The Bhattacharya estate had transformed into a panorama of celebration. Strings of marigold and jasmine hung from the arches, cascading in vibrant waterfalls of gold and white. The air vibrated with the sounds of laughter, clinking utensils, and distant tabla beats. SaraswatiChandra Bhattacharya sat in his room, the muffled noise drifting through the carved wooden windows like a world from which he was barred.
It was Ishita's pre-wedding ceremony, a day filled with light, anticipation, and familial pride. He had been told countless times over the years that such gatherings were not meant for him,not because of negligence or punishment, but because of "misfortune" that supposedly clung to him like a second skin. Grandmother Rajeshwari, as usual, hovered invisibly, orchestrating every detail from a distance, ensuring that his absence remained absolute.
SaraswatiChandra's gaze lingered on the sketches spread across the desk. Patterns of flowing silk and embroidered latticework filled the pages, each a miniature rebellion against the constraints of his life. He tried to concentrate, but the sounds of celebration, laughter, playful chatter, the occasional cheer seeped into his thoughts. His heart tightened with a mixture of longing and resentment.
At fifteen, he had learned the contours of absence. He remembered the day, years ago, when so many relatives had arrived unannounced, whispering about his "unlucky" nature, while the first betrothed's memory lingered like a shadow. The adults cried, scolded, and made him feel like a harbinger of doom, though he had no understanding of why he carried such weight. He remembered the ritualistic insistence to wear white, the subtle burning of his old clothes, and the solemn nods of his family that implied he was dangerous to happiness itself. Those moments had imprinted a quiet caution into his soul,a wariness of proximity, of celebration, of joy not sanctioned for him.
Now, he was older. He understood more. He had developed the delicate equilibrium of compliance and defiance: attending college, making friends discreetly, creating designs that no one could ignore, yet always moving within invisible boundaries. The driver, tasked with ferrying him to and from campus, was one of the few constants in a life otherwise defined by restriction. Arjun and Rohan, his school friends, had become his confidants, comrades who never questioned him, never pitied him, never drew lines between luck and worth. But here, in the heart of the house, those buffers vanished.
From the veranda, the laughter reached him in sharp, melodic arcs. Ishita, radiant in an embroidered lehenga, moved through the crowd with the poise of someone who owned the day. Her fiancé followed, laughing and whispering to her in the language of nervous excitement. The house sparkled under the hanging lights, and yet every shimmer, every cheer, felt like a reminder of the boundary between him and the rest of the world.
SaraswatiChandra drew his sketchbook closer. Each design he created became a form of solace, an assertion of existence. In the quiet of his room, he could imagine worlds unbound by superstition, where he could walk in sunlight without the weight of judgment pressing on his shoulders. Yet, he could not escape entirely. Even here, the past whispered, memories of lost betrotheds, of days when small hands could not understand why adults cried or blamed him.
Meanwhile, far from the Bhattacharya estate, in a city of glass towers and steel, Ashish moved through his own world. He was the youngest CEO in his family's construction and architectural empire, a man of sharp intellect and a reputation for precision. Meetings, strategy sessions, and board approvals consumed his days, but in the back of his mind, a curiosity about something unnamed tugged at him.
Back at the Bhattacharya estate, the pre-wedding festivities reached a crescendo. SaraswatiChandra's ears caught snippets of conversation. Relatives speculated about him, some muttering about luck, others whispering awe at his composure despite the restrictions. He imagined their voices like threads of a tapestry he could never touch. He was there, yet invisible. He remembered Ishani's calm confidence her ability to exist without internalizing family prejudice. She had grown into a young woman of conviction, unbound by superstition, and yet protective of her brother.
Kamini visited briefly, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm. "Don't let them see your frustration," she said softly, glancing at the room beyond the window. "You will have your own day, Saraswati. One where the world cannot dictate your presence or absence." Her fingers lingered on his arm before retreating. Her encouragement was gentle, unobtrusive, but carried the weight of someone who understood the nuances of their household.
He adjusted his sketches again, his fingers tracing embroidered patterns of imagined gowns, their threads defying every rule imposed on him. Here, he was unbound, a creator not dictated by superstition or expectation. Yet, every brushstroke carried the memory of absence, of being the one who could not join the celebrations.
From the far end of the city, Ashish's day concluded. He reviewed architectural plans, signed contracts, and considered the upcoming corporate events. He could ignore the buzz of the city,the marriage ceremony that is shucking the whole city.His business partner Mohit Tiwari was getting married to a girl for a descent family, initially he wasn't interested but his heart kept urging him to attend the wedding,that was the most beautiful step he ever took in his life.
Back at the Bhattacharya estate, SaraswatiChandra rose from his desk. He could hear the music swelling in the main hall, the laughter, the applause for a newly sung wedding ritual. He remained in his room, holding Luna close, the cat's small, rhythmic purrs grounding him. He had promised his grandmother and aunts that he would not attend, honoring the complex lattice of obligation and superstition, yet he allowed himself a small, private rebellion. He sketched patterns of celebration, of jewelry and textiles, capturing the vibrancy he was denied. In each stroke, he imagined walking freely among the revelers, laughing without restraint, shaping a life that was entirely his own.
The day waned. As dusk approached, the lights dimmed to warm gold, and the scent of incense mingled with marigolds. SaraswatiChandra looked out of the window one last time, glimpsing shadows dancing across the terrace. He did not participate, but he observed, absorbing the joy he could not touch. His world was restricted, yet it was not silent. Every detail, every note of music, every smile he could hear became fuel for the fire he nurtured quietly in his room.
Somewhere, in the city of glass towers, Ashish leaned back in his chair, reviewing messages and contracts. He didn't know why his heart kept urging him to attend the wedding even though it was unnecessary. But in the quiet corridors of his mind, the narrative of that something extraordinary, something expectation might awaiting him there preoccupied him. Though the paths of their lives had yet to intersect, the stage was set.
And as SaraswatiChandra settled under the soft glow of his desk lamp, Luna curling into his side, the house outside celebrated in his absence. The laughter, the joy, the bright colors,they were not his, yet they inspired the visions he would one day bring to life. Here, in solitude, he was both witness and creator, balancing the weight of the past with the promise of the future.