The morning sunlight filtered through the lace curtains of SaraswatiChandra Bhattacharya's room, casting long, fragile patterns on the wooden floor. He sat cross-legged, staring at the half-finished sketches sprawled across his desk. The designs twisted and curled, elaborate but precise, capturing the world he longed to inhabit,one filled with texture, color, and freedom. The world outside his window was less forgiving.
Even now, the memory of his first betrothed hovered at the edges of his mind. He had been five years old when the engagement had been arranged, an event more spectacle than commitment, and yet the loss had left an indelible mark. The boy had fallen ill, too young to understand, and died before the promise had even begun to take root. It had seemed cruel at the time, the way the family whispered about curses and "ill omens." The adults' faces, tight with worry and silent accusation, had impressed upon him a strange notion: life could turn fragile at any moment, and perhaps it was his presence that invited it.
At fifteen, history repeated itself. The second betrothed, a boy closer in age, had been arranged with the seriousness of adolescence, a promise that carried expectations and careful attention. But misfortune struck again, and the boy did not survive. The grief of the family, the whispered fear of neighbors, and the quiet pointing of fingers pressed against him in subtle, unrelenting ways. It was after this that the first threads of superstition began to weave themselves tightly around his existence. White became more than a garment; it became a shield, a statement, a constant reminder of the fate everyone feared he carried.
SaraswatiChandra traced the lines of his sketchbook absentmindedly, the pencil moving across the page almost without thought. He had learned to compartmentalize his losses, to build a life in the narrow spaces allowed to him. College was one of these spaces, a fragile bubble of relative normalcy where he could meet friends, breathe, and exist as something other than the embodiment of misfortune. Arjun and Rohan were waiting, their presence a silent reassurance. They never judged. They never pitied. They simply shared a reality that was not weighed down by superstition.
Kamini entered quietly, carrying a tray of breakfast. The aroma of spices and warmth reached him before her words. "Breakfast," she said softly, avoiding any mention of clothes, white, or omens. Her hand lingered briefly on his shoulder,a fleeting anchor in a life built on precaution. She understood what words could not fix: that the world often weighed him with invisible scales, and that the smallest gestures of care mattered most.
The driver waited at the gate, a routine that both liberated and confined him. Grandmother Rajeshwari permitted him college, viewing education as a rare treasure, even for someone deemed unlucky. The rest of his days were dictated by the household's expectations, a lattice of rules and unspoken pressures. His path to freedom was narrow, measured in footsteps to the gate and back.
Outside, the streets hummed with life. Students glanced, whispers trailed him, and yet he carried himself with careful precision. The white kurta clung to him like an armor of compliance, its folds flowing around his frame as though even fabric could signal restraint. But his eyes, focused on the sketches he would refine later, betrayed a restless mind and an imagination that refused containment.
Returning home, the Bhattacharya estate was a hive of controlled chaos. Rajeshwari presided over it like a careful conductor, orchestrating everything without speaking more than necessary. Every glance, every subtle gesture, was measured for propriety. She believed in the weight of luck and the gravity of past misfortunes, and SaraswatiChandra carried that weight daily, a silent companion.
He wandered to the veranda, where the air smelled faintly of jasmine and marigold. The laughter of children and the distant clang of utensils mingled with the scent of evening incense. It was a world of celebration that never included him. His older sister Ishani moved freely within this sphere, her independence and quiet confidence an odd contrast to the restrictions imposed on him. She did not question the past, did not blame him for the shadows that lingered over the family. Instead, she offered small, understanding smiles and gentle words of encouragement when she could.
SaraswatiChandra's thoughts drifted to the upcoming pre-wedding ceremonies of his cousin, Ishita. The house was already brimming with flowers, colored lights, and laughter he could not partake in. Even as the music swirled in the distance, he remained confined to the quiet of his room. Grandmother and aunt, fortified by years of superstition, had exacted promises from him long ago. Emotional pleas and warnings had sealed his absence. The knowledge that the household celebrated without him was a familiar ache.
Yet the solitude was not entirely bitter. Luna, his small tabby, nuzzled his leg, purring softly. The cat's unwavering presence was one of the few constants in a life otherwise dictated by expectation and fear. He ran his hand over her fur, finding comfort in a rhythm that required no explanation, no validation, no judgment.
He returned to his sketches. Patterns of embroidered silk, flowing gowns, intricate beadwork,everything he created was proof of a world he could inhabit, even when society refused him space. Each line, each curve, each delicate detail was a testament to resilience, a silent declaration that he would not be consumed by superstition or misfortune.
At night, the estate quieted, but the weight of history remained. Memories of past losses ,his first betrothed at five, the second at fifteen surfaced in the silence. Whispers of family fears, of accidents and curses, pressed against him in invisible waves. Yet amidst these shadows, he allowed himself a small hope. One day, his work, his talent, his very being might be recognized beyond the confines of old beliefs. One day, he might walk in a world that saw him not as unlucky, but as a man capable of creating beauty, commanding respect, and shaping his own destiny.
And somewhere in that world, beyond the boundaries of his current life, a man named Ashish lived his own existence, unaware of SaraswatiChandra's presence. Powerful, strategic, influential, he was a figure yet to intersect with the boy in white. For now, their paths were parallel, their stories separate, waiting for the threads of fate to draw them together.
SaraswatiChandra lay back on his bed, Luna curling against his side. The white fabric that enveloped him did not signify surrender but endurance. Shadows of loss would always linger, whispers would always follow, but in the quiet of his room, with pencil in hand, he found control, freedom, and the faint glimmer of hope.
Tomorrow, the pre-wedding ceremonies would continue. He would hear the music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, but he would remain absent. And yet, he would be ready for the day when absence would no longer define him, when superstition would be powerless against talent, courage, and the silent strength he nurtured in every sketch, every thread, every line.