The first rays of morning cut across the Bhattacharya estate in thin, trembling beams, touching the marble floors of the courtyard. SaraswatiChandra Bhattacharya sat at the edge of his bed, his long hair falling over his shoulders, brushing against the crisp folds of his kurta. White. Again. The same white fabric his grandmother had insisted on, a color that marked him different, separate, a quiet caution woven into every thread.
His eyes lingered on the stack of clothes folded neatly on the chair,the muted, soft pastels he had once loved, now absent. They had not survived Rajeshwari's fire years ago, when her hands had smoothed out his small world and replaced it with silence. He remembered the smoke curling toward the ceiling, the blackened threads scattered across the hearth. He had been fifteen. He had cried, not understanding, only feeling the sudden hollowness of everything he had once called freedom.
He shifted, tracing the edges of a blank sketchbook on his lap. Drawing had become a sanctuary, a place untouched by superstition. Every line he sketched, every swirl of pattern, was a rebellion that spoke in whispers. He imagined dresses that would flow and shimmer, skirts that would float like water, fabrics that refused to be restrained. Here, he could choose colors. Here, he could be seen for skill, not suspicion.
The sounds of the estate slipped through the window,servants moving about, the faint murmur of the morning prayers, the rattle of pots and pans. He was always aware of them, the ones who watched and whispered. Cousins who loved to remind him of the accidents that had supposedly marked him. Relatives who measured him with half-hidden glances. Yet in this isolation, there was a strange clarity: every moment outside his room was predictable, a rhythm he could anticipate, even if it was suffocating.
Kamini, his mother, appeared with a tray, the aroma of spiced chai and warm bread mingling in the quiet room. She did not lecture, did not scold the household's rules. She simply set the tray down, her eyes warm but cautious. "Eat before you leave," she said softly, as if urging him to take whatever small pleasures were still his. Her voice was a tether to the world beyond superstition, an assurance that not everything was dictated by old beliefs.
SaraswatiChandra nodded, taking the tray. Each bite felt like a tiny act of persistence, a quiet declaration that he would endure, that he would survive.
Outside, the driver waited, car idling, ready to ferry him to college,the only realm where rules bent just enough for him to exist among others. The world of the campus was not free from whispers, but there, at least, he could breathe. He brushed a loose lock of hair from his face, adjusted the folds of white fabric, and stepped out, acutely aware of every gaze that followed him. People stared, whispered, wondered. A man in white, with hair flowing past his shoulders, carrying himself with careful poise,it was an image that drew fascination and unease alike.
At college, Arjun and Rohan were waiting;quiet, loyal, uncomplicated in their support. They didn't question him, didn't pity him. They simply existed alongside him, a buffer against the judgments that shadowed him everywhere else. Small moments of shared jokes, restrained laughter, and companionship reminded him that there were spaces in the world untouched by superstition, places where talent and intention mattered more than rumor or fear.
Lectures passed in a blur. Each note scribbled in the margins of his notebook, each pattern traced lightly onto the pages of his sketchbook, strengthened a resolve he did not yet dare to name. This was his domain, his craft, his declaration. One day, these lines would step outside the page, outside the white walls and rigid expectations of his home. One day, he would matter in a way that no superstition could overshadow.
Evening crept into the Bhattacharya estate. Rajeshwari's shadow lingered in the hallway, watching without needing to speak. Her eyes followed him through the corridors, gauging every movement, scanning for what she considered missteps. But SaraswatiChandra moved deliberately, silently, threading through the house like a shadow among sunlight.
In his room, Luna,his small tabby nuzzled against his leg. He ran a hand along her fur, the steady purr a quiet rhythm against the tension of the day. He returned to his sketches, the pencil moving freely across the page. Tonight, the patterns were unrestrained. Tonight, he imagined fabrics that swirled like rivers, colors forbidden by the outside world, textures that refused definition.
Somewhere beyond the estate, Ashish moved through his own life a separate city, a separate fate. Powerful, meticulous, unaware of the man in white who would one day cross his path. For now, he remained a shadow in a different chapter, a name that had yet to intersect with SaraswatiChandra's carefully constrained world.
SaraswatiChandra exhaled, watching the pencil trace the final lines of the day. Shadows lingered of judgment, of whispers, of past grief but for the first time, there was a quiet pride, a small certainty: he could endure. He could create. And when the world finally took notice, he would not be the unlucky man they imagined.
Tomorrow would be another day of whispers and scrutiny, of white threads and long hair, of careful navigation through a world that never let him forget his difference. But tomorrow would also hold sketches, small victories, and Luna, loyal as ever. And for now, that was enough.