Abhishek stood rooted to the spot, the heavy silence of the library pressing against his ribs like an unasked question. The world had narrowed into a single axis: the space between his eyes and hers.
The receptionist's voice—Mr. Das's voice—rose again, louder now, edged with irritation and ritual authority.
"Every semester same problem! Late submissions, missing pages, dog-eared corners! This is a library, not your para'r cha-er dokan," he declared, thumping the register with a conviction sharpened by decades of repetition. "Books are not meant to travel like gossip!"
The words floated past Abhishek without touching him. He was still staring—he knew it, knew it too well—but his body refused to obey the mind's frantic instructions to look away.
Aruna.
The name echoed inside him, soft and resonant, like a note struck on a tanpura and left to vibrate in the air. Aruna. Dawn. The first light before the sun fully claims the sky. It felt impossibly apt, as if the syllables had been waiting all this while to reach him.
She, however, was looking at him now—not with recognition, not with interest, but with mild, polite confusion. Her brows drew together just a fraction, her lips pressed into a line that was neither displeased nor amused. It was the look one gave to a stranger who had lingered a moment too long.
Abhishek felt heat rush to his face.
Stop staring, he told himself. You look like a fool.
But his eyes betrayed him again. They followed the faint movement of her hand as she adjusted the strap of her cloth bag, the gentle tilt of her head as she turned toward Mr. Das.
"I'll submit the rest tomorrow, Sir," she said, her voice calm, respectful, tinged with the confidence of someone who knew the rules but was not afraid of them. "I was helping with the new cataloguing."
Mr. Das sniffed. "Tomorrow becomes day after tomorrow. You girls are all the same—too many responsibilities, too little discipline."
She smiled faintly, neither defensive nor submissive. "Yes, Sir."
She inclined her head slightly, a gesture that belonged to another time, and walked away between the shelves. The soft sound of her sandals against the stone floor faded gradually, like a receding tide.
Abhishek remained where he was.
"Ei, young man," Mr. Das snapped suddenly, peering over his glasses. "What are you standing here for? Library is not a museum. Either read or leave."
The sarcasm landed cleanly.
Abhishek startled, mumbling an apology, his hands awkward around the strap of his satchel. He nodded too many times, picked up Eliot from the desk though he had not opened it once, and turned toward the exit.
The moment he crossed the threshold, urgency seized him.
He quickened his steps, then broke into a hurried walk, his heart pounding with a foolish, desperate hope—to catch one last glimpse of her, to reassure himself that she had not dissolved into imagination.
Outside, the corridor stretched wide and indifferent. Students passed in clusters, laughter echoing, arguments flaring, footsteps colliding. The library door closed behind him with a quiet finality.
She was nowhere.
A hollow disappointment settled in his chest.
And then—
He saw Bhupesh.
Bhupesh Kumar Gupta stood near the notice board, animated as ever, his hands slicing the air with exaggerated eloquence. But he was not alone.
He was talking to a lady.
A lady?
Abhishek slowed, disbelief sharpening his senses. It wasn't that Bhupesh never spoke to women—he did, often, loudly, without hesitation—but something about this scene felt wrong, almost theatrical.
The girl stood facing Bhupesh, listening.
Listening seriously.
She wore a knee-length cotton kurti in a muted shade of indigo, printed with small white block motifs—handloom, unmistakably. Over it, she had draped a light beige shawl despite the lingering warmth of November, the kind of shawl one associated with university libraries and long hours of reading. Her hair was parted neatly in the middle and tied back into a low bun, not fashionable, not careless—intentional. On her nose sat round, thin-rimmed Gandhi-style glasses that gave her face an air of earnest intelligence. A jute sling bag hung from her shoulder, its strap worn soft with use.
She was not smiling broadly. She was smiling thoughtfully.
Abhishek frowned.
How? he wondered. How has Bhupesh managed this?
It wasn't as though Abhishek had never spoken to a woman before. He had. Cousins, neighbours, classmates. But this—this was different. This was a poster. A moment that did not belong to Bhupesh's usual chaos.
Curiosity overcame caution.
Abhishek slowed his pace, then redirected it, drifting closer under the pretense of reading the torn notices on the board. He positioned himself just behind the girl, close enough to hear.
Bhupesh's voice floated toward him—uncharacteristically measured.
"—and that is where Sri Aurobindo becomes important," Bhupesh was saying, his tone solemn, almost reverent. "He believed Bengal would never be free if it reduced itself to mere political slogans. He wanted a spiritual renaissance first—aatmik mukti, not just political independence."
Abhishek blinked.
Sri Aurobindo?
He leaned in slightly, incredulous.
Bhupesh continued, warming to his performance. "Politics alone fragments the soul of a nation. Bengal has always suffered because it thinks too much in parties and too little in purpose."
The girl nodded, her fingers lightly gripping the strap of her bag. "That's interesting," she said. "People usually quote him selectively, only when it suits them."
She smiled then—fully, openly—and her white teeth flashed briefly like sunlight through clouds.
Abhishek felt something twist sharply inside him.
He stepped forward before he could overthink it.
"Bhupesh ji," he said, his voice deliberately light.
Bhupesh stiffened.
The girl turned abruptly, startled. She took a small step back, her eyes widening slightly as they met Abhishek's.
"Oh—sorry," Abhishek said immediately, raising a hand in apology, his smile carefully polite. "Forgive the inconvenience, but we have to go to the Dean's office today. You need to circulate your research papers in the gathering. I hope you remember."
Bhupesh stared at him, horror flickering across his face before he masked it with a forced nod.
"Yes—yes, of course," he said, clearing his throat. "I was just—discussing something."
The girl looked from one to the other, curiosity replacing surprise.
Bhupesh swallowed, then turned to her, scrambling to regain composure. "Miss—"
"Anandita," she supplied gently.
"Miss Anandita," Bhupesh said, straightening. "It was lovely talking to you. We'll meet again soon. I usually stay in the library—working on my new novel."
Abhishek's eyes widened involuntarily.
Novel? Really?
Anandita's face lit up. "A novel? That's wonderful. I'm getting late for my bus, but I would love to know about your characters sometime."
Bhupesh beamed. "Of course. Anytime."
She extended her hand. Bhupesh shook it with exaggerated seriousness. Then she turned to Abhishek.
She smiled—warm, brief, courteous.
"Nice to meet you," she said.
"Likewise," Abhishek replied, his voice steadier than he felt.
She adjusted her shawl and walked away, her footsteps receding into the afternoon hum of the college.
The moment she disappeared around the corner, Abhishek turned and punched Bhupesh lightly on the head.
"Ouch!" Bhupesh yelped, clutching his skull. "Pagol naki? Have you lost your mind?"
"You fraud," Abhishek hissed. "Aurobindo? Novel? Since when?"
Bhupesh rubbed his head, then grinned sheepishly. "Listen, Bhai. Opportunity knocked."
They burst into laughter, walking toward the college gates, where the earlier ruckus had settled into murmured discussions and scattered debates.
"I got the idea from you," Bhupesh confessed. "Always talking about books, authors, seriousness. I just… borrowed the posture."
Abhishek shook his head, smiling despite himself.
Above them, the red flags hung limp for once, waiting for the next gust of conviction.
And somewhere within Abhishek, names—Aruna, Anandita—settled quietly, promising that this city, restless and weary, still had new stories to offer.