Some buildings apart, in the crumbling grandeur of Asadgate Mansion, Nobab Saad drifted in the gray space between sleep and wakefulness. His arms were wrapped tightly around a velvet seat from his own home's sof; a bulky, brocaded piece now wedged awkwardly against his thin chest.
He'd dragged it to bed last night, a shield against the silent emptiness of the empty rooms. Saad's eyelids fluttered. Half-dreams swayed, his mother walking softly, uttering dua- kalam, her voice blending with the sharp scent of sandalwood incense. Then, a sharper image sliced through, a flash of movement in Colony Heights.
Third floor left window. A shadow, quick and fluid, like oil spreading on water. Saad's eyes snapped open. He wasn't sure if he'd seen it or dreamed it. The foam seat slid from his grasp as he pushed himself upright, his pajamas sticking to his damp skin. Outside, the pale dawn light washed the city in shades of ash and pearl.
The street below stirred. Saad shuffled barefoot to the balcony, the chipped marble cold beneath his feet. He leaned against the wrought-iron railing, its peeling paint flecking onto his sleeve. Down on Chhattambey Lane, the early chai stall was already steaming. Kamal-bhai, the stoop-shouldered vendor, poured thick, milky tea into clay cups.
Saad's gaze drifted past the stall, past the pyramid of rotting jackfruit buzzing with flies, His eyes caught on movement near Colony Heights' arched gateway. A figure emerged; solid, reassuringly there.
A girl.
College-bound, judging by the worn leather satchel slung across her shoulder and the practical cotton salwar kameez in faded indigo. The fabric stretched generously across broad hips and a soft, rounded belly as she navigated a puddle. Saad's breath hitched.
He watched the deliberate sway of her walk, the way her thick braid swung like a pendulum against her back. Kamal-bhai handed her a steaming kulhad. She lifted it to her lips, blowing softly before sipping. Saad imagined the warmth spreading through her, the sweetness on her tongue. A fierce, sudden longing tightened his chest.
Her, he thought.
Only her.
The girl who passed every Tuesday and Thursday at 7:10 AM sharp. The girl whose name he didn't know, whose voice he'd never heard, but whose solid, earthbound presence anchored his drifting days. He'd marry her tomorrow if he could. Build a life around that comforting weight, that quiet strength.
A sharp clang echoed from downstairs; the sound of the heavy brass gong his mother struck to summon him. Breakfast. Saad sighed, the image of the girl dissolving like steam. He turned reluctantly from the railing, the cool metal imprinting lines on his palms. His bare feet whispered across the dusty Persian rug as he walked past towering stacks of yellowing newspapers his father's hoard.
The scent of stale newsprint mingled with damp plaster. He descended the grand staircase, its marble steps worn smooth by generations. At the bottom, the kitchen doorway glowed with warm light. Inside, steaming pots bubbled on an ancient gas stove. His mother, Mumtaz Begum, stood stirring a pot of dal, her royal cotton sari whispering as she moved.
Saad, go get some coriander from the van outside," she ordered, her voice crisp and commanding, like snapping twigs.
Saad nodded silently, and left the house.
A few moments later, he returned. Begum's sharp eyes darted to him, then to the small poli-packet he clutched.
"You remembered the dhania?" Her voice was crisp, like snapping twigs.
"As your Huqum, Ammaji," Saad nodded, handing over the packet. The pungent scent of fresh coriander burst into the air; sharp, green, alive.
"As you should," she murmured, tearing open the paper. She plucked a sprig, rubbing the leaves between her fingers. "Small leaves today. Weak flavour." She tossed the packet onto the cluttered counter beside wilting carrots and bruised potatoes. "Go. Wash your hands."
Saad hesitated. "Ma—"
"Later," she cut him off, her gaze fixed on the simmering pot. "The dal is splitting."
He retreated to the cracked porcelain sink. As the rusty water spluttered over his hands, he glanced back. His mother was sprinkling the chopped coriander into the curry. The vivid green sank into the golden lentils. For a moment, Saad imagined roots unfurling beneath the liquid surface, tangling deep into the pan's iron heart. Something hungry waking beneath the simmer.
He shook his head.
Nonsense.
Just hunger twisting his thoughts. He dried his hands on a threadbare towel. Outside Colony Heights, the girl was long gone. Only Kamal-bhai remained, wiping his stall counter. Saad's chest felt empty again.
Saad retreated to his room. The grand emptiness of Asadgate Mansion swallowed his footsteps as he padded down the hallway lined with ancestors' portraits; their stern eyes following him through layers of dust. He bypassed the Chesterfield skeleton, its springs exposed like ribs, and sank into the worn leather chair at his grandfather's teak desk. The wood groaned under his weight, a sound like old bones settling.
Outside, Kamal-bhai's tin kettle whistled again, sharp as a bird's cry. Saad ignored it. He pulled a sheet of thick, yellowed paper from a drawer, its edges brittle as dried leaves. The nib of his fountain pen hovered, trembling. Ink pooled, a dark star blooming.
" — তখন চৈত্র মাস... সর্বনাশ। — "
"Then it was the month of Chaitra… utter ruin."
The ink bled sideways into the yellowed paper fiber. Saad lifted the fountain pen quickly, but too late. The Bengali letters— 'চৈত্র' (Choitro), 'সর্বনাশ' (shorbonash)—blurred into storm clouds on the page. Like monsoon rain had already swept through the words. He stared at the stain, then out the window. Colony Heights stood stark against the dawn. Third floor, left window. Dark. Empty now? Or dreaming?
His fingers tightened around the pen. That girl's walk—solid as tamarind wood, swaying like paddy in a soft breeze. He'd carve her name into this desk if he knew it. Plant her like a seed in Asadgate's crumbling soil. Roots deep enough to hold the ghosts down.
— Clink. —
Lithop's chipped teacup met the balcony railing, the sound swallowed by the humid dawn. Two houses west, Asadgate Mansion's fourth-floor window framed the scene; Saad, silk pajamas rumpled, leaning too far over his own balcony like a wilted sunflower chasing light. His gaze clung to the girl weaving through puddles on Chhattambey Lane; the Tuesday-Thursday girl, solid hips swaying beneath faded indigo cotton.
Lithop let out a dry laugh into her bitter tea.
Pathetic.
She'd watched this spectacle for months. Saad's moon-eyed stare, the way his fingers whitened on the railing, the slump when the girl vanished. Like a puppy denied a bone. If Lithop was seventy-three. She'd buried two husbands and a parrot that swore like a sailor. She'd knew longing. This? This was amateur hour.
The memory arrived sharp as lemon zest. Tithi's wedding. Three months back. The banquet hall choked with marigolds and desperation. Lithop's school-time best friend; plump, giggly Tithi clutching the arm of some bespectacled banker she'd met at a 'Elite Club dinner'.
"Lucky!"
Tithi had breathed into Lithop's ear, champagne bubbles fizzing on her breath.
"Just lucky!"
Lithop had smiled, teeth clenched. Luck. Like catching dengue from a stray mosquito. Tithi's mother, smug as a cat with cream, had patted Lithop's arm. "Your turn soon, darling? Twenty-eight isn't the end!" Lithop had swallowed bile.
Twenty-eight was the end. In this city, with her olive skin that looked regular; neither too striking nor too plain and her tall frame, she was often overlooked. Guys didn't like girls who were as tall as a man, they'd say. With a mouth that spat truths like watermelon seeds, she knew her worth. Who'd marry 'that'? Her own mother's whispers echoed daily now, frantic as sparrows trapped in a loft, "Who will claim her? Who?"
The balcony door rattled on its hinges. Lithop didn't turn. She knew the scent rosewater, stale turmeric, and simmering panic. Her mother, Shrimola Akter, stood framed in the doorway, her cotton sari crisp as a starched accusation.
Below, Saad still leaned over his railing, a silk-clad ghost haunting Colony Heights' archway. The Tuesday-Thursday girl was long gone. Kamal-bhai scraped his tea-stall counter, the sound like gravel in Lithop's ear.