Ria Mukherjee
Episode 1: The First Beat of the Dhaak
The city was already stirring with the rhythm of autumn. By late September, Kolkata had begun to smell different—air thick with the sweetness of shiuli blossoms, streets filling with bamboo scaffolds, and paints drying on vast clay structures that would soon transform into gods and goddesses. For Anirban, this season had always meant a sense of homecoming, even though he had never really left the city. Every lane seemed alive with anticipation, and every face carried a hint of secret joy. Durga Puja was not just a festival; it was a heartbeat, and this year, he was determined to hear it more closely.
Anirban worked as a photographer for a small magazine that chronicled the city’s cultural pulse. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it allowed him to be everywhere—pandal-hopping, capturing the sparkle in people’s eyes, the glow of decorative lights, the sheen of fresh paint on idol faces. He had been commissioned to cover “Puja from the perspective of the people,” and though he considered it a routine assignment, somewhere deep down he longed for this year to be different. He didn’t quite know why.
On the other side of the city, near Bagbazar, stood an ancestral house where Puja was less of a carnival and more of a legacy. Every year, Priyanka’s family hosted a traditional Durga Puja, steeped in rituals that had not changed for a century. For her, the festival was both duty and delight: coordinating with relatives, making sure guests were fed, ensuring the dhaakis were paid, keeping the aunts happy. She had grown up in the giant courtyard of that crumbling house, watching the goddess descend year after year into the heart of her family. And yet, this time, as she draped her sari for the first anjali rehearsal, she felt a restlessness that was unfamiliar. Perhaps it was because she had returned from Delhi only a few months ago, leaving behind a job that drained her, a city that had offered her little warmth. Kolkata, with its slow mornings and noisy evenings, had pulled her back like gravity.
On Panchami evening, when the dhaakis first tested their drums in the alleys, Anirban was wandering through North Kolkata with his camera. He loved this part of the city—the labyrinthine lanes, the iron balconies, the sudden glimpse of a goddess under construction. He turned a corner and stopped short. There, through a partly open gate, he saw the glow of lamps in a courtyard, and in the center, a young woman in a cream-colored sari, her hands folded in front of a half-finished idol. She wasn’t posing, she wasn’t even aware of being seen; her eyes were closed, and her face was tilted slightly upward as though she were listening to something beyond human sound. Anirban forgot the camera in his hands for a moment. Then, instinctively, he clicked.
The sound of the shutter made Priyanka open her eyes. She saw the stranger standing by the gate, camera raised, guilty expression on his face. For a second, she considered being angry. But then she noticed his awkward smile, the way he immediately lowered the camera as though apologizing without words.
“You can’t just take pictures like that,” she said, walking toward him, her voice steady but not unkind.
“I’m sorry,” Anirban replied quickly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m… I’m covering Puja for my magazine. The moment was too beautiful to miss.”
Priyanka raised an eyebrow. “So the goddess hasn’t even been dressed yet, and you find this beautiful?”
He laughed, nervous but genuine. “Sometimes beauty doesn’t wait for completion.”
The words hung between them, surprising both. Priyanka found herself softening, though she tried not to show it. “Fine. If you want to photograph our Puja, at least do it properly. Come inside during the rituals. Don’t just lurk at the gate like a thief.”
Anirban grinned, relief washing over him. “Deal. Thank you.”
As he stepped into the courtyard, the air seemed to shift. He noticed the string of fairy lights being tested above the gate, the faint echo of dhaak rehearsals from a nearby lane, the smell of incense mixing with evening dust. But more than that, he noticed her presence—calm yet charged, like the pause before music begins.
The days rolled forward. On Shashthi morning, when the goddess was unveiled, Anirban was there again, his camera catching the way the sunlight struck her face. Priyanka, moving between tasks, often found him in corners—capturing the priest’s chant, the old women whispering prayers, the children running with balloons. Sometimes she would catch him glancing at her, quickly turning away. Once, she surprised herself by smiling back.
By Saptami, the city was blazing with light. Giant pandals had opened across Kolkata, and traffic was chaos, but inside the old house, the rhythm of tradition continued. Anirban had started staying longer, even after his official work was done. He helped carry trays of fruits, fetched water for the dhaakis, even strung marigolds when someone asked. Priyanka pretended not to notice, but she did. She noticed how his laughter made the younger cousins follow him around, how he tried not to disturb the sanctity of rituals, how he sometimes caught her gaze across the courtyard.
One evening, as the dhaak thundered during the sandhya aarti, Anirban lowered his camera and just watched. Priyanka, her face lit by the flames of the arati lamp, seemed to him not just a participant but a part of the goddess herself—rooted, radiant, untouchable. The beat of the drums filled his chest, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if this was what falling in love felt like—not sudden, not loud, but steady, like a rhythm you didn’t know you had been waiting for.
After the aarti, as people dispersed, Priyanka approached him quietly. “Photographer-babu,” she teased, “did you finally stop clicking?”
He smiled. “Some moments deserve memory, not photographs.”
She looked at him for a second, searching for something she couldn’t name. Then she laughed, shaking her head. “Be careful, or you’ll end up sounding like a poet instead of a photographer.”
“Maybe Puja makes poets of us all,” he replied.
Neither noticed that the dhaak had started again, somewhere in the lane outside, beating louder, faster, as though echoing a story just beginning.
Episode 2: The Anjali of Ashtami
The morning of Ashtami arrived with the sound of conch shells piercing the sky. Kolkata seemed to wake earlier than usual, its streets alive with women in bright saris, men in crisp panjabis, and children tugging impatiently at their parents’ hands. The city’s pulse beat faster on this day—the most sacred of the festival, the day when the goddess was worshipped in her full power.
At the Bagbazar house, the courtyard had been swept, flowers arranged, and the air saturated with incense smoke. The idol of Durga, now fully dressed in red and gold, glowed with an authority that silenced even the chatter of the young cousins. Priyanka moved quickly between tasks—arranging plates for pushpanjali, making sure the bhog was prepared, whispering instructions to helpers. The sari she wore today was a deep vermilion with a gold border, her hair tied neatly, a single red hibiscus tucked above her ear.
Anirban arrived just before the anjali, camera swinging from his neck. He hesitated at the gate for a moment, watching the household bustle, before Priyanka’s eyes found him. She didn’t smile, not openly, but her glance carried a flicker of recognition that made him step inside without being told.
“Stand near the left pillar,” she murmured as he passed, her voice drowned under the chant of the priest. “You’ll get the best angle from there.”
Anirban obeyed, though he found himself distracted from his work. The fragrance of bel leaves, the chorus of “Ya devi sarvabhuteshu,” the collective folding of hands—everything came together in a harmony that made the world outside vanish. He looked through his lens, but again and again his eyes strayed toward Priyanka. She stood with her palms pressed together, eyes closed, lips moving silently with the prayer. For a moment, the courtyard light seemed to rest only on her.
When it was time to offer pushpanjali, everyone lined up in rows. Priyanka motioned for him to join, and though he tried to protest—“I’m only here to work”—she insisted. “Even photographers need blessings.”
So he stood beside her, holding a handful of bel leaves and flowers. As the priest chanted, they bent together, their foreheads almost touching the ground. Anirban, who had never been particularly religious, felt a strange surge of peace as he whispered the words after everyone else. And when he lifted his head, he found Priyanka’s eyes on him, soft and unguarded.
The rest of the morning was a whirl. Children scrambled for sweets, women laughed as they compared saris, dhaakis played their drums louder, drunk on the rhythm. Anirban moved with his camera, but more often than not, he was drawn back to Priyanka’s orbit. At one point, he saw her carrying a massive brass plate of fruits toward the kitchen, struggling under its weight. Without thinking, he rushed to help.
“You’ll drop it,” he said, taking half the load.
“I’ve been doing this since I was twelve,” she replied, amused. “But thank you.”
Their hands brushed briefly on the brass plate, and though the moment was ordinary, it left behind a charge neither spoke of.
By afternoon, the bhog was served. The aroma of khichuri, labra, and fried eggplant filled the courtyard. Guests sat in rows, eating on banana leaves, chatting noisily. Anirban, who had been offered a seat, found himself next to Priyanka again. Between spoonfuls of khichuri, they finally began to talk—not just polite exchanges, but real conversation.
“So, you’re a photographer,” she said, sprinkling salt on her food. “Is that your only job, or just the glamorous title you give yourself to impress strangers?”
He laughed. “I wish it were glamorous. I work for a cultural magazine. Half the time I’m covering book launches and obscure theatre rehearsals. Puja is the one assignment where I feel alive.”
“And the other half of the time?”
He shrugged. “I tell myself stories with pictures. Sometimes people like them, sometimes they don’t. What about you? You said you came back from Delhi?”
“Yes.” She stirred her food absentmindedly. “I worked in an advertising agency. Long hours, fake smiles, endless coffee. I thought it was freedom, but it felt like chains. After four years, I realized I was forgetting how to breathe. So I left.”
“And came back here?”
“Where else? Kolkata may be messy, slow, frustrating, but it feels real.” She looked at him suddenly. “Don’t you think?”
Anirban smiled, surprised by the intensity of her words. “I do. That’s why I never left. The city doesn’t pretend.”
For a while, they ate in silence, though it was not uncomfortable. Around them, laughter and chatter swirled, but it felt as if a small circle of quiet had formed just for the two of them.
In the evening, as the sun dipped low, the sandhya aarti began. Priyanka joined her mother near the idol, while Anirban stood with his camera, capturing the flames against the goddess’s face. At one point, Priyanka lifted the large aarti lamp, its fire casting a golden halo around her. The dhaak thundered, conch shells blew, and she moved the lamp in circles, her wrists steady, her expression serene. Through the lens, Anirban almost forgot she was human.
When it ended, the crowd erupted in applause, but Anirban stayed still, his heart beating strangely fast. Priyanka noticed him staring and tilted her head. “Did you get your picture?”
“Yes,” he said softly, lowering the camera. “But I don’t think it’s just a picture anymore.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly, though she masked it with a smile. “Careful, photographer-babu. Puja has a way of making people say things they don’t mean.”
“Or maybe,” he countered, “it makes us say things we’ve always meant, but never found the courage to.”
She looked at him then, really looked, and for a moment the world narrowed to just two people standing in a courtyard lit by lamps. Before she could reply, however, a group of cousins dragged her away to organize another round of sweets, and the spell broke.
That night, after most guests had left, Anirban lingered at the gate. The city beyond was alive with pandal lights, crowds pushing through the streets, but he felt rooted here. Priyanka came out with a tray of leftover sweets, surprised to find him still waiting.
“You should go see the pandals,” she said. “That’s what photographers do, right?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” he replied. “Tonight I’ve already seen what I wanted.”
Priyanka didn’t answer. She simply handed him a sweet, her fingers brushing his again, and walked back inside.
As Anirban bit into the syrup-soaked sondesh, the dhaak played again somewhere in the distance, and he realized that Kolkata’s heartbeat had shifted for him. It wasn’t just the festival anymore—it was her.
Episode 3: Navami Nights
By the time Navami arrived, Kolkata had transformed into a sea of lights. Strings of bulbs draped across streets, pandals glowed like palaces, and traffic had long surrendered to chaos. The city belonged to its people now—millions pouring out, shoulder to shoulder, wandering through the carnival that only Durga Puja could summon.
For Anirban, Navami was always about the night. He loved the way pandals took on a different magic under artificial light, the way strangers became companions in queues that stretched for hours, the way the dhaak beat faster, as though trying to match the restless pulse of the city. But this year, there was something different. He found himself waiting for a message, a glance, a reason to believe that his Navami night would not be like all the others.
That reason came in the form of a casual suggestion. Late afternoon, while helping arrange lamps in the Bagbazar courtyard, Priyanka had said, almost offhandedly: “You should see the Suruchi Sangha pandal this year. They’ve recreated an entire Rajasthani fort. People are lining up for hours.” Then, after a pause, she added, “If you don’t mind company, I could go with you after the aarti. I haven’t seen pandals properly in years.”
The words landed like fireworks in Anirban’s chest. He tried to appear calm, adjusting his camera strap. “Of course. Company makes pandal-hopping better. We’ll go after the rituals.”
By the time sandhya aarti ended, the house was loud with laughter, the courtyard smoky with incense. Priyanka slipped inside to change her sari, reappearing moments later in a blue-and-silver drape that shimmered under the fairy lights. She carried herself differently now—not the dutiful daughter managing guests, but a young woman stepping out into the city’s night. Anirban noticed the transformation and felt suddenly nervous, like a schoolboy on his first outing.
They stepped out together, blending into the endless stream of people. The streets were alive with vendors selling phuchka, balloons, glow sticks, and paper crowns. Children tugged at their parents’ hands, couples walked close, and groups of friends laughed loudly. It was chaos, but it was joyous chaos, and Priyanka’s eyes widened with delight.
“I’d forgotten this,” she said, pausing as a dhaaki troupe passed, their drums echoing through the air. “In Delhi, festivals are quieter. But here, it’s like the city itself is breathing with us.”
Anirban smiled, watching her rather than the crowd. “That’s why I never leave. Puja here isn’t an event—it’s a universe.”
They moved with the crowd toward Suruchi Sangha. The line was enormous, winding along the street, but neither minded. They stood side by side, sometimes silent, sometimes laughing at the street performers, sometimes sharing a packet of jhalmuri that Anirban bought from a vendor. The mustard oil and green chili stung their tongues, making them laugh harder.
Inside the pandal, the fort rose like a dream. Massive walls painted in ochre, towers lit in amber, carvings so intricate that people gasped aloud. Priyanka’s hand brushed against Anirban’s as they walked closer, and though neither pulled away, neither acknowledged it either. When they finally reached the goddess, the lights dimmed, and a soft chant filled the space. Priyanka closed her eyes in prayer, while Anirban’s gaze lingered on her profile—the curve of her face, the calm in her expression, the way she seemed both part of the crowd and entirely apart from it.
When they stepped out again, the night was deeper, the air cooler. “One pandal isn’t enough,” Priyanka said with sudden mischief. “Show me another. Something unusual.”
So Anirban led her to Kumartuli Park, where the pandal was shaped like a giant open book, each page telling a story from mythology. They wandered through its glowing pages, laughing at the creativity, marveling at the craftsmanship. Later, they went to Mohammad Ali Park, where an enormous ship floated in lights, complete with sails and cannons. Priyanka’s laughter rang through the night, and Anirban found himself grinning more than he had in months.
Hours passed unnoticed. At one point, they stopped by the Hooghly riverfront, where the crowds thinned and the lights shimmered on the water. They sat on the stone steps, the city buzzing faintly behind them. Priyanka loosened her sandals, letting her feet rest on the cool stone. “I can’t remember the last time I did this,” she said, her voice soft.
“Pandal-hopping?”
“No,” she replied. “Letting myself feel free.”
Anirban turned toward her, his camera resting on his lap. “Maybe freedom isn’t about leaving a city or a job. Maybe it’s about finding the right company to share the city with.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Priyanka didn’t answer immediately. She looked out at the water, the faint reflection of pandal lights shimmering on its surface. Then she said quietly, “You make the city look different.”
He tilted his head. “Through the camera?”
“No,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “Through yourself.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The night stretched around them, the sound of distant dhaaks floating over the river. Anirban’s chest tightened, not with nerves, but with a strange certainty—this was not chance. The city, the festival, the goddess—they had all conspired to bring him here, beside her, under this sky.
Eventually, Priyanka broke the silence with a smile. “Come on, photographer-babu. If we stay here too long, we’ll miss the food stalls.”
So they returned to the bustle, sharing plates of chowmein and chicken rolls, sipping on tiny clay cups of tea. They laughed like old friends, though they had only known each other a few days. Somewhere along College Street, a vendor selling paper crowns persuaded Priyanka to wear one, and Anirban clicked a picture—her face lit by neon lights, her laughter frozen in time. She rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.
By the time they returned to the Bagbazar house, it was past midnight. The courtyard was quiet now, the idol lit only by oil lamps. Priyanka paused at the gate, reluctant to go inside. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For reminding me that Kolkata still belongs to me.”
Anirban smiled, though his heart was beating too fast. “And thank you—for letting me see the city through your eyes.”
For a moment, it seemed they might say more. But the silence stretched, and finally Priyanka turned toward the house. Before she went in, she looked back once, her eyes lingering. Then the door closed behind her, leaving Anirban alone with the sound of the night and the faint beat of a distant dhaak.
As he walked home through the sleeping streets, he realized that this Navami had been unlike any other. The city had not just offered him light and music—it had offered him someone to walk beside. And though he didn’t yet know where this path would lead, he knew one thing: the festival was no longer just about gods and goddesses. It was about her.
Episode 4: The Red Farewell
Dashami dawned heavy with the scent of incense and an odd quiet that always seemed to descend on the last day of Puja. The air was still festive—conch shells blew, dhaaks thundered—but underneath everything was a hush, a knowledge that the goddess was preparing to leave. For Priyanka, Dashami had always been bittersweet. As a child she cried when the idol was lifted onto the truck, believing Durga would never return. As an adult, she had learned to carry that ache like everyone else, promising herself it was only farewell, not goodbye.
This year, however, the ache felt different.
From early morning, the Bagbazar courtyard was alive with relatives arriving in red-bordered saris, trays of sweets being prepared, sindoor piled high in brass plates. Priyanka wore a crisp white sari with a bright red border, her long hair left open. She had taken part in sindoor khela every year, but today, when she smeared the first streak of vermillion on her forehead, her hand trembled slightly. She couldn’t explain why.
Anirban arrived later than usual, his camera bag slung across his shoulder, his kurta simple but freshly pressed. He had photographed dozens of Dashami rituals before, but stepping into Priyanka’s courtyard felt unlike any assignment. The idol seemed to blaze brighter here, her eyes full of parting grace. But it was Priyanka, standing among women in a haze of sindoor, who caught his attention immediately.
He began clicking, documenting the laughter, the shouts, the playful chaos of sindoor khela. Women smeared red on each other’s faces, children ran about leaving streaks on walls, the dhaak rose louder to keep pace. Priyanka, her cheeks dusted crimson, caught Anirban watching and laughed. “Careful, photographer-babu. You’re in dangerous territory today. No one leaves without a red face.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m neutral. Observer only.”
But before he could step back, one of Priyanka’s cousins grabbed him. “Oh no, dada. No one escapes!” She smeared a bold streak of sindoor across his forehead, making the crowd burst into cheers. Priyanka joined in, her fingers brushing his cheek as she added her own mark, softer, deliberate. Anirban froze, the touch lingering like fire. When he looked at her, her smile faltered just slightly, as though she too felt something beyond the game.
As the rituals ended, preparations began for visarjan. The idol would be carried to the ghat, immersed in the Hooghly as drums and chants followed. Priyanka busied herself, directing helpers, but her eyes sought Anirban more than once. He was photographing, yes, but he was also watching her with a gaze that made her pulse quicken.
By late afternoon, the idol was lifted onto the truck. The courtyard filled with the cry of “Bolo Durga ma ki jai!” as people followed, their faces streaked red, their eyes glistening. Priyanka walked with the family, her sari hem brushing dust, her heart strangely heavy. Anirban walked beside her, close enough for their shoulders to almost touch.
The road to the ghat was chaos—traffic halted, crowds swelling, drums and conches echoing. Children perched on their fathers’ shoulders, women carried plates of sweets to offer one last time. The goddess, towering above on the truck, seemed both majestic and heartbreakingly human in her fragility.
At the riverbank, the air grew cooler. The Hooghly shimmered in the setting sun, boats bobbing lazily nearby. Priyanka stood near the water’s edge, her hands folded, lips moving silently. Anirban, for once, did not lift his camera. He simply watched. The moment felt too sacred for lenses, too fragile for documentation.
When the idol was finally lowered into the river, the crowd erupted in chants. Priyanka felt tears sting her eyes—not unusual, but today they carried more weight. She whispered a quiet prayer, though she wasn’t sure if it was to the goddess or to herself.
Beside her, Anirban said softly, “It feels like saying goodbye to someone you love, doesn’t it?”
She turned, startled by his words. “Yes. Exactly that.”
He hesitated, then added, “But maybe love is not about keeping. Maybe it’s about trusting they’ll return.”
For a moment, Priyanka couldn’t speak. The river roared with chants, the dhaak beat like thunder, but in her ears there was only his voice. She wanted to tell him something—anything—but her courage faltered.
As the idol disappeared beneath the water, vermillion streaking the waves, women dipped their fingers into the river and touched their foreheads. Priyanka did the same, then turned to Anirban and pressed her red-dyed fingers gently onto his cheek. “For you,” she said quietly.
He caught her hand before she could pull away. His eyes searched hers, intense, unguarded. “Then let me give you something too.”
But before he could say more, a group of cousins swept Priyanka away, dragging her toward the line of women preparing to head back. She looked over her shoulder once, their eyes locking, the unspoken words heavy between them.
The procession moved back to the house, thinner now, quieter. The goddess was gone, the rituals nearly over. Only laughter and food remained to distract from the hollow ache. But for Priyanka and Anirban, the ache was sharper, more personal.
Later that night, after guests had dispersed and the courtyard lay scattered with wilted flowers and vermillion dust, Priyanka found herself standing alone near the idol’s empty frame. She touched the wood, feeling its roughness, the absence it held. That’s when she noticed Anirban at the gate.
“You’re still here,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” he replied.
“To me, or to the goddess?”
He smiled faintly. “To both.”
They stood in silence, the night cool around them. Priyanka wanted to tell him that something had shifted, that this year’s Puja had changed her in ways she didn’t yet understand. But all she managed was: “Thank you for being here.”
Anirban stepped closer, his voice steady. “Thank you for letting me.”
Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, it seemed the distance would close—the unspoken words would finally spill into the air. But then, from inside the house, Priyanka’s name was called. She stepped back, the spell breaking.
“Goodnight, photographer-babu,” she whispered, and slipped inside.
Anirban remained in the courtyard a moment longer, staring at the empty frame of the goddess. The beat of the dhaak still echoed faintly in his chest, but it was no longer just the rhythm of Puja. It was hers.
As he walked home under the city’s dimmed lights, he realized that Dashami had given him both a farewell and a promise. Love, like the goddess, might leave—but it always returned.
Episode 5: After the Drums Fall Silent
The morning after Dashami felt unnaturally quiet. Kolkata, usually so relentless in its energy, seemed to wake with a kind of hangover. The pandals still stood, but their lights were switched off; the streets that had overflowed with people now looked bare. Leftover flower petals clung to the gutters, crumpled paper crowns lay abandoned, and the smell of burnt incense lingered faintly in the air. The city, like its people, was tired from celebration.
Anirban rose late, his body still humming with the exhaustion of the past week. For years he had lived through the rhythm of Puja as part of his work, but this time, it was different. It wasn’t just that his photographs carried new meaning—it was that his heart carried new weight. He made tea, stared at his cluttered desk, and scrolled through the images on his camera. There she was—Priyanka in the courtyard, her face lit by the fire of the aarti lamp; Priyanka in blue-and-silver, laughing with a paper crown; Priyanka with vermilion on her cheek, hand raised in farewell.
For the first time in his career, he hesitated to send the pictures to his editor. They felt too personal, too alive with something he wasn’t ready to share with the world. He saved them in a private folder, as though keeping them safe might preserve the fragile thread between them.
Meanwhile, Priyanka woke in her ancestral home to the sound of silence. Relatives had begun leaving, their bags packed, their laughter fading down the corridor. The courtyard, once alive with drums and chants, stood empty. Only the wooden frame where the idol had rested remained, its bamboo poles stacked in a corner. Priyanka touched the ground out of habit, a gesture of respect, but her heart wasn’t in it. She felt hollow, as though something had slipped from her grasp.
By afternoon, she sat on the terrace, the city stretching before her. The Hooghly glittered in the distance, but the streets below looked tired, stripped of their magic. She remembered walking through those streets with Anirban—laughing, eating, seeing the city anew. It startled her how easily he had woven himself into her days, how naturally she had let him. She told herself it was only the festival’s enchantment, a brief spark born of lights and music. And yet, when she closed her eyes, she saw his face, heard his voice, felt the warmth of his hand brushing hers.
Toward evening, Anirban found himself walking without direction. His feet carried him to Bagbazar almost unconsciously. The gate was open, but quieter now, with only a few cousins lingering. Priyanka was in the courtyard, folding away stacks of leftover decorations. She looked up when he entered, surprise flickering into something softer.
“You came,” she said simply.
“I wasn’t sure if I should,” he admitted.
She set down the flowers. “Then why did you?”
Anirban hesitated, then shrugged with a faint smile. “Because the city feels empty without this place.”
She didn’t answer at once, but her eyes softened. “It feels empty here too.”
They sat together on the steps of the courtyard, the evening gathering around them. For a while, they spoke of ordinary things—the pandal themes they liked, the photographs he had taken, the relatives she would miss. But beneath the words lay a silence that kept pressing closer, urging to be broken.
At last, Anirban said quietly, “I don’t know what happens now. Puja is over. People go back to their lives. But… I don’t want this to end.”
Priyanka looked at him, startled. She had felt the same, but hearing it aloud made her pulse quicken. “Neither do I,” she whispered.
The honesty hung between them, fragile but real. She wanted to say more, but footsteps interrupted—an aunt calling her name, asking for help with the kitchen. Priyanka stood reluctantly. “Stay for dinner,” she said, her voice softer than the bustle around them.
That night, Anirban sat cross-legged on the floor with her family, eating rice and fish curry, listening to stories about ancestors, laughing when teased about being “the photographer boy who doesn’t leave.” Priyanka watched from across the room, her heart tightening. She had never introduced a stranger into this circle before, yet he didn’t feel like a stranger at all.
When he finally left, it was late. At the gate, she walked him out. The street was quiet, only a few lamps burning.
“Thank you,” he said, not just for the dinner but for the unspoken warmth.
She smiled faintly. “Thank you—for not letting Puja end all at once.”
He wanted to reach for her hand, to anchor the moment, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she echoed, and the word felt like a promise.
The following days were different. The festival had ended, but Anirban and Priyanka continued to meet. Sometimes he came to the house under the pretext of showing her photographs; sometimes they wandered the quieter lanes of North Kolkata, drinking tea at roadside stalls, sharing stories about their past.
Priyanka told him about her years in Delhi—the long hours, the loneliness, the way the city made her feel invisible. Anirban told her about his parents, about his choice to stay in Kolkata when everyone else seemed desperate to leave. They discovered small things in common: a love for old Bengali songs, a weakness for mishti doi, a stubborn loyalty to the city despite its flaws.
One evening, while walking near College Street, they stopped at an old bookshop. Priyanka ran her fingers across the dusty spines. “I used to come here as a student,” she said. “I thought books would always be my escape.”
“Did they stop being your escape?” Anirban asked.
“They stopped being enough,” she admitted. “I wanted life to feel like a story, not just read like one.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and said quietly, “Maybe this is the story.”
The words made her blush, but she didn’t turn away. Instead, she picked up an old Tagore collection and placed it in his hands. “Then read this one with me sometime. Stories deserve company.”
As October slid into cooler evenings, the city moved on. But for Anirban and Priyanka, something had begun that didn’t fit into the calendar of festivals. They were tentative, careful, unsure of labels—but there was no denying the pull. Sometimes it was in the way she teased him about being too serious with his camera. Sometimes it was in the way he lingered after saying goodbye, as though reluctant to leave. Sometimes it was in the silence that needed no words.
One night, standing on the Howrah Bridge, looking at the Hooghly lit by scattered boats, Priyanka said softly, “You know, for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m just passing through. I feel like I’m home.”
Anirban turned to her, the wind tugging at their clothes. “That’s all I ever wanted—for you to stay.”
She didn’t reply with words. She just let her hand slip into his, and for once, neither of them let go.
Episode 6: Shadows Between the Lights
The days after Puja slipped into a strange in-between season. The city returned to its routine—traffic jams, office hours, the grind of life—but traces of the festival still lingered. Banners flapped tiredly in the breeze, half-dismantled pandals stood like skeletons, and the faint smell of incense clung to street corners. For Anirban and Priyanka, this time was delicate. Their connection had outlived the festival, but now it had to find a place in ordinary days.
Anirban noticed the shift first. Priyanka still met him often, still laughed at his jokes, still walked the city’s lanes with him. Yet, there were moments when her eyes clouded, when her voice grew distant. Once, while they were having tea at a stall near Hatibagan, she stared at the passing crowd and sighed.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head quickly. “Nothing. Just… the festival made everything so bright. Now that it’s gone, I’m worried the glow will fade.”
“The glow doesn’t fade,” he replied, reaching for her hand across the chipped table. “Not if we keep it alive.”
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
At her family’s house, the tension was more obvious. The relatives who had stayed back whispered in corners, casting glances at her whenever Anirban visited. One evening, as she was setting out cups of tea for them, her aunt leaned closer.
“Who is this photographer boy who comes so often? Do you really think this is proper?”
Priyanka stiffened. “He’s a friend. Nothing more.”
Her aunt raised an eyebrow. “Friends don’t come every day. People will talk, Priya. We have to think about your future.”
The words stung more than she expected. She wanted to retort, to defend what was growing between her and Anirban, but she swallowed her reply. Later that night, she stood on the terrace, looking out at the city lights, wondering if love always came with an audience.
Anirban sensed the distance when they met next. They walked along the Hooghly, the evening breeze ruffling the water. Priyanka was quieter than usual, her sari pallu pulled tight against the wind.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said.
She hesitated, then sighed. “My family… they don’t understand. They think you and I—it’s not… proper.”
“Because I’m a photographer with no stable salary?” he asked bitterly.
“No,” she said quickly. “It’s not just that. They want me to settle down, get married in the way they think is right. They think you’re—” She broke off.
“Temporary,” Anirban finished for her.
She didn’t deny it. Instead, she turned to him with pleading eyes. “I don’t care what they think. But I don’t know how to fight it either.”
He looked out at the water, the lights shimmering like scattered stars. “I don’t want to be a fight for you. I want to be… something simpler.”
“There’s nothing simple about us,” she whispered.
For a long moment, they stood in silence. The dhaak was gone, the chants had faded, and all that remained was the murmur of the river.
The following week was harder. Priyanka became busier with family obligations—cousins leaving, household duties, preparations for Lakshmi Puja. She still answered Anirban’s calls, still met him when she could, but something restrained her. Anirban, meanwhile, poured himself into work, covering a theatre premiere and a book fair. Yet, even in crowded auditoriums, his mind drifted to her.
One evening, frustrated, he developed a set of photographs he had been avoiding. The Dashami pictures—her hand pressing vermillion on his cheek, her eyes lit by firelight, her laughter blurred by movement. He stared at them, heart aching. These weren’t just images; they were fragments of something real. But how real could it be if it faltered under scrutiny?
He decided he couldn’t let silence answer that question.
On a Sunday afternoon, he showed up at her house with a folder of prints. Priyanka met him at the gate, surprised.
“What are you doing here?”
“Showing you something,” he said simply.
They sat in the courtyard, the winter sun slanting through the old trees. He laid out the photographs one by one. Priyanka gasped softly as she saw herself—smiling, praying, laughing, her face painted with vermillion.
“These are beautiful,” she whispered.
“They’re not just pictures,” Anirban said. “They’re proof. Proof that what we had during Puja wasn’t just the festival’s magic. It’s us.”
She looked at him, her throat tightening. “And what if the world refuses to see it?”
“Then let the world be blind,” he replied firmly. “Do you see it?”
Her eyes glistened. “Yes. I see it.”
For a moment, the heaviness between them lifted. She reached across the photographs and took his hand. The courtyard seemed to exhale, the silence softer now.
That evening, however, reality struck again. A proposal arrived—an old family acquaintance suggesting a match for Priyanka. Her mother brought it up gently at dinner. “He works in Bangalore. Well-settled, good family. It’s worth considering.”
Priyanka’s stomach clenched. “Ma, please. Not now.”
Her mother’s eyes lingered. “I know your heart is elsewhere. But think carefully, Priya. Life doesn’t run on festivals and feelings alone.”
Priyanka excused herself from the table, her hands trembling. She wanted to scream that life also didn’t run on compromises, that she had finally found someone who made her feel alive. But fear kept her silent.
On the terrace later, she texted Anirban: Meet me tomorrow. Same place by the river.
His reply came almost instantly: I’ll be there.
The next evening, they stood again by the Hooghly. The air was cooler, the lights brighter against the water. Priyanka looked at him with tired eyes.
“My family wants me to meet someone,” she said.
Anirban’s jaw tightened. “And what do you want?”
“I want you,” she whispered, voice breaking. “But I don’t know if that will be enough.”
He took her hands, gripping them tightly. “It has to be enough. If you want me, then nothing else matters. We’ll find a way.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she nodded. In that moment, she chose not to think of family whispers or societal expectations. She chose the warmth of his hands, the certainty in his eyes, the echo of drums that still beat somewhere inside her chest.
The river flowed steadily beside them, carrying away doubts, carrying away fear. And though the festival was over, something had begun that no season could end.
Episode 7: Between Two Worlds
The tension thickened in the Bagbazar house as autumn tilted toward winter. Lakshmi Puja had passed quietly, but the whispers hadn’t stopped. Every evening, when lamps were lit and relatives gathered in the courtyard, Priyanka could feel their eyes on her—measuring, questioning, waiting.
One night, after dinner, her father called her into the study. The room smelled of old books and sandalwood, its shelves lined with fading volumes. He sat in his wooden chair, spectacles balanced on his nose.
“Priya,” he began gently, “your mother and I have been hearing things. About a young man visiting often.”
Her pulse quickened. “He’s a friend,” she said.
Her father adjusted his glasses. “Perhaps. But others see more than friendship. They talk. You know how quickly talk becomes reputation.”
Priyanka clenched her fists. “Why must my life be bound by what others say?”
“Because we live not alone but in society,” he replied, his voice firm. “Your choices ripple beyond yourself. We only want what’s best for you.”
She wanted to scream that she knew what was best, that she had finally found it. But the words tangled in her throat. She nodded instead, retreating from the study with her heart heavy.
The next day, she told Anirban everything as they walked along Shobhabazar’s narrow lanes. The sun was sharp, casting long shadows across the crumbling houses.
“They want me to consider proposals again,” she said bitterly. “They don’t believe in us.”
Anirban stopped, his hand brushing hers. “Then let me prove it to them. Let me meet them properly. Not as a stranger at the gate, but as someone who wants to be part of your life.”
Priyanka stared at him, startled. “You’d do that?”
“Why not?” he asked simply. “I have nothing to hide. I may not be rich, but I am honest. If they can’t respect that, at least they’ll know my intentions.”
Her throat tightened. She wanted to believe him, to let his certainty wash away her doubts. “It won’t be easy,” she whispered.
“Nothing worth keeping ever is,” he said.
A week later, Anirban arrived at the Bagbazar house not with his camera, but in a crisp kurta, hair combed neatly, carrying a box of sweets. Priyanka’s cousins snickered, her aunts whispered, but her father invited him into the drawing room.
The conversation began politely—questions about his family, his work, his future. Anirban answered with steady honesty. “I’m a photographer. I may not earn like a corporate man, but I build stories that last longer than salaries. I have no great wealth to promise, only commitment.”
Her mother frowned. “Commitment is noble, but what about stability? A daughter’s life cannot rest on dreams.”
Anirban met her gaze. “Dreams feed stability. Without them, life is just survival.”
The room grew tense. Priyanka, sitting nearby, felt her heart pounding. She feared the worst, but at the same time, she admired his courage. No one had spoken to her family like this before—with respect, but without fear.
When he left, her father said little, only: “We will think about it.”
That night, Priyanka found Anirban waiting at the corner tea stall, sipping from a clay cup.
“I might have ruined everything,” he said, half-smiling.
“You didn’t,” she whispered. “You gave them something to think about.”
But thinking often breeds resistance. The days that followed were harder. Her mother grew colder, her aunts louder. “He isn’t suitable,” they insisted. “He’s an outsider. His world is not ours.”
Priyanka felt torn, pulled between the comfort of family and the truth of her heart. She found herself restless at night, standing at the terrace with the city spread below, wondering if love could survive such weight.
One evening, while she stood there, Anirban called. His voice was steady, though she could hear the strain.
“Meet me tomorrow. Not at the river, not at your house. Somewhere that belongs to neither world. We need space to decide.”
She agreed.
They met at Indian Coffee House, the old haunt on College Street. The room was smoky, loud with debates, but it gave them the anonymity they needed. They sat in a corner booth, steaming cups before them.
“I won’t lie,” Anirban said. “I feel like your family will never accept me.”
Priyanka’s chest tightened. “Maybe they won’t. But does that mean we stop?”
He leaned forward. “No. But it means we choose. Love isn’t just stolen moments. It’s standing together even when the world frowns.”
She looked at him, her eyes burning. “And if I fail? If I can’t carry that weight?”
“Then I’ll carry it for both of us,” he said quietly.
The words pierced her, fragile and fierce at once. She reached across the table, gripping his hand. For a moment, the noise of the café faded, and all that remained was their shared silence, their unspoken vow.
But life doesn’t pause for vows. A few days later, her father told her plainly: “If you choose him, you choose against us.”
The ultimatum struck like lightning. Priyanka spent the night pacing her room, torn between duty and desire. The old walls of her house pressed in, suffocating her. She thought of her ancestors, of tradition, of the goddess who had just departed. And then she thought of Anirban—his steady gaze, his stubborn hope, his hand in hers.
At dawn, she stepped onto the terrace, the city washed in pale light. The dhaak was long gone, but in her chest, the rhythm still beat. She whispered to herself: “I can’t lose him.”
That evening, she met Anirban by the river again. Her eyes were tired, but her voice was firm.
“My father has given me a choice,” she said. “Him or you.”
Anirban’s face darkened. “That’s no choice at all.”
“I know.” She took his hands, her grip desperate. “But I can’t let go of either. I love you, Anirban. But they are my family. My roots. I’m afraid if I choose, I’ll lose half of myself.”
He looked at her, torn between anger and tenderness. Then he said slowly, “Maybe love isn’t about choosing halves. Maybe it’s about creating a new whole.”
Her eyes blurred with tears. “Can we?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “If we’re brave enough.”
As the sun set over the Hooghly, the water shimmered gold, and for a moment, the city seemed to hold its breath. Between two worlds, they chose each other—not with certainty, but with courage.
Episode 8: The First Storm
Kolkata’s winter crept in slowly, carried by cool mornings and mist curling over the Hooghly. The city smelled different now—of roasted peanuts, woolen shawls, and early fog. For Anirban and Priyanka, this season was supposed to be a new beginning, but instead, it arrived like a test.
It started with a chance encounter. One Sunday afternoon, while walking together down Park Street after a photography exhibition, they ran into an old acquaintance of Priyanka’s—Rohit, the son of her father’s friend. He was tall, well-dressed, and carried the air of someone who belonged in boardrooms. His eyes lit up when he saw Priyanka.
“Priya! After so long,” he exclaimed. “I heard you came back from Delhi. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Priyanka forced a polite smile. “Life has been… busy.”
Anirban stood slightly apart, waiting for her to introduce him. She didn’t. Not immediately. Instead, she exchanged a few pleasantries with Rohit before finally saying, “This is Anirban, a friend.”
The word stung. Friend. Not partner. Not anything more.
Rohit shook his hand politely but dismissively. “Oh, a photographer. Interesting. You know, Priya, my company’s expanding in Bangalore. We should catch up sometime, talk about opportunities. You deserve better than this small city.”
Priyanka smiled faintly but didn’t answer. Anirban’s jaw tightened, though he kept silent. When Rohit finally left, the air between them felt heavy.
“Why didn’t you introduce me properly?” Anirban asked as they walked again.
Priyanka’s steps faltered. “Because I didn’t want a scene. He’s connected to my father’s circle. One wrong word and it spreads everywhere.”
“Am I a secret then?” His voice was sharp.
“No!” she said quickly. “But sometimes silence is safer than explanations.”
They didn’t speak much after that.
The silence grew in the following days. Anirban threw himself into work, photographing winter festivals, covering a film screening. Priyanka was busy too, helping her family with preparations for a wedding in their extended clan. Yet underneath everything, the tension lingered.
One evening, as they sat at their usual tea stall, Anirban finally spoke.
“I don’t want to be just a friend in your world.”
Priyanka stirred her tea. “You aren’t.”
“Then why does it feel like it?”
She looked up, her eyes tired. “Because my world doesn’t make space easily. You think it’s just about us, but it’s also about expectations, about people who believe they own my choices. Every step feels like walking through a minefield.”
“And you think I’m not ready to walk with you through it?”
Her voice softened. “I think I’m afraid you’ll get tired of fighting.”
Anirban reached across, covering her hand with his. “I won’t. Not if it’s for you.”
Her eyes glistened, but before she could answer, her phone buzzed. A message from her mother: Come home early. Guests are visiting.
She sighed, slipping the phone back. “I have to go.”
And just like that, the moment dissolved.
The storm broke a week later. Priyanka’s family hosted a dinner for close acquaintances. Among the guests was Rohit again, seated comfortably, speaking with charm. Anirban had not been invited, but Priyanka thought of him constantly through the evening.
At one point, her father praised Rohit openly. “A fine young man, successful, responsible. The kind of person who makes a family proud.”
The implication was clear. Priyanka excused herself, retreating to the terrace, her chest burning. She texted Anirban: I can’t breathe here.
Minutes later, he called. His voice was calm but steady. “Then step out. Come meet me. Right now.”
She hesitated, glancing back at the lit windows below. Then she grabbed her shawl and slipped out through the side gate.
They met at a quiet lane near the river. Priyanka’s cheeks were flushed with cold and fury.
“They paraded him like a trophy,” she said bitterly. “As if my life is theirs to auction.”
Anirban listened, his fists clenched. “You don’t have to let them decide.”
“But what if I disappoint them?” she whispered.
“What about disappointing yourself?” he countered.
Her breath caught. The truth of it cut deep. She looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t know how to choose without breaking something.”
“Then let’s build something new,” he said firmly. “Together.”
The days that followed were raw. Priyanka began pulling away from family obligations, spending more time with Anirban. They walked the Maidan under foggy skies, drank endless cups of coffee at College Street, watched the tramlines glow in the mist. With him, she felt alive, unchained. Yet at night, when she returned to her ancestral home, the weight of silence pressed down harder.
Her mother noticed. “You’re drifting, Priya,” she said one evening. “This isn’t the daughter I raised.”
Priyanka looked at her, voice trembling but steady. “Maybe this is the daughter you never allowed me to be.”
The words shocked even herself. She left the room before her mother could respond.
One afternoon, Anirban showed her a new project he was planning—a photo series on “Kolkata After Puja,” capturing the city’s quiet transformation once the festival was gone.
“It’s about emptiness,” he explained. “But also resilience. How the city rebuilds itself every year.”
Priyanka flipped through his shots—the abandoned pandal frames, children playing cricket on empty grounds, women drying saris on bamboo poles where gods had once stood. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “Like hope after loss.”
He smiled. “That’s what we are too. Hope after fear.”
She looked at him, her heart swelling. For a moment, the storm receded.
But storms don’t end easily. One evening, while walking her back from the tram stop, they ran into her father. He had been returning from a meeting and froze at the sight of them together.
“Priya,” he said coldly, “come home. Now.”
The silence was brutal. Anirban straightened. “Good evening, sir.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”
Priyanka’s throat tightened. “Baba, please—”
“Enough,” he snapped. “This ends now.”
For a second, the street seemed to spin. Priyanka’s heart pounded, torn between defiance and fear. Anirban touched her arm gently. “Go,” he said quietly. “We’ll talk later.”
She went, but her eyes lingered on him until distance swallowed them both.
That night, she cried silently in her room. For the first time, she wondered if love alone could survive such storms.
But somewhere deep inside, she also knew: storms test what is fragile, but they also prove what is unbreakable.
And in her chest, beneath the ache, the drums still beat.
Episode 9: The Silence of Separation
The days after the confrontation passed like a blur. Priyanka’s father spoke little to her, but his silence was heavier than anger. Her mother busied herself with household tasks, avoiding Priyanka’s eyes. Relatives who remained in the house lowered their voices when she entered. The once-vibrant courtyard, which only weeks ago had pulsed with dhaak and laughter, now felt like a courtroom where every glance was a judgment.
Priyanka bore it outwardly, moving through her routines with mechanical precision, but inside, she was unraveling. She missed Anirban desperately, but for the first time she hesitated to reach out. Her father’s words—This ends now—echoed in her head, and the guilt of defiance weighed heavy.
Anirban, too, retreated. He stopped visiting the house, stopped calling as often. He didn’t want to drag her into daily battles with her family. Instead, he poured his energy into work, photographing winter fairs, capturing portraits of street performers near Sealdah. But even behind the camera, his mind wandered to her—the way she tilted her head when she laughed, the fire in her eyes when she stood against the tide. He missed not just her presence but the version of himself that only existed when she was near.
One evening, Priyanka broke. She walked to the river alone, her shawl wrapped tightly, the fog curling low over the water. Sitting on the stone steps, she texted him: I can’t keep breathing in silence.
He arrived within minutes, as if he had been waiting nearby all along. When she saw him, her chest loosened, and for the first time in days she allowed herself to cry.
“They’ve built walls around me,” she whispered. “And I don’t know how to break them without shattering everything.”
Anirban sat beside her, his eyes fixed on the river. “Maybe walls aren’t meant to be broken. Maybe they’re meant to be climbed. Slowly. Together.”
She looked at him, tears streaking her face. “But you’ve been so quiet. I thought—”
“I’ve been quiet,” he interrupted gently, “because I wanted to give you space. But not because I’m letting go. I could never let go.”
Her sobs softened into silence. The fog wrapped around them like a fragile blanket, the river lapping steadily. For a moment, the world was reduced to two people refusing to surrender.
The following days became a secret rhythm. They couldn’t meet at her house anymore, so they carved out small spaces of freedom. Coffee shops tucked into alleyways, long tram rides where no one noticed them, afternoon walks in the Maidan when the fog was thick enough to hide them. These meetings were brief, fragile, but they kept them alive.
One afternoon, as they sat beneath a massive banyan tree in the Botanical Gardens, Anirban turned to her. “Do you ever think we’re living in borrowed time?”
Priyanka frowned. “What do you mean?”
He sighed. “Like the city gave us Puja as a gift, a season to fall in love. But now that the lights are gone, we’re clinging to shadows.”
She shook her head fiercely. “No. This isn’t shadows. This is real. If it weren’t, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”
Her conviction steadied him. He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Then promise me one thing. Whatever happens, don’t let them convince you that love is weakness.”
“I promise,” she said, her voice breaking but strong.
Back at home, the pressure mounted. One evening, her mother confronted her directly.
“Priya, I saw you today. Don’t deny it. You were with him.”
Priyanka’s heart raced, but she lifted her chin. “Yes. I was.”
Her mother’s face hardened. “This will destroy us. Your father’s reputation, our family’s name. People will laugh. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Priyanka said softly. “But I also don’t want to destroy myself.”
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “You think love will feed you? Protect you when times are hard? Life is cruel, Priya. Sentiment cannot shield you.”
Priyanka’s voice wavered, but she held steady. “Maybe not. But living without it is not life either.”
Her mother turned away, weeping silently. Priyanka left the room, her own eyes burning. For the first time, she felt the full cost of her choices—not just for herself, but for everyone bound to her.
Anirban, too, faced his share of battles. His editor hinted that his obsession with one subject—his endless photographs of Priyanka and her world—was unprofessional. “Art is one thing, Anirban, but journalism demands distance,” the man warned.
Anirban only smiled faintly. “Sometimes the truth is closer than distance allows.”
Still, the remark stung. He wondered if he was risking his career for something uncertain. But every time doubt crept in, he remembered Priyanka’s hand in his, her whispered promise by the river. That was enough.
On the last Sunday of November, they met again by the Hooghly. The air was cold, the river mist heavy. Priyanka brought a thermos of tea, and they sat side by side, sipping in silence.
“I can’t keep hiding forever,” she said finally.
“Then don’t,” Anirban replied.
Her eyes widened. “You mean—”
“Let’s stop waiting for their permission,” he said firmly. “Let’s decide for ourselves. If that means they reject us, then we’ll build our own world. If that means starting small, struggling, so be it. I’d rather struggle with you than live easily without you.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Do you really mean that?”
He nodded. “Every word.”
She leaned against him, the thermos warm in her hands, the river steady before them. For the first time in weeks, she felt a glimmer of peace.
But peace never lasts long.
That night, when Priyanka returned home, her father was waiting in the courtyard. His face was grave, his voice low.
“I know where you were,” he said. “And I cannot allow this any longer. If you continue, you will no longer be welcome in this house.”
The words hit like a thunderclap. Priyanka stood frozen, the walls of her childhood pressing in. Her heart raced, but somewhere in the storm, a strange clarity began to form.
She whispered, almost to herself: “Then maybe I will have to leave.”
Her father stared at her, stunned. Priyanka walked past him into the house, her hands trembling, her chest tight—but for the first time, she felt like she was choosing her own breath.
That night, she sent Anirban a single message: The storm is here. But I’m ready.
And on his rooftop, staring at the fog-bound city, Anirban whispered to the night: “So am I.”
Episode 10: A City Witnesses
December arrived with its crisp mornings and golden afternoons, and Kolkata wrapped itself in sweaters and scarves. The mist hung low over the Hooghly, and the dhaak of Durga Puja was now a memory, tucked away with the idols and pandals. But for Priyanka and Anirban, the drums still beat, steady and defiant, somewhere inside them.
Priyanka’s father had drawn the line: her love or her home. The ultimatum had weighed on her for days, but each time she thought of surrender, Anirban’s words echoed—I’d rather struggle with you than live easily without you. And in the silence of her ancestral house, she realized that silence itself was a kind of death.
On a Friday evening, as the sky turned violet over Bagbazar, she packed a small bag. Not much—just a few saris, a book of poems, and her mother’s silver bangle. Her hands trembled as she folded each item, but her resolve was firm. She wasn’t running away from family; she was walking toward herself.
Her mother found her at the door. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then her mother whispered, “If you leave now, don’t expect the door to be open when you return.”
Priyanka’s eyes glistened. “I know, Ma. But if I don’t leave now, I may never return to myself.”
Her mother’s tears fell silently, but she didn’t stop her. Perhaps she saw in her daughter the same fire that once burned in her own heart.
Anirban was waiting near College Street, at the corner where tramlines split. He carried nothing but his camera bag, as though all he owned was a way to capture the world. When he saw Priyanka approaching, her bag slung over her shoulder, his throat tightened.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
She nodded. “I can’t live in two halves anymore.”
He reached for her bag, taking it without a word, as if the weight was now his too. Together, they walked into the night.
They had no grand plan, only the stubbornness of love. For the first few days, Priyanka stayed in a small guesthouse in North Kolkata, while Anirban helped her search for something more permanent. They ate at roadside stalls, drank endless cups of tea, and laughed at the absurdity of it all—two people starting a life with nothing but borrowed time and unshaken belief.
Yet doubt crept in. One evening, sitting in the dim guesthouse room, Priyanka whispered, “Did I make a mistake?”
Anirban looked at her steadily. “Love is never a mistake. The world may treat it like one, but we know the truth.”
She leaned into him, his words anchoring her.
News spread quickly. Her father refused to speak to her; her mother’s messages grew fewer, shorter. Relatives called her reckless, selfish. Even some of Anirban’s colleagues whispered that he had entangled himself in scandal. But amid the noise, there was also quiet support—an old cousin who sent a message, “Live your life, Priya,” and a friend who slipped her money with a smile, saying, “For your new beginning.”
Kolkata itself seemed to hold them in its arms. The streets that had first witnessed their love now became their sanctuary. They found joy in the simplest things—sharing a plate of steaming momos near Gariahat, watching the tram crawl past Esplanade, standing at the riverfront as the city lights shimmered like stars. Each corner carried memory, each lane whispered encouragement.
In January, Anirban’s photo series—After the Drums—was exhibited in a small gallery. Priyanka went with him, nervous yet proud. The photographs showed Kolkata after Puja: empty pandals, quiet ghats, children playing where gods once stood. But among them were hidden frames—her laughing with vermillion on her cheeks, her holding a clay lamp, her walking under neon pandal lights.
Visitors paused at those images. “Who is she?” someone asked.
Anirban smiled faintly. “She’s the reason the city glows even when the lights go out.”
Priyanka’s eyes filled with tears. For the first time, she felt their love was not hidden but celebrated.
That night, as they walked back across Howrah Bridge, the city stretched before them in endless lights. The river glistened below, carrying reflections like scattered jewels. Priyanka stopped mid-bridge, the wind tangling her hair.
“This city,” she whispered. “It gave me everything and took everything too. But tonight, it feels like it’s ours.”
Anirban took her hand. “It always was. We just had to claim it.”
They stood there, two small figures against the immensity of Kolkata, yet in that moment, the city seemed to belong entirely to them.
In the weeks that followed, life did not suddenly become easy. There were struggles—finding a stable place to live, adjusting to financial constraints, enduring the disapproval of family. But through it all, they discovered resilience. Each morning Priyanka woke beside Anirban, each evening they shared a simple meal, she felt a wholeness she had never known before.
One evening in late February, as spring began to hint in the air, they returned to Bagbazar ghat. The same place where they had once prayed, once cried, once promised. The river moved steadily, unbothered by human turmoil. Priyanka lit a small diya and set it afloat.
“Durga will come again,” she said softly. “And when she does, I want her to see us still here. Still standing.”
Anirban slipped an arm around her. “Then we’ll wait for her together.”
The diya drifted away, its tiny flame flickering against the vast water.
Months later, on a quiet evening, Priyanka received a letter from her mother. The handwriting was shaky, but the words were clear: You are still my daughter. Come home when you are ready. Bring him with you.
Tears blurred her vision. She showed the letter to Anirban, who read it silently, then smiled. “Maybe the walls are learning to bend.”
Priyanka pressed the paper to her chest. For the first time since leaving, she felt the possibility of reconciliation—not as surrender, but as recognition.
As the next autumn approached, the city began preparing again. Bamboo scaffolds rose, clay idols took shape, and the scent of shiuli blossoms returned to the air. For Anirban and Priyanka, it wasn’t just another Puja. It was proof. Proof that love had outlived the drums, survived the silence, and carved a place for itself in a city that had both resisted and embraced them.
On the evening of Mahalaya, as the radio played Chandipath across Kolkata, they stood on their balcony, watching the first lights flicker in the distance. Priyanka turned to him, her face glowing in the lamplight.
“Last year, Puja gave me you,” she said. “This year, it gives me us.”
Anirban kissed her forehead, the rhythm of distant dhaaks echoing faintly in the night. “And every year after, it will remind us that love is not a festival. It’s forever.”
The city pulsed with lights and drums once more, but this time, it wasn’t just a season. It was their story—etched in vermillion, carried by the river, guarded by the goddess herself.
