'๐ฏ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐.'
The rain had begun its quiet performance hours ago, wrapping the city of Kolkata in a soft curtain of mist and memory. From the balcony of a timeworn apartment, Mayank sat cradling a cup of chai in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He wasn't reading, though. Not really.
The world outside was alive drenched rickshaws pulling slowly through narrow lanes, the earthy scent of wet dust rising from the pavement, the gentle rustle of mango trees swaying like lullabies. The old iron railings, flecked with rust, framed the scene like a painting.
Inside the house, Mithali, barely six, played on the cool marble floor. Her dolls were having a tea party, and the guests a one-eyed teddy and a rubber duck were loud and demanding. She giggled, completely immersed in her tiny world.
RING-RING.
The phone on the living room table buzzed, startling the duck into a somersault. Mithi paused, tilting her head. Baba never liked to be disturbed during his chai, especially not by phones.
But she knew what to do.
With both hands, she picked up the phone holding it like it was a sacred object and tiptoed her way to the balcony. Her feet made soft slapping sounds against the floor, her frock sweeping slightly as she moved.
"Baba," she said gently, "phone."
Mayank looked at her, and a smile briefly lit his otherwise tired face. He took the phone from her small hands, gave her head a soft pat, and answered.
"Hello?"
There was a pause, then a woman's voice on the other end.
"Namaste sir, I am Paru customer talking from customer care..."
Mayank's breath caught.
'๐ท๐๐๐....'
For a moment, he thought he heard Paro the name of the woman who once sat beside him in this same balcony, her laughter louder than the thunder, her chai always too sweet, her presence still echoing in the spaces she used to fill.
The cup trembled slightly in his hand.
The voice continued, cheerful and unaware, offering deals and discounts, but Mayank had already gone somewhere else. Somewhere years behind.
---
๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ฌ๐ก๐๐๐๐ค
Paro stood in the kitchen, humming to herself as she made evening tea. The rains had come early that year. She leaned into the doorframe, catching Mayank watching her with that half-smile he reserved only for her.
"You're staring again," she teased.
"Just memorizing," he replied.
She laughed the sound was like music and walked over to sit beside him.
"The rain is soo beautiful" She said while leaning on his arm while drinking her Tea. "Yeah, but My Paru is more beautiful than it" he said flirtingly. She laughed and he admired her.
---
๐๐๐๐ค ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐ซ๐๐ฌ๐๐ง๐ญ
Mayank blinked. The rain was still falling, the tea still warm. But the warmth in his chest had long since faded. He ended the call without a word.
Mithali was sitting on a stool nearby, swinging her legs.
"Who was it, Baba?"
He looked at her the living memory of the woman he loved.
"No one important, Mithu," he said softly. "Just someone who reminded me of your Ma."
She tilted her head. "You miss her?"
"Every day."
Mithali reached out and held his handย small fingers wrapping around his. The silence between them wasn't empty. It was full of love, of memory, of rain tapping gently against iron railings. and for a while, they just sat there father and daughter watching the sky cry for them.
Baba, look there's a big star right next to the moon!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder.
Mayank followed her gaze and smiled softly. But behind that gentle curve of his lips lay a thousand silent aches.
"๐๐จ๐ฎ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐๐จ๐จ๐ง, ๐๐ง๐ ๐ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐ฅ๐ฐ๐๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐๐ญ๐๐ซ."
The words echoed in his heart like an old lullaby, both tender and tragic. A promise, once whispered under skies like this. Now, only a shadow echoing in his chest.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of memory settle.
Eventually, he felt a gentle pressure against him Mithi, asleep, her tiny frame nestled into his side.
Carefully, as if not to disturb even the air around her, he lifted her and walked to her room. He tucked her in with a tenderness that came from places words couldn't reach. He stood there for a few seconds longer, his hand resting lightly on her blanket, before turning away.
Back in his room, he sat at the edge of the bed. The silence felt louder than ever. Slowly, he leaned toward the nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and retrieved an old, weathered diary.
Sometimes, he thought, the past is not something to be read. Sometimes, it is simply something to feel. And tonight, beneath a sky of distant stars, he felt everything.
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