Love is like confecting the castles of cards, painted with the vibrant colours of dreams and passions. It has no warps and woofs. Rather its aroma spreads in the thin air, mingling its presence all around.
Their gazes stumbled into the deep, dark...
A ringing sound filled the room, echoing through the walls of a house. He removed his gaze from the study table he was working on a few moments ago, his gaze lingering to the table stand few feet away. Irritated, he decided to ignore the ear piercing voice and continued to engross in his work again.
Tring!!Tring!!
Tring!!Tring!!
The sound knocked again, irking him to its best.
"Dui minuter jonno shanti nei!! (I can't have peace even for two minutes)." He muttered irritated.
Tucking the pen inside the pages of his black, leathered diary, he closed it and walked towards the table stand on which the rusted coppery phone was kept. He picked the receiver with his muscular palm, his fingers properly wrapping around it, feeling the cold metal beneath them.
"Hello!" He greeted in his husky male voice, with a tinge of irritation mixed with it.
"I want you to be with us at the town gathering within two hours." An old yet stern voice could be heard from other side.
"I am not interested Pa(Father)."
"I have never asked if you're interested or not. I want you there, thats it!!" The person behind the call gritted his teeth, emphasizing each word to make sure they are clearly heard.
"But-Pa-"
Alas! All he could get was the disconnection from the other end of receiver. Sighed! No one can win against that man with arguments, no matter how their relations were with him, no matter whether he was 'his' son. He dragged himself back to his table with a visible disappointment on his face. Tucking the cap of his pen, he placed it in its pen stand. He finally closed his diary and turned back, making his way through the spiral staircase that led him somewhere. Maybe to his room.
His feet entered those four walls, the floor covered with a large, intricate red mat. He approached towards his wooden closet, the one made with teakwood. Its doors were beautifully adorned with fine carvings. Opening the door, his orbs skimmed through different shelves of the closet, deciding the perfect outfit for the eve. He selected a cream kurta, pairing it with a maroon dhoti. Slightly bending down, he opened a drawer to have a matching maroon upkaran to give a more traditional touch. Standing again, he was about to close the door when his gaze fell on the brown diary safely tucked inside the pile of his shirts.
He sensed a fresh lump inside his throat, which he successfully gulped down. His heart twitched with the sudden pang of pain. His hand stretched forward to pick it. It had his name beautifully written with some kind of calligraphic art.
Rishit Bhowmick
His fingers absentmindedly grazed his name. He stared at it for umpteenth moments when reality stroked him. He hastily kept the diary on its place, properly tucking it beneath his shirts. He closed the wardrobe and changed his attire, getting himself ready for the pujo.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
