reached for her, his touch gentle but uncertain. “I don’t want to. But it’s complicated. My family, my career…”
Tears pricked at Riddhi’s eyes. “I understand. But Arjun, don’t ask me to choose between you and this city. I can’t.”
He nodded, pain in his eyes. “I know.”
The night wore on, the sounds of celebration masking the silence between them. In the midst of the revelry, Riddhi felt a crack in her heart, a reminder that even in the City of Joy, every festival carries its own shadows.
Chapter 6: Goodbyes and Beginnings
The morning after the festival felt muted. The city’s hangover from Durga Puja celebrations was heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the previous night’s revelry. Riddhi walked along the empty streets, the pandals now silent, the idols waiting to be immersed in the river.
Her heart ached with the memory of Arjun’s words. Delhi. Documentary. Dreams. And the unspoken goodbye that lingered between them like unfinished poetry.
At home, she sat by her father’s old writing desk, the scent of his books comforting yet bittersweet. She wondered what he would have said. Follow your heart, Riddhi. The city will always be here, waiting.
Arjun, meanwhile, sat in a café near College Street, the hustle of students and booksellers around him. His camera bag lay untouched beside him, a reminder of the stories he’d captured and the ones he might leave behind.
He thought of Riddhi’s face, the way her eyes had shimmered in the glow of fireworks. Don’t ask me to choose between you and this city. Her words echoed in his mind, a challenge and a plea all at once.
He closed his eyes, the weight of his decision pressing on his chest. Delhi was calling, but Kolkata had become something he hadn’t expected—a home, a muse, a place where his heart had learned to beat to a different rhythm.
That evening, they met at Princep Ghat. The river glistened under the setting sun, the air thick with the scent of flowers and the distant sound of a flute. Riddhi stood at the edge of the water, her hair caught in the breeze.
“Arjun,” she began, her voice trembling, “if you need to go, then go. But don’t expect me to wait forever. I can’t be the pause in your story.”
He stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. “I never wanted to hurt you, Riddhi. But this job—it’s everything I’ve worked for.”
She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I know. And I’m proud of you. But I can’t hold on to something that’s already slipping away.”
He took her hand, pressing it to his chest. “You’re not a pause, Riddhi. You’re the reason I found my story here. I’ll come back. I promise.”
She smiled through her tears. “Then go find your story, Arjun. And I’ll be here, finding mine.”
They stood together, the river carrying their whispered promises downstream. In that moment, Kolkata seemed to hold its breath, a city caught between goodbyes and beginnings.
Chapter 7: Letters and Lamentations
The monsoon rains returned with a quiet insistence, tapping against the windows of Riddhi’s small room like an unrelenting metronome. Outside, the streets of Kolkata shimmered under a persistent drizzle, umbrellas blooming like mushrooms along College Street. The scent of wet earth and jasmine crept in through the cracked window, mingling with the faint aroma of old books and incense.
Riddhi sat cross-legged on her bed, a handful of letters spread before her like fragile petals. The paper was creased and softened by time, but each envelope carried the unmistakable weight of Arjun’s handwriting—the slant of his “A,” the way he looped his “j” with a gentle flourish. Each letter was a fragment of his world, sent from Delhi, threaded with love, distance, and an ache that mirrored her own.
She traced the ink with a trembling finger, hesitant to read, yet unable to resist. The first letter was dated two weeks after he left. It spoke of new beginnings, the dizzying rush of his new job, and the chaos of a city that felt both alien and alive. Arjun wrote of crowded metro trains, of dusty streets that lacked the soul of Kolkata, of fleeting moments when he closed his eyes and could almost hear the tram bells, the chaiwalas’ calls, the faint strains of Rabindra Sangeet drifting from somewhere nearby.
“I carry Kolkata with me,” he wrote. “It’s in every frame I capture, even when the city around me feels strange and cold. Your city, Riddhi, is the light I chase in my darkest moments.”
Riddhi smiled bitterly. She wanted to believe him, to hold onto his words like a lifeline. But every letter arrived later than the last, the spaces between them growing wider like the river between their worlds. The city seemed to conspire against her patience, draping itself in monsoon gray as if echoing the gloom settling in her heart.
Days stretched into weeks, the calendar marked by the slow ticking of moments filled with waiting. The letters, once a steady stream, dwindled to a trickle, then silence.
One evening, as the sun slipped behind the clouds and street lamps flickered on like fireflies, Riddhi stood by the Howrah Bridge, watching the Hooghly flow beneath the iron arches. The water was swollen and muddy, rushing with a force that spoke of storms both outside and within. She clutched an unopened letter to her chest—a rare delivery from Arjun, brought by a friend visiting Delhi.
With trembling hands, she unfolded the paper. The words were hurried, almost desperate.
“I’m sorry, Riddhi. Work has consumed me. The city here doesn’t understand the stories I want to tell. I’m lost. But your voice, your laughter… I hear it in the noise. Please don’t forget me.”
Riddhi let the letter slip from her fingers, the paper fluttering to the ground like a fallen leaf. The rain began again, soaking her hair and clothes, but she didn’t move. The river carried away the letter, swirling it into the endless current.
Her heart felt as if it was being pulled apart, the distance between them folding into a silence too loud to bear.
Back in her room, surrounded by the faint glow of the city lights, Riddhi’s fingers reached for her notebook. Words spilled out in ink, a catharsis of longing and loss. The pages became her confessional, the pen a conduit for the ache that no letter could soothe.
Days passed, and Kolkata’s rhythms continued unabated. The calls of the street vendors, the clatter of trams on rails, the laughter echoing from tea stalls—all reminders that life moved forward, even as her world stood still.
Then came the night when the phone rang—an unexpected sound that shattered the stillness. Her hands shook as she answered.
“Riddhi,” Arjun’s voice was thick with emotion, distant but urgent. “I’m coming back. I don’t know when, but I have to. I can’t keep running from who I am… from us.”
The connection broke, leaving her with only the echo of his words and a fragile hope blooming amidst the rain-soaked darkness.
Chapter 8: Crossroads and Choices
The sky above Kolkata was heavy and brooding, a leaden canopy stretched taut with the threat of rain. The familiar scent of wet earth mingled with the distant fragrance of marigold garlands and roadside chai. From her window, Riddhi watched the restless city pulse beneath the gathering clouds — a city both ancient and alive, where every corner whispered a story, and every face reflected a thousand dreams.
But her own story felt tangled, fragile, perched at a precarious crossroads.
Since Arjun’s last call — that desperate, fractured promise that he would return — days had stretched into weeks, each one colored by an ache of uncertainty. The bustling Kolkata streets outside carried on undeterred, indifferent to the quiet storm brewing inside her.
That morning, she sat at her father’s old writing desk, its surface cluttered with loose sheets, a half-empty cup of tea, and a photograph of her and Arjun taken months ago by the Hooghly’s edge. She traced the outline of his smiling face with a fingertip, trying to summon the certainty they once shared. But the questions persisted:
What would it mean for him to come back? Would the city that had nurtured her still feel like home to him? Could she bear to be the “pause” in his story he once feared?
Her phone buzzed suddenly, a message lighting up the screen:
“I’m on the train. Kolkata soon.”
Her heart thundered. The wait was over. But what awaited? Would he be the same Arjun who left chasing dreams? Or someone changed by time and distance?
The city welcomed him in a symphony of sounds and sights — the clanging of tram bells, the laughter from tea stalls, the riot of colors from street vendors. Arjun stepped onto the platform at Sealdah station, rain misting his hair, his eyes searching. He clutched his camera bag like a talisman, but his heart was heavy.
His first steps into Kolkata were tentative, the city feeling both familiar and strange — as if it, too, was waiting to see what kind of story he would weave now.
Their reunion was quiet, held at a narrow café tucked in a by-lane of College Street. Neither rushed to speak at first; instead, they shared the silence that only years of friendship and longing could fill.
Finally, Arjun broke the quiet. “Kolkata hasn’t changed, but I have.”
Riddhi nodded, her eyes shimmering. “Neither have I.”
They talked for hours, about the city, about their dreams, about the distance that time had carved between them. And then, the inevitable question:
“What now?”
For the first time, they laid bare their fears and hopes.
Arjun confessed his doubts — whether he could build a life here, where he had left a part of himself behind. Riddhi spoke of her desire for stability, for roots deeper than the fleeting nature of his work.
The crossroads stretched before them like the endless Kolkata sky: uncertain, daunting, but filled with possibility.
Days passed, and they wandered the city’s many faces — from the ancient temples of Kumartuli to the literary sanctuaries of College Street, from the bustling markets of Gariahat to the serene expanse of the Maidan. Each place became a backdrop to their conversations about belonging, love, sacrifice, and the future.
Riddhi realized that love was not just about holding on but also about choosing—sometimes between dreams and reality, between the city and the soul.
One evening, beneath the glowing lamps of a Durga Puja pandal, Arjun took her hand. “I want to try,” he said simply. “To build something here, with you.”
Riddhi smiled, tears blurring her vision. “I’ve waited for you in this city, Arjun. Maybe now, it’s time to make our story together — not as a pause, but as a beginning.”
The rain finally broke, drumming a steady rhythm on the pavements as the city breathed a fresh breath. The air was thick with hope, and the Hooghly river carried their dreams downstream — winding, unpredictable, but eternal.
In the city of two hearts, where love was both fragile and fierce, Riddhi and Arjun stepped forward, hand in hand, ready to write the next chapter — together.
Chapter 9: New Beginnings and Old Shadows
The first golden rays of dawn spilled over Kolkata’s skyline, casting a delicate glow upon the city’s ancient rooftops and winding lanes. The city stirred slowly — vendors prepared their carts, trams clattered along rails, and the scent of fresh jasmine mingled with the lingering scent of last night’s rain. For Riddhi and Arjun, this dawn was a fragile promise of new beginnings, a chance to stitch together the frayed edges of their separate lives into one shared story.
But beneath the hopeful light lay shadows — memories and doubts that clung like the monsoon humidity, threatening to unravel their fragile bond.
The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of adjustments. Arjun found himself reacquainting with the rhythms of Kolkata — the morning chaos at Sealdah station, the afternoon lull at College Street’s bookshops, the evening bustle of Park Street’s cafés. With every step, he tried to anchor himself, to find a place where his restless heart could finally settle.
Riddhi watched him with quiet affection, but her eyes held questions she was too hesitant to voice. The city she loved had shaped her — its literature, its music, its unyielding spirit — but could it now hold both of them? Could the man who once chased dreams in Delhi now build a home here, amid the tangles of heritage and expectation?
One evening, as they walked along the Hooghly riverbank, the water reflecting the shimmer of lanterns and the distant outline of the Howrah Bridge, Arjun stopped and looked at Riddhi with a weight in his eyes.
“There are things I didn’t tell you before I left,” he said quietly. “About my family. About what pulled me to Delhi… and what still holds me back.”
Riddhi waited, the cool breeze catching her scarf, the city’s noises fading around them.
“My father…” Arjun began, voice tight, “he’s ill. He didn’t want me to leave, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. But I felt I had to go — for my own future.”
She reached for his hand, steady and sure. “I’m here now. We’ll face it together.”
Yet the weight of that unspoken burden began to seep into their days. Arjun’s calls to his family grew more frequent, his mood clouded by worry. Riddhi found herself caught between supporting him and confronting her own fears — that love alone might not be enough to bridge their worlds.
At the same time, Riddhi’s own past came knocking in unexpected ways. An old friend from her college days reached out, bringing memories of choices she once made, dreams she once shelved. The juxtaposition of past and present forced her to reevaluate what she truly wanted from life — and whether the new path with Arjun could withstand those old echoes.
Kolkata, ever the city of contrasts, mirrored their journey. The colorful festivals gave way to quiet monsoon afternoons, the crowded streets to serene temple courtyards. Every corner bore witness to their struggles and small victories, every chai stall held whispered conversations about futures uncertain.
In the narrow lanes of Kumartuli, as artisans sculpted idols destined for the river, Riddhi and Arjun found moments of clarity. Watching creation from clay and devotion, they saw a metaphor for their own relationship — fragile yet capable of resilience, molded by hands willing to shape it with care.
One night, beneath the soft glow of fairy lights at a friend’s rooftop gathering, Arjun confessed his fears.
“I’m afraid,” he admitted, voice low, “that I’m not the man you thought I was — that the dreams I chased left me empty.”
Riddhi squeezed his hand. “We’re not who we were when we first met. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be better — together.”
The days that followed were marked by small but meaningful steps — shared breakfasts of luchi and aloo dum, visits to the Victoria Memorial, afternoons lost in bookstores, whispered plans for the future. They talked about careers, family, and the kind of life they wanted to build — one that honored their pasts but wasn’t trapped by them.
Yet, beneath the surface, the old shadows lingered. Moments of doubt crept in — silent silences, misread glances, questions left unasked.
Then came a day that tested their fragile truce. A letter arrived for Arjun, bearing the seal of his family. Inside, words that were not just a reminder of duty but a summons — a request to return home, to confront unresolved conflicts.
Riddhi saw the turmoil flicker across his face. She wanted to be his anchor, but feared losing him to a past that refused to stay buried.
That night, as rain drummed steadily against their windowpane, they talked — truly talked — like never before.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Arjun said. “But I can’t run forever.”
“And I don’t want to be the reason you stay where you don’t belong,” Riddhi replied, tears shining in her eyes.
They realized that love, for all its beauty, demanded sacrifices and hard choices. It wasn’t just about holding on but knowing when to let go.
In the heart of Kolkata, amidst the intertwining streets and rivers, Riddhi and Arjun faced the ultimate question: Could their love survive the old shadows that still reached for them? Could new beginnings truly blossom if the past refused to loosen its grip?
The city held its breath, waiting for their answer.
Years later, Kolkata hummed with the same vibrant energy, its streets alive with stories old and new. Riddhi’s books lined the shelves of cozy bookstores, her words capturing the city’s soul and the love that had shaped her. Arjun’s photographs adorned galleries and homes, each frame a testament to moments frozen in time — laughter, longing, reunion, and the delicate beauty of everyday life.
They had built a life together — imperfect, sometimes challenging, but deeply theirs. The city that once separated them had become the canvas on which they painted their shared dreams.
On quiet evenings, they would walk hand in hand along the Hooghly, watching the river carry lanterns downstream. In the glow of those floating lights, they saw reflections of their own journey — fragile yet enduring, fleeting yet infinite.
Kolkata was not just a backdrop to their love story. It was a living, breathing character — a city that taught them the strength to forgive, the courage to hope, and the grace to choose each other again and again.
Because some loves, like some cities, are eternal — woven into the fabric of time, unbroken by distance or doubt.
End
