The Bhattacharya estate shimmered under strings of golden lights, reflecting off polished marble floors and elaborately embroidered curtains. The air was thick with the scent of marigolds and sandalwood, punctuated by the faint aroma of jasmine that floated in from the gardens. Inside, laughter and music blended with the rhythmic beats of the dhol, carrying the cadence of pre-wedding rituals for Ishita's nuptials.
SaraswatiChandra Bhattacharya sat by his window, the folds of his white attire draping over the armrest of the chair. The sunlight caught the fine threads of the fabric, a constant reminder of the superstition he had been bound to since childhood. Outside, his cousins, Arjun and Ishita, moved from room to room, exchanging giggles and whispered secrets with relatives. The household was a tapestry of joy, yet he remained outside its weave, barred from participating by grandmother Rajeshwari's ever-watchful eyes.
He traced the edge of his sketchpad absentmindedly, his pencil hovering over the paper as he remembered the first time superstition had crushed his childhood. At five years old, his first betrothed had passed away. The adults had whispered that fate was cruel, that he was unlucky, though he had been too young to understand. The second loss, at twelve, had carved deeper scars, another betrothed, another death, and another wave of whispers, accusations, and sideways glances. Now at twenty-two, he carried the weight of these histories quietly, each memory a faint echo that influenced every choice, every glance, every word he spoke.
The sound of dhols and laughter outside his door was bittersweet. He could hear Ishita's voice, high and sparkling with excitement, issuing commands to the decorators and helpers. He could hear Arjun's deep, teasing laughter as he nudged his cousins into mischief. SaraswatiChandra's own laughter had been silenced, replaced with the solitude of a room where only the soft purr of his cat, Luna, kept him company.
He had been allowed to attend college, but nothing beyond that. The driver came promptly each morning, delivering him to the campus and returning him at precise times. Outside of school, he was confined, an observer of celebrations he could not touch. He had friends at school , Arnav and Viren but their meetings were always fleeting, timed, and monitored. Even then, they were his lifeline, a tether to a world he could scarcely inhabit fully.
In his solitude, he sketched tirelessly. Today, he captured the pre-wedding decorations in intricate detail: the golden drapes that caught the sunlight at just the right angle, the floral arrangements that spilled like rivers over staircases, and the jewelry-inspired designs his imagination conjured from the vibrancy around him. Creativity had become his refuge, a way to transmute exclusion into beauty.
Meanwhile, in the city, Ashish was immersed in his own sphere of influence. Aboard the sleek black car that glided through early afternoon traffic, he reviewed blueprints for a new architectural project,towers that would pierce the skyline, a testament to both ingenuity and ambition. His assistant, Rohan, hovered nearby with a tablet of schedules, board meetings, and event invitations. Ashish's presence commanded attention, not through ostentation but through quiet authority; his team knew that decisions rested in his measured hands.
Across the city, Nidhima adjusted the cuff of her designer blouse, her eyes scanning the glass doors of the corporate office. She had learned that Ashish would be attending a luncheon with investors, a perfect opportunity to draw his gaze. Every detail was calculated,the tilt of her head, the soft inflection of her voice, the subtle display of confidence. Yet Ashish moved through the room oblivious to her attempts. He laughed politely at another executive's jokes, signed documents with care, and dismissed charm with professional detachment. Nidhima's frustration mounted, a quiet, simmering heat that would later fester into schemes of its own.
Back at the Bhattacharya estate, SaraswatiChandra's thoughts drifted to memories from his teenage years, when whispers of misfortune followed him like shadows. He remembered being fifteen, sitting in his small study, tears burning behind his eyes as relatives gathered outside, voices raised with sorrow and accusation. The second betrothed had died, and he had not yet understood the complexity of grief, superstition, and blame. That day, Rajeshwari had taken every brightly colored outfit he owned and consigned it to flames, insisting he wear only white. The smoke had filled the room, mingling with his confusion and helplessness. From that day, white became both his armor and his mark, an external symbol of an internal exile.
A knock on the door drew him back to the present. Luna leaped from the windowsill, tail flicking nervously. "Not now, Luna," he whispered, stroking her fur as he traced the delicate pencil strokes on the sketchpad. The knock repeated, insistent. It was the driver, delivering a package: a set of fabrics that had arrived from a supplier in the city. SaraswatiChandra handled them carefully, arranging colors and textures, imagining designs that could rival the finest collections in the country. Here, in the quiet confines of his room, he was free. Outside, the world could impose rules, superstitions, and judgments, but here, he was unbound.
Even as the laughter of the pre-wedding celebration floated through the halls, his mind remained tethered to the cityscape beyond the estate. Ashish's life, so meticulously ordered and filled with purpose, existed in parallel. SaraswatiChandra could not yet know him, but the universe had already begun weaving their threads closer, a pattern unseen, yet inevitable.
Later, evening fell over the estate, the wedding lights now shimmering like constellations trapped within human hands. Guests moved with measured steps, music filling every corner. SaraswatiChandra remained at his desk, sketches stacked in careful piles, Luna nestled beside him, her warmth a small comfort. Outside, the house pulsed with life and anticipation, the joys of family and union playing out in scenes from which he remained forever excluded. Yet in that solitude, he found a new rhythm, a quiet strength, and the realization that beauty could emerge even in isolation, that creativity could transcend superstition and exile.
As night deepened, the estate quieted, though echoes of the day lingered. SaraswatiChandra's eyes lingered on his work, patterns emerging from pencil strokes, a reflection of both longing and hope. Somewhere in the city, Ashish's day concluded, his thoughts yet unaware of the path fate had begun to carve, while Nidhima's schemes simmered, waiting for a moment to strike.
The threads were set. The stage was prepared. The world outside the walls of the Bhattacharya estate moved forward, yet within, a story of resilience, passion, and destiny quietly unfurled. And though today had not brought encounters, love, or revelation, it had etched the first lines of the narrative that would, in time, bind strangers, defy superstition, and challenge expectations.