The bell of second period rang with a hollow clang, echoing through the almost deserted corridors of Presidency College. The sound felt strangely suspended in the air, as if even the walls had grown used to the frequent boycotts and cancelled classes that came with the students' newfound hunger for revolution. It was 1972, a year that seemed to swing between hope and ash, agitation and apathy. Inside Abhishek's classroom, the emptiness felt pronounced—rows of wooden chairs sat like abandoned milestones, some slanted from years of uneven use. A distant fan buzzed somewhere overhead, unable to decide whether to function properly or surrender to the humid Calcutta morning.
Abhishek sat alone in the third row, the only body occupying a space made for fifty. He tapped his fingers nervously against the desk, unconsciously syncing the rhythm with the fading chants outside—a chorus of red flags and youthful throats invoking a world they believed must be torn apart to be rebuilt. The rally had begun at the college gate that morning, marching from College Street to Bowbazar, where posters of Marx and Lenin fluttered in the breeze like saints of a new faith.
Bhupesh, of course, was not in his seat. He was somewhere among the red banners, drinking in the energy, believing in the fire. A spectator by instinct, a romantic of ideologies he only half-understood, but loved the spectacle of nonetheless. Abhishek knew this and felt no disappointment. It wasn't like Bhupesh to sit quietly in a half-empty class when the world outside was swelling with noise.
Restlessness pricked the edges of Abhishek's thoughts. Something tugged at him—not quite a memory, more like a ripple from the past brushing against his concentration. He glanced at his wristwatch. The glass was scratched, the metal dulled by years of monsoons and careless wear. Even the brand name was fading, half-erased by time and rain. But the watch carried a story. It had been given to him by his elder brother Anupam the day he left for Delhi. A hurried goodbye on the platform of Howrah Station, the train heaving with its heavy breath, Anupam pressing the watch into his wrist before stepping in.
"Keep time with you," Anupam had said smiling, "before life outruns you."
Every time Abhishek looked at the watch, he felt the distance between them—Delhi a far-off city of ambition, and Calcutta a place of humidity, history, and the kind of tenderness that quietly exhausted him.
He leaned back. He knew exactly why the restlessness had returned. He wanted to see her.
The girl he had seen only twice—once in the corridor near the English Department and once at the tea stall—had somehow lodged herself in his thoughts like a soft, persistent refrain. He did not even know her name; he only knew the sudden shift of the world when he saw her. The way she held her books with both arms, her eyes cautious yet curious. From that day, the tea stall near the banyan tree had become less about chai and more about possibility.
He stood up suddenly, compelled by something like hope—or longing disguised as routine—and walked out of class. A small group of girls were gathered near the front steps, discussing the Kavvali Nights at Salt Lake. Their laughter flowed lightly, like the quicksilver of adolescence. A few boys loitered near the window frames, speculating about the police presence near Dharmatala. Calcutta was on the verge of many things—revolt, collapse, reinvention—and its students carried pieces of these possibilities in their voices.
Abhishek walked past them all, half-lost in thought, half-guided by instinct. He did not care much about the rally or the excitement buzzing in the air. He wanted the quiet certainty of seeing her—like a fixed point in a city that constantly shifted beneath his feet. He reached the tea stall after maneuvering his way through a minor argument with a peon, whom he accidentally brushed against while turning a corner. The peon muttered something about reckless boys, but Abhishek hardly listened.
The stall, however, stood shuttered.
The metal sheet was pulled down, and the usual clatter of cups, the hiss of boiling milk, the smell of ginger and cardamom that clung to the mornings—none of it was there. The area around it looked disturbed, dust unsettled. The rally had passed this way, and the chaos had forced all small shops to shut. Even the posters pasted on the wall had been ripped, leaving behind vague shadows of ink.
His heart fell—not dramatically, not in any poetic sense—just the small, familiar disappointment of loneliness resurfacing.
He turned away, but before he could take two steps, he noticed movement. A group of students were approaching from the opposite side, waving red flags with the zeal of newly baptized believers. Their banners carried stark black illustrations of politicians devouring the Constitution. Their footsteps were loud, spirited, almost reckless. Abhishek felt their energy pushing toward him like a rising wave.
He didn't want trouble.
He rushed toward the History Department building, hoping to avoid being swallowed by the marching crowd. But just as he reached the entrance, a sharp voice cut through the uproar.
"Abhishek!"
He froze instantly. The voice had a certain bite—calm, authoritative, unmistakable.
Professor Sen stood near a pillar, one hand tucked into the pocket of his black trousers, the other gripping a thick, brown-covered book. His presence always felt like a sudden shift in temperature. A man of few words and even fewer indulgences, he commanded attention by sheer stillness.
Abhishek turned reluctantly, forcing a polite smile, while internally cursing the path he had chosen.
"Good morning, Sir," he said, his voice a shade too soft.
Sen snapped his fingers once—a practiced gesture that was neither impatient nor gentle, simply precise—as if summoning attention from drifting minds.
"Come here," he said.
Abhishek stepped forward. Sen handed him the giant book without ceremony.
"Keep this in the library," the professor instructed, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "These commotions are none of your business. You are here to study, not to indulge in noise."
Abhishek wanted to explain that he wasn't indulging in anything, that he was only passing through, that he was simply trying to see—
But Sen's eyes silenced him. Those eyes had the quality of pages that had been read too many times—sharp, insightful, and unforgiving.
He nodded meekly and turned toward the library, hugging the heavy book to his chest.
The library of Presidency in the 1970s was a world unto itself—quiet not in the ordinary sense, but in a timeless one. It smelled of damp wood and old ink. Most of the windows remained half-open, letting in the warm air and the distant noise of tram bells. Dust floated freely like golden particles suspended in memory. The chairs were carved with decades of initials, some faded into illegibility, others sharp enough to tell the stories of students long gone. On one corner wall hung a portrait of Rabindranath Tagore, slightly crooked, as if he had grown weary of watching over restless generations.
The reception desk was cluttered, deliberately so. Files stacked like uneven towers, worn registers sprawled open, a wooden stamp lying diagonally beside an inkpad. The man in charge of this kingdom, Mr. Das, looked as ancient as the books he guarded. He was hunched over one of his rust-coloured registers, scanning names with the slow authority of someone who believed he had seen everything before.
It was commonly said among the students that Mr. Das had a story for every poet, every novelist, every historical figure who had walked past College Street. His favourite claim—one he made at least once every week—was that he had inspired a line in one of Tagore's poems during the poet's younger days. No one believed it, but everyone let him repeat it. It had become one of the library's unofficial traditions.
Abhishek stepped forward and placed the book gently on the desk.
Mr. Das looked up, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
"Hm," he muttered, peering at the book as if inspecting a suspicious parcel. He lifted it, flipping through the pages with exaggerated care, as though expecting the words themselves to shift under his gaze.
Then, with sudden volume, he called out, "Aruna! Come here, na!"
Abhishek's breath faltered.
From behind the tall shelves, a woman emerged—lifting a newspaper above her head to read the headline. The morning sun slanted across her face as she lowered the paper, and in that brief moment, the world seemed to fold gently around her.
It was her.
The girl he had been waiting to see, the unnamed presence in his thoughts, the quiet miracle he had hoped the day would grant him.
She walked toward the desk, unaware of the tidal shift in him. Her steps light, her expression composed, the faint fragrance of jasmine oil trailing behind her like a whisper of early spring.
Abhishek felt his heart race—fast, breathless—like a brand-new Ambassador car speeding on an empty road.
And in that instant, as she approached, everything else—the rallies, the red flags, the professor, the chaos—faded into silence.