༄°.🍂.ೃ

The morning after their quiet confession to each other felt different for both Samarjeet and Piyali.

Inside their hearts both carried a softness which they always had for each other but  it felt like today they could be expressive about it without hesistance or second thoughts.

Samar had confessed in the only way he knew. It was short, direct and steady just like the man he was. While Piyali, shy and hesitant, had nodded through tears in her eyes, unable to match his words, but her silence had said enough.

They had walked back separately to their room yet the air between them had changed forever.

At Morning, Samar was already out in the fields. The cold weather welcomed winds against his skin as he walked barefoot over the damp soil, carrying a sickle and rope.

He tied his white scarf tightly around his head, and got to work.

He called out to one of the farmhands in his usual focused voice to start the work.

His life had always been about this- earth, crops, cattle, and his land. But today, in the midst of work, his mind diverted more than usual.

He would straighten his back after striking the soil, gaze at the no where for a moment longer than necessary, and then shake his head as though scolding himself.

Don’t get lost, Samar, he thought. She will still be there in the evening.

Meanwhile, at the Das household, Piyali’s mother had taken her along to visit a family nearby.

A neighbour’s daughter was soon to be married, and in the Bengali tradition of warmth and presence, they had to go and give their blessings.

“Cholo, Piu” her mother urged, tying the end of her sari.

“Ekto bhalo boro der kachhe boshi, biye’r aage to jete hobei.”

[Come, Piu, we must sit with the elders for a while, it’s necessary before the wedding.]

So Piyali followed, though her heart wasn’t really in the visit. She sat politely in the neighbour’s hallroom, listening to aunties gossiping and laughing. She nodded when required and was occasionally giving smiles.

But her thoughts were on another place, to the man she guessed was in the fields right now.

She pictured Samar wiping the sweat off his brow, his strong hands gripping the hoe , his eyes serious as always.

She played with the edge of her dupatta. Would he be thinking of her too? Or was she just being silly?

It was a long day of separation. They didn’t cross paths even once. The Das family lived close to the Sharmas, but their duties kept them apart.

By sunset, the cold grew more, the kind of winter that made everyone get  under their shawls and made one crave fire.

It was Kittu who had first squealed with excitement about that idea, they did it frequently in winters. It was like a ritual.

“Amma, raat ko alaav jalae kya? Hum sab baith jaayenge bahar, aunty uncle ko bhi bula lete hain.”

[Amma, shall we make a bonfire tonight? We can all sit outside, let’s also invite the Das family.]

The idea was welcomed like always.Winters in had their own charm, cold nights where families gathered outside, having roasted peanuts or sweet potatoes and shared stories with each other and sat till late.

The courtyard in front of the Das house was chosen. By the time the sky turned a deep blue, chairs had been arranged in a circle and dry Woods were piled in the center.

Someone lit the fire and slowly, sparks began to rise, orange flames growing each second, giving a sudden warmth to the aur.

Elders from both families settled on chairs wrapped in shawls and woollen sweaters.

The bonfire casts a golden glow on everyone’s faces. Smoke was curling up.

Samar arrived a little later, having finished some last tasks at the cowshed.

He came in quietly as was his nature, greeting the elders with a bow as he touched their feet.

His white kurta shining in the glow, his hands were slightly rough from the day’s work and his face glowed faintly in the firelight.

Kittu, of course, noticed first.

“Bhaiya aa gaye!” she announced, taking a glance at piyali just sitting beside her.

[Brother came!]

Samar only gave her a look and sat down on one of the chairs.

Coincidentally or perhaps by a secret hand of fate the chair beside piyali was empty.

Her heart skipped. The nearness made her heart rise though no one else seemed to notice.

Around them, conversations were happening. Mr. Sharma and Mr. Das were discussing some crop yields. The mothers were exchanging their own talks.

Piyali rubbed her palms together, stretching them closer to the fire.

The night was too cold and she had forgotten to wear her woolen gloves. Beside her, Samar extended his own hands.

Their hands were not touching but the space between them was too little to ignore which surprisingly no one noticed.

Piyali tried to focus on the fire, on the sound of conversation going around her but her eyes kept flickering towards him sideways.

A cold wind blew past her, making her shiver slightly. She moved her hands nearer and that’s when it happened.

Her pinky brushed against his.

It was the lightest touch, accidental yet it jolted her entire being. Piyali immediately began to pull her hand back, to hide her blush. But before she could, Samar moved faster.

With his calm posture  he shifted his pinky to hook gently around hers.

It was daring, for Samar was not the sort to take chances in public. But tonight, perhaps because it had been a long day apart, he allowed himself this small gesture.

The fire had gone a little lower, the chattering was too loud, no one was watching.

For one moment, their fingers were entwined, not in full hold, but the smallest, their pinkies. It was cute yet intimate in such a way none of them could explain.

Piyali froze, her breath caught. She wanted to look at him, to read his expression but she didn’t dare.

Instead, her eyes remained lowered, staring at the flames, biting her lips to control her smile that was bursting out.

For Samar, it was both simple and easy. He didn’t move closer, didn’t even speak a word since he entered, didn't’t even smile. But if anyone looked too close, they could see the small tug of his lip, that quiet linking of pinkies carried more than words to him.

And then came the cough.

“Ahem! Ahem!”

Kittu, cleared his throat loudly as she came around with a plate of roasted sweet potatoes.

Her eyes darted towards their pinkies and the possibility of the elders glancing at it.

Piyali instantly slipped her hand back into her lap, cheeks turning red. Samar composed as always, simply leaned back in his chair, both palms flat on his knees, as if nothing had happened.

“Lo bhaiya, garam-garam shakkarkand khaiye” Kittu said in her teasing tone.

“Thand mein toh aur bhi swaad ban jaata hai.”

[Here, brother, have some hot sweet potatoes. They taste even better in the cold.]

Samar accepted calmly. Piyali busied herself in helping Kittu, trying to calm her racing heart.

The night carried on. Stories were shared by Mr. Sharma narrating an old farming accident, Mr. Das shared a funny incident from Kolkata.

For Samar and Piyali, the rest of the evening passed in silence. They didn’t speak of it, didn’t dare.

Yet, when they finally had to go back to their respective homes, their eyes met. It was a small glance. His eyes staring, as her cheeks go red.

As Samar walked back to the Sharma courtyard, he thought to himself, Diwali aa rahi hai..kal ka kar sabke liye kuch le aaunga.

[Diwali is coming… tomorrow I will bring something for everyone.]

And in her room as Piyali lay down under her blanket, she replayed that pinky touch again and again until sleep finally carried her away.

The fire outside had long died outside but inside them, it had only just begun.

✿⁠ 

The late afternoon sun was leaning towards the west. The air had a slight winter chill but not enough to send people inside.

The courtyard felt very homely, the stone floor was still a little damp from the morning wash.

Piyali was sitting on the stone steps that led down into the open space of the verandah, her back was lightly pressed against one of the tall wooden pillars.

Her dupatta was wrapped modestly around her shoulders,  a few strands of her soft hair had slipped out, brushing her cheek as she bent forward.

In her hands, she gripped a glass bottle of oil, frowning at the tight lid that refused to open.

Beside her, Maasa was busy kneading the wheat dough in a large brass bowl. Her bangles jingling faintly with each movement.

She was humming an old song under her breath.

“Bas, Piu bitiya,” Maasa said, looking up.

“Zyada zor mat lagao, haath dukh jaayega. Hum khol denge.”

[Enough, dear Piu, don’t strain yourself, your hands will hurt. I will open it.]

Piyali smiled softly, shaking her head as she replied,

"Koshish karte haina ek bar."

[Will try once.]

Her small hands tried again, twisting it but the steel cap remained shut. Her lips pressed together in determination.

Maasa chuckled, shaking her head.

“Ruk, ham namak le aate Hun.” she said, dusting her hands and walking inside.

[Wait, I will bring the salt.]

The courtyard grew quieter. You could hear sparrows chirping on the roof, a cow calling in the distance and the  sound of clothes being washed at the well down the lane.

Piyali adjusted her dupatta, held the bottle firmly against her knee and twisted again with all her might. But the lid stayed unmoved. A small sigh escaped her lips.

Just then, a shadow fell across her.

She looked up.

Samar was standing there.

He had come out from the side passage, wiping his palms on a small towel.

His face, as always, bore the same composed,calm  expression but his eyes softened when they fell on her.

Piyali’s heart fastens, it always did when he was near though she lowered her gaze quickly, pretending to focus on the bottle.

Samar crouched down beside her, his knees folding easily, his tall frame bending low until he was almost at her level.

He reached out silently, his large hand covering the bottle, brushing against her smaller fingers.

“Do" he said quietly.

[Give it.]

She gently placed the bottle in his hands.

Samar twisted the lid once. It opened within a sec.

Piyali’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Arre… eto shohaj?” she murmured under her breath in Bengali.

[Oh… that easy?]

Samar’s mouth curved in the faintest smile.

“Haan, bas zor sahi jagah lagana hota hai" he replied, handing the bottle back.

[Yes, you just need to apply strength in the right place.]

Their fingers brushed as she took it.

From the balcony above, Kritika Sharma- Kittu was folding clothes on the railing.

Kittu held up a white dupatta, shaking it out before putting it on the railing to dry. It was light, almost weightless, a sheer cotton piece embroidered at the borders.

The wind grew stronger. Before she could pin it down, the dupatta lifted like a bird.

“Arey re!” Kittu gasped, her voice high and panicked. She reached out, but it was too late.

[Oh no.]

The dupatta swirl in the air and then it falls  as though it already knew where it wanted to land.

Straight on Samar and Piyali.

One moment they were sitting with only inches of space between them. Next moment, they were covered in a soft veil of white. Their hands still joined on the bottle of oil.

The fabric over Samar’s broad shoulders and across Piyali’s head.

Piyali froze, her breath hitched. Her wide eyes rose and met his.

Samar’s dark gaze locked with hers. The rest of the courtyard vanished from their sight.

Her lips parted as though to speak but no words came.

Samar didn’t move at first, his face calm yet unreadable. Then, slowly, almost against his own nature, his eyes softened.

He leaned closer, his gaze flickering between her eyes and her lips.

Piyali, trembling, found herself leaning in too, as though she was drawn by a force she couldn’t resist.

Her fingers were tightened around the oil bottle, her knuckles were white yet her heart screamed to let go.

Upstairs, Kittu’s eyes widened in horror as she saw what had happened.

“Baap re!” she whispered to herself, biting her tongue. She clapped her hand to her mouth. If Bhaiya sees me now, I am dead.

Without waiting, she spun around and bolted inside, her braid swinging behind her.

She didn’t realize what was truly happening, something her brother might thank her for later.

Down below, the dupatta was still slightly swaying on their heads.

Their lips were about to meet when the dupatta slipped in between, forming a wall.

Piyali blinked hard, realization crashing over her. Her cheeks burned. She quickly backed up and reached, tugging the dupatta off both their heads quickly.

In doing so, she pulled too sharply, ruffling Samar’s neatly combed hair into a mess.

He blinked, straightening. The air between them trembled with everything that had almost happened.

At that moment, Maasa returned from the kitchen, holding a small bowl of salt.

“Arre, Samar tu kab aya?” she called, stepping into the courtyard.

[Oh, samar when did you came?]

In a flash, he rose,  wiped his palms on his kurta and walked toward the gate outside.

Piyali lowered her eyes, clutching the bottle tight against her chest.

Maasa glanced between the two, suspicious but saying nothing. She only shook her head and muttered,

“Yeh jawani bhi na…”

[This youth, I tell you…]

✿⁠ 

The sun had begun to set with shades of pink, orange and purple in the sky. It was a heavenly view which villagers were used too experiencing.

Samarjeet was still at work in the fields. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, the dusky light from the sky was outlining his sharp jaw.

He was crouched near the wooden water pump. The machine had been troubling him since afternoon and as always, he refused to leave until it was fixed.

His hands, tightened the last bolt as he wiped the sweat across his forehead with the back of his hand.

Just then, he could hear faint laughter across the field. He lifted his head.

On the far side, he spotted Kittu, his little sister  walking with a rope in her hand. Behind her were trailed two calves, their bells jingling with each lazy step they took. And beside her, in a light-colored salwar kameez that flew in the wind, walked Piyali.

He looked away quickly, keeping in mind that Kittu was there he lowered his gaze back to the machine.

But the corners of his lips betrayed him, they curved ever so slightly.

On the other side, Piyali was tugging lightly at a calf’s rope.

“Arre, chol na re… shundor kore, jaldi esho!”  she whined slightly, half-annoyed at the stubborn calf who preferred chewing on grass rather than moving.

Kittu giggled, teasing like every best friend does. “Ab toh gaya bhi nahi sun rahi teri."

[Now even the cow doesn’t listen to you.]

"Goru bad dao - ekhon to tomar bhai porjonto amar kotha shonbe."

Piyali rolled her eyes, her cheeks warming at her own words.

[Forget the cow, now even your brother listens to me.]

“Yeh kya Bengali mein bolti hai… mana, badi pyaari lagti hai, par samajhna bhi toh chahiye na.” Kittu shot back immediatelym

[What’s this, speaking in Bengali… agreed, it sounds very sweet, but I should be able to understand too, right?]

Before Piyali could reply, her calf tugged harder, dragging her a few steps down a slope that ran slightly muddy after the morning’s watering.

“Arrey, ektu tham!” she muttered, tightening her grip.

[Hey! Wait a little.]

What she didn’t notice was that Samar, a few steps away, had already looked up, watching her with silent intensity.

The slope was uneven, the wet soil only made it harder to balance herself.

And then, it happened.

Her foot slipped. Samar's heart jolted.

Piyali gasped as her balance gave away. The rope loosened in her hand, the calf pulled away and her body leaned sideways, dangerously close to falling face-first onto the rough soil.

Before the cry could leave her lips, she heard a firm, deep voice.

“Arrey sambhal ke, Piyali"

Samar had already dropped his tools and rushed forward. His steps fast, his eyes locked on her falling figure.

In a swift move, he caught her by the wrist, pulling her against him.

But the ground was too slippery, his shoes unable to grip.

In the effort of saving her, Samar lost his own balance and with a grunt, he fell backward, his broad frame hitting the soil.

“Ahh!” Samar exhaled sharply as the impact jolted his back.

Piyali landed right on top of him, her palms pressed against his chest, her duppata flowing all over them.

For a moment, they froze.

The calves’ bells were jingling somewhere in the distance as it ate hua grass happily. Kittu’s laughter could be Heard faintly but all Samar and Piyali could hear was the sound of their own breathing. It was quick, uneven and too close.

Samar’s hand, still firmly around her wrist, tightened, his thumb brushing her spine unintentionally. His dark eyes stared into hers, and for the first time, Piyali didn’t look away.

Her wide eyes, soft and shocked, their faces hitting the reflection of the sunset above them.

The faint smell of earth, the warmth and hardness of his chest beneath her, the loose strand of her hair falling over his cheek.

“Theek ho?” Samar’s voice was husky, almost a whisper.

[You okay?]

She blinked, her heart hammering so loud against his chest she was sure he could hear it. “j-ji..aap..” she breathed, she wanted to ask if he was hurt but the words weren't leaving her mouth.

[Y-yes..you..]

His grip on her wrist softened but he didn’t let go. His other hand gently rose, hesitating mid-air before gently brushing the strand of hair away from her face.

Their faces were now so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with hers.

Her lips parted slightly. He wasn't ready to let go. Neither did she. Their eyes held each other longer.

And then…

almost without realizing, they leaned closer.

Her forehead nearly touched his. Their noses touched lightly. And then. the faintest and softest touch, their lips met.

Not a kiss, but a peak. A trembling, innocent brush that lasted less than a second yet it felt too much.

Her eyes had shut. His too. Their bodies tensed at the closeness, yet neither pulled away.

༄°.🍂.ೃ