Scrambled Tales

03. the monsoons

A SIGH LEFT his lips. The hustle and buzzing house seem to be fading the background.

He fixes his panjabi and dhuthi, (traditional Bengali wear) for the zillionth of time. The night is droning, the sky covered with stars blessing with their presence. The whole house is adorned with yellow fairy light, bloomed with orange flowers and gleaming with happiness.

Happiness that found its way back to them after years.

And suddenly his black eyes move towards the photo frame on the left side. The photograph of three, faces that resemble happiness, his hers theirs.

Asthami 2014.

(8th day of the festival)

The date was there on the side of the photo. They were happy.

He remembers the night, a few hours before sandhi puja, (a ritual) she wore the red saree as he asked her to match with his red panjabi. Their smiles scream happiness, and for once he found his eyes blurred.

He blinks once, twice and put a curtain back to the memories.

It is gone now.

The people in the photograph and so are the hope of being together. What is still there is hope, his one last hope and maybe she will come.

Maybe.

But even the universe knows the truth.

A love is theirs was once in a lifetime affair.

Now when their infinities don't exist anymore, she won't come, she couldn't perhaps.

'I wish you were here Sheuli. Maa was missing you so much. I was missing you'

Sent. Seen.

Seen, just like those previous texts. And that's how it's been for the past few years. She mostly left him on seen, rarely replying with two words. So much has changed, so much was lost. And they don't have anyone to blame. That's the worst part.

A ring on his phone brings him back from his thoughts.

Sheuli calling.

He licks his lips and clears his throat before sliding the green button-up.

"Sheuli" He was greeted with silence, heavy silence that was enough for him to move out of his room and step towards the terrace.

"Rupak" Her voice was heavy, tired and ... and everything he don't want to be tonight.

"I thought you will come," He said with a dejected voice.

The silence that engulfs them again made him hold the bannister of their terrace tight. His eyes move around and halt at the last residence of their para. The vast premises of the Bakshi's.

The memory of a girl sitting on the wet balcony floors, singing the saga of heartbreak and him walking away from her fading in the rain comes to his vision.

That monsoon they lost their life to death.

A love story was ceased even before it was bloomed.