Date: January 1, 2009
Time: 3:00 PM
Location: Victoria Memorial, Kolkata
The winter sun hung lazily in the pale blue sky, casting a soft golden glow over the sprawling gardens of the Victoria Memorial. The grand white marble structure stood like a sentinel of time, its domes gleaming under the gentle warmth of the afternoon. Crowds of people milled about—families spreading picnic blankets, couples holding hands, and groups of friends laughing over roasted peanuts wrapped in old newspaper cones.
But for Aritra, the world felt distant, almost muted.
He stood near the black wrought-iron gates, his hands tucked into the pockets of his simple navy-blue jacket, his breath forming faint clouds in the crisp winter air. The noise of the bustling city—the honks, the street vendors shouting, the distant tram bells—faded into the background. His mind was elsewhere, tangled in the web of deals, threats, and decisions that now defined his life.
Then he saw her.
Rimi Saha walked towards him, weaving through the crowd with the effortless grace of someone used to being noticed. She wore a sky-blue salwar kameez, her dupatta fluttering slightly with the breeze, and a small silver pendant resting just below her collarbone. Her smile was radiant, the kind that could disarm anyone. Anyone but Aritra.
"Besi deri holo na toh?" (I'm not too late, am I?) she asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she approached.
Aritra shook his head, forcing a smile. "No. Just got here."
They entered the gardens, the gravel crunching softly under their feet as they walked along the winding paths lined with towering palm trees. The monument loomed ahead, majestic and indifferent to the lives that unfolded beneath its shadow.
"So, Mr. Genius," Rimi teased, nudging him slightly with her elbow, "New Year's resolution ki?" (What's your New Year's resolution?)
Aritra chuckled dryly. To survive, he thought. But instead, he replied, "Same as always—study harder, get into Jadavpur."
Rimi rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh please, you're already smarter than half the people in our school. Maybe try something different this year. Like… buying me more fuchkas?"
Aritra smiled faintly, but his mind wasn't with her. It was in Baruipur, at the factory site, with Ratan Das's threats echoing like a ticking clock in his head.
They found a quiet spot under a large banyan tree, away from the crowd. Rimi sat on the grass, patting the spot beside her. Aritra joined, leaning back on his hands, staring at the sky.
"Ki holo?" (What's wrong?) Rimi asked after a moment, her brows furrowing slightly. "You've been weird lately."
Aritra hesitated. She wouldn't understand. How could she?
"Just… exam stress," he lied.
Rimi stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. "Well, let's forget about exams for today, okay? It's the New Year. No boring physics formulas allowed."
She pulled out a small packet from her bag—two ice creams, slightly melted but still intact. "Surprise!" she grinned, handing him one. "Happy New Year, Mr. Serious."
Aritra took it, the coldness sharp against his fingers. For a fleeting moment, the simplicity of it—the ice cream, the lazy afternoon, the girl beside him—felt like an anchor. But anchors were heavy, and he didn't have the luxury of being weighed down.
"So," Rimi began, breaking the silence, "what do you think we'll be doing ten years from now?"
Aritra glanced at her, his mind flashing with images of boardrooms, contracts, factories, and numbers with too many zeros. Controlling companies, making deals, maybe even standing at the top of the world, he thought.
But out loud, he said, "Probably still solving math problems."
Rimi laughed, the sound light and genuine. But Aritra didn't join in.
As the afternoon sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the garden, Aritra's phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew who it was even before checking—Ishita.
Rimi noticed the flicker of hesitation. "You can answer it," she said softly, her voice tinged with curiosity.
Aritra shook his head. "It's nothing."
But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.
They sat in silence for a while, watching as the sky turned from blue to shades of orange and pink. Around them, life continued—carefree and oblivious.
Eventually, Rimi rested her head on his shoulder, her voice a whisper. "Sometimes I feel like you're here, but not really here."
Aritra didn't respond. Because she was right.
Time: 7:00 PM
Location: Aritra's Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat
The day ended where it had begun—in the dim solitude of his room. The echoes of laughter and the softness of Rimi's touch had faded, replaced by the harsh glow of his laptop screen and the cold, clinical reality of pending business reports.
He finally checked his phone. A message from Ishita:
"Ratan Das is getting impatient. He wants an answer."
Aritra stared at the message for a long time before replying:
"Set the meeting. I'm done playing games."
Because empires weren't built on stolen moments under banyan trees.
They were built in the shadows—where power lived, and love was just another thing you couldn't afford.