The One She Never Forgot

The late April sun filtered in gently through the lace curtains of her old Kolkata home. The scent of sandalwood incense lingered in the air—comforting, familiar, like an old friend who never left. She sat on her cane chair by the window, draped in a cream saree with a faded rose print, her silver hair tied into a loose bun. Her hands rested softly on her lap, frail yet graceful, as the echoes of laughter from her grandchildren rang through the house.

There was something comforting in their laughter, something haunting too. Every now and then, the boy would glance at her and smile — a smile so familiar it ached. The girl had his eyes — not her son’s, not her daughter’s — his!

She wasn’t always “Dida.” There was a time when she was just Ananya—headstrong, curious, and quietly hopeful. And once, just once, she had been in love.

It was a time of long drives along tree-lined roads and evenings that stretched lazily into dusk. He would arrive outside her PG on his old motorbike, helmet slightly tilted, smile even more so. Arjun. The name still sounded like a poem left unfinished. He had this calm about him—the kind that made you forget the world, the deadlines, the chaos of everything that didn’t matter. They shared sunsets on quiet hillsides, cups of tea at roadside dhabas, and stolen hours in the warmth of bookstores and dimly lit cafés.

They never had labels. No love letters or dramatic confessions. Just shared rides with the wind in their hair, conversations that ran deeper than the sea, and the silent promise of something real—something that didn’t need words.

But life—life has a way of choosing for you. Her family made plans she couldn’t undo, and responsibilities arrived without knocking. She married a good man, raised a beautiful family, and learned to love the life she built, even if a part of her remained elsewhere.

Still, on winter nights wrapped in her shawl, with the old radio humming in the background, she remembered.

Years passed. They never wrote. Never called. But Arjun lived in the quiet of her thoughts like a warm evening—never forgotten, always felt.

Just last year, someone from an alumni group mentioned him. He was still around. Never married. Still teaching. She didn’t know whether to smile or cry. So she did both.

Now, as her grandchildren crawled into her lap and demanded bedtime stories, she held them a little tighter. Not because she regretted her life—she didn’t. It had been full, meaningful, real. But somewhere deep inside, a question lingered—not of “what if,” but of “what also could’ve been.”

The kids yawned and rubbed their eyes, the day’s mischief finally tiring them out. She rose slowly, knees mildly protesting, and led them to their room. The boy curled up first. “Tuck me in, Dida!” he grinned. She obliged.

“And me too!” said the little girl, already tugging at her blanket.

She bent and kissed their foreheads, brushing away imaginary strands of hair from their sleeping faces. Her voice was a whisper, barely heard.

“Goodnight, June. Goodnight, Aryan.”

And as she turned off the light, the names echoed gently in her mind. Aryan. June.

Aryan. June.

Arjun.

“I hope you’re well, Arjun. I really do.”

And somewhere, in a quiet town where the roads still curved beneath banyan trees, a man sat on his veranda reading a tattered book. He looked up at the moonlit sky, smiled to himself, and thought of a girl with fire in her eyes and roses in her hair.

She stood still in the hallway, the darkness wrapping around her like an old scarf. A small, bittersweet smile played on her lips.

Maybe life had a strange way of reminding you of what you never had — and sometimes, of what still remained.

Not in photos. Not in letters.

But in laughter, in names, in the quiet love that lives on long after the world forgets.

The One Who Couldn't Be

He had always kept his heart guarded, hidden behind laughter, sarcasm, and the quiet understanding that people leave. That’s just how it had been—everyone he’d loved had eventually chosen another path. But then she arrived, soft-spoken and curious, with eyes that held galaxies of warmth and uncertainty. And for reasons he could never quite explain, she saw through him. She peeled away the layers gently, like someone handling something sacred. It terrified him—how easily she slipped into his life, how quickly he began to need her. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to fall this hard.

They weren’t a perfect pair—not by any stretch. But their imperfections fit like puzzle pieces that had been waiting for each other. In her presence, he forgot to overthink. He remembered how to breathe, to laugh without looking over his shoulder, to imagine a future where he wasn’t alone. She would talk about her dreams, and he would listen like it was scripture. She’d call him in the middle of the night just to tell him about something silly, and he would smile into the darkness, pretending she was right there beside him. He never told her how much he’d started to believe that she was the missing piece of everything.

But there was another man. Someone who came with less uncertainty, more approval. Someone who looked better on paper. And while she never said she was choosing him, life has a cruel way of showing you the things you’re powerless to change. He wasn’t afraid of losing her because of a lack of love—he knew she loved him in her own way. But circumstances, expectations, and timing were relentless enemies. And he could feel her slipping, one delayed reply at a time, one less shared story, one more mention of "maybe it’s for the best."

What tore him apart wasn’t jealousy. It was the helplessness. The fact that he knew he could make her laugh when no one else could. That he could hold her through every storm if only he were allowed. That he would spend a lifetime keeping her safe, if only she chose to stay. And yet, he found himself stuck in a loop—longing for a hug, aching for closeness, haunted by the image of her with someone else.

Each day he carried that ache, folding it into his quiet routines, talking to her in his head when he couldn’t reach her in real life. He didn’t want much—just to hold her once, to feel that everything was okay. But the universe was silent. And so he waited. Not out of desperation, but out of love. The kind that doesn’t demand or chase, but just is. Constant, aching, and unbearably real.

All he wanted—more than answers, more than closure—was a hug. A simple, silent hug that could hold his broken pieces together, even just for a moment. He longed for it in the quietest parts of the day, and most desperately at night when the loneliness screamed the loudest. That hug, he thought, might be enough to remind him that he hadn’t imagined it all… that what they had was real. And even if the world took her away, he could carry that one memory like a heartbeat in his chest.

Love, Too Late, Still True

 

He didn’t realize it the first time.

That soft spark in her eyes.
The way her voice lingered longer than the conversation needed.
The way she smiled, waiting for something more — something he never gave.

Back then, he thought life was endless, and people would wait forever.
She did, for a while.
But even hearts built of the purest patience have their own quiet limits.
And so, with time, they drifted apart — two trains that once shared the same station but headed in different directions, never knowing if they'd meet again.

Life, with all its twists and blind turns, pulled them into new cities, new people, new lives.
They changed, matured, bruised, healed — without each other.
Or so they thought.

Years later, the universe, in one of its rare moods, decided to play matchmaker.
A message.
A random encounter.
An unexpected crossing of paths.
And there she was — older, wiser, a little more guarded.
And there he was — finally seeing her the way he should have, all those years ago.

This time, it wasn’t a question.
It wasn’t confusion.
It was love, pure and full, burning from every corner of his heart.
He wanted everything with her — the long walks, the fights, the late-night tea, the growing old with wrinkles and shared stories.
Everything.

But she... she was different now.
Not cold, not distant — just cautious.
He could feel her pulling back sometimes, like a wave touching the shore but never quite rushing in.
He wanted to ask her why.
He wanted to know if she felt what he felt.
But he didn’t.
Maybe out of fear.
Maybe out of respect for all the silent battles she had fought without him.

He loved her selflessly, with a heart that had finally learned what it meant to stay.
He knew he would wait.
For days, for years, for lifetimes if needed.
He just wanted her to be happy — with him, or even without him, if it came to that.

But some nights, when the stars were too quiet and the world too still, anger clawed its way back into his chest.
Anger at himself — the boy who years ago chose wrongly, who didn’t see what stood right in front of him.
Maybe if he had loved her then, things would have been simpler.
Maybe she would have been his without hesitation, without the unspoken walls.

He would never know.
But he still chose to believe — in second chances, in love reborn, in a future that had taken the long road but still, somehow, led back to her.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

অচেনা শহরের এক জেদি একাকী

 যাত্রার শুরুটা হয়তো রঙিন কল্পনার মতো ছিল, কিন্তু বাস্তবের ধুলো, ক্লান্তির সুর আর অপরিচিত মুখগুলোর ভিড়ে, সে যেন এক অচেনা দেশে এসে পড়েছে—এক স্বপ্নবাজের স্বর্গরাজ্য। ব্যাঙ্গালোর, একসময়কার "গার্ডেন সিটি", এখন যেন যান্ত্রিকতা আর অস্থির গতির শহর। প্রথমে চোখ কপালে উঠেছিল, তারপর ধীরে ধীরে মিশে গেল সেই অচেনা জনারণ্যে, যেন ওর নিজের পরিচয়টাই হারিয়ে গেল কোথাও।

কিন্তু সে তো এক জেদি মেয়ে। নিজের স্বপ্ন পূরণ করতে, নিজের অস্তিত্ব খুঁজে পেতে, সেই চেনা-অচেনা পথ ধরেই হেঁটে চলেছিল। কাজের চাপে নয়, ওর লড়াই ছিল অন্য রকম—একটা সমাজ-নির্ধারিত মুখোশ পরা বাস্তবতার সঙ্গে, যেখানে নাম নেই, পরিচয় নেই, শুধু একটাই প্রশ্ন—তুমি কি মানিয়ে নিতে পারবে?

পথ চলা সহজ ছিল না। প্রতিটা মোড়ে ছিল একেকটা ব্যথা, ক্লান্তি, আর অসহায়তা। কিন্তু প্রতিটা ভোর আনতো নতুন আশার বার্তা। ওর অতীত, সেই ছোটবেলার কিছু ভয়, এখনও ওর সঙ্গে হেঁটে চলে। পরিচিত মুখও যে অচেনা রূপ নিতে পারে, সেটা ও খুব ছোটবেলাতেই বুঝে গেছিল। শৈশবের কিছু রুক্ষ কথা, কিছু অকারণ বিদ্রূপ এখনও যেন আঘাত করে, যখন প্রিয় মানুষদের সঙ্গে নস্টালজিয়ার কথোপকথন চলে। তখন একফোঁটা জল গড়িয়ে পড়ে ওর চকচকে গাল বেয়ে… হ্যাঁ, এটাই তো জীবন।

সমাজ যাকে সভ্য বলে, সেই সমাজের গোপন আঁধারে কত যে গল্প লুকিয়ে আছে, তা আমরা অনুভব করলেও সব বলতে পারি না। সেই মেয়েটার জীবনে সবচেয়ে বড় যন্ত্রণাটা কিন্তু এসেছিল এক সম্পূর্ণ অপরিচিত মুখ থেকে—যে কিনা একদিন রক্তের সম্পর্কের থেকেও বেশি কাছের ছিল, একই থালায় খাওয়া, একই স্বপ্নে ডুবে থাকা সেই সম্পর্ক, যে একদিন তাকে বলেছিল—"তুই আমার দুনিয়া।" সেই দুনিয়া, যেটা দখল করতে চেয়েছে কত কবি, কত প্রেমিক। আর সে? তখনো তরুণ, স্বপ্নে বিভোর, আর

আজ... আজ “আঘাত”ই হয়তো সেই বয়সটার একমাত্র সংজ্ঞা।

তবুও জীবন থেমে থাকে না। নদী যেমন পিছনে তাকায় না, ঠিক তেমনি ও-ও সামনে এগিয়ে গিয়েছে। এক শহর থেকে আরেক শহর, এক এক ব্যথার মাঝে অভিজ্ঞতা জমে উঠেছে ওর অন্তরে। কোন পাঠ্যপুস্তক শেখাতে পারেনি যে জীবনপাঠ, সেইটাই ওকে গড়ে তুলেছে। সেই ভয় পাওয়া ছোট্ট মেয়েটা আজ শক্ত হাতে ধরে রেখেছে নিজের পরিচয়। চারপাশে যত নজরই থাকুক না কেন, ও এখন নিজের মতো করে বাঁচতে চায়।

আজ, সমাজের গোঁড়া চোখ, পুরুষতান্ত্রিক কাঠামো আর ছকবাঁধা নিয়ম—সবকিছুকে চ্যালেঞ্জ করতে প্রস্তুত। সে আজও হয়তো একা, কিন্তু আর ভয় পায় না। বড়দিনের সেই পুরোনো স্মৃতি হারিয়ে গেছে কুয়াশায়, আর সেই কিশোরী একাকী আজ এক নতুন যুদ্ধের জন্য প্রস্তুত—এক অজানা শহরে, এক নতুন জীবনের সন্ধানে।

এই গল্পটি একটি পুরনো কাহিনির ছায়া, বাঙালিয়ানার আবেগে কল্পিত একটি অধ্যায় মাত্র। এই রূপান্তরের জন্য ChatGPT-এর সহায়তা নেওয়া হয়েছে।

An Unwritten Forever

In the stillness of twilight, when the world seemed to pause between memory and dream, he met her again.

Not as lovers reborn, nor as strangers returned from long exile, but as two souls who had weathered storms apart, only to realize that their compass still pointed to each other.

He had called her his home for as long as memory allowed—not in some lofty metaphor, but in the quietest truth of his being. The scent of her presence, the softness of her voice, the way her silence filled the room without weight—these were the bricks and mortar of his sanctuary. Everything else in life—walls, windows, wealth—were mere materials.

And now, in this unexpected chapter, they found themselves together again. Not free, not bound, but entangled.

They knew, without a word, that they could never truly be "together." Too many lives had formed around them, too many lines drawn in permanence. But staying apart? That was no longer an option either. That was the fiction they had tried to live. And it had hollowed them both out.

Their bond was no longer romantic in the youthful sense—it was a ritual, a rhythm, a means for survival.

Like Tagore’s Charulata who peered through the blinds of longing, or Bibhutibhushan’s Apu who carried Durga’s memory in every autumn breeze, he carried her, not in arm but in essence. And she, though clothed in grace and distance, reached out in glances, in the way her hand paused on the table near his, in unfinished sentences that said everything.

They met like seasons meet in the in-between days—quietly, inevitably.

He still blamed himself. The regret was etched in his breath, his gaze, his silences. But she had stopped blaming. Perhaps because she too understood that love was not always about being right or righteous. It was about returning. Again and again. Even when you knew the ending.

They walked parallel now—not as what-could-have-beens, but as what-must-be. In rooms filled with unsaid words, in dinners shared without ceremony, in departures that always promised a next time.

This habit—this ritual of being near without ever naming the bond—had consumed them. But it was the sweetest fire.

And so, they carried on. Not in defiance of fate, but in quiet devotion to it.

They were, and would forever remain, the pause in each other's sentences.

Not a full stop.

Not a new beginning.

Just the only way the story made sense.

The Wilful Loner in an Unknown Land

        As exciting as it might have seemed from the outset, the tiresome schedule had sunk her in and taken right into an unknown land, which is often known as the Dreamer's Paradise. Flabbergasted by the fast, yet an erratically moving city, it was a journey that would define her in the years to come. After all, it was another willful soul that had made a leap to realize the true self in the once-famous, Garden City. It wasn't a challenge of her work ethics though but possessed a very different ask of fighting a world of anonymities and conquering the demeanor set by the society.

        The roads taken had enough to hurt and drain, but a new hope to overcome barriers was knocking at the door. Every girl has a past and the bygone days had enough to keep her terrified. A world that boasted pride also had a handful to terrorize the young one. Not that strangers are strange enough, the known faces had seemed equally terrible during childhood at times. The little tease that made her uncomfortable still leads the way to a conversation of the future past with the ones close to her. An intentional silence is what dominated though and only had creeped out for a moment or two. A little drop of tear would roll down her glossy cheeks, but then, that's life! A civilized world, as they might call it, has many a story in every household duly buried under the strings of relations.

        The words of the begone would do less though, and what really stuck for hatred was born out of a complete stranger. The complete stranger who once was closer than the ones bound by blood, closer than the ones who shared the same plate of meals, closer than the ones who held us together by their bosom to show us how much they loved us, and yet, she was closer to the one that promised the world to her. The world that many greats have thought of conquering. What can her teens teach but accept the words that take our breath away! She was no different then and today, "hurt" is probably the best word to describe that young soul.

        Life passes and we all move on with the flow of it. The river never looks back, as Lord Alfred Tennyson had once mentioned, and so she did with her life as well. Years have passed and the phases have taught her things that she would have never learned from a book. After all, experiences are what defines us, not just for getting a job but to understand this life too. As hurt as she might have been, the journey had taken her from one great city to another. She had crossed boundaries to be what she is today. Enough attention around and a wish to be her own true self is what makes her prominent. Defined by the terrors of childhood, the once terrified girl is not worried to take on a society that still leans towards the conventional archetypes of patriarchy. The days of Christmas past are long gone and the once wilful loner of mid-teens is ready for a bout against the world in an unknown land...

The Two Girls who wrote the same story

     In a world that dreads moving out of their comfort zones, engineering and IT have been pacesetters for the majority of middle-class Millenials. An easy way to achieve things is something that we all love to have. No matter how thirsty we all are to drop a resignation later on a Monday morning, it simply doesn't happen. We do not possess the courage to move forward and that's what holds us! The courage to Jump off the cliff is not an easy-to-have virtue but something that is definitely NOT easy-to-find in this world of tremendous rat race. Still, out of the blue, there are people who do things differently, who look at things differently and tell us that life is not something that should move with the flow but it is all about defining it completely by ourselves. The roads are not straightforward to start with and the challenges are sometimes just improbable to look from the outset.

     This is a story of two girls who dreamt and had faith in themselves to take that leap of faith. Two different stories coincided with the word go. One, about a girl who wanted to only dance, the other to live with the madness of cricket! Their life was not to be contained in a box, it was always about making it big. One with the genes of a famous dancer and the other with the bloodline of a quizmaster, they were destined to be great. But then, we all share a good hereditary genome to take it forward and become someone. And, it takes a lot more to accomplish something in what we are truly passionate about. Their life was also no different from ours and the strangled corporate life was all but what brought them back to reality. Staying away from the loved ones or maybe the urge to get out of the monotonous life had been the kick. They both somewhere never settled with what we plan to live our entire lives, instead, they always wandered to follow their hearts.

      As it happens with determination, one ran down the cobwebs of a metro to establish herself as a belly dancer whereas the other one, is writing columns about the people she had worshipped for her entire lifetime. It was wonderful to meet her after she had just jotted down her section with an interview of one of the most expensive cricketers of the current Indian Premier League roster. It wasn't an easy journey for her but one should have seen the look on her face. I could pretty easily relate to it for I have seen it before. I had seen it after a dance performance on the face of the other! It was sublime and had the indication of doing what they loved every day, every minute. We all have dreams but these two girls had shown us the way to a world where anyone can follow their own heart and write the same story in their very own words if they wish to!