𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟔 ：𝑬𝒌 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒎 𝒌𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒂 ✓

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘐. 𝘔𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥

CALCUTTA, INDIA ~ 1975

The train screeched to a halt, its whistle piercing the air of a bustling Calcutta morning. A boy of about ten stepped out of the railway station, his shoes dusty from the journey.

His dark brown eyes glimmered with a mix of excitement and curiosity. Beside him stood a tall, well-dressed man with streaks of silver in his black hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold countless secrets. He adjusted his hat against the humid air and glanced down at the boy, who was tugging at his sleeve.

"Papa, yeh hum kahaan hain?" the boy asked, his young voice trembling with wonder.

{"Dad, where are we?"}

The man's lips curved into a wistful smile as he replied, his Hindi accent fluent yet touched with a British undertone. "Hum Calcutta mein hain. Tumhari maa ke paas aaye hain."

{"We're in Calcutta. We've come to see your mother."}

The boy, Raghav, tilted his head in confusion. His mother? The thought sent a swirl of emotions through him-joy, anxiety, and an unspoken longing. He watched his father lift a heavy trunk with ease, signaling him to follow as they weaved through the chaos of the station.

Yellow cabs honked impatiently, vendors shouted their wares, and the scent of chai and fried snacks wafted through the air.

As they walked, an old bullock cart creaked past them, its wooden wheels groaning under the weight of sacks of grain. His father suddenly stopped, chuckling softly to himself.

"Papa, aap kyun has rahe ho?" Raghav asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

{"Dad, why are you laughing?"}

Instead of answering, his father grabbed his arm and dashed toward the cart. The boy stumbled to keep up. The elder man reached into his pocket, handed a few crisp notes to the cart driver, and whispered an address. The driver nodded, adjusting his turban, and gestured for them to climb aboard.

Raghav sat silently beside his father as the cart jolted into motion, the city unfolding before them. The streets were alive with color and sound-women in vibrant sarees, rickshaw pullers darting through the traffic, and children chasing each other barefoot. His father seemed lighter, almost youthful, as if the city had breathed life back into him.

The cart came to a halt in front of an old house. Raghav jumped down, his eyes widening at the sight. The building looked ancient, its walls faded and weathered by time. Ivy crept along its façade, and the roof sloped gently, giving it an air of quiet dignity.

"Papa," Raghav began, but his words faltered when he saw tears welling in his father's eyes.

The man quickly wiped them away and took his son's hand, leading him toward the front door. As they approached, Raghav noticed a small brass nameplate covered in dust. His father released his hand, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Wait here," he said, his voice unsteady.
Raghav watched as his father meticulously cleaned the nameplate, revealing the words etched in bold, elegant letters:

"Mr. & Mrs. Thomas"
The boy's heart skipped a beat. Mrs. Thomas. His mother's name.

His mind raced with questions. Where was she? Why hadn't he seen her yet? He had grown up with stories of her beauty and kindness, but they had always been fragments, shadows of a woman he barely remembered.

He glanced back at his father, who was now touching the nameplate with trembling fingers, as though it were a sacred relic.

"Papa," Raghav whispered, but his father didn't respond. Instead, he took a deep breath, reached into his pocket, and produced a set of keys. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open, revealing the interior of the house.

Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the broken shutters, illuminating a spacious living room. The high ceilings and arched doorways spoke of an era long past. The furniture was draped in white sheets, and cobwebs hung like delicate lace in the corners.

Raghav wandered deeper into the house, his small feet leaving prints in the thick layer of dust. His gaze fell on a large, covered frame leaning against the wall. Something about it felt oddly familiar.

Curiosity got the better of him. He reached out, pulling the dusty cloth aside to reveal a portrait.
It was a woman.

Her eyes, warm and kind, seemed to look straight into his soul. She had long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders and a soft smile that felt like a memory.

Raghav's breath caught in his throat.

"Who is she?" he murmured, though he already knew the answer

~~~~

Hello loves ❤
So here comes the first chapter!

Who could that person be in the painting ? What circumstances led to their separation, and why has Raghav's father decided to bring him to Calcutta now?

Thank you for reading 📚

Stay tuned for the second chapter and do comment!

•Updated•

*815 words*

~Nishaa♡