Our journey with dance did not begin suddenly.
It had its own story.
My aunt's son—my cousin Akash—used to learn dance. One day he performed at a local function. Watching him, my mother thought that I should learn dance too. So she sent me to their house for training. I stayed there for about a month. During that time, I learned two dance routines. One of them was set to the song "Tomar Baba Amar Korbeta Ki."
Rupsa was also learning dance at the same time. She practiced with her friends Riya and Disha for another song. Back then, we did not truly understand what dance meant, what a stage was, or what an audience was. We only knew that our bodies had to move with the rhythm of the music and that sometimes we had to look at each other while doing so.
One day, music was playing from a small speaker at our neighbor Santosh uncle's house. I was there. Rupsa was there too. A few other neighbors were present. Sukhi didi was there, and so was my mother. Everyone was talking and laughing. Suddenly, someone suggested,
"Make these two dance together."
Rupsa and I became shy at once. We hardly knew proper steps at that time. Then Sukhi didi came forward. From that day onward, she became our dance teacher. She said,
"Will you two dance together in this year's Kali Puja?"
I hesitated for a moment and then said,
"Okay, we will dance."
That was the beginning of our dance journey together. Practicing the same steps, turning at the same time, extending our hands toward each other, coming close during certain movements—and then her lowering her face shyly. I could tell when she felt shy, and even that shyness looked beautiful to me.
For several years, we performed duet dances together on the stage during Annapurna Puja. I still remember the song clearly, and I will remember it until the end of my life.
"Tomar Baba Amar Korbeta Ki."
It was during this song that I acted as if I were applying sindoor to the parting of her hair as part of the choreography.
On stage, it was only acting. The audience clapped, and the music played loudly. But what was happening inside my heart was not an act. When my finger went near her forehead, something trembled inside me. I did not know what that feeling was called. I only knew it was not something ordinary.
School memories also hold a special place in my heart.
One day at school, after returning from home during lunch break, she suddenly asked me,
"Have you eaten?"
There was something warm in that simple question. If someone asks what was special about it, I would say—it carried a quiet sense of care.
Another day, she was walking home from school, and I was riding my bicycle. She called out,
"Biltu, let me sit on your cycle."
Without thinking, I made space for her on the back seat and took her home. For about six days, I brought her home like that during lunch break. Each time, it felt as if I was taking her somewhere important, even though the destination was nothing more than our ordinary home.
One day, she came to call me after lunch so that we could return to school together. I was busy eating rice while watching videos on my phone. I did not notice her properly. She stood there for a while and then left for school alone. Maybe she felt hurt. At school, she used to look at me from the railing. I noticed it, but I said nothing. Inside me, a strange sense of guilt began to grow.
Whenever we met, she always asked one thing,
"Biltu, where are you going?"
That simple line made my chest feel strange every time, as if someone had suddenly lit a lamp inside me. The words were ordinary, but for me, they became special.
She appeared in my dreams many times.
I do not know why. Perhaps there was something spiritual about it. Perhaps it was some kind of sign. I never understood.
Once, I dreamed that we were walking down a road holding hands. There was no one around us—just the two of us and a long road stretching ahead.
Another time, I dreamed that we were very close, but there were no words—only closeness, only presence.
Once, I dreamed of a school scene, but when I woke up, I could not remember it clearly.
One day, I dreamed that I hugged her.
But dreams are only dreams. In reality, nothing happened. Those dreams remained only as dreams.
Holi days became some of the most painful days of my life.
One year, she came to apply color on me. I do not know what happened to me then. Instead of letting her, I ran away from her. Even now, when I think of that day, it hurts. A few hours later, I went and applied color on her. She said in a hurt voice,
"You did not let me put color on you."
The next year, I thought to myself, This time, I will be the first to put color on her.
But fate did not allow it.
That day, her family planned to go to the Mangalchandi fair in Nabadwip. Her brother asked me,
"Will you come with us?"
My mother also asked,
"Will you go?"
I said,
"No."
I did not know that she would be going too. When I later found out, I begged my mother again and again,
"Ma, let's go. Ma, please let's go."
But my mother did not go.
That day, I could not go with her. I could not apply color on her either. The next day, she came and applied color on me. Her hand left a green mark on my cheek. I still have that photograph.
The year after that, during Holi, she went to another neighborhood to play with colors. I felt both hurt and angry that year. I did not apply any color on her.
The next year, I did not apply color either.
This year, I went to my aunt's house on purpose, just so that I would not have to put color on her.
And now, in a few days, Holi will come again. The memories will return.
But she will not be there.
I wanted to tell her that I loved her.
I thought about it many times.
But I could never say it.
Because I was afraid.
Afraid that if I told her, I might lose her.
I used to think that in 2025, I would finally tell her. That by then, I would be brave enough. That everything would be different.
But in 2024 itself, she slowly began to walk out of my life…