Anwesha Roy
Chapter 1 – When the Lights Went Out
The night air of Kolkata was heavy with humidity, a restless monsoon evening when the clouds hung low over the city and the streets carried the smell of wet tram tracks, diesel, and frying telebhaja from small roadside stalls. Riddhi walked briskly, her umbrella folded and damp at her side, a canvas tote bag stuffed with manuscripts brushing her hip at each step. She had spent the entire afternoon at College Street, haggling with secondhand sellers for rare copies of novels long out of print, and then at her publishing office on Mirza Ghalib Street where deadlines pressed on her shoulders like invisible stones. Now she just wanted to cross the Howrah Bridge and catch the train that would take her home across the river. But Kolkata had its own plans that night. Halfway across the vast iron ribs of the bridge, the city plunged into darkness. For a moment there was only the river’s muted roar beneath, the sound of honking horns muted into confusion, and the surprised cries of pedestrians. The suddenness of the power cut left her momentarily frozen, the yellow sodium lamps lining the span of the bridge going out one by one like vanishing stars. The city skyline dimmed into silhouette, the Hooghly below swallowing what little light the sky allowed. Lanterns and handheld torches began appearing like fireflies. It was then she noticed him. A tall man, his figure outlined faintly in the glow of a vendor’s hurricane lamp, a tanpura case slung across his shoulder. His white kurta was simple but immaculate, his hair tied neatly, his posture almost too still against the moving current of the crowd. He seemed unbothered by the blackout, as though silence and shadow belonged to him. Riddhi hesitated before moving closer, drawn less by curiosity than by the comfort of another calm presence in the chaos. The first words rose awkwardly from her throat. “Strange how the bridge looks even more alive without its lights, don’t you think?” He turned, eyes glinting faintly, and for a moment she thought he might not answer. Then, softly, he said, “Alive, yes. Like a stage before the first note is sung.” His voice carried the weight of music in it, low but steady, as if tuned to an inner rhythm. They stood side by side, strangers sharing darkness. Riddhi balanced her bag carefully, trying to appear unflustered though she felt something shift around her, some tiny click as if destiny had turned a hidden lock. “Stage? You’re a performer?” she asked, her tone light but eager. He smiled slightly, looking out over the water. “A singer. Classical. Tonight was supposed to be rehearsal at my guru’s house, but the rains delayed me. Now the city adds its own interruption.” She nodded, pressing the damp spine of an old book against her palm inside her bag. “I’m an editor. Books are my rehearsal and my performance, all rolled into one. When the lights went out, I was halfway home. Now I suppose we’re all stuck until the current returns.” Silence stretched again, but it was a companionable silence. They leaned against the railing, the iron cool under their hands. The river carried faint reflections of lanterns from distant boats. A man selling tea passed by with a kettle balanced on his arm, calling out, and Riddhi bought two clay cups. She offered him one without asking, and he accepted with a nod of gratitude. Steam curled upward, briefly illuminating his face. Strong features, gentle eyes, the weariness of someone who had already sung a thousand songs and still carried more within. “I’m Abeer,” he said at last, voice barely louder than the rain’s whisper beginning again above them. “Riddhi,” she replied. She liked how her name sounded in his mouth, as though softened by music. “Abeer,” she repeated, testing it. He chuckled. “And you? Do you only edit words, or do you write them too?” She shook her head, her hair falling loose against her cheeks in the damp wind. “I prefer to rescue forgotten words. Lost letters, old manuscripts, the things people stop caring about. That’s my kind of romance.” “Romance,” he echoed, looking at the bridge’s massive beams towering into darkness. “Songs too are letters, but written in air. They vanish if nobody remembers them.” Something in his words lingered, settling in her chest like a secret. She felt suddenly the weight of the city around them—the trams halted in silence, the pandals waiting for electricity to return, the invisible millions holding their breath in the blackout. And yet here, in this small circle of shadow and tea steam, it felt like only the two of them existed. The power did not return quickly. Vendors lit more lamps, headlights crept slowly through the jam of vehicles, the occasional whistle of a constable cut through the night. Riddhi and Abeer remained by the railing, talking about songs she had grown up hearing her grandmother hum, about letters she once found in her grandfather’s drawer, sepia-stained and trembling with emotion. He spoke of raga Yaman, of the patience a singer must have to draw out a note until it holds its own universe. She confessed how editing sometimes felt like breathing life into dead pages. The more they spoke, the more it seemed they were not introducing themselves but remembering each other from some earlier page in time. When the lights finally flickered back, flooding the bridge in harsh yellow glow, they both blinked as if waking from a dream. The crowd surged forward, impatient, returning to schedules and destinations. Riddhi adjusted her bag, Abeer lifted his tanpura case, and for a moment it seemed this fragile connection would vanish as easily as it had appeared. She hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you often cross the bridge this late?” He looked at her, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Not often. But perhaps now I should.” They walked together to the end of the span, parting with only a nod and a lingering glance. Riddhi felt the night still humming in her chest as she boarded her train. Somewhere in the city, in a room with open windows and the smell of wet earth, she imagined Abeer placing his tanpura upright, preparing to sing into the waiting dark. And though she had known him barely an hour, the bridge already felt different—less iron and bolts, more promise and memory.
Chapter 2 – Songs Between Shadows
The following evening, as the city slowly recovered from the sudden blackout, Riddhi found herself restless. She had gone through manuscripts with her usual rigor, circling passages in red pencil, marking clumsy sentences, but her mind wandered back to the bridge, to the stranger with a singer’s voice who had turned a darkened night into something luminous. Abeer. The name hummed in her mind like a drone string, quiet but steady. She had not meant to remember him so vividly—the faint smile, the way steam had haloed around his face when he held the cup of tea, the soft certainty in his words. And yet she could not help it. The city had a way of throwing people together and then scattering them into its endless alleys; perhaps she would never see him again. But memory was a trickster, it liked to replay moments like ragas repeating refrains. That night, unable to resist, she walked the same route again. The bridge loomed with its heavy iron ribs, the river glinting faintly below, the traffic a steady growl. This time the lights blazed steadily, but she still felt the echo of that darkness, the intimacy it had created. She lingered by the railing, pretending to admire the view. Minutes passed, perhaps more. Disappointment had just begun to settle when she heard a low hum rising above the honks and chatter. A note, drawn out with patience, expanding into the air. She turned. Abeer stood a little distance away, tanpura case slung across his shoulder, his head slightly tilted as if testing the city’s silence against his own sound. She smiled despite herself, stepping closer. “Practicing on the bridge now?” He opened his eyes, that same glint of amusement flickering. “The bridge has better acoustics than most rehearsal rooms,” he replied, his tone playful but laced with truth. “Besides, I thought perhaps lightning might strike twice.” She raised an eyebrow. “Lightning?” “Chance,” he clarified, “the kind that only happens once unless the universe insists on repeating itself.” The words made her laugh, a soft unguarded sound that mingled with the traffic. They leaned on the railing once again, the city whirling around them, but between them lay a quiet pocket of calm. Abeer began to hum again, this time more steadily, weaving the outline of a raga she recognized though she could not name it. “Yaman?” she ventured, unsure. His eyes widened slightly. “You know it?” “Not well. My grandmother used to sing it in the evenings when she watered the tulsi plant. I remember because the notes would drift out into the courtyard and the neighbors would hush their children until she finished. Later I asked what it was, and she told me the name. It stayed.” “Music that stays,” he said softly, “is never lost. It waits inside people like you.” The words struck her, stirring something fragile. She looked out at the river, its surface broken by slow ferries carrying passengers across. For a long moment they simply listened—the city’s noises, the faint whistle of a train in the distance, the endless drone of the river below. Then she asked, almost shyly, “Do you sing professionally? Or only at these invisible concerts by the Hooghly?” He chuckled. “I perform at festivals, at conferences. Mostly small circles of people who still care about classical music. But my guru says the real performance is in keeping the tradition alive, not in applause. Sometimes I wonder if he is right.” “And what do you want?” He paused, considering. “I want my songs to travel beyond the circle. To touch someone who doesn’t know the difference between Yaman and Bhairav, yet feels something stir. Isn’t that the point of any art?” She nodded. “That is the point of books too. You don’t read because you know; you read because you feel.” Their eyes met, and she thought again of the strange familiarity between them, as if the bridge itself had introduced them, as if some old letter written by fate had finally reached its destination. When rain began to drizzle, they ducked under a half-lit stall selling roasted peanuts. The vendor fanned his coals, red sparks rising like fireflies, and the two of them shared a paper cone of salted kernels. Between bites, Abeer told her about growing up in a household of strict practice schedules, about his father who had never understood why anyone would choose art over security, about his mother who still believed he would come to his senses and join the family business. “They still think singing is a hobby,” he said wryly, “something to do after real work is done. Sometimes I think they’ll never see it as anything else.” “And yet you sing,” she said. “And yet you edit manuscripts that may never sell,” he countered, smiling faintly. “We’re both stubborn.” She laughed again, brushing peanut shells from her palm. By the time the drizzle passed, the paper cone was empty, and the air smelled of wet earth mixed with smoke. They returned to the railing, the bridge buzzing with the life of a city that never really slept. She told him about her work at the small publishing house, about the endless effort to preserve rare Bengali novels that would otherwise vanish into dust, about the letters she sometimes discovered tucked between old bindings, faded ink carrying voices long gone. “Letters,” he murmured, “are like songs on paper. Someone speaks, not knowing who will listen. And one day, unexpectedly, someone does.” The thought hung between them, shimmering like the lantern light. Riddhi felt her heart turn toward him with a slow inevitability, like the river curving around a bend it had followed for centuries. When the hour grew late, they parted reluctantly, promising nothing, yet carrying something unspoken. As Riddhi walked toward her train, she realized she was smiling at nothing, her reflection in the dark window strangely luminous. Abeer, on his side, crossed the bridge humming softly, the tune rising into the damp air as if to follow her. Neither said it aloud, but both knew: lightning had indeed struck twice.
Chapter 3 – College Street Rain
The next week unfurled in slow spirals of work and waiting. Riddhi buried herself in manuscripts, pages smelling of damp paper and ink that bled at the edges from careless storage. Yet every margin she marked, every sentence she polished, carried the aftertaste of a voice that had lingered on a bridge in darkness. Sometimes she would catch herself humming fragments of Yaman without realizing, her pen tapping lightly in rhythm. At night, she listened to the radio, hoping to stumble upon his voice though she knew it was unlikely. Kolkata’s streets were crowded with singers, but few had the calm conviction Abeer carried in his tone. She told herself it was foolish to expect another meeting; the city was vast, their lives separate. And yet destiny had its own sly choreography.
It was an afternoon swollen with rain when she ducked into College Street again, her umbrella useless against the sheets pouring down. The sky had turned almost black, thunder cracking above the corrugated tin roofs of the bookstalls. Sellers scrambled to cover their stacks with plastic sheets, shouting to one another, while the lanes turned into quick streams carrying leaflets and scraps of old newspapers. Riddhi found herself pressed under the awning of a stall, clutching a book to her chest to keep it dry. And there, as if conjured from the storm, stood Abeer. His kurta clung damply to his shoulders, his hair darker with rain, but his eyes carried that same composed light. For a heartbeat they only stared, disbelieving, then smiled in tandem as though they had been expecting this all along.
“You again,” she said, brushing rain from her arm.
“Me again,” he replied. “Perhaps the universe is fond of clichés—rain, books, and chance encounters.”
“Clichés endure because they work,” she shot back, laughing despite the chill.
The vendor grumbled about wet notes, but they managed to buy two steaming earthen cups of chai from a boy threading through the crowd. The tea was sweet and scalding, warming her fingers. They huddled closer to the stall, the space so narrow their shoulders touched. The contact felt both accidental and deliberate, an intimacy born of crowded lanes and heavy rain.
“What are you hunting for today?” he asked, nodding at the book in her hand.
“An out-of-print edition of Sarat Chandra’s letters. I’ve been chasing it for months. I almost had it, but the stall keeper says some professor bought it last week.”
“You’ll find another,” he said. “Words wait for their readers. Perhaps not today, but soon.”
“And you? Do you come here for books too?”
“Sometimes. Lyrics, poetry, old notations. But mostly, I come for the sound. Have you ever noticed? The way these lanes breathe—pages rustling, hawkers shouting prices, rain drumming on tarpaulin—it all creates a kind of rhythm. Even chaos sings.”
She studied him, struck by the way he transformed ordinary noise into music. For her, books had always been the secret heartbeat of the city; for him, sound itself was the pulse. They were speaking of the same soul through different senses.
When the rain refused to relent, they made a dash across the puddled street and slipped into the Indian Coffee House. The walls were stained with decades of smoke and arguments, waiters in turbans glided past with brass trays, and the ceiling fans creaked tirelessly above. They found a table by the window, where drops slid lazily down the glass. Riddhi ordered fish cutlets; Abeer, black coffee. Conversation spilled easily, weaving between books and songs, their childhood memories of summer afternoons, the stubbornness of Kolkata in refusing to modernize completely. She confessed she often feared being invisible in a world obsessed with quick fame. He admitted he felt the same each time he sang to a half-empty hall. They laughed at their mirrored anxieties, sharing cutlets until only crumbs remained.
“Sometimes I think,” she said slowly, stirring sugar into her cup, “that the city wants to hide things just so it can surprise you. Like letters lost in trunks. Or people lost in crowds.”
“And when you find them?” he asked.
“You hold on,” she whispered, not meeting his eyes.
Something shifted then, silent but undeniable. His gaze lingered, hers dropped to the table, and the air between them thickened with unsaid words. Outside, the rain had softened to a mist, the streets glistening like polished glass. When they stepped out, tram tracks shone silver under streetlamps. He walked her to the tram stop, insisting despite her protests. The city moved slowly, drenched, but around them time seemed measured only by the rhythm of their footsteps.
When the tram finally arrived with its bell clanging, she climbed aboard, her hand brushing his as she held the railing. For a moment she wanted to stay, to abandon manuscripts and deadlines, to follow wherever his songs would carry him. Instead she said softly, “Next time, you choose the meeting place.”
He smiled, stepping back as the tram lurched forward. “Next time,” he promised. His figure blurred in the mist, then vanished into the city’s wet glow.
Riddhi sat by the window, droplets streaking the glass, her heart heavy yet light, confused yet certain. The tram rattled through the soaked avenues, carrying her away, but she felt as though some invisible tether bound her still to the man with music in his voice and rain in his hair. The city had chosen to conspire again. And deep down she knew this was no accident—this was the beginning of something that would refuse to remain just a passing encounter.
Chapter 4 – The Tram to Nowhere
The tram clattered forward, wooden benches trembling under the weight of decades, metal wheels grinding against rusted tracks that curved through the city’s bones. For Riddhi, it had always been just another way to commute, an echo from her childhood when her father took her to school in the rattling cars. But today the tram was different, because Abeer was beside her. He had insisted they meet again, not at a coffee house or bookshop this time, but on a tram ride with no particular destination. “Sometimes,” he had said over the phone in that calm voice of his, “you have to go nowhere to find yourself.” And so she had agreed, curious, amused, a little nervous.
They boarded at Esplanade, choosing a half-empty car with paint peeling from the ceiling, where sunlight filtered through grimy windows and carved dusty shapes on the floor. The tram jolted to life, its bell clanging with stubborn cheer, and slowly they began to glide past Chowringhee Road, past old colonial facades stained with soot, past hawkers balancing baskets of guavas and fried luchis. Riddhi sat by the window, tote bag on her lap, while Abeer set his tanpura case carefully between them as if it were a third passenger.
“You’re smiling,” she teased as the tram shuddered.
“Because the city moves slowly for once,” he said. “Here, even traffic surrenders. You notice the world in pieces—an old man reading Anandabazar, a child chasing a balloon, a woman drying saris on a balcony. It’s all a rhythm.”
“You and your rhythms,” she laughed. “One day you’ll start composing music out of tram bells.”
“Already have,” he said with mock seriousness, tapping the wooden seat like a tabla. “But it needs your words.”
She rolled her eyes but felt the warmth of his compliment. For a while they rode in silence, listening to the creaks and groans of the tram, the conductor’s calls, the occasional whiff of frying oil wafting from the streets. Abeer leaned back, his voice softer now. “Do you ever feel the city is a character in our lives? Not just a backdrop, but someone alive—temperamental, generous, cruel at times?”
“All the time,” she said quickly. “I fight with it every day, then forgive it the moment I see Howrah Bridge glowing at sunset. Kolkata is like… a difficult lover you can’t leave.”
“Perhaps that’s why we met here,” he mused. “Only such a city could make strangers into companions in a single blackout.”
The tram veered into North Kolkata, the lanes narrowing, colonial houses leaning precariously, paint flaking from shuttered windows. They passed Shyambazar’s statue of Netaji, rain puddles reflecting the iron horse at its base. She found herself telling him about her childhood in a small flat near Maniktala, about afternoons spent on rooftops drying papads with her mother, about her father’s stories of the bridge during the war years. He listened intently, not interrupting, his gaze fixed on her as though each detail mattered. When she faltered, embarrassed at saying too much, he offered his own memory—singing his first raga before an audience of skeptical uncles, his voice trembling until his guru touched his shoulder and whispered, “Sing for the river, not for them.”
They laughed together, the intimacy growing heavier yet easier. When the tram stopped briefly to let schoolchildren hop off, he pulled from his bag a folded sheet of paper. “This is something I’ve been working on,” he said shyly. It was a song, half-finished, notes scrawled in uneven lines. At the margin he had written: for the one who rescues forgotten words. Her breath caught. He handed it over casually, but she knew it was not casual at all. She read the lines, simple yet resonant, about bridges and shadows and letters carried by wind. It felt like her own heart translated into melody. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “But it’s unfinished.”
“Maybe you’ll finish it,” he said, eyes glinting. “In words, not notes.”
The tram lurched again, throwing them slightly against each other, and neither moved away. The conductor rang his bell, children shrieked outside, but between them silence swelled, filled with unspoken recognition.
By the time the tram reached its final stop, the sun had begun to fall, casting a copper glow over the city’s tangled wires and domes. They stepped off reluctantly, neither wanting to end the ride. “That was your nowhere,” she said softly. “And yet it felt like everywhere.”
“Exactly,” he replied. “Sometimes nowhere carries us closer than any destination.”
They walked together to the crossing, where the air smelled of fried muri and damp earth. Riddhi felt the evening press gently around her, and for the first time in years, she did not feel alone in the city. The tram clanged back down the tracks, vanishing into the distance, but its echoes remained with them—like a rhythm only they could hear, like a promise waiting to be completed.
Chapter 5 – Durga Puja Nights
The city transformed as October drew near, as though every lane had been waiting all year just for these days of thunderous drums and shimmering lights. From Kumartuli’s workshops where clay goddesses emerged with eyes painted at dawn, to the crowded pandals in North Kolkata, everything pulsed with anticipation. For Riddhi, Durga Puja had always meant late nights with friends, endless plates of phuchka, and the aching feet that came after hours of pandal-hopping. But this year, it was different, because Abeer was beside her.
They began their evening at Shobhabazar Rajbari, where the aristocratic courtyard glowed with oil lamps and incense smoke coiled upward into the night sky. Dhaakis drummed in rising crescendos, the goddess looked fierce and tender at once, and Riddhi felt the rhythm enter her bloodstream. Abeer stood close, his eyes fixed not just on the deity but on the people who swayed, clapped, sang under their breath. “Every Puja is a performance,” he whispered, leaning toward her. “But the audience and the performers are the same.”
They drifted with the crowd into the street, laughter bubbling from them as easily as breath. The air was thick with roasted corn, jalebis sizzling in hot oil, balloons bouncing against elbows. They bought plates of biryani from a vendor, eating with plastic spoons while leaning against the railings of a half-lit alley. When she teased him about dropping a piece of chicken on his kurta, he retaliated by stealing a spoonful from her plate. For a moment they were children again, unburdened by work or family, just two souls stitched into the city’s festival fabric.
Later, at Maddox Square, the lights dazzled in geometric designs that hung over the field like celestial chandeliers. Couples and families wandered in throngs, and the dhaak beats grew wilder as midnight approached. Abeer, pulled toward a temporary stage, was coaxed by a group of acquaintances to sing. At first he hesitated, but their insistence was stronger than his reluctance. He glanced at Riddhi, almost asking permission, and she nodded, smiling. Then he stepped up.
When his voice rose into the night, the crowd hushed in ripples. It was a Rabindra Sangeet, a song of the river and its eternal flow, familiar yet renewed in his rendering. Riddhi stood among strangers but felt every word land inside her chest as if meant only for her. The fairground lights seemed dim against the brightness of his singing. Children stopped crying, vendors paused mid-call, even the wind seemed to listen. She knew then, with a certainty that frightened and exhilarated her, that she was no longer merely curious about this man—she was falling.
When he returned, flushed from the attention, she greeted him with quiet pride. “You didn’t tell me you could silence an entire ground.”
“It isn’t me,” he said, still catching his breath. “It’s the song. I’m just a vessel.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, “but not every vessel shines like this.”
They walked again, the night deepening. Firecrackers burst above rooftops, colored smoke drifting into the humid air. Children spun sparklers in circles, couples leaned against barricades whispering. The city felt infinite, every lane a world of its own, every idol a universe. They found themselves on a quieter stretch by a small neighborhood pandal, where the goddess’s face glowed gently in the light of earthen lamps. Here, away from the crowds, they spoke in softer tones.
Abeer confessed the constant pressure of his family. “They want me married soon, within our own community. They speak of business alliances, stability, honor. They think music cannot build a future, only a reputation, and reputation fades.”
“And what do you want?” Riddhi asked, though her heart already dreaded the answer.
“I want to sing,” he said firmly. “I want to love, too. But sometimes I fear the two may not walk together.”
She felt her chest tighten, but she did not let the silence swallow them. “Tradition is heavy,” she said, “but so are bridges. And still they stand.” He looked at her then with something raw, a gratitude mingled with pain, as though he wanted to believe her but could not yet allow himself.
The drums rose again from the main street, pulling them back to the crowd. They let themselves be swept into the final arati of the night, conch shells blowing, flames circling before the goddess, the sky above them alive with sound. Riddhi closed her eyes and prayed without words, only with the thud of her heart: let this last, let the bridge between them not break under the weight of expectations.
When they parted at dawn, the city pale and exhausted, he pressed her hand once before letting go. The warmth lingered long after he disappeared into the dispersing crowd. Riddhi stood at the tram stop, feet aching, clothes smelling of smoke and flowers, and realized this Puja would never be like the others. It had inscribed something permanent in her life, something she could neither name nor undo.
Chapter 6 – The Family’s Shadow
The invitation came almost casually, dropped into conversation while they stood outside Coffee House one late afternoon, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the din of students debating politics. “Come to my house for tea tomorrow,” Abeer said, adjusting the strap of his tanpura case. “My mother keeps asking about the editor friend who saves old books. I told her you exist.” Riddhi laughed at his phrasing but inside felt a flutter, equal parts thrill and dread. Meeting someone’s family was not casual, not in this city, not in this culture. It carried weight, even if disguised as hospitality. She agreed anyway, curiosity outweighing fear.
The next day she found herself standing before a large, old house in South Kolkata, its paint faded, its balconies shaded by potted plants drooping in the heat. The gate creaked as she entered, and already she could hear voices drifting from inside—clipped, formal, carrying the unmistakable tone of people accustomed to opinions. A servant led her to the drawing room, where Abeer’s mother sat in a starched white sari, silver hair pulled into a neat bun. Beside her, an uncle read the newspaper with exaggerated rustling. A cousin hovered near the door, phone in hand, eyes sharp with curiosity.
Abeer greeted her warmly, guiding her to a seat, but the room’s air was heavier than incense. She smiled, offered polite words, complimented the décor—a mix of antique teak furniture and newer, mismatched additions. His mother nodded politely but her eyes were measuring, searching. Tea arrived in porcelain cups, accompanied by plates of shingaras and nimki. The conversation began with surface niceties, but soon his mother leaned forward.
“So you are an editor?” she asked, tone smooth but edged.
“Yes,” Riddhi said, steadying her voice. “I work with a small publishing house that focuses on Bengali literature.”
His mother inclined her head. “Respectable, of course. Though it must not be… secure. These are uncertain times for books, are they not? Print is dying, I keep hearing.”
“It is not easy,” Riddhi admitted, “but preserving words feels important enough to make the struggle worthwhile.”
His mother’s lips pressed into something that was not quite a smile. “You are passionate, I see.”
The uncle lowered his newspaper. “And your family, where are they from?”
“Maniktala,” Riddhi replied. “We’ve lived there for generations.”
“Ah,” he said, as though the geography carried an entire story, one he approved of only halfway.
The cousin chimed in, eyes flicking toward Abeer. “Dada always brings home… interesting friends. You seem different from his usual circle.”
Riddhi sensed the undercurrent immediately. They were not merely curious—they were assessing, probing, placing her on invisible scales. She felt her back stiffen, her smile tighten.
Abeer tried to steer the talk toward safer waters—his upcoming performance, the state of the monsoon, even cricket scores—but the weight of tradition sat firmly in the room. His mother finally said it outright, though cloaked in gentleness. “Abeer is at an age when he must think seriously of marriage. We have begun to consider suitable matches. Families known to us, within our community, where values are shared.”
The words struck like a hidden blade. Riddhi managed to sip her tea without spilling, but her heart thudded painfully. She glanced at Abeer, who looked down at his plate, fingers tightening on the rim. He did not interrupt his mother. That silence hurt more than the words.
When she left, Abeer walked her to the gate. Neither spoke until they reached the quiet lane. She finally turned to him, voice sharper than she intended. “Why did you invite me if this is what they think of me?”
“I wanted you to see my world,” he said softly. “Even if it isn’t kind.”
“You said nothing.”
“What could I say? To defy them in that moment would have been to humiliate them. But silence does not mean agreement, Riddhi.”
She studied him, torn between anger and sorrow. The boy who sang to rivers, who spoke of bridges and letters, had become suddenly small under his family’s gaze. She realized how heavy tradition pressed on him, how entangled duty and love could become. And yet part of her wished he had been braver.
“I don’t want to be a secret guest in your life,” she whispered.
“You aren’t,” he insisted, his eyes searching hers. “You are the song I haven’t yet found the courage to sing aloud. But I will.”
She wanted to believe him. The night air was thick with jasmine from a roadside vendor, the city humming around them with evening crowds. He reached for her hand briefly, squeezing it, before letting go as footsteps approached. They parted at the crossing, the promise hanging fragile in the humid air.
Back in her room, she opened a half-edited manuscript but could not focus. The lines blurred into thoughts of his silence, his mother’s words, the weight of centuries pressing against a fragile beginning. She wrote a note on a blank sheet instead: Do songs survive if they are never sung? Folding it carefully, she placed it inside a book she knew she would carry to College Street. Some part of her hoped he would find it, the way he always seemed to find her.
Chapter 7 – Letters Across the River
Riddhi avoided him for days, not out of anger alone but from the need to protect herself from the confusion his silence had left behind. She had walked into his house with hope, had left with a weight she could not name, and in the nights that followed she kept hearing his mother’s careful words and the unspoken approval they demanded. Still, she could not cut him away from her thoughts; he had become like a refrain she could not unhear. One evening, restless and unable to sleep, she found herself wandering into College Street again. The stalls were closing, shutters rattling down, but the old bookseller she often visited lingered at his table, lantern casting a weak glow across stacks of dusty novels. She bought nothing, only slipped a folded note into the pages of a battered poetry collection and asked him to keep it aside. If Abeer came—as she somehow believed he would—he would find it.
The letter was brief, written in the hurried scrawl of someone afraid to say too much: Songs need air, letters need readers. What we cannot speak, perhaps the city will carry between us. —R. She walked home with the odd sensation of having set something free, like tossing a paper boat into rainwater and not knowing if it would float or sink.
Two days later, when she returned to the stall, the seller handed her a sheet of music paper folded into quarters. She knew immediately who it was from. Abeer’s handwriting was more fluid, curved like the lines of a raga. He had written: Not all silence is surrender. Sometimes it is the breath before the note begins. —A. Beneath the words lay fragments of notation, half a song waiting to be born. She traced the symbols with her fingertip, her throat tightening.
And so began their strange correspondence. She left letters folded inside books of poetry, he slipped responses written on the margins of musical scores. Sometimes she would find a message tucked into an edition of Tagore’s essays; sometimes he would choose the cover of an old Baul song collection. Each exchange was small, but they built a fragile bridge across the silence his family had imposed.
Her words grew bolder: Does the river carry what we cannot? Or does it drown them? His replies were gentle, steady: The river listens. It carries, it never erases. She asked him once why he continued if he was bound by his family’s expectations. His answer came on a slip of paper smudged with ink: Because to stop would be to kill something alive inside me. And that, I cannot do.
Kolkata’s monsoon returned in full force, streets flooding knee-deep, trams stalled in sheets of water. On such evenings she sat by her window, the city blurred into grey rain, rereading his letters until they were nearly memorized. Each word felt like a secret spoken only to her. She imagined him across the river, pen in hand, his tanpura leaning against the wall, the same rain falling outside his window. The thought comforted her more than any certainty could have.
Yet beneath the sweetness of their letters ran an undercurrent of unease. Every time she folded one and left it behind, she feared it would be the last. Every time she read his careful assurances, she wondered if he was trying to convince her or himself. Tradition, family, expectation—they were shadows that lingered behind every line. And still, she kept writing.
One night she wrote: We are like two lamps on opposite banks. The river glitters between us, but will the light ever touch? She left the note inside a book of forgotten short stories. Days later, his reply came tucked into a volume of poetry: The bridge exists to bring light together. Trust it, even when you cannot see the span.
Her eyes burned when she read it. Howrah Bridge had become their metaphor, their meeting ground even when they were apart. She thought of that first night of blackout, the way his voice had turned the darkness into stage light. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the bridge itself was holding them, even as the river threatened to sweep their promises away.
On another evening, unable to resist, she walked to the bridge after a long day. The sky was purple with dusk, the lamps flickering awake, cars crawling across. She leaned against the railing, watching the river swell with rain. She half-expected him to appear, though she had told herself she wouldn’t. And then, as if the city listened, he was there—suddenly at her side, his hair damp, his eyes searching. They did not speak, not immediately. He only slipped a folded sheet into her palm, his fingers brushing hers briefly.
Later, in her room, she opened it. His handwriting trembled slightly, but the words were clear: When I am silent in front of them, it is not because I do not love you. It is because my love has not yet learned how to shout. But it is here, Riddhi. Every letter I write is proof. She pressed the note to her chest, her eyes closing.
For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to believe again. The letters were fragile, the river wide, the family’s shadow heavy, but the bridge was still there, waiting. She whispered into the night as if he could hear her across the city: “Do not stop writing.”
And she knew he wouldn’t.
Chapter 8 – Confrontation on the Bridge
The river had turned violent that evening, swollen with days of rain, its waves slapping against the stone embankments as though the Hooghly itself was restless. The bridge, usually a place of comfort for Riddhi, felt heavier than usual, its steel arches groaning under the endless stream of cars and trams. She stood at the railing, her umbrella trembling against the wind, her heart pounding with the decision she had avoided for too long. She had written enough letters, received enough replies wrapped in poetry and song, but none of them had answered the question gnawing inside her: what future did they truly have? And so she had written one last note, short and sharp, and asked him to meet her here.
When Abeer arrived, soaked from the drizzle, his tanpura case strapped firmly on his back, she felt her chest twist with both relief and anger. He looked tired, more worn than she had ever seen him, as if the weeks of quiet rebellion against his family had eroded some of his certainty. Yet his eyes lit up the moment they found her, and that hurt her most—because she knew what she was about to demand would dim them.
“Riddhi,” he began softly, but she raised a hand. “No. Tonight you listen.” The wind whipped her hair across her face, and she pushed it back impatiently. “I can’t keep meeting you in stolen moments, can’t keep reading letters that hide between pages as if we are children playing a game. I love words, Abeer, but love is not enough when it’s only written. I need to know—are you with me, or are you with them?”
His face tightened, raindrops glistening on his forehead. “You think I haven’t asked myself that every night? You think it’s easy to sit at their table, hear their plans for me, and not shout your name? But if I shout, Riddhi, I shatter them. They built their lives on expectation, on reputation. To them, I am a pillar. If I break away, the house falls.”
She gripped the railing, her knuckles white. “And what about me? Am I to wait forever while you balance love against duty? Do you not see you’re already breaking me?” Her voice cracked, but she refused to lower it. Around them, horns blared, rain hammered, yet the bridge seemed to hold its breath.
Abeer stepped closer, desperation edging his tone. “I love you. That’s the only truth I know. But I’m terrified, Riddhi. Terrified that if I choose you, I’ll lose them; and if I choose them, I’ll lose myself. Tell me how to carry both without drowning.”
Her eyes burned. “Love is not a riddle to solve. It is a choice. And you keep refusing to make it.” She turned away, staring at the river below, its current surging in furious waves. “We began here, on this bridge, when the lights went out. And it felt like fate. But tonight I wonder if it was just a trick of the dark, a dream too fragile to survive daylight.”
He reached for her hand, but she pulled it back. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Not unless you’re ready to hold it in front of them too.” The challenge hung between them, heavier than the storm.
For a long moment he said nothing, only stood drenched, his silence deeper than words. Then, with a voice barely audible, he said, “I am not as brave as you deserve.”
The confession cut through her like cold steel. She nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Then this is where we stop.”
The words nearly broke her, but once spoken, they rang with a cruel clarity. She turned, walking away into the rain, her steps heavy yet determined. Behind her, she did not hear him follow. The bridge stretched endlessly ahead, lamps glowing like distant stars blurred by water, and every clang of the tram bell felt like a nail sealing something shut.
By the time she reached the far end, her tears had merged with the rain. She looked back once, barely able to see him through the blur, still standing there against the railing, a lone figure with music strapped to his back, unable to move. The river raged below, carrying the echoes of everything they could not say.
That night, in her room, she opened his past letters and spread them across her desk. Ink smudged under her wet fingers as she traced the lines that once felt like lifelines. Now they seemed like fragments of a promise that had never been fully spoken. She gathered them into a bundle, tied them with a piece of string, and placed them inside her cupboard. Not to throw away—she was not yet ready for that—but to bury for now, like seeds unsure if they would ever grow.
Outside, the storm continued, thunder shaking the city, power flickering in nervous spasms. She lay awake long past midnight, the sound of rain a cruel echo of that first night when they had met. Back then, the darkness had given her hope. Tonight, it only pressed heavier against her chest.
Still, even in her grief, she knew one truth: if their love was to survive, it could not remain hidden in shadows. It would have to burn in the open, or else it would die on the bridge where it had been born.
Chapter 9 – The Song That Broke the Silence
Weeks passed without a word between them. Kolkata moved on, as cities always do, its lanes crowded with festival leftovers, its mornings fogged by winter’s slow arrival. Riddhi buried herself in manuscripts, long nights hunched over proofs with only the hiss of the kettle for company. She told herself the ache would dull if she drowned it in work, but every time a singer’s voice drifted from the radio, her chest tightened. She avoided the bridge, avoided College Street, avoided every corner where memory might ambush her. Yet absence has its own rhythm, and silence, though it aches, often prepares the stage for what refuses to stay buried.
It was her colleague who first mentioned the concert at Rabindra Sadan. “You must come,” he urged, dropping a pamphlet on her desk. “Young voices of Bengal—our Abeer Mukhopadhyay is opening the evening. Brilliant talent, you’ll like him.” The name froze her hand mid-mark. She almost said no, almost pushed the pamphlet aside, but some stubborn part of her heart refused to let silence dictate anymore. That evening, she found herself among the crowd filing into the hall, her seat hidden in the middle rows where she could disappear if she wished.
The stage glowed beneath soft lights, musicians arranging instruments, the murmur of anticipation rising like a tide. Then Abeer walked out, clad in cream kurta and shawl, his tanpura glinting faintly. The audience clapped politely, but Riddhi sat rigid, her breath shallow, every nerve awake. He bowed to his guru seated near the wings, adjusted the drone, and for a moment, silence reigned. Then his voice rose.
It was not a raga this time, nor a traditional invocation. It was Rabindranath’s Amaro Porano Jaha Chay—a love song sung countless times, yet in his voice it trembled with raw confession. The opening lines stretched across the hall like fragile silk, every note soaked with longing. Riddhi felt her chest cave; it was their song, the one he had hummed on the bridge when the city went dark. And then, midway, his voice steadied into a bold declaration: “This song I dedicate… to the one who believes in forgotten letters.”
The hall gasped softly at the personal confession, but his eyes, though sweeping the audience, found hers. She shrank into her seat, tears blurring her vision, but there was no mistaking it—this was no generic dedication. This was him, finally shouting her name without saying it.
The audience listened spellbound, his voice weaving grief and hope into a single thread. When he finished, the applause thundered, echoing through the hall, but Riddhi barely heard it. She sat trembling, every nerve raw, the walls of silence they had built crumbling around her. For weeks she had doubted, resented, buried her heart; in a few minutes of song he had broken it open again.
After the concert, she slipped out quietly, unwilling to face the crush of admirers. The streets outside were alive with yellow taxis and food vendors, the night crisp with winter’s promise. She walked aimlessly, her thoughts chaotic. He had chosen, at least with his art. He had stood in front of hundreds and named her, even if only through metaphor. But what did it mean outside the stage? Could he carry that defiance home? Could a song sung in public withstand the scrutiny of family in private?
The next morning she awoke with the music still echoing in her chest. She replayed the dedication again and again, clinging to it like a lifeline. Yet with the sweetness came fear—what if it was only possible in song, not in life? What if courage faded once the applause died?
That evening, as she walked home from work, she found a letter waiting in her mailbox. No name, but she knew the handwriting instantly. Inside was a single line: I have begun to sing aloud. Meet me again, where we first found light in the dark.
Her hands shook. The bridge. Of course it had to be the bridge.
For hours she debated, pacing her small room. Part of her wanted to go, to run, to fling herself back into the rhythm they once shared. Another part feared being disappointed once again. But as the night deepened, the pull grew unbearable. Near midnight, she found herself walking through the chill air, scarf wrapped tightly, the city quiet around her.
Howrah Bridge loomed ahead, its steel ribs glowing pale under lamps, the river beneath shimmering like ink. She stepped onto the walkway, heart hammering, searching. And then she saw him. Abeer stood near the middle span, his tanpura absent, his hands empty for once, but his face alight with something she had never seen before—resolve.
He turned as she approached, his breath visible in the cold air. “You came,” he said simply.
“You called,” she answered, her voice shaking.
For a moment they only looked at each other, the city roaring faintly around them, the river restless below. Then he spoke, firm and unhesitating. “I sang last night because I realized silence is cowardice. If I can bare my soul to strangers, I must bare it to those who claim to love me. I cannot promise the road will be easy, Riddhi. My family will resist. They may call me ungrateful, reckless. But I promise you this—I will not hide you again. Not in shadows, not in letters. If they cannot accept, then I will sing louder until they do.”
Her throat tightened, tears stinging her eyes. “And if they never accept?” she whispered.
“Then at least I will have lived true. I would rather lose honor in their eyes than lose you in mine.”
The words washed over her like music, fierce and unrelenting. For the first time since that awful night in his drawing room, she believed he had chosen. Not with hesitation, but with fire. She stepped closer, their hands brushing, then holding. The steel of the bridge hummed faintly under the passing trucks, but between their palms there was only warmth.
Above them, the lamps burned steady. Below, the river surged on. And in the heart of the city, two voices finally found the same note.
Chapter 10 – The Promise of the Bridge
Dawn spread slowly across Kolkata, a thin pink light brushing the domes and rooftops, softening the scars of the night. The bridge was quieter than usual at this hour, only the occasional tram rattling past, a few vendors setting up their stalls with sleepy yawns, the river below carrying the hush of morning tides. Riddhi and Abeer stood together near the railing, fingers intertwined, watching the Hooghly shimmer as if the city itself had exhaled. After the weeks of silence, after the storm of confrontation, this stillness felt like reprieve, like a pause before life’s next unfolding.
“I told them,” Abeer said, his voice rough from lack of sleep but steady. “Last night, after the concert. I told them there is someone I love, and that she is not of their choosing but of mine. My mother cried. My father said nothing, only folded his paper harder. My uncle muttered about disgrace. But I did not bend, Riddhi. For the first time, I did not bend.”
Her breath caught, a swell of pride and fear mingling inside her. “And what now?”
“Now we wait. They will fight, but so will I. I am not the boy who hid behind silence anymore. You gave me the courage to sing, not just on stage but in my own home.”
She looked at him then, the rising sun casting gold on his face, and she realized this was the man she had been waiting for—not the hesitant singer bound by duty, but the one who had chosen love even at the cost of breaking. Her heart ached with both tenderness and apprehension. “I don’t want you to lose them because of me.”
He shook his head firmly. “If they cannot accept the truth of my heart, then it is not you who takes them from me. It is their own fear. And I will not live a life shaped by fear.”
A tram clanged past, its bell echoing across the span, children peering out from its windows with wide eyes. The sound seemed to bless their moment, as though the city itself bore witness. Riddhi squeezed his hand, her voice trembling. “Do you promise, Abeer? That no matter what storms come, you won’t let go?”
“I promise,” he said, with a clarity that rang louder than the river. “This bridge carries millions every day, bearing weight without collapse. Our love will be the same—heavy with expectation, yes, but unbreakable. I will hold you, Riddhi, as the bridge holds this city.”
Her tears slipped silently down her cheeks, not of sorrow but of release. She rested her head against his shoulder, and together they watched the city stir awake—the chai sellers lighting stoves, office-goers hurrying with files, birds wheeling above the steel arches. Life resumed, ordinary and relentless, but for them the morning was extraordinary, a threshold crossed.
Later, they walked slowly off the bridge, still hand in hand. Near Mullick Ghat flower market, where heaps of marigolds spilled golden on the ground, he paused, bought a single garland, and draped it around her wrist. She laughed at the gesture, embarrassed by its public boldness, but her heart glowed at the symbolism. For once, he did not hide. Passersby glanced, some smiled, but he only looked at her with quiet defiance, as though daring the world to deny them.
The days that followed were not without turbulence. His family resisted, tried persuasion, anger, even silence. But Abeer did not retreat. He sang more concerts, spoke her name openly among friends, carried himself with a resolve that surprised even those who doubted him. Riddhi, too, faced whispers from colleagues, cautious questions from relatives, but she answered with dignity, her confidence rooted in his promise. Together they walked through the city’s scrutiny, sometimes bruised, sometimes weary, but never alone.
One evening, months later, as winter deepened and mist curled along the river, they stood again on Howrah Bridge. This time, there was no confrontation, no silence heavy with dread. Instead, there was peace in their stillness. He began to hum softly, a tune she recognized—unfinished notes from that song he had once scribbled on paper for her. Only now, it was whole, completed. She whispered words to fit between his notes, the lyric and melody finally meeting after so long. Their voices wove together, fragile but firm, drifting into the night air where countless others had walked before them.
The bridge listened, the river carried the sound, and the city folded it into its endless memory. Perhaps no one else would hear it. Perhaps history would forget. But in that moment, they knew they had written their own letter in the air, a song that could not be erased.
And so the promise held—not of easy happiness, not of perfect endings, but of choosing each other again and again, despite shadows and storms. A bridge, after all, is not proof of stillness; it is proof that two shores can remain connected even when the river roars between them.
Riddhi looked at Abeer, her eyes shimmering. “We began here,” she said softly.
“And we’ll return here, always,” he answered. “This bridge will remind us who we are.”
Their hands tightened together as the city lights glowed awake, trams clanging, vendors shouting, life unspooling. Above them, the steel arches curved like guardians. Below, the river ran on, tireless, eternal. Between, on the worn walkway of Howrah Bridge, two lives stood bound by promise—not fragile anymore, but steady as the city itself.
END
