The days slipped by quickly after that first meeting by the pond.
Every morning, Devdas found some excuse to walk that way—sometimes to fetch water for his mother, sometimes just to feel the quiet that seemed to linger there. And each time, Paro was there too, waiting with her brass pot or sitting on the old stone steps, her hair unbound to dry in the sun.
They spoke more easily now. The awkwardness had softened, replaced by a cautious warmth. But even as they talked and sometimes laughed again, Devdas sensed a new distance between them—a hesitation that hadn't existed in their childhood.
One afternoon, as they sat beneath the banyan tree, Paro reached out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture was so natural, so familiar, that it startled them both.
Her hand hovered there for an instant, then dropped to her lap. Neither of them spoke.
Devdas cleared his throat. "You've changed," he said softly.
Paro looked at him with a quiet challenge. "So have you."
He didn't deny it.
That evening, the Mukherjee household was filled with visitors. Relatives had come from neighboring villages, bringing sweets and the latest gossip. After the evening prayers, the elders gathered in the veranda to talk in hushed voices.
Devdas sat near the doorway, listening with half an ear as his father discussed property matters. But when he heard Paro's name spoken, he leaned forward, straining to hear more.
"…she's grown into a fine girl," his uncle was saying. "Nimai Babu's daughter has always had a good reputation. Beautiful, modest, hardworking—she would make an excellent match."
His father grunted in agreement. "I've thought the same for some time."
There was a pause, then a different voice—older, deeper. "Then why not settle the matter now? The children have known each other all their lives."
Devdas felt something flutter in his chest. He couldn't tell if it was relief or dread.
His mother's voice rose softly. "We should speak to Nimai Babu first. It would be proper."
Later that night, Devdas sat in his room, staring at the clay figure Paro had given him. The thought of marriage felt unreal. He couldn't imagine Paro as a bride—her face hidden behind a veil, her laughter silenced by all the rituals and expectations.
And yet…he also couldn't imagine her marrying someone else. The idea made his stomach twist in a way he didn't understand.
The next morning, Paro came to their courtyard with her mother. They carried baskets of fruit and sweets—offerings for a small festival. Paro's face was calm, but when her eyes met his, he thought he saw a question there.
After the women had gone inside, he followed her into the outer veranda.
"Did you know?" he asked, his voice low.
She looked away. "My mother said your family might speak with my father."
Devdas swallowed. "And…what do you think?"
Paro didn't answer right away. She picked at the edge of her sari, her fingers working the fabric into small folds.
"At least," she said finally, "they remember we grew up together."
Her voice was soft, but he heard the hope behind it.
For a moment, he imagined what it would be like—living side by side as husband and wife, never having to say goodbye again. The thought should have comforted him, but instead it left him strangely restless.
That night, Nimai Chakraborty was invited to the Mukherjee house for a formal discussion. The elders sat together by the lamp, voices measured and polite. They spoke of dowry and auspicious dates, of family ties and village custom.
Devdas listened from behind the curtain, his heart hammering. He couldn't see Paro, but he felt her presence—like a thought he couldn't push aside.
When the conversation ended, the two fathers shook hands. Nothing had been promised, but nothing had been refused either. A door had opened, though neither side had stepped through it yet.
Later, as the house grew quiet, Devdas went out into the courtyard alone. The night air was cool, heavy with the scent of jasmine. He stood beneath the neem tree where they had played as children.
He tried to imagine himself as Paro's husband. He tried to imagine her living here, her hands working in the kitchen, her voice calling to him in the evenings.
But for all his effort, he could not picture
it clearly.
And he didn't know why that troubled him so much.