The Forbidden Marriage

44•चत्वारिंशत्

In a dimly lit room suffused with heavy shadows, Trishul stands before a mirror, his silhouette stark against the bright glow. Clad in an Indian tuxedo, he exudes an air of silent determination. His expression is devoid of emotion, his gaze fixed as he methodically ties his tie with practiced precision.

The room, though bathed in light, seems to absorb it, casting an atmosphere of darkness that mirrors Trishul's troubled thoughts. Each movement is deliberate, each adjustment made with a sense of solemnity, as if preparing for a battle both within and without.

As the knot tightens, a faint flicker of reflection reveals the turmoil in his eyes, a silent struggle hidden beneath the façade of composure. Trishul's demeanor remains stoic, yet the weight of his emotions lingers in the air, mingling with the heavy silence of the room.

As Trishul's hands deftly work the fabric of his tie, a sudden shift in the atmosphere permeates the room. Through the heavy silence, a gentle, haunting melody floats in, as if carried on the wings of a distant memory. The voice, soothing yet laden with emotion, fills the space with a bittersweet nostalgia.

It's the voice of his deceased wife, her ethereal presence seemingly materializing in the room, wrapped in the threads of a Bengali song. The words weave through the air like tendrils, reaching out to touch Trishul's soul with their poignant resonance.

At first, Trishul freezes, his hands mid-motion, the tie suspended in the air. His dark expression softens imperceptibly, a flicker of recognition dancing in his eyes. A mixture of longing and sorrow washes over him, a tidal wave of emotions crashing against the walls he's built around his heart.
Trishul's heart pounds in his chest as he follows the haunting melody, its origin drawing him like a magnet. Racing through the corridors, he finds himself standing outside his grandmother's room, the source of the ethereal music.

Pushing the door open, he enters to find his grandmother seated in silence, her eyes closed in rapt attention, listening intently to a tape recorder. The room is bathed in a soft, golden glow, the only illumination coming from the flickering flames of a nearby lamp.

His grandmother's presence fills the space with an aura of tranquility, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within Trishul. She sits with an air of quiet grace, her features softened by the gentle light, her face reflecting a lifetime of wisdom and resilience.

🎶যখন প্রথম ধরেছে কলি আমার মল্লিকাবনে
যখন প্রথম ধরেছে কলি আমার মল্লিকাবনে
তোমার লাগিয়া তখনি, বন্ধু, বেঁধেছিনু অঞ্জলি
তোমার লাগিয়া তখনি, বন্ধু, বেঁধেছিনু অঞ্জলি 🎶

( TN: I had prepared for my offering when it was budding in the MOLLIKA-garden
The mist has not been completely removed, O dear,
As if stringed crimson beads on the forehead of young USHA )

A wave of shock and sadness washes over Trishul as the realization dawns upon him like a sudden gust of wind extinguishing a flame. His heart, buoyed by the hope of a miraculous encounter with his deceased wife, plummets into a chasm of despair.

Trishul's breath catches in his throat as he struggles to come to terms with the cruel twist of fate. The weight of his grief bears down on him with a crushing force, threatening to engulf him in a sea of sorrow.

As Trishul stands there, his grandmother slowly opens her eyes, the serenity on her face giving way to a look of profound guilt. She sees Trishul standing before her, his expression a mixture of sadness and confusion, and her heart sinks.

In that moment, she realizes the weight of her actions, the unintentional pain she has caused by allowing Trishul to believe in the presence of his deceased wife. A pang of remorse grips her heart as she struggles to find the right words to explain.